Martin Chuzzlewit

LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT

by Charles Dickens

PREFACE

What is exaggeration to one class of minds and perceptions, is plain truth to another. That which is commonly called a long-sight, perceives in a prospect innumerable features and bearings non-existent to a short-sighted person. I sometimes ask myself whether there may occasionally be a difference of this kind between some writers and some readers; whether it is ALWAYS the writer who colours highly, or whether it is now and then the reader whose eye for colour is a little dull?

On this head of exaggeration I have a positive experience, more curious than the speculation I have just set down. It is this: I have never touched a character precisely from the life, but some counterpart of that character has incredulously asked me: “Now really, did I ever really, see one like it?”

All the Pecksniff family upon earth are quite agreed, I believe, that Mr Pecksniff is an exaggeration, and that no such character ever existed. I will not offer any plea on his behalf to so powerful and genteel a body, but will make a remark on the character of Jonas Chuzzlewit.

I conceive that the sordid coarseness and brutality of Jonas would be unnatural, if there had been nothing in his early education, and in the precept and example always before him, to engender and develop the vices that make him odious. But, so born and so bred, admired for that which made him hateful, and justified from his cradle in cunning, treachery, and avarice; I claim him as the legitimate issue of the father upon whom those vices are seen to recoil. And I submit that their recoil upon that old man, in his unhonoured age, is not a mere piece of poetical justice, but is the extreme exposition of a direct truth.

I make this comment, and solicit the reader’s attention to it in his or her consideration of this tale, because nothing is more common in real life than a want of profitable reflection on the causes of many vices and crimes that awaken the general horror. What is substantially true of families in this respect, is true of a whole commonwealth. As we sow, we reap. Let the reader go into the children’s side of any prison in England, or, I grieve to add, of many workhouses, and judge whether those are monsters who disgrace our streets, people our hulks and penitentiaries, and overcrowd our penal colonies, or are creatures whom we have deliberately suffered to be bred for misery and ruin.

The American portion of this story is in no other respect a caricature than as it is an exhibition, for the most part (Mr Bevan expected), of a ludicrous side, ONLY, of the American character—of that side which was, four-and-twenty years ago, from its nature, the most obtrusive, and the most likely to be seen by such travellers as Young Martin and Mark Tapley. As I had never, in writing fiction, had any disposition to soften what is ridiculous or wrong at home, so I then hoped that the good-humored people of the United States would not be generally disposed to quarrel with me for carrying the same usage abroad. I am happy to believe that my confidence in that great nation was not misplaced.

When this book was first published, I was given to understand, by some authorities, that the Watertoast Association and eloquence were beyond all bounds of belief. Therefore I record the fact that all that portion of Martin Chuzzlewit’s experiences is a literal paraphrase of some reports of public proceedings in the United States (especially of the proceedings of a certain Brandywine Association), which were printed in the Times Newspaper in June and July, 1843—at about the time when I was engaged in writing those parts of the book; and which remain on the file of the Times Newspaper, of course.

In all my writings, I hope I have taken every available opportunity of showing the want of sanitary improvements in the neglected dwellings of the poor. Mrs Sarah Gamp was, four-and-twenty years ago, a fair representation of the hired attendant on the poor in sickness. The hospitals of London were, in many respects, noble Institutions; in others, very defective. I think it not the least among the instances of their mismanagement, that Mrs Betsey Prig was a fair specimen of a Hospital Nurse; and that the Hospitals, with their means and funds, should have left it to private humanity and enterprise, to enter on an attempt to improve that class of persons—since, greatly improved through the agency of good women.

POSTSCRIPT

At a Public Dinner given to me on Saturday the 18th of April, 1868, in the city of New York, by two hundred representatives of the Press of the United States of America, I made the following observations, among others:—

“So much of my voice has lately been heard in the land, that I might have been contented with troubling you no further from my present standing-point, were it not a duty with which I henceforth charge myself, not only here but on every suitable occasion, whatsoever and wheresoever, to express my high and grateful sense of my second reception in America, and to bear my honest testimony to the national generosity and magnanimity. Also, to declare how astounded I have been by the amazing changes I have seen around me on every side—changes moral, changes physical, changes in the amount of land subdued and peopled, changes in the rise of vast new cities, changes in the growth of older cities almost out of recognition, changes in the graces and amenities of life, changes in the Press, without whose advancement no advancement can take place anywhere. Nor am I, believe me, so arrogant as to suppose that in five-and-twenty years there have been no changes in me, and that I had nothing to learn and no extreme impressions to correct when I was here first. And this brings me to a point on which I have, ever since I landed in the United States last November, observed a strict silence, though sometimes tempted to break it, but in reference to which I will, with your good leave, take you into my confidence now. Even the Press, being human, may be sometimes mistaken or misinformed, and I rather think that I have in one or two rare instances observed its information to be not strictly accurate with reference to myself. Indeed, I have, now and again, been more surprised by printed news that I have read of myself, than by any printed news that I have ever read in my present state of existence. Thus, the vigour and perseverance with which I have for some months past been collecting materials for, and hammering away at, a new book on America has much astonished me; seeing that all that time my declaration has been perfectly well known to my publishers on both sides of the Atlantic, that no consideration on earth would induce me to write one. But what I have intended, what I have resolved upon (and this is the confidence I seek to place in you), is, on my return to England, in my own person, in my own Journal, to bear, for the behoof of my countrymen, such testimony to the gigantic changes in this country as I have hinted at to-night. Also, to record that wherever I have been, in the smallest places equally with the largest, I have been received with unsurpassable politeness, delicacy, sweet temper, hospitality, consideration, and with unsurpassable respect for the privacy daily enforced upon me by the nature of my avocation here and the state of my health. This testimony, so long as I live, and so long as my descendants have any legal right in my books, I shall cause to be republished, as an appendix to every copy of those two books of mine in which I have referred to America. And this I will do and cause to be done, not in mere love and thankfulness, but because I regard it as an act of plain justice and honour.”

I said these words with the greatest earnestness that I could lay upon them, and I repeat them in print here with equal earnestness. So long as this book shall last, I hope that they will form a part of it, and will be fairly read as inseparable from my experiences and impressions of America.

CHARLES DICKENS.

May, 1868.

CHAPTER ONE

INTRODUCTORY, CONCERNING THE PEDIGREE OF THE CHUZZLEWIT FAMILY

As no lady or gentleman, with any claims to polite breeding, can possibly sympathize with the Chuzzlewit Family without being first assured of the extreme antiquity of the race, it is a great satisfaction to know that it undoubtedly descended in a direct line from Adam and Eve; and was, in the very earliest times, closely connected with the agricultural interest. If it should ever be urged by grudging and malicious persons, that a Chuzzlewit, in any period of the family history, displayed an overweening amount of family pride, surely the weakness will be considered not only pardonable but laudable, when the immense superiority of the house to the rest of mankind, in respect of this its ancient origin, is taken into account.

It is remarkable that as there was, in the oldest family of which we have any record, a murderer and a vagabond, so we never fail to meet, in the records of all old families, with innumerable repetitions of the same phase of character. Indeed, it may be laid down as a general principle, that the more extended the ancestry, the greater the amount of violence and vagabondism; for in ancient days those two amusements, combining a wholesome excitement with a promising means of repairing shattered fortunes, were at once the ennobling pursuit and the healthful recreation of the Quality of this land.

Consequently, it is a source of inexpressible comfort and happiness to find, that in various periods of our history, the Chuzzlewits were actively connected with divers slaughterous conspiracies and bloody frays. It is further recorded of them, that being clad from head to heel in steel of proof, they did on many occasions lead their leather-jerkined soldiers to the death with invincible courage, and afterwards return home gracefully to their relations and friends.

There can be no doubt that at least one Chuzzlewit came over with William the Conqueror. It does not appear that this illustrious ancestor ‘came over’ that monarch, to employ the vulgar phrase, at any subsequent period; inasmuch as the Family do not seem to have been ever greatly distinguished by the possession of landed estate. And it is well known that for the bestowal of that kind of property upon his favourites, the liberality and gratitude of the Norman were as remarkable as those virtues are usually found to be in great men when they give away what belongs to other people.

Perhaps in this place the history may pause to congratulate itself upon the enormous amount of bravery, wisdom, eloquence, virtue, gentle birth, and true nobility, that appears to have come into England with the Norman Invasion: an amount which the genealogy of every ancient family lends its aid to swell, and which would beyond all question have been found to be just as great, and to the full as prolific in giving birth to long lines of chivalrous descendants, boastful of their origin, even though William the Conqueror had been William the Conquered; a change of circumstances which, it is quite certain, would have made no manner of difference in this respect.

There was unquestionably a Chuzzlewit in the Gunpowder Plot, if indeed the arch-traitor, Fawkes himself, were not a scion of this remarkable stock; as he might easily have been, supposing another Chuzzlewit to have emigrated to Spain in the previous generation, and there intermarried with a Spanish lady, by whom he had issue, one olive-complexioned son. This probable conjecture is strengthened, if not absolutely confirmed, by a fact which cannot fail to be interesting to those who are curious in tracing the progress of hereditary tastes through the lives of their unconscious inheritors. It is a notable circumstance that in these later times, many Chuzzlewits, being unsuccessful in other pursuits, have, without the smallest rational hope of enriching themselves, or any conceivable reason, set up as coal-merchants; and have, month after month, continued gloomily to watch a small stock of coals, without in any one instance negotiating with a purchaser. The remarkable similarity between this course of proceeding and that adopted by their Great Ancestor beneath the vaults of the Parliament House at Westminster, is too obvious and too full of interest, to stand in need of comment.

It is also clearly proved by the oral traditions of the Family, that there existed, at some one period of its history which is not distinctly stated, a matron of such destructive principles, and so familiarized to the use and composition of inflammatory and combustible engines, that she was called ‘The Match Maker;’ by which nickname and byword she is recognized in the Family legends to this day. Surely there can be no reasonable doubt that this was the Spanish lady, the mother of Chuzzlewit Fawkes.

But there is one other piece of evidence, bearing immediate reference to their close connection with this memorable event in English History, which must carry conviction, even to a mind (if such a mind there be) remaining unconvinced by these presumptive proofs.

There was, within a few years, in the possession of a highly respectable and in every way credible and unimpeachable member of the Chuzzlewit Family (for his bitterest enemy never dared to hint at his being otherwise than a wealthy man), a dark lantern of undoubted antiquity; rendered still more interesting by being, in shape and pattern, extremely like such as are in use at the present day. Now this gentleman, since deceased, was at all times ready to make oath, and did again and again set forth upon his solemn asseveration, that he had frequently heard his grandmother say, when contemplating this venerable relic, ‘Aye, aye! This was carried by my fourth son on the fifth of November, when he was a Guy Fawkes.’ These remarkable words wrought (as well they might) a strong impression on his mind, and he was in the habit of repeating them very often. The just interpretation which they bear, and the conclusion to which they lead, are triumphant and irresistible. The old lady, naturally strong-minded, was nevertheless frail and fading; she was notoriously subject to that confusion of ideas, or, to say the least, of speech, to which age and garrulity are liable. The slight, the very slight, confusion apparent in these expressions is manifest, and is ludicrously easy of correction. ‘Aye, aye,’ quoth she, and it will be observed that no emendation whatever is necessary to be made in these two initiative remarks, ‘Aye, aye! This lantern was carried by my forefather’—not fourth son, which is preposterous—‘on the fifth of November. And HE was Guy Fawkes.’ Here we have a remark at once consistent, clear, natural, and in strict accordance with the character of the speaker. Indeed the anecdote is so plainly susceptible of this meaning and no other, that it would be hardly worth recording in its original state, were it not a proof of what may be (and very often is) affected not only in historical prose but in imaginative poetry, by the exercise of a little ingenious labour on the part of a commentator.

It has been said that there is no instance, in modern times, of a Chuzzlewit having been found on terms of intimacy with the Great. But here again the sneering detractors who weave such miserable figments from their malicious brains, are stricken dumb by evidence. For letters are yet in the possession of various branches of the family, from which it distinctly appears, being stated in so many words, that one Diggory Chuzzlewit was in the habit of perpetually dining with Duke Humphrey. So constantly was he a guest at that nobleman’s table, indeed; and so unceasingly were His Grace’s hospitality and companionship forced, as it were, upon him; that we find him uneasy, and full of constraint and reluctance; writing his friends to the effect that if they fail to do so and so by bearer, he will have no choice but to dine again with Duke Humphrey; and expressing himself in a very marked and extraordinary manner as one surfeited of High Life and Gracious Company.

It has been rumoured, and it is needless to say the rumour originated in the same base quarters, that a certain male Chuzzlewit, whose birth must be admitted to be involved in some obscurity, was of very mean and low descent. How stands the proof? When the son of that individual, to whom the secret of his father’s birth was supposed to have been communicated by his father in his lifetime, lay upon his deathbed, this question was put to him in a distinct, solemn, and formal way: ‘Toby Chuzzlewit, who was your grandfather?’ To which he, with his last breath, no less distinctly, solemnly, and formally replied: and his words were taken down at the time, and signed by six witnesses, each with his name and address in full: ‘The Lord No Zoo.’ It may be said—it HAS been said, for human wickedness has no limits—that there is no Lord of that name, and that among the titles which have become extinct, none at all resembling this, in sound even, is to be discovered. But what is the irresistible inference? Rejecting a theory broached by some well-meaning but mistaken persons, that this Mr Toby Chuzzlewit’s grandfather, to judge from his name, must surely have been a Mandarin (which is wholly insupportable, for there is no pretence of his grandmother ever having been out of this country, or of any Mandarin having been in it within some years of his father’s birth; except those in the tea-shops, which cannot for a moment be regarded as having any bearing on the question, one way or other), rejecting this hypothesis, is it not manifest that Mr Toby Chuzzlewit had either received the name imperfectly from his father, or that he had forgotten it, or that he had mispronounced it? and that even at the recent period in question, the Chuzzlewits were connected by a bend sinister, or kind of heraldic over-the-left, with some unknown noble and illustrious House?

From documentary evidence, yet preserved in the family, the fact is clearly established that in the comparatively modern days of the Diggory Chuzzlewit before mentioned, one of its members had attained to very great wealth and influence. Throughout such fragments of his correspondence as have escaped the ravages of the moths (who, in right of their extensive absorption of the contents of deeds and papers, may be called the general registers of the Insect World), we find him making constant reference to an uncle, in respect of whom he would seem to have entertained great expectations, as he was in the habit of seeking to propitiate his favour by presents of plate, jewels, books, watches, and other valuable articles. Thus, he writes on one occasion to his brother in reference to a gravy-spoon, the brother’s property, which he (Diggory) would appear to have borrowed or otherwise possessed himself of: ‘Do not be angry, I have parted with it—to my uncle.’ On another occasion he expresses himself in a similar manner with regard to a child’s mug which had been entrusted to him to get repaired. On another occasion he says, ‘I have bestowed upon that irresistible uncle of mine everything I ever possessed.’ And that he was in the habit of paying long and constant visits to this gentleman at his mansion, if, indeed, he did not wholly reside there, is manifest from the following sentence: ‘With the exception of the suit of clothes I carry about with me, the whole of my wearing apparel is at present at my uncle’s.’ This gentleman’s patronage and influence must have been very extensive, for his nephew writes, ‘His interest is too high’—‘It is too much’—‘It is tremendous’—and the like. Still it does not appear (which is strange) to have procured for him any lucrative post at court or elsewhere, or to have conferred upon him any other distinction than that which was necessarily included in the countenance of so great a man, and the being invited by him to certain entertainment’s, so splendid and costly in their nature, that he calls them ‘Golden Balls.’

It is needless to multiply instances of the high and lofty station, and the vast importance of the Chuzzlewits, at different periods. If it came within the scope of reasonable probability that further proofs were required, they might be heaped upon each other until they formed an Alps of testimony, beneath which the boldest scepticism should be crushed and beaten flat. As a goodly tumulus is already collected, and decently battened up above the Family grave, the present chapter is content to leave it as it is: merely adding, by way of a final spadeful, that many Chuzzlewits, both male and female, are proved to demonstration, on the faith of letters written by their own mothers, to have had chiselled noses, undeniable chins, forms that might have served the sculptor for a model, exquisitely-turned limbs and polished foreheads of so transparent a texture that the blue veins might be seen branching off in various directions, like so many roads on an ethereal map. This fact in itself, though it had been a solitary one, would have utterly settled and clenched the business in hand; for it is well known, on the authority of all the books which treat of such matters, that every one of these phenomena, but especially that of the chiselling, are invariably peculiar to, and only make themselves apparent in, persons of the very best condition.

This history having, to its own perfect satisfaction, (and, consequently, to the full contentment of all its readers,) proved the Chuzzlewits to have had an origin, and to have been at one time or other of an importance which cannot fail to render them highly improving and acceptable acquaintance to all right-minded individuals, may now proceed in earnest with its task. And having shown that they must have had, by reason of their ancient birth, a pretty large share in the foundation and increase of the human family, it will one day become its province to submit, that such of its members as shall be introduced in these pages, have still many counterparts and prototypes in the Great World about us. At present it contents itself with remarking, in a general way, on this head: Firstly, that it may be safely asserted, and yet without implying any direct participation in the Manboddo doctrine touching the probability of the human race having once been monkeys, that men do play very strange and extraordinary tricks. Secondly, and yet without trenching on the Blumenbach theory as to the descendants of Adam having a vast number of qualities which belong more particularly to swine than to any other class of animals in the creation, that some men certainly are remarkable for taking uncommon good care of themselves.

CHAPTER TWO

WHEREIN CERTAIN PERSONS ARE PRESENTED TO THE READER, WITH WHOM HE MAY, IF HE PLEASE, BECOME BETTER ACQUAINTED

It was pretty late in the autumn of the year, when the declining sun struggling through the mist which had obscured it all day, looked brightly down upon a little Wiltshire village, within an easy journey of the fair old town of Salisbury.

Like a sudden flash of memory or spirit kindling up the mind of an old man, it shed a glory upon the scene, in which its departed youth and freshness seemed to live again. The wet grass sparkled in the light; the scanty patches of verdure in the hedges—where a few green twigs yet stood together bravely, resisting to the last the tyranny of nipping winds and early frosts—took heart and brightened up; the stream which had been dull and sullen all day long, broke out into a cheerful smile; the birds began to chirp and twitter on the naked boughs, as though the hopeful creatures half believed that winter had gone by, and spring had come already. The vane upon the tapering spire of the old church glistened from its lofty station in sympathy with the general gladness; and from the ivy-shaded windows such gleams of light shone back upon the glowing sky, that it seemed as if the quiet buildings were the hoarding-place of twenty summers, and all their ruddiness and warmth were stored within.

Even those tokens of the season which emphatically whispered of the coming winter, graced the landscape, and, for the moment, tinged its livelier features with no oppressive air of sadness. The fallen leaves, with which the ground was strewn, gave forth a pleasant fragrance, and subduing all harsh sounds of distant feet and wheels created a repose in gentle unison with the light scattering of seed hither and thither by the distant husbandman, and with the noiseless passage of the plough as it turned up the rich brown earth, and wrought a graceful pattern in the stubbled fields. On the motionless branches of some trees, autumn berries hung like clusters of coral beads, as in those fabled orchards where the fruits were jewels; others stripped of all their garniture, stood, each the centre of its little heap of bright red leaves, watching their slow decay; others again, still wearing theirs, had them all crunched and crackled up, as though they had been burnt; about the stems of some were piled, in ruddy mounds, the apples they had borne that year; while others (hardy evergreens this class) showed somewhat stern and gloomy in their vigour, as charged by nature with the admonition that it is not to her more sensitive and joyous favourites she grants the longest term of life. Still athwart their darker boughs, the sunbeams struck out paths of deeper gold; and the red light, mantling in among their swarthy branches, used them as foils to set its brightness off, and aid the lustre of the dying day.

A moment, and its glory was no more. The sun went down beneath the long dark lines of hill and cloud which piled up in the west an airy city, wall heaped on wall, and battlement on battlement; the light was all withdrawn; the shining church turned cold and dark; the stream forgot to smile; the birds were silent; and the gloom of winter dwelt on everything.

An evening wind uprose too, and the slighter branches cracked and rattled as they moved, in skeleton dances, to its moaning music. The withering leaves no longer quiet, hurried to and fro in search of shelter from its chill pursuit; the labourer unyoked his horses, and with head bent down, trudged briskly home beside them; and from the cottage windows lights began to glance and wink upon the darkening fields.

Then the village forge came out in all its bright importance. The lusty bellows roared Ha ha! to the clear fire, which roared in turn, and bade the shining sparks dance gayly to the merry clinking of the hammers on the anvil. The gleaming iron, in its emulation, sparkled too, and shed its red-hot gems around profusely. The strong smith and his men dealt such strokes upon their work, as made even the melancholy night rejoice, and brought a glow into its dark face as it hovered about the door and windows, peeping curiously in above the shoulders of a dozen loungers. As to this idle company, there they stood, spellbound by the place, and, casting now and then a glance upon the darkness in their rear, settled their lazy elbows more at ease upon the sill, and leaned a little further in: no more disposed to tear themselves away than if they had been born to cluster round the blazing hearth like so many crickets.

Out upon the angry wind! how from sighing, it began to bluster round the merry forge, banging at the wicket, and grumbling in the chimney, as if it bullied the jolly bellows for doing anything to order. And what an impotent swaggerer it was too, for all its noise; for if it had any influence on that hoarse companion, it was but to make him roar his cheerful song the louder, and by consequence to make the fire burn the brighter, and the sparks to dance more gayly yet; at length, they whizzed so madly round and round, that it was too much for such a surly wind to bear; so off it flew with a howl giving the old sign before the ale-house door such a cuff as it went, that the Blue Dragon was more rampant than usual ever afterwards, and indeed, before Christmas, reared clean out of its crazy frame.

It was small tyranny for a respectable wind to go wreaking its vengeance on such poor creatures as the fallen leaves, but this wind happening to come up with a great heap of them just after venting its humour on the insulted Dragon, did so disperse and scatter them that they fled away, pell-mell, some here, some there, rolling over each other, whirling round and round upon their thin edges, taking frantic flights into the air, and playing all manner of extraordinary gambols in the extremity of their distress. Nor was this enough for its malicious fury; for not content with driving them abroad, it charged small parties of them and hunted them into the wheel wright’s saw-pit, and below the planks and timbers in the yard, and, scattering the sawdust in the air, it looked for them underneath, and when it did meet with any, whew! how it drove them on and followed at their heels!

The scared leaves only flew the faster for all this, and a giddy chase it was; for they got into unfrequented places, where there was no outlet, and where their pursuer kept them eddying round and round at his pleasure; and they crept under the eaves of houses, and clung tightly to the sides of hay-ricks, like bats; and tore in at open chamber windows, and cowered close to hedges; and, in short, went anywhere for safety. But the oddest feat they achieved was, to take advantage of the sudden opening of Mr Pecksniff’s front-door, to dash wildly into his passage; whither the wind following close upon them, and finding the back-door open, incontinently blew out the lighted candle held by Miss Pecksniff, and slammed the front-door against Mr Pecksniff who was at that moment entering, with such violence, that in the twinkling of an eye he lay on his back at the bottom of the steps. Being by this time weary of such trifling performances, the boisterous rover hurried away rejoicing, roaring over moor and meadow, hill and flat, until it got out to sea, where it met with other winds similarly disposed, and made a night of it.

In the meantime Mr Pecksniff, having received from a sharp angle in the bottom step but one, that sort of knock on the head which lights up, for the patient’s entertainment, an imaginary general illumination of very bright short-sixes, lay placidly staring at his own street door. And it would seem to have been more suggestive in its aspect than street doors usually are; for he continued to lie there, rather a lengthy and unreasonable time, without so much as wondering whether he was hurt or no; neither, when Miss Pecksniff inquired through the key-hole in a shrill voice, which might have belonged to a wind in its teens, ‘Who’s there’ did he make any reply; nor, when Miss Pecksniff opened the door again, and shading the candle with her hand, peered out, and looked provokingly round him, and about him, and over him, and everywhere but at him, did he offer any remark, or indicate in any manner the least hint of a desire to be picked up.

‘I see you,’ cried Miss Pecksniff, to the ideal inflicter of a runaway knock. ‘You’ll catch it, sir!’

Still Mr Pecksniff, perhaps from having caught it already, said nothing.

‘You’re round the corner now,’ cried Miss Pecksniff. She said it at a venture, but there was appropriate matter in it too; for Mr Pecksniff, being in the act of extinguishing the candles before mentioned pretty rapidly, and of reducing the number of brass knobs on his street door from four or five hundred (which had previously been juggling of their own accord before his eyes in a very novel manner) to a dozen or so, might in one sense have been said to be coming round the corner, and just turning it.

With a sharply delivered warning relative to the cage and the constable, and the stocks and the gallows, Miss Pecksniff was about to close the door again, when Mr Pecksniff (being still at the bottom of the steps) raised himself on one elbow, and sneezed.

‘That voice!’ cried Miss Pecksniff. ‘My parent!’

At this exclamation, another Miss Pecksniff bounced out of the parlour; and the two Miss Pecksniffs, with many incoherent expressions, dragged Mr Pecksniff into an upright posture.

‘Pa!’ they cried in concert. ‘Pa! Speak, Pa! Do not look so wild my dearest Pa!’

But as a gentleman’s looks, in such a case of all others, are by no means under his own control, Mr Pecksniff continued to keep his mouth and his eyes very wide open, and to drop his lower jaw, somewhat after the manner of a toy nut-cracker; and as his hat had fallen off, and his face was pale, and his hair erect, and his coat muddy, the spectacle he presented was so very doleful, that neither of the Miss Pecksniffs could repress an involuntary screech.

‘That’ll do,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘I’m better.’

‘He’s come to himself!’ cried the youngest Miss Pecksniff.

‘He speaks again!’ exclaimed the eldest.

With these joyful words they kissed Mr Pecksniff on either cheek; and bore him into the house. Presently, the youngest Miss Pecksniff ran out again to pick up his hat, his brown paper parcel, his umbrella, his gloves, and other small articles; and that done, and the door closed, both young ladies applied themselves to tending Mr Pecksniff’s wounds in the back parlour.

They were not very serious in their nature; being limited to abrasions on what the eldest Miss Pecksniff called ‘the knobby parts’ of her parent’s anatomy, such as his knees and elbows, and to the development of an entirely new organ, unknown to phrenologists, on the back of his head. These injuries having been comforted externally, with patches of pickled brown paper, and Mr Pecksniff having been comforted internally, with some stiff brandy-and-water, the eldest Miss Pecksniff sat down to make the tea, which was all ready. In the meantime the youngest Miss Pecksniff brought from the kitchen a smoking dish of ham and eggs, and, setting the same before her father, took up her station on a low stool at his feet; thereby bringing her eyes on a level with the teaboard.

It must not be inferred from this position of humility, that the youngest Miss Pecksniff was so young as to be, as one may say, forced to sit upon a stool, by reason of the shortness of her legs. Miss Pecksniff sat upon a stool because of her simplicity and innocence, which were very great, very great. Miss Pecksniff sat upon a stool because she was all girlishness, and playfulness, and wildness, and kittenish buoyancy. She was the most arch and at the same time the most artless creature, was the youngest Miss Pecksniff, that you can possibly imagine. It was her great charm. She was too fresh and guileless, and too full of child-like vivacity, was the youngest Miss Pecksniff, to wear combs in her hair, or to turn it up, or to frizzle it, or braid it. She wore it in a crop, a loosely flowing crop, which had so many rows of curls in it, that the top row was only one curl. Moderately buxom was her shape, and quite womanly too; but sometimes—yes, sometimes—she even wore a pinafore; and how charming THAT was! Oh! she was indeed ‘a gushing thing’ (as a young gentleman had observed in verse, in the Poet’s Corner of a provincial newspaper), was the youngest Miss Pecksniff!

Mr Pecksniff was a moral man—a grave man, a man of noble sentiments and speech—and he had had her christened Mercy. Mercy! oh, what a charming name for such a pure-souled Being as the youngest Miss Pecksniff! Her sister’s name was Charity. There was a good thing! Mercy and Charity! And Charity, with her fine strong sense and her mild, yet not reproachful gravity, was so well named, and did so well set off and illustrate her sister! What a pleasant sight was that the contrast they presented; to see each loved and loving one sympathizing with, and devoted to, and leaning on, and yet correcting and counter-checking, and, as it were, antidoting, the other! To behold each damsel in her very admiration of her sister, setting up in business for herself on an entirely different principle, and announcing no connection with over-the-way, and if the quality of goods at that establishment don’t please you, you are respectfully invited to favour ME with a call! And the crowning circumstance of the whole delightful catalogue was, that both the fair creatures were so utterly unconscious of all this! They had no idea of it. They no more thought or dreamed of it than Mr Pecksniff did. Nature played them off against each other; THEY had no hand in it, the two Miss Pecksniffs.

It has been remarked that Mr Pecksniff was a moral man. So he was. Perhaps there never was a more moral man than Mr Pecksniff, especially in his conversation and correspondence. It was once said of him by a homely admirer, that he had a Fortunatus’s purse of good sentiments in his inside. In this particular he was like the girl in the fairy tale, except that if they were not actual diamonds which fell from his lips, they were the very brightest paste, and shone prodigiously. He was a most exemplary man; fuller of virtuous precept than a copy book. Some people likened him to a direction-post, which is always telling the way to a place, and never goes there; but these were his enemies, the shadows cast by his brightness; that was all. His very throat was moral. You saw a good deal of it. You looked over a very low fence of white cravat (whereof no man had ever beheld the tie for he fastened it behind), and there it lay, a valley between two jutting heights of collar, serene and whiskerless before you. It seemed to say, on the part of Mr Pecksniff, ‘There is no deception, ladies and gentlemen, all is peace, a holy calm pervades me.’ So did his hair, just grizzled with an iron-grey which was all brushed off his forehead, and stood bolt upright, or slightly drooped in kindred action with his heavy eyelids. So did his person, which was sleek though free from corpulency. So did his manner, which was soft and oily. In a word, even his plain black suit, and state of widower and dangling double eye-glass, all tended to the same purpose, and cried aloud, ‘Behold the moral Pecksniff!’

The brazen plate upon the door (which being Mr Pecksniff’s, could not lie) bore this inscription, ‘PECKSNIFF, ARCHITECT,’ to which Mr Pecksniff, on his cards of business, added, AND LAND SURVEYOR.’ In one sense, and only one, he may be said to have been a Land Surveyor on a pretty large scale, as an extensive prospect lay stretched out before the windows of his house. Of his architectural doings, nothing was clearly known, except that he had never designed or built anything; but it was generally understood that his knowledge of the science was almost awful in its profundity.

Mr Pecksniff’s professional engagements, indeed, were almost, if not entirely, confined to the reception of pupils; for the collection of rents, with which pursuit he occasionally varied and relieved his graver toils, can hardly be said to be a strictly architectural employment. His genius lay in ensnaring parents and guardians, and pocketing premiums. A young gentleman’s premium being paid, and the young gentleman come to Mr Pecksniff’s house, Mr Pecksniff borrowed his case of mathematical instruments (if silver-mounted or otherwise valuable); entreated him, from that moment, to consider himself one of the family; complimented him highly on his parents or guardians, as the case might be; and turned him loose in a spacious room on the two-pair front; where, in the company of certain drawing-boards, parallel rulers, very stiff-legged compasses, and two, or perhaps three, other young gentlemen, he improved himself, for three or five years, according to his articles, in making elevations of Salisbury Cathedral from every possible point of sight; and in constructing in the air a vast quantity of Castles, Houses of Parliament, and other Public Buildings. Perhaps in no place in the world were so many gorgeous edifices of this class erected as under Mr Pecksniff’s auspices; and if but one-twentieth part of the churches which were built in that front room, with one or other of the Miss Pecksniffs at the altar in the act of marrying the architect, could only be made available by the parliamentary commissioners, no more churches would be wanted for at least five centuries.

‘Even the worldly goods of which we have just disposed,’ said Mr Pecksniff, glancing round the table when he had finished, ‘even cream, sugar, tea, toast, ham—’

‘And eggs,’ suggested Charity in a low voice.

‘And eggs,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘even they have their moral. See how they come and go! Every pleasure is transitory. We can’t even eat, long. If we indulge in harmless fluids, we get the dropsy; if in exciting liquids, we get drunk. What a soothing reflection is that!’

‘Don’t say WE get drunk, Pa,’ urged the eldest Miss Pecksniff.

‘When I say we, my dear,’ returned her father, ‘I mean mankind in general; the human race, considered as a body, and not as individuals. There is nothing personal in morality, my love. Even such a thing as this,’ said Mr Pecksniff, laying the fore-finger of his left hand upon the brown paper patch on the top of his head, ‘slight casual baldness though it be, reminds us that we are but’—he was going to say ‘worms,’ but recollecting that worms were not remarkable for heads of hair, he substituted ‘flesh and blood.’

‘Which,’ cried Mr Pecksniff after a pause, during which he seemed to have been casting about for a new moral, and not quite successfully, ‘which is also very soothing. Mercy, my dear, stir the fire and throw up the cinders.’

The young lady obeyed, and having done so, resumed her stool, reposed one arm upon her father’s knee, and laid her blooming cheek upon it. Miss Charity drew her chair nearer the fire, as one prepared for conversation, and looked towards her father.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Pecksniff, after a short pause, during which he had been silently smiling, and shaking his head at the fire—‘I have again been fortunate in the attainment of my object. A new inmate will very shortly come among us.’

‘A youth, papa?’ asked Charity.

‘Ye-es, a youth,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘He will avail himself of the eligible opportunity which now offers, for uniting the advantages of the best practical architectural education with the comforts of a home, and the constant association with some who (however humble their sphere, and limited their capacity) are not unmindful of their moral responsibilities.’

‘Oh Pa!’ cried Mercy, holding up her finger archly. ‘See advertisement!’

‘Playful—playful warbler,’ said Mr Pecksniff. It may be observed in connection with his calling his daughter a ‘warbler,’ that she was not at all vocal, but that Mr Pecksniff was in the frequent habit of using any word that occurred to him as having a good sound, and rounding a sentence well without much care for its meaning. And he did this so boldly, and in such an imposing manner, that he would sometimes stagger the wisest people with his eloquence, and make them gasp again.

His enemies asserted, by the way, that a strong trustfulness in sounds and forms was the master-key to Mr Pecksniff’s character.

‘Is he handsome, Pa?’ inquired the younger daughter.

‘Silly Merry!’ said the eldest: Merry being fond for Mercy. ‘What is the premium, Pa? tell us that.’

‘Oh, good gracious, Cherry!’ cried Miss Mercy, holding up her hands with the most winning giggle in the world, ‘what a mercenary girl you are! oh you naughty, thoughtful, prudent thing!’

It was perfectly charming, and worthy of the Pastoral age, to see how the two Miss Pecksniffs slapped each other after this, and then subsided into an embrace expressive of their different dispositions.

‘He is well looking,’ said Mr Pecksniff, slowly and distinctly; ‘well looking enough. I do not positively expect any immediate premium with him.’

Notwithstanding their different natures, both Charity and Mercy concurred in opening their eyes uncommonly wide at this announcement, and in looking for the moment as blank as if their thoughts had actually had a direct bearing on the main chance.

‘But what of that!’ said Mr Pecksniff, still smiling at the fire. ‘There is disinterestedness in the world, I hope? We are not all arrayed in two opposite ranks; the OFfensive and the DEfensive. Some few there are who walk between; who help the needy as they go; and take no part with either side. Umph!’

There was something in these morsels of philanthropy which reassured the sisters. They exchanged glances, and brightened very much.

‘Oh! let us not be for ever calculating, devising, and plotting for the future,’ said Mr Pecksniff, smiling more and more, and looking at the fire as a man might, who was cracking a joke with it: ‘I am weary of such arts. If our inclinations are but good and open-hearted, let us gratify them boldly, though they bring upon us Loss instead of Profit. Eh, Charity?’

Glancing towards his daughters for the first time since he had begun these reflections, and seeing that they both smiled, Mr Pecksniff eyed them for an instant so jocosely (though still with a kind of saintly waggishness) that the younger one was moved to sit upon his knee forthwith, put her fair arms round his neck, and kiss him twenty times. During the whole of this affectionate display she laughed to a most immoderate extent: in which hilarious indulgence even the prudent Cherry joined.

‘Tut, tut,’ said Mr Pecksniff, pushing his latest-born away and running his fingers through his hair, as he resumed his tranquil face. ‘What folly is this! Let us take heed how we laugh without reason lest we cry with it. What is the domestic news since yesterday? John Westlock is gone, I hope?’

‘Indeed, no,’ said Charity.

‘And why not?’ returned her father. ‘His term expired yesterday. And his box was packed, I know; for I saw it, in the morning, standing in the hall.’

‘He slept last night at the Dragon,’ returned the young lady, ‘and had Mr Pinch to dine with him. They spent the evening together, and Mr Pinch was not home till very late.’

‘And when I saw him on the stairs this morning, Pa,’ said Mercy with her usual sprightliness, ‘he looked, oh goodness, SUCH a monster! with his face all manner of colours, and his eyes as dull as if they had been boiled, and his head aching dreadfully, I am sure from the look of it, and his clothes smelling, oh it’s impossible to say how strong, oh’—here the young lady shuddered—‘of smoke and punch.’

‘Now I think,’ said Mr Pecksniff with his accustomed gentleness, though still with the air of one who suffered under injury without complaint, ‘I think Mr Pinch might have done better than choose for his companion one who, at the close of a long intercourse, had endeavoured, as he knew, to wound my feelings. I am not quite sure that this was delicate in Mr Pinch. I am not quite sure that this was kind in Mr Pinch. I will go further and say, I am not quite sure that this was even ordinarily grateful in Mr Pinch.’

‘But what can anyone expect from Mr Pinch!’ cried Charity, with as strong and scornful an emphasis on the name as if it would have given her unspeakable pleasure to express it, in an acted charade, on the calf of that gentleman’s leg.

‘Aye, aye,’ returned her father, raising his hand mildly: ‘it is very well to say what can we expect from Mr Pinch, but Mr Pinch is a fellow-creature, my dear; Mr Pinch is an item in the vast total of humanity, my love; and we have a right, it is our duty, to expect in Mr Pinch some development of those better qualities, the possession of which in our own persons inspires our humble self-respect. No,’ continued Mr Pecksniff. ‘No! Heaven forbid that I should say, nothing can be expected from Mr Pinch; or that I should say, nothing can be expected from any man alive (even the most degraded, which Mr Pinch is not, no, really); but Mr Pinch has disappointed me; he has hurt me; I think a little the worse of him on this account, but not if human nature. Oh, no, no!’

‘Hark!’ said Miss Charity, holding up her finger, as a gentle rap was heard at the street door. ‘There is the creature! Now mark my words, he has come back with John Westlock for his box, and is going to help him to take it to the mail. Only mark my words, if that isn’t his intention!’

Even as she spoke, the box appeared to be in progress of conveyance from the house, but after a brief murmuring of question and answer, it was put down again, and somebody knocked at the parlour door.

‘Come in!’ cried Mr Pecksniff—not severely; only virtuously. ‘Come in!’

An ungainly, awkward-looking man, extremely short-sighted, and prematurely bald, availed himself of this permission; and seeing that Mr Pecksniff sat with his back towards him, gazing at the fire, stood hesitating, with the door in his hand. He was far from handsome certainly; and was drest in a snuff-coloured suit, of an uncouth make at the best, which, being shrunk with long wear, was twisted and tortured into all kinds of odd shapes; but notwithstanding his attire, and his clumsy figure, which a great stoop in his shoulders, and a ludicrous habit he had of thrusting his head forward, by no means redeemed, one would not have been disposed (unless Mr Pecksniff said so) to consider him a bad fellow by any means. He was perhaps about thirty, but he might have been almost any age between sixteen and sixty; being one of those strange creatures who never decline into an ancient appearance, but look their oldest when they are very young, and get it over at once.

Keeping his hand upon the lock of the door, he glanced from Mr Pecksniff to Mercy, from Mercy to Charity, and from Charity to Mr Pecksniff again, several times; but the young ladies being as intent upon the fire as their father was, and neither of the three taking any notice of him, he was fain to say, at last,

‘Oh! I beg your pardon, Mr Pecksniff: I beg your pardon for intruding; but—’

‘No intrusion, Mr Pinch,’ said that gentleman very sweetly, but without looking round. ‘Pray be seated, Mr Pinch. Have the goodness to shut the door, Mr Pinch, if you please.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ said Pinch; not doing so, however, but holding it rather wider open than before, and beckoning nervously to somebody without: ‘Mr Westlock, sir, hearing that you were come home—’

‘Mr Pinch, Mr Pinch!’ said Pecksniff, wheeling his chair about, and looking at him with an aspect of the deepest melancholy, ‘I did not expect this from you. I have not deserved this from you!’

‘No, but upon my word, sir—’ urged Pinch.

‘The less you say, Mr Pinch,’ interposed the other, ‘the better. I utter no complaint. Make no defence.’

‘No, but do have the goodness, sir,’ cried Pinch, with great earnestness, ‘if you please. Mr Westlock, sir, going away for good and all, wishes to leave none but friends behind him. Mr Westlock and you, sir, had a little difference the other day; you have had many little differences.’

‘Little differences!’ cried Charity.

‘Little differences!’ echoed Mercy.

‘My loves!’ said Mr Pecksniff, with the same serene upraising of his hand; ‘My dears!’ After a solemn pause he meekly bowed to Mr Pinch, as who should say, ‘Proceed;’ but Mr Pinch was so very much at a loss how to resume, and looked so helplessly at the two Miss Pecksniffs, that the conversation would most probably have terminated there, if a good-looking youth, newly arrived at man’s estate, had not stepped forward from the doorway and taken up the thread of the discourse.

‘Come, Mr Pecksniff,’ he said, with a smile, ‘don’t let there be any ill-blood between us, pray. I am sorry we have ever differed, and extremely sorry I have ever given you offence. Bear me no ill-will at parting, sir.’

‘I bear,’ answered Mr Pecksniff, mildly, ‘no ill-will to any man on earth.’

‘I told you he didn’t,’ said Pinch, in an undertone; ‘I knew he didn’t! He always says he don’t.’

‘Then you will shake hands, sir?’ cried Westlock, advancing a step or two, and bespeaking Mr Pinch’s close attention by a glance.

‘Umph!’ said Mr Pecksniff, in his most winning tone.

‘You will shake hands, sir.’

‘No, John,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a calmness quite ethereal; ‘no, I will not shake hands, John. I have forgiven you. I had already forgiven you, even before you ceased to reproach and taunt me. I have embraced you in the spirit, John, which is better than shaking hands.’

‘Pinch,’ said the youth, turning towards him, with a hearty disgust of his late master, ‘what did I tell you?’

Poor Pinch looked down uneasily at Mr Pecksniff, whose eye was fixed upon him as it had been from the first; and looking up at the ceiling again, made no reply.

‘As to your forgiveness, Mr Pecksniff,’ said the youth, ‘I’ll not have it upon such terms. I won’t be forgiven.’

‘Won’t you, John?’ retorted Mr Pecksniff, with a smile. ‘You must. You can’t help it. Forgiveness is a high quality; an exalted virtue; far above YOUR control or influence, John. I WILL forgive you. You cannot move me to remember any wrong you have ever done me, John.’

‘Wrong!’ cried the other, with all the heat and impetuosity of his age. ‘Here’s a pretty fellow! Wrong! Wrong I have done him! He’ll not even remember the five hundred pounds he had with me under false pretences; or the seventy pounds a year for board and lodging that would have been dear at seventeen! Here’s a martyr!’

‘Money, John,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘is the root of all evil. I grieve to see that it is already bearing evil fruit in you. But I will not remember its existence. I will not even remember the conduct of that misguided person’—and here, although he spoke like one at peace with all the world, he used an emphasis that plainly said “I have my eye upon the rascal now”—‘that misguided person who has brought you here to-night, seeking to disturb (it is a happiness to say, in vain) the heart’s repose and peace of one who would have shed his dearest blood to serve him.’

The voice of Mr Pecksniff trembled as he spoke, and sobs were heard from his daughters. Sounds floated on the air, moreover, as if two spirit voices had exclaimed: one, ‘Beast!’ the other, ‘Savage!’

‘Forgiveness,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘entire and pure forgiveness is not incompatible with a wounded heart; perchance when the heart is wounded, it becomes a greater virtue. With my breast still wrung and grieved to its inmost core by the ingratitude of that person, I am proud and glad to say that I forgive him. Nay! I beg,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, raising his voice, as Pinch appeared about to speak, ‘I beg that individual not to offer a remark; he will truly oblige me by not uttering one word, just now. I am not sure that I am equal to the trial. In a very short space of time, I shall have sufficient fortitude, I trust to converse with him as if these events had never happened. But not,’ said Mr Pecksniff, turning round again towards the fire, and waving his hand in the direction of the door, ‘not now.’

‘Bah!’ cried John Westlock, with the utmost disgust and disdain the monosyllable is capable of expressing. ‘Ladies, good evening. Come, Pinch, it’s not worth thinking of. I was right and you were wrong. That’s small matter; you’ll be wiser another time.’

So saying, he clapped that dejected companion on the shoulder, turned upon his heel, and walked out into the passage, whither poor Mr Pinch, after lingering irresolutely in the parlour for a few seconds, expressing in his countenance the deepest mental misery and gloom followed him. Then they took up the box between them, and sallied out to meet the mail.

That fleet conveyance passed, every night, the corner of a lane at some distance; towards which point they bent their steps. For some minutes they walked along in silence, until at length young Westlock burst into a loud laugh, and at intervals into another, and another. Still there was no response from his companion.

‘I’ll tell you what, Pinch!’ he said abruptly, after another lengthened silence—‘You haven’t half enough of the devil in you. Half enough! You haven’t any.’

‘Well!’ said Pinch with a sigh, ‘I don’t know, I’m sure. It’s compliment to say so. If I haven’t, I suppose, I’m all the better for it.’

‘All the better!’ repeated his companion tartly: ‘All the worse, you mean to say.’

‘And yet,’ said Pinch, pursuing his own thoughts and not this last remark on the part of his friend, ‘I must have a good deal of what you call the devil in me, too, or how could I make Pecksniff so uncomfortable? I wouldn’t have occasioned him so much distress—don’t laugh, please—for a mine of money; and Heaven knows I could find good use for it too, John. How grieved he was!’

‘HE grieved!’ returned the other.

‘Why didn’t you observe that the tears were almost starting out of his eyes!’ cried Pinch. ‘Bless my soul, John, is it nothing to see a man moved to that extent and know one’s self to be the cause! And did you hear him say that he could have shed his blood for me?’

‘Do you WANT any blood shed for you?’ returned his friend, with considerable irritation. ‘Does he shed anything for you that you DO want? Does he shed employment for you, instruction for you, pocket money for you? Does he shed even legs of mutton for you in any decent proportion to potatoes and garden stuff?’

‘I am afraid,’ said Pinch, sighing again, ‘that I am a great eater; I can’t disguise from myself that I’m a great eater. Now, you know that, John.’

‘You a great eater!’ retorted his companion, with no less indignation than before. ‘How do you know you are?’

There appeared to be forcible matter in this inquiry, for Mr Pinch only repeated in an undertone that he had a strong misgiving on the subject, and that he greatly feared he was.

‘Besides, whether I am or no,’ he added, ‘that has little or nothing to do with his thinking me ungrateful. John, there is scarcely a sin in the world that is in my eyes such a crying one as ingratitude; and when he taxes me with that, and believes me to be guilty of it, he makes me miserable and wretched.’

‘Do you think he don’t know that?’ returned the other scornfully. ‘But come, Pinch, before I say anything more to you, just run over the reasons you have for being grateful to him at all, will you? Change hands first, for the box is heavy. That’ll do. Now, go on.’

‘In the first place,’ said Pinch, ‘he took me as his pupil for much less than he asked.’

‘Well,’ rejoined his friend, perfectly unmoved by this instance of generosity. ‘What in the second place?’

‘What in the second place?’ cried Pinch, in a sort of desperation, ‘why, everything in the second place. My poor old grandmother died happy to think that she had put me with such an excellent man. I have grown up in his house, I am in his confidence, I am his assistant, he allows me a salary; when his business improves, my prospects are to improve too. All this, and a great deal more, is in the second place. And in the very prologue and preface to the first place, John, you must consider this, which nobody knows better than I: that I was born for much plainer and poorer things, that I am not a good hand for his kind of business, and have no talent for it, or indeed for anything else but odds and ends that are of no use or service to anybody.’

He said this with so much earnestness, and in a tone so full of feeling, that his companion instinctively changed his manner as he sat down on the box (they had by this time reached the finger-post at the end of the lane); motioned him to sit down beside him; and laid his hand upon his shoulder.

‘I believe you are one of the best fellows in the world,’ he said, ‘Tom Pinch.’

‘Not at all,’ rejoined Tom. ‘If you only knew Pecksniff as well as I do, you might say it of him, indeed, and say it truly.’

‘I’ll say anything of him, you like,’ returned the other, ‘and not another word to his disparagement.’

‘It’s for my sake, then; not his, I am afraid,’ said Pinch, shaking his head gravely.

‘For whose you please, Tom, so that it does please you. Oh! He’s a famous fellow! HE never scraped and clawed into his pouch all your poor grandmother’s hard savings—she was a housekeeper, wasn’t she, Tom?’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Pinch, nursing one of his large knees, and nodding his head; ‘a gentleman’s housekeeper.’

‘HE never scraped and clawed into his pouch all her hard savings; dazzling her with prospects of your happiness and advancement, which he knew (and no man better) never would be realised! HE never speculated and traded on her pride in you, and her having educated you, and on her desire that you at least should live to be a gentleman. Not he, Tom!’

‘No,’ said Tom, looking into his friend’s face, as if he were a little doubtful of his meaning. ‘Of course not.’

‘So I say,’ returned the youth, ‘of course he never did. HE didn’t take less than he had asked, because that less was all she had, and more than he expected; not he, Tom! He doesn’t keep you as his assistant because you are of any use to him; because your wonderful faith in his pretensions is of inestimable service in all his mean disputes; because your honesty reflects honesty on him; because your wandering about this little place all your spare hours, reading in ancient books and foreign tongues, gets noised abroad, even as far as Salisbury, making of him, Pecksniff the master, a man of learning and of vast importance. HE gets no credit from you, Tom, not he.’

‘Why, of course he don’t,’ said Pinch, gazing at his friend with a more troubled aspect than before. ‘Pecksniff get credit from me! Well!’

‘Don’t I say that it’s ridiculous,’ rejoined the other, ‘even to think of such a thing?’

‘Why, it’s madness,’ said Tom.

‘Madness!’ returned young Westlock. ‘Certainly it’s madness. Who but a madman would suppose he cares to hear it said on Sundays, that the volunteer who plays the organ in the church, and practises on summer evenings in the dark, is Mr Pecksniff’s young man, eh, Tom? Who but a madman would suppose it is the game of such a man as he, to have his name in everybody’s mouth, connected with the thousand useless odds and ends you do (and which, of course, he taught you), eh, Tom? Who but a madman would suppose you advertised him hereabouts, much cheaper and much better than a chalker on the walls could, eh, Tom? As well might one suppose that he doesn’t on all occasions pour out his whole heart and soul to you; that he doesn’t make you a very liberal and indeed rather an extravagant allowance; or, to be more wild and monstrous still, if that be possible, as well might one suppose,’ and here, at every word, he struck him lightly on the breast, ‘that Pecksniff traded in your nature, and that your nature was to be timid and distrustful of yourself, and trustful of all other men, but most of all, of him who least deserves it. There would be madness, Tom!’

Mr Pinch had listened to all this with looks of bewilderment, which seemed to be in part occasioned by the matter of his companion’s speech, and in part by his rapid and vehement manner. Now that he had come to a close, he drew a very long breath; and gazing wistfully in his face as if he were unable to settle in his own mind what expression it wore, and were desirous to draw from it as good a clue to his real meaning as it was possible to obtain in the dark, was about to answer, when the sound of the mail guard’s horn came cheerily upon their ears, putting an immediate end to the conference; greatly as it seemed to the satisfaction of the younger man, who jumped up briskly, and gave his hand to his companion.

‘Both hands, Tom. I shall write to you from London, mind!’

‘Yes,’ said Pinch. ‘Yes. Do, please. Good-bye. Good-bye. I can hardly believe you’re going. It seems, now, but yesterday that you came. Good-bye! my dear old fellow!’

John Westlock returned his parting words with no less heartiness of manner, and sprung up to his seat upon the roof. Off went the mail at a canter down the dark road; the lamps gleaming brightly, and the horn awakening all the echoes, far and wide.

‘Go your ways,’ said Pinch, apostrophizing the coach; ‘I can hardly persuade myself but you’re alive, and are some great monster who visits this place at certain intervals, to bear my friends away into the world. You’re more exulting and rampant than usual tonight, I think; and you may well crow over your prize; for he is a fine lad, an ingenuous lad, and has but one fault that I know of; he don’t mean it, but he is most cruelly unjust to Pecksniff!’

CHAPTER THREE

IN WHICH CERTAIN OTHER PERSONS ARE INTRODUCED; ON THE SAME TERMS AS IN THE LAST CHAPTER

Mention has been already made more than once, of a certain Dragon who swung and creaked complainingly before the village alehouse door. A faded, and an ancient dragon he was; and many a wintry storm of rain, snow, sleet, and hail, had changed his colour from a gaudy blue to a faint lack-lustre shade of grey. But there he hung; rearing, in a state of monstrous imbecility, on his hind legs; waxing, with every month that passed, so much more dim and shapeless, that as you gazed at him on one side of the sign-board it seemed as if he must be gradually melting through it, and coming out upon the other.

He was a courteous and considerate dragon, too; or had been in his distincter days; for in the midst of his rampant feebleness, he kept one of his forepaws near his nose, as though he would say, ‘Don’t mind me—it’s only my fun;’ while he held out the other in polite and hospitable entreaty. Indeed it must be conceded to the whole brood of dragons of modern times, that they have made a great advance in civilisation and refinement. They no longer demand a beautiful virgin for breakfast every morning, with as much regularity as any tame single gentleman expects his hot roll, but rest content with the society of idle bachelors and roving married men; and they are now remarkable rather for holding aloof from the softer sex and discouraging their visits (especially on Saturday nights), than for rudely insisting on their company without any reference to their inclinations, as they are known to have done in days of yore.

Nor is this tribute to the reclaimed animals in question so wide a digression into the realms of Natural History as it may, at first sight, appear to be; for the present business of these pages in with the dragon who had his retreat in Mr Pecksniff’s neighbourhood, and that courteous animal being already on the carpet, there is nothing in the way of its immediate transaction.

For many years, then, he had swung and creaked, and flapped himself about, before the two windows of the best bedroom of that house of entertainment to which he lent his name; but never in all his swinging, creaking, and flapping, had there been such a stir within its dingy precincts, as on the evening next after that upon which the incidents, detailed in the last chapter occurred; when there was such a hurrying up and down stairs of feet, such a glancing of lights, such a whispering of voices, such a smoking and sputtering of wood newly lighted in a damp chimney, such an airing of linen, such a scorching smell of hot warming-pans, such a domestic bustle and to-do, in short, as never dragon, griffin, unicorn, or other animal of that species presided over, since they first began to interest themselves in household affairs.

An old gentleman and a young lady, travelling, unattended, in a rusty old chariot with post-horses; coming nobody knew whence and going nobody knew whither; had turned out of the high road, and driven unexpectedly to the Blue Dragon; and here was the old gentleman, who had taken this step by reason of his sudden illness in the carriage, suffering the most horrible cramps and spasms, yet protesting and vowing in the very midst of his pain, that he wouldn’t have a doctor sent for, and wouldn’t take any remedies but those which the young lady administered from a small medicine-chest, and wouldn’t, in a word, do anything but terrify the landlady out of her five wits, and obstinately refuse compliance with every suggestion that was made to him.

Of all the five hundred proposals for his relief which the good woman poured out in less than half an hour, he would entertain but one. That was that he should go to bed. And it was in the preparation of his bed and the arrangement of his chamber, that all the stir was made in the room behind the Dragon.

He was, beyond all question, very ill, and suffered exceedingly; not the less, perhaps, because he was a strong and vigorous old man, with a will of iron, and a voice of brass. But neither the apprehensions which he plainly entertained, at times, for his life, nor the great pain he underwent, influenced his resolution in the least degree. He would have no person sent for. The worse he grew, the more rigid and inflexible he became in his determination. If they sent for any person to attend him, man, woman, or child, he would leave the house directly (so he told them), though he quitted it on foot, and died upon the threshold of the door.

Now, there being no medical practitioner actually resident in the village, but a poor apothecary who was also a grocer and general dealer, the landlady had, upon her own responsibility, sent for him, in the very first burst and outset of the disaster. Of course it followed, as a necessary result of his being wanted, that he was not at home. He had gone some miles away, and was not expected home until late at night; so the landlady, being by this time pretty well beside herself, dispatched the same messenger in all haste for Mr Pecksniff, as a learned man who could bear a deal of responsibility, and a moral man who could administer a world of comfort to a troubled mind. That her guest had need of some efficient services under the latter head was obvious enough from the restless expressions, importing, however, rather a worldly than a spiritual anxiety, to which he gave frequent utterance.

From this last-mentioned secret errand, the messenger returned with no better news than from the first; Mr Pecksniff was not at home. However, they got the patient into bed without him; and in the course of two hours, he gradually became so far better that there were much longer intervals than at first between his terms of suffering. By degrees, he ceased to suffer at all; though his exhaustion was occasionally so great that it suggested hardly less alarm than his actual endurance had done.

It was in one of his intervals of repose, when, looking round with great caution, and reaching uneasily out of his nest of pillows, he endeavoured, with a strange air of secrecy and distrust, to make use of the writing materials which he had ordered to be placed on a table beside him, that the young lady and the mistress of the Blue Dragon found themselves sitting side by side before the fire in the sick chamber.

The mistress of the Blue Dragon was in outward appearance just what a landlady should be: broad, buxom, comfortable, and good looking, with a face of clear red and white, which, by its jovial aspect, at once bore testimony to her hearty participation in the good things of the larder and cellar, and to their thriving and healthful influences. She was a widow, but years ago had passed through her state of weeds, and burst into flower again; and in full bloom she had continued ever since; and in full bloom she was now; with roses on her ample skirts, and roses on her bodice, roses in her cap, roses in her cheeks,—aye, and roses, worth the gathering too, on her lips, for that matter. She had still a bright black eye, and jet black hair; was comely, dimpled, plump, and tight as a gooseberry; and though she was not exactly what the world calls young, you may make an affidavit, on trust, before any mayor or magistrate in Christendom, that there are a great many young ladies in the world (blessings on them one and all!) whom you wouldn’t like half as well, or admire half as much, as the beaming hostess of the Blue Dragon.

As this fair matron sat beside the fire, she glanced occasionally with all the pride of ownership, about the room; which was a large apartment, such as one may see in country places, with a low roof and a sunken flooring, all downhill from the door, and a descent of two steps on the inside so exquisitely unexpected, that strangers, despite the most elaborate cautioning, usually dived in head first, as into a plunging-bath. It was none of your frivolous and preposterously bright bedrooms, where nobody can close an eye with any kind of propriety or decent regard to the association of ideas; but it was a good, dull, leaden, drowsy place, where every article of furniture reminded you that you came there to sleep, and that you were expected to go to sleep. There was no wakeful reflection of the fire there, as in your modern chambers, which upon the darkest nights have a watchful consciousness of French polish; the old Spanish mahogany winked at it now and then, as a dozing cat or dog might, nothing more. The very size and shape, and hopeless immovability of the bedstead, and wardrobe, and in a minor degree of even the chairs and tables, provoked sleep; they were plainly apoplectic and disposed to snore. There were no staring portraits to remonstrate with you for being lazy; no round-eyed birds upon the curtains, disgustingly wide awake, and insufferably prying. The thick neutral hangings, and the dark blinds, and the heavy heap of bed-clothes, were all designed to hold in sleep, and act as nonconductors to the day and getting up. Even the old stuffed fox upon the top of the wardrobe was devoid of any spark of vigilance, for his glass eye had fallen out, and he slumbered as he stood.

The wandering attention of the mistress of the Blue Dragon roved to these things but twice or thrice, and then for but an instant at a time. It soon deserted them, and even the distant bed with its strange burden, for the young creature immediately before her, who, with her downcast eyes intently fixed upon the fire, sat wrapped in silent meditation.

She was very young; apparently no more than seventeen; timid and shrinking in her manner, and yet with a greater share of self possession and control over her emotions than usually belongs to a far more advanced period of female life. This she had abundantly shown, but now, in her tending of the sick gentleman. She was short in stature; and her figure was slight, as became her years; but all the charms of youth and maidenhood set it off, and clustered on her gentle brow. Her face was very pale, in part no doubt from recent agitation. Her dark brown hair, disordered from the same cause, had fallen negligently from its bonds, and hung upon her neck; for which instance of its waywardness no male observer would have had the heart to blame it.

Her attire was that of a lady, but extremely plain; and in her manner, even when she sat as still as she did then, there was an indefinable something which appeared to be in kindred with her scrupulously unpretending dress. She had sat, at first looking anxiously towards the bed; but seeing that the patient remained quiet, and was busy with his writing, she had softly moved her chair into its present place; partly, as it seemed, from an instinctive consciousness that he desired to avoid observation; and partly that she might, unseen by him, give some vent to the natural feelings she had hitherto suppressed.

Of all this, and much more, the rosy landlady of the Blue Dragon took as accurate note and observation as only woman can take of woman. And at length she said, in a voice too low, she knew, to reach the bed:

‘You have seen the gentleman in this way before, miss? Is he used to these attacks?’

‘I have seen him very ill before, but not so ill as he has been tonight.’

‘What a Providence!’ said the landlady of the Dragon, ‘that you had the prescriptions and the medicines with you, miss!’

‘They are intended for such an emergency. We never travel without them.’

‘Oh!’ thought the hostess, ‘then we are in the habit of travelling, and of travelling together.’

She was so conscious of expressing this in her face, that meeting the young lady’s eyes immediately afterwards, and being a very honest hostess, she was rather confused.

‘The gentleman—your grandpapa’—she resumed, after a short pause, ‘being so bent on having no assistance, must terrify you very much, miss?’

‘I have been very much alarmed to-night. He—he is not my grandfather.’

‘Father, I should have said,’ returned the hostess, sensible of having made an awkward mistake.

‘Nor my father’ said the young lady. ‘Nor,’ she added, slightly smiling with a quick perception of what the landlady was going to add, ‘Nor my uncle. We are not related.’

‘Oh dear me!’ returned the landlady, still more embarrassed than before; ‘how could I be so very much mistaken; knowing, as anybody in their proper senses might that when a gentleman is ill, he looks so much older than he really is? That I should have called you “Miss,” too, ma’am!’ But when she had proceeded thus far, she glanced involuntarily at the third finger of the young lady’s left hand, and faltered again; for there was no ring upon it.

‘When I told you we were not related,’ said the other mildly, but not without confusion on her own part, ‘I meant not in any way. Not even by marriage. Did you call me, Martin?’

‘Call you?’ cried the old man, looking quickly up, and hurriedly drawing beneath the coverlet the paper on which he had been writing. ‘No.’

She had moved a pace or two towards the bed, but stopped immediately, and went no farther.

‘No,’ he repeated, with a petulant emphasis. ‘Why do you ask me? If I had called you, what need for such a question?’

‘It was the creaking of the sign outside, sir, I dare say,’ observed the landlady; a suggestion by the way (as she felt a moment after she had made it), not at all complimentary to the voice of the old gentleman.

‘No matter what, ma’am,’ he rejoined: ‘it wasn’t I. Why how you stand there, Mary, as if I had the plague! But they’re all afraid of me,’ he added, leaning helplessly backward on his pillow; ‘even she! There is a curse upon me. What else have I to look for?’

‘Oh dear, no. Oh no, I’m sure,’ said the good-tempered landlady, rising, and going towards him. ‘Be of better cheer, sir. These are only sick fancies.’

‘What are only sick fancies?’ he retorted. ‘What do you know about fancies? Who told you about fancies? The old story! Fancies!’

‘Only see again there, how you take one up!’ said the mistress of the Blue Dragon, with unimpaired good humour. ‘Dear heart alive, there is no harm in the word, sir, if it is an old one. Folks in good health have their fancies, too, and strange ones, every day.’

Harmless as this speech appeared to be, it acted on the traveller’s distrust, like oil on fire. He raised his head up in the bed, and, fixing on her two dark eyes whose brightness was exaggerated by the paleness of his hollow cheeks, as they in turn, together with his straggling locks of long grey hair, were rendered whiter by the tight black velvet skullcap which he wore, he searched her face intently.

‘Ah! you begin too soon,’ he said, in so low a voice that he seemed to be thinking it, rather than addressing her. ‘But you lose no time. You do your errand, and you earn your fee. Now, who may be your client?’

The landlady looked in great astonishment at her whom he called Mary, and finding no rejoinder in the drooping face, looked back again at him. At first she had recoiled involuntarily, supposing him disordered in his mind; but the slow composure of his manner, and the settled purpose announced in his strong features, and gathering, most of all, about his puckered mouth, forbade the supposition.

‘Come,’ he said, ‘tell me who is it? Being here, it is not very hard for me to guess, you may suppose.’

‘Martin,’ interposed the young lady, laying her hand upon his arm; ‘reflect how short a time we have been in this house, and that even your name is unknown here.’

‘Unless,’ he said, ‘you—’ He was evidently tempted to express a suspicion of her having broken his confidence in favour of the landlady, but either remembering her tender nursing, or being moved in some sort by her face, he checked himself, and changing his uneasy posture in the bed, was silent.

‘There!’ said Mrs Lupin; for in that name the Blue Dragon was licensed to furnish entertainment, both to man and beast. ‘Now, you will be well again, sir. You forgot, for the moment, that there were none but friends here.’

‘Oh!’ cried the old man, moaning impatiently, as he tossed one restless arm upon the coverlet; ‘why do you talk to me of friends! Can you or anybody teach me to know who are my friends, and who my enemies?’

‘At least,’ urged Mrs Lupin, gently, ‘this young lady is your friend, I am sure.’

‘She has no temptation to be otherwise,’ cried the old man, like one whose hope and confidence were utterly exhausted. ‘I suppose she is. Heaven knows. There, let me try to sleep. Leave the candle where it is.’

As they retired from the bed, he drew forth the writing which had occupied him so long, and holding it in the flame of the taper burnt it to ashes. That done, he extinguished the light, and turning his face away with a heavy sigh, drew the coverlet about his head, and lay quite still.

This destruction of the paper, both as being strangely inconsistent with the labour he had devoted to it, and as involving considerable danger of fire to the Dragon, occasioned Mrs Lupin not a little consternation. But the young lady evincing no surprise, curiosity, or alarm, whispered her, with many thanks for her solicitude and company, that she would remain there some time longer; and that she begged her not to share her watch, as she was well used to being alone, and would pass the time in reading.

Mrs Lupin had her full share and dividend of that large capital of curiosity which is inherited by her sex, and at another time it might have been difficult so to impress this hint upon her as to induce her to take it. But now, in sheer wonder and amazement at these mysteries, she withdrew at once, and repairing straightway to her own little parlour below stairs, sat down in her easy-chair with unnatural composure. At this very crisis, a step was heard in the entry, and Mr Pecksniff, looking sweetly over the half-door of the bar, and into the vista of snug privacy beyond, murmured:

‘Good evening, Mrs Lupin!’

‘Oh dear me, sir!’ she cried, advancing to receive him, ‘I am so very glad you have come.’

‘And I am very glad I have come,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘if I can be of service. I am very glad I have come. What is the matter, Mrs Lupin?’

‘A gentleman taken ill upon the road, has been so very bad upstairs, sir,’ said the tearful hostess.

‘A gentleman taken ill upon the road, has been so very bad upstairs, has he?’ repeated Mr Pecksniff. ‘Well, well!’

Now there was nothing that one may call decidedly original in this remark, nor can it be exactly said to have contained any wise precept theretofore unknown to mankind, or to have opened any hidden source of consolation; but Mr Pecksniff’s manner was so bland, and he nodded his head so soothingly, and showed in everything such an affable sense of his own excellence, that anybody would have been, as Mrs Lupin was, comforted by the mere voice and presence of such a man; and, though he had merely said ‘a verb must agree with its nominative case in number and person, my good friend,’ or ‘eight times eight are sixty-four, my worthy soul,’ must have felt deeply grateful to him for his humanity and wisdom.

‘And how,’ asked Mr Pecksniff, drawing off his gloves and warming his hands before the fire, as benevolently as if they were somebody else’s, not his; ‘and how is he now?’

‘He is better, and quite tranquil,’ answered Mrs Lupin.

‘He is better, and quite tranquil,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Very well! Ve-ry well!’

Here again, though the statement was Mrs Lupin’s and not Mr Pecksniff’s, Mr Pecksniff made it his own and consoled her with it. It was not much when Mrs Lupin said it, but it was a whole book when Mr Pecksniff said it. ‘I observe,’ he seemed to say, ‘and through me, morality in general remarks, that he is better and quite tranquil.’

‘There must be weighty matters on his mind, though,’ said the hostess, shaking her head, ‘for he talks, sir, in the strangest way you ever heard. He is far from easy in his thoughts, and wants some proper advice from those whose goodness makes it worth his having.’

‘Then,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘he is the sort of customer for me.’ But though he said this in the plainest language, he didn’t speak a word. He only shook his head; disparagingly of himself too.

‘I am afraid, sir,’ continued the landlady, first looking round to assure herself that there was nobody within hearing, and then looking down upon the floor. ‘I am very much afraid, sir, that his conscience is troubled by his not being related to—or—or even married to—a very young lady—’

‘Mrs Lupin!’ said Mr Pecksniff, holding up his hand with something in his manner as nearly approaching to severity as any expression of his, mild being that he was, could ever do. ‘Person! young person?’

‘A very young person,’ said Mrs Lupin, curtseying and blushing; ‘—I beg your pardon, sir, but I have been so hurried to-night, that I don’t know what I say—who is with him now.’

‘Who is with him now,’ ruminated Mr Pecksniff, warming his back (as he had warmed his hands) as if it were a widow’s back, or an orphan’s back, or an enemy’s back, or a back that any less excellent man would have suffered to be cold. ‘Oh dear me, dear me!’

‘At the same time I am bound to say, and I do say with all my heart,’ observed the hostess, earnestly, ‘that her looks and manner almost disarm suspicion.’

‘Your suspicion, Mrs Lupin,’ said Mr Pecksniff gravely, ‘is very natural.’

Touching which remark, let it be written down to their confusion, that the enemies of this worthy man unblushingly maintained that he always said of what was very bad, that it was very natural; and that he unconsciously betrayed his own nature in doing so.

‘Your suspicion, Mrs Lupin,’ he repeated, ‘is very natural, and I have no doubt correct. I will wait upon these travellers.’

With that he took off his great-coat, and having run his fingers through his hair, thrust one hand gently in the bosom of his waist-coat and meekly signed to her to lead the way.

‘Shall I knock?’ asked Mrs Lupin, when they reached the chamber door.

‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘enter if you please.’

They went in on tiptoe; or rather the hostess took that precaution for Mr Pecksniff always walked softly. The old gentleman was still asleep, and his young companion still sat reading by the fire.

‘I am afraid,’ said Mr Pecksniff, pausing at the door, and giving his head a melancholy roll, ‘I am afraid that this looks artful. I am afraid, Mrs Lupin, do you know, that this looks very artful!’

As he finished this whisper, he advanced before the hostess; and at the same time the young lady, hearing footsteps, rose. Mr Pecksniff glanced at the volume she held, and whispered Mrs Lupin again; if possible, with increased despondency.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, ‘it is a good book. I was fearful of that beforehand. I am apprehensive that this is a very deep thing indeed!’

‘What gentleman is this?’ inquired the object of his virtuous doubts.

‘Hush! don’t trouble yourself, ma’am,’ said Mr Pecksniff, as the landlady was about to answer. ‘This young’—in spite of himself he hesitated when “person” rose to his lips, and substituted another word: ‘this young stranger, Mrs Lupin, will excuse me for replying briefly, that I reside in this village; it may be in an influential manner, however, undeserved; and that I have been summoned here by you. I am here, as I am everywhere, I hope, in sympathy for the sick and sorry.’

With these impressive words, Mr Pecksniff passed over to the bedside, where, after patting the counterpane once or twice in a very solemn manner, as if by that means he gained a clear insight into the patient’s disorder, he took his seat in a large arm-chair, and in an attitude of some thoughtfulness and much comfort, waited for his waking. Whatever objection the young lady urged to Mrs Lupin went no further, for nothing more was said to Mr Pecksniff, and Mr Pecksniff said nothing more to anybody else.

Full half an hour elapsed before the old man stirred, but at length he turned himself in bed, and, though not yet awake, gave tokens that his sleep was drawing to an end. By little and little he removed the bed-clothes from about his head, and turned still more towards the side where Mr Pecksniff sat. In course of time his eyes opened; and he lay for a few moments as people newly roused sometimes will, gazing indolently at his visitor, without any distinct consciousness of his presence.

There was nothing remarkable in these proceedings, except the influence they worked on Mr Pecksniff, which could hardly have been surpassed by the most marvellous of natural phenomena. Gradually his hands became tightly clasped upon the elbows of the chair, his eyes dilated with surprise, his mouth opened, his hair stood more erect upon his forehead than its custom was, until, at length, when the old man rose in bed, and stared at him with scarcely less emotion than he showed himself, the Pecksniff doubts were all resolved, and he exclaimed aloud:

‘You ARE Martin Chuzzlewit!’

His consternation of surprise was so genuine, that the old man, with all the disposition that he clearly entertained to believe it assumed, was convinced of its reality.

‘I am Martin Chuzzlewit,’ he said, bitterly: ‘and Martin Chuzzlewit wishes you had been hanged, before you had come here to disturb him in his sleep. Why, I dreamed of this fellow!’ he said, lying down again, and turning away his face, ‘before I knew that he was near me!’

‘My good cousin—’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘There! His very first words!’ cried the old man, shaking his grey head to and fro upon the pillow, and throwing up his hands. ‘In his very first words he asserts his relationship! I knew he would; they all do it! Near or distant, blood or water, it’s all one. Ugh! What a calendar of deceit, and lying, and false-witnessing, the sound of any word of kindred opens before me!’

‘Pray do not be hasty, Mr Chuzzlewit,’ said Pecksniff, in a tone that was at once in the sublimest degree compassionate and dispassionate; for he had by this time recovered from his surprise, and was in full possession of his virtuous self. ‘You will regret being hasty, I know you will.’

‘You know!’ said Martin, contemptuously.

‘Yes,’ retorted Mr Pecksniff. ‘Aye, aye, Mr Chuzzlewit; and don’t imagine that I mean to court or flatter you; for nothing is further from my intention. Neither, sir, need you entertain the least misgiving that I shall repeat that obnoxious word which has given you so much offence already. Why should I? What do I expect or want from you? There is nothing in your possession that I know of, Mr Chuzzlewit, which is much to be coveted for the happiness it brings you.’

‘That’s true enough,’ muttered the old man.

‘Apart from that consideration,’ said Mr Pecksniff, watchful of the effect he made, ‘it must be plain to you (I am sure) by this time, that if I had wished to insinuate myself into your good opinion, I should have been, of all things, careful not to address you as a relative; knowing your humour, and being quite certain beforehand that I could not have a worse letter of recommendation.’

Martin made not any verbal answer; but he as clearly implied though only by a motion of his legs beneath the bed-clothes, that there was reason in this, and that he could not dispute it, as if he had said as much in good set terms.

‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff, keeping his hand in his waistcoat as though he were ready, on the shortest notice, to produce his heart for Martin Chuzzlewit’s inspection, ‘I came here to offer my services to a stranger. I make no offer of them to you, because I know you would distrust me if I did. But lying on that bed, sir, I regard you as a stranger, and I have just that amount of interest in you which I hope I should feel in any stranger, circumstanced as you are. Beyond that, I am quite as indifferent to you, Mr Chuzzlewit, as you are to me.’

Having said which, Mr Pecksniff threw himself back in the easy-chair; so radiant with ingenuous honesty, that Mrs Lupin almost wondered not to see a stained-glass Glory, such as the Saint wore in the church, shining about his head.

A long pause succeeded. The old man, with increased restlessness, changed his posture several times. Mrs Lupin and the young lady gazed in silence at the counterpane. Mr Pecksniff toyed abstractedly with his eye-glass, and kept his eyes shut, that he might ruminate the better.

‘Eh?’ he said at last, opening them suddenly, and looking towards the bed. ‘I beg your pardon. I thought you spoke. Mrs Lupin,’ he continued, slowly rising ‘I am not aware that I can be of any service to you here. The gentleman is better, and you are as good a nurse as he can have. Eh?’

This last note of interrogation bore reference to another change of posture on the old man’s part, which brought his face towards Mr Pecksniff for the first time since he had turned away from him.

‘If you desire to speak to me before I go, sir,’ continued that gentleman, after another pause, ‘you may command my leisure; but I must stipulate, in justice to myself, that you do so as to a stranger, strictly as to a stranger.’

Now if Mr Pecksniff knew, from anything Martin Chuzzlewit had expressed in gestures, that he wanted to speak to him, he could only have found it out on some such principle as prevails in melodramas, and in virtue of which the elderly farmer with the comic son always knows what the dumb girl means when she takes refuge in his garden, and relates her personal memoirs in incomprehensible pantomime. But without stopping to make any inquiry on this point, Martin Chuzzlewit signed to his young companion to withdraw, which she immediately did, along with the landlady leaving him and Mr Pecksniff alone together. For some time they looked at each other in silence; or rather the old man looked at Mr Pecksniff, and Mr Pecksniff again closing his eyes on all outward objects, took an inward survey of his own breast. That it amply repaid him for his trouble, and afforded a delicious and enchanting prospect, was clear from the expression of his face.

‘You wish me to speak to you as to a total stranger,’ said the old man, ‘do you?’

Mr Pecksniff replied, by a shrug of his shoulders and an apparent turning round of his eyes in their sockets before he opened them, that he was still reduced to the necessity of entertaining that desire.

‘You shall be gratified,’ said Martin. ‘Sir, I am a rich man. Not so rich as some suppose, perhaps, but yet wealthy. I am not a miser sir, though even that charge is made against me, as I hear, and currently believed. I have no pleasure in hoarding. I have no pleasure in the possession of money, The devil that we call by that name can give me nothing but unhappiness.’

It would be no description of Mr Pecksniff’s gentleness of manner to adopt the common parlance, and say that he looked at this moment as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He rather looked as if any quantity of butter might have been made out of him, by churning the milk of human kindness, as it spouted upwards from his heart.

‘For the same reason that I am not a hoarder of money,’ said the old man, ‘I am not lavish of it. Some people find their gratification in storing it up; and others theirs in parting with it; but I have no gratification connected with the thing. Pain and bitterness are the only goods it ever could procure for me. I hate it. It is a spectre walking before me through the world, and making every social pleasure hideous.’

A thought arose in Pecksniff’s mind, which must have instantly mounted to his face, or Martin Chuzzlewit would not have resumed as quickly and as sternly as he did:

‘You would advise me for my peace of mind, to get rid of this source of misery, and transfer it to some one who could bear it better. Even you, perhaps, would rid me of a burden under which I suffer so grievously. But, kind stranger,’ said the old man, whose every feature darkened as he spoke, ‘good Christian stranger, that is a main part of my trouble. In other hands, I have known money do good; in other hands I have known it triumphed in, and boasted of with reason, as the master-key to all the brazen gates that close upon the paths to worldly honour, fortune, and enjoyment. To what man or woman; to what worthy, honest, incorruptible creature; shall I confide such a talisman, either now or when I die? Do you know any such person? YOUR virtues are of course inestimable, but can you tell me of any other living creature who will bear the test of contact with myself?’

‘Of contact with yourself, sir?’ echoed Mr Pecksniff.

‘Aye,’ returned the old man, ‘the test of contact with me—with me. You have heard of him whose misery (the gratification of his own foolish wish) was, that he turned every thing he touched into gold. The curse of my existence, and the realisation of my own mad desire is that by the golden standard which I bear about me, I am doomed to try the metal of all other men, and find it false and hollow.’

Mr Pecksniff shook his head, and said, ‘You think so.’

‘Oh yes,’ cried the old man, ‘I think so! and in your telling me “I think so,” I recognize the true unworldly ring of YOUR metal. I tell you, man,’ he added, with increasing bitterness, ‘that I have gone, a rich man, among people of all grades and kinds; relatives, friends, and strangers; among people in whom, when I was poor, I had confidence, and justly, for they never once deceived me then, or, to me, wronged each other. But I have never found one nature, no, not one, in which, being wealthy and alone, I was not forced to detect the latent corruption that lay hid within it waiting for such as I to bring it forth. Treachery, deceit, and low design; hatred of competitors, real or fancied, for my favour; meanness, falsehood, baseness, and servility; or,’ and here he looked closely in his cousin’s eyes, ‘or an assumption of honest independence, almost worse than all; these are the beauties which my wealth has brought to light. Brother against brother, child against parent, friends treading on the faces of friends, this is the social company by whom my way has been attended. There are stories told—they may be true or false—of rich men who, in the garb of poverty, have found out virtue and rewarded it. They were dolts and idiots for their pains. They should have made the search in their own characters. They should have shown themselves fit objects to be robbed and preyed upon and plotted against and adulated by any knaves, who, but for joy, would have spat upon their coffins when they died their dupes; and then their search would have ended as mine has done, and they would be what I am.’

Mr Pecksniff, not at all knowing what it might be best to say in the momentary pause which ensued upon these remarks, made an elaborate demonstration of intending to deliver something very oracular indeed; trusting to the certainty of the old man interrupting him, before he should utter a word. Nor was he mistaken, for Martin Chuzzlewit having taken breath, went on to say:

‘Hear me to an end; judge what profit you are like to gain from any repetition of this visit; and leave me. I have so corrupted and changed the nature of all those who have ever attended on me, by breeding avaricious plots and hopes within them; I have engendered such domestic strife and discord, by tarrying even with members of my own family; I have been such a lighted torch in peaceful homes, kindling up all the inflammable gases and vapours in their moral atmosphere, which, but for me, might have proved harmless to the end, that I have, I may say, fled from all who knew me, and taking refuge in secret places have lived, of late, the life of one who is hunted. The young girl whom you just now saw—what! your eye lightens when I talk of her! You hate her already, do you?’

‘Upon my word, sir!’ said Mr Pecksniff, laying his hand upon his breast, and dropping his eyelids.

‘I forgot,’ cried the old man, looking at him with a keenness which the other seemed to feel, although he did not raise his eyes so as to see it. ‘I ask your pardon. I forgot you were a stranger. For the moment you reminded me of one Pecksniff, a cousin of mine. As I was saying—the young girl whom you just now saw, is an orphan child, whom, with one steady purpose, I have bred and educated, or, if you prefer the word, adopted. For a year or more she has been my constant companion, and she is my only one. I have taken, as she knows, a solemn oath never to leave her sixpence when I die, but while I live I make her an annual allowance; not extravagant in its amount and yet not stinted. There is a compact between us that no term of affectionate cajolery shall ever be addressed by either to the other, but that she shall call me always by my Christian name; I her, by hers. She is bound to me in life by ties of interest, and losing by my death, and having no expectation disappointed, will mourn it, perhaps; though for that I care little. This is the only kind of friend I have or will have. Judge from such premises what a profitable hour you have spent in coming here, and leave me, to return no more.’

With these words, the old man fell slowly back upon his pillow. Mr Pecksniff as slowly rose, and, with a prefatory hem, began as follows:

‘Mr Chuzzlewit.’

‘There. Go!’ interposed the other. ‘Enough of this. I am weary of you.’

‘I am sorry for that, sir,’ rejoined Mr Pecksniff, ‘because I have a duty to discharge, from which, depend upon it, I shall not shrink. No, sir, I shall not shrink.’

It is a lamentable fact, that as Mr Pecksniff stood erect beside the bed, in all the dignity of Goodness, and addressed him thus, the old man cast an angry glance towards the candlestick, as if he were possessed by a strong inclination to launch it at his cousin’s head. But he constrained himself, and pointing with his finger to the door, informed him that his road lay there.

‘Thank you,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘I am aware of that. I am going. But before I go, I crave your leave to speak, and more than that, Mr Chuzzlewit, I must and will—yes indeed, I repeat it, must and will—be heard. I am not surprised, sir, at anything you have told me tonight. It is natural, very natural, and the greater part of it was known to me before. I will not say,’ continued Mr Pecksniff, drawing out his pocket-handkerchief, and winking with both eyes at once, as it were, against his will, ‘I will not say that you are mistaken in me. While you are in your present mood I would not say so for the world. I almost wish, indeed, that I had a different nature, that I might repress even this slight confession of weakness; which I cannot disguise from you; which I feel is humiliating; but which you will have the goodness to excuse. We will say, if you please,’ added Mr Pecksniff, with great tenderness of manner, ‘that it arises from a cold in the head, or is attributable to snuff, or smelling-salts, or onions, or anything but the real cause.’

Here he paused for an instant, and concealed his face behind his pocket-handkerchief. Then, smiling faintly, and holding the bed furniture with one hand, he resumed:

‘But, Mr Chuzzlewit, while I am forgetful of myself, I owe it to myself, and to my character—aye, sir, and I HAVE a character which is very dear to me, and will be the best inheritance of my two daughters—to tell you, on behalf of another, that your conduct is wrong, unnatural, indefensible, monstrous. And I tell you, sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, towering on tiptoe among the curtains, as if he were literally rising above all worldly considerations, and were fain to hold on tight, to keep himself from darting skyward like a rocket, ‘I tell you without fear or favour, that it will not do for you to be unmindful of your grandson, young Martin, who has the strongest natural claim upon you. It will not do, sir,’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, shaking his head. ‘You may think it will do, but it won’t. You must provide for that young man; you shall provide for him; you WILL provide for him. I believe,’ said Mr Pecksniff, glancing at the pen-and-ink, ‘that in secret you have already done so. Bless you for doing so. Bless you for doing right, sir. Bless you for hating me. And good night!’

So saying, Mr Pecksniff waved his right hand with much solemnity, and once more inserting it in his waistcoat, departed. There was emotion in his manner, but his step was firm. Subject to human weaknesses, he was upheld by conscience.

Martin lay for some time, with an expression on his face of silent wonder, not unmixed with rage; at length he muttered in a whisper:

‘What does this mean? Can the false-hearted boy have chosen such a tool as yonder fellow who has just gone out? Why not! He has conspired against me, like the rest, and they are but birds of one feather. A new plot; a new plot! Oh self, self, self! At every turn nothing but self!’

He fell to trifling, as he ceased to speak, with the ashes of the burnt paper in the candlestick. He did so, at first, in pure abstraction, but they presently became the subject of his thoughts.

‘Another will made and destroyed,’ he said, ‘nothing determined on, nothing done, and I might have died to-night! I plainly see to what foul uses all this money will be put at last,’ he cried, almost writhing in the bed; ‘after filling me with cares and miseries all my life, it will perpetuate discord and bad passions when I am dead. So it always is. What lawsuits grow out of the graves of rich men, every day; sowing perjury, hatred, and lies among near kindred, where there should be nothing but love! Heaven help us, we have much to answer for! Oh self, self, self! Every man for himself, and no creature for me!’

Universal self! Was there nothing of its shadow in these reflections, and in the history of Martin Chuzzlewit, on his own showing?

CHAPTER FOUR

FROM WHICH IT WILL APPEAR THAT IF UNION BE STRENGTH, AND FAMILY AFFECTION BE PLEASANT TO CONTEMPLATE, THE CHUZZLEWITS WERE THE STRONGEST AND MOST AGREEABLE FAMILY IN THE WORLD

That worthy man Mr Pecksniff having taken leave of his cousin in the solemn terms recited in the last chapter, withdrew to his own home, and remained there three whole days; not so much as going out for a walk beyond the boundaries of his own garden, lest he should be hastily summoned to the bedside of his penitent and remorseful relative, whom, in his ample benevolence, he had made up his mind to forgive unconditionally, and to love on any terms. But such was the obstinacy and such the bitter nature of that stern old man, that no repentant summons came; and the fourth day found Mr Pecksniff apparently much farther from his Christian object than the first.

During the whole of this interval, he haunted the Dragon at all times and seasons in the day and night, and, returning good for evil evinced the deepest solicitude in the progress of the obdurate invalid, in so much that Mrs Lupin was fairly melted by his disinterested anxiety (for he often particularly required her to take notice that he would do the same by any stranger or pauper in the like condition), and shed many tears of admiration and delight.

Meantime, old Martin Chuzzlewit remained shut up in his own chamber, and saw no person but his young companion, saving the hostess of the Blue Dragon, who was, at certain times, admitted to his presence. So surely as she came into the room, however, Martin feigned to fall asleep. It was only when he and the young lady were alone, that he would utter a word, even in answer to the simplest inquiry; though Mr Pecksniff could make out, by hard listening at the door, that they two being left together, he was talkative enough.

It happened on the fourth evening, that Mr Pecksniff walking, as usual, into the bar of the Dragon and finding no Mrs Lupin there, went straight upstairs; purposing, in the fervour of his affectionate zeal, to apply his ear once more to the keyhole, and quiet his mind by assuring himself that the hard-hearted patient was going on well. It happened that Mr Pecksniff, coming softly upon the dark passage into which a spiral ray of light usually darted through the same keyhole, was astonished to find no such ray visible; and it happened that Mr Pecksniff, when he had felt his way to the chamber-door, stooping hurriedly down to ascertain by personal inspection whether the jealousy of the old man had caused this keyhole to be stopped on the inside, brought his head into such violent contact with another head that he could not help uttering in an audible voice the monosyllable ‘Oh!’ which was, as it were, sharply unscrewed and jerked out of him by very anguish. It happened then, and lastly, that Mr Pecksniff found himself immediately collared by something which smelt like several damp umbrellas, a barrel of beer, a cask of warm brandy-and-water, and a small parlour-full of stale tobacco smoke, mixed; and was straightway led downstairs into the bar from which he had lately come, where he found himself standing opposite to, and in the grasp of, a perfectly strange gentleman of still stranger appearance who, with his disengaged hand, rubbed his own head very hard, and looked at him, Pecksniff, with an evil countenance.

The gentleman was of that order of appearance which is currently termed shabby-genteel, though in respect of his dress he can hardly be said to have been in any extremities, as his fingers were a long way out of his gloves, and the soles of his feet were at an inconvenient distance from the upper leather of his boots. His nether garments were of a bluish grey—violent in its colours once, but sobered now by age and dinginess—and were so stretched and strained in a tough conflict between his braces and his straps, that they appeared every moment in danger of flying asunder at the knees. His coat, in colour blue and of a military cut, was buttoned and frogged up to his chin. His cravat was, in hue and pattern, like one of those mantles which hairdressers are accustomed to wrap about their clients, during the progress of the professional mysteries. His hat had arrived at such a pass that it would have been hard to determine whether it was originally white or black. But he wore a moustache—a shaggy moustache too; nothing in the meek and merciful way, but quite in the fierce and scornful style; the regular Satanic sort of thing—and he wore, besides, a vast quantity of unbrushed hair. He was very dirty and very jaunty; very bold and very mean; very swaggering and very slinking; very much like a man who might have been something better, and unspeakably like a man who deserved to be something worse.

‘You were eaves-dropping at that door, you vagabond!’ said this gentleman.

Mr Pecksniff cast him off, as Saint George might have repudiated the Dragon in that animal’s last moments, and said:

‘Where is Mrs Lupin, I wonder! can the good woman possibly be aware that there is a person here who—’

‘Stay!’ said the gentleman. ‘Wait a bit. She DOES know. What then?’

‘What then, sir?’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘What then? Do you know, sir, that I am the friend and relative of that sick gentleman? That I am his protector, his guardian, his—’

‘Not his niece’s husband,’ interposed the stranger, ‘I’ll be sworn; for he was there before you.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Mr Pecksniff, with indignant surprise. ‘What do you tell me, sir?’

‘Wait a bit!’ cried the other, ‘Perhaps you are a cousin—the cousin who lives in this place?’

‘I AM the cousin who lives in this place,’ replied the man of worth.

‘Your name is Pecksniff?’ said the gentleman.

‘It is.’

‘I am proud to know you, and I ask your pardon,’ said the gentleman, touching his hat, and subsequently diving behind his cravat for a shirt-collar, which however he did not succeed in bringing to the surface. ‘You behold in me, sir, one who has also an interest in that gentleman upstairs. Wait a bit.’

As he said this, he touched the tip of his high nose, by way of intimation that he would let Mr Pecksniff into a secret presently; and pulling off his hat, began to search inside the crown among a mass of crumpled documents and small pieces of what may be called the bark of broken cigars; whence he presently selected the cover of an old letter, begrimed with dirt and redolent of tobacco.

‘Read that,’ he cried, giving it to Mr Pecksniff.

‘This is addressed to Chevy Slyme, Esquire,’ said that gentleman.

‘You know Chevy Slyme, Esquire, I believe?’ returned the stranger.

Mr Pecksniff shrugged his shoulders as though he would say ‘I know there is such a person, and I am sorry for it.’

‘Very good,’ remarked the gentleman. ‘That is my interest and business here.’ With that he made another dive for his shirt-collar and brought up a string.

‘Now, this is very distressing, my friend,’ said Mr Pecksniff, shaking his head and smiling composedly. ‘It is very distressing to me, to be compelled to say that you are not the person you claim to be. I know Mr Slyme, my friend; this will not do; honesty is the best policy you had better not; you had indeed.’

‘Stop’ cried the gentleman, stretching forth his right arm, which was so tightly wedged into his threadbare sleeve that it looked like a cloth sausage. ‘Wait a bit!’

He paused to establish himself immediately in front of the fire with his back towards it. Then gathering the skirts of his coat under his left arm, and smoothing his moustache with his right thumb and forefinger, he resumed:

‘I understand your mistake, and I am not offended. Why? Because it’s complimentary. You suppose I would set myself up for Chevy Slyme. Sir, if there is a man on earth whom a gentleman would feel proud and honoured to be mistaken for, that man is my friend Slyme. For he is, without an exception, the highest-minded, the most independent-spirited, most original, spiritual, classical, talented, the most thoroughly Shakspearian, if not Miltonic, and at the same time the most disgustingly-unappreciated dog I know. But, sir, I have not the vanity to attempt to pass for Slyme. Any other man in the wide world, I am equal to; but Slyme is, I frankly confess, a great many cuts above me. Therefore you are wrong.’

‘I judged from this,’ said Mr Pecksniff, holding out the cover of the letter.

‘No doubt you did,’ returned the gentleman. ‘But, Mr Pecksniff, the whole thing resolves itself into an instance of the peculiarities of genius. Every man of true genius has his peculiarity. Sir, the peculiarity of my friend Slyme is, that he is always waiting round the corner. He is perpetually round the corner, sir. He is round the corner at this instant. Now,’ said the gentleman, shaking his forefinger before his nose, and planting his legs wider apart as he looked attentively in Mr Pecksniff’s face, ‘that is a remarkably curious and interesting trait in Mr Slyme’s character; and whenever Slyme’s life comes to be written, that trait must be thoroughly worked out by his biographer or society will not be satisfied. Observe me, society will not be satisfied!’

Mr Pecksniff coughed.

‘Slyme’s biographer, sir, whoever he may be,’ resumed the gentleman, ‘must apply to me; or, if I am gone to that what’s-his-name from which no thingumbob comes back, he must apply to my executors for leave to search among my papers. I have taken a few notes in my poor way, of some of that man’s proceedings—my adopted brother, sir,—which would amaze you. He made use of an expression, sir, only on the fifteenth of last month when he couldn’t meet a little bill and the other party wouldn’t renew, which would have done honour to Napoleon Bonaparte in addressing the French army.’

‘And pray,’ asked Mr Pecksniff, obviously not quite at his ease, ‘what may be Mr Slyme’s business here, if I may be permitted to inquire, who am compelled by a regard for my own character to disavow all interest in his proceedings?’

‘In the first place,’ returned the gentleman, ‘you will permit me to say, that I object to that remark, and that I strongly and indignantly protest against it on behalf of my friend Slyme. In the next place, you will give me leave to introduce myself. My name, sir, is Tigg. The name of Montague Tigg will perhaps be familiar to you, in connection with the most remarkable events of the Peninsular War?’

Mr Pecksniff gently shook his head.

‘No matter,’ said the gentleman. ‘That man was my father, and I bear his name. I am consequently proud—proud as Lucifer. Excuse me one moment. I desire my friend Slyme to be present at the remainder of this conference.’

With this announcement he hurried away to the outer door of the Blue Dragon, and almost immediately returned with a companion shorter than himself, who was wrapped in an old blue camlet cloak with a lining of faded scarlet. His sharp features being much pinched and nipped by long waiting in the cold, and his straggling red whiskers and frowzy hair being more than usually dishevelled from the same cause, he certainly looked rather unwholesome and uncomfortable than Shakspearian or Miltonic.

‘Now,’ said Mr Tigg, clapping one hand on the shoulder of his prepossessing friend, and calling Mr Pecksniff’s attention to him with the other, ‘you two are related; and relations never did agree, and never will; which is a wise dispensation and an inevitable thing, or there would be none but family parties, and everybody in the world would bore everybody else to death. If you were on good terms, I should consider you a most confoundedly unnatural pair; but standing towards each other as you do, I took upon you as a couple of devilish deep-thoughted fellows, who may be reasoned with to any extent.’

Here Mr Chevy Slyme, whose great abilities seemed one and all to point towards the sneaking quarter of the moral compass, nudged his friend stealthily with his elbow, and whispered in his ear.

‘Chiv,’ said Mr Tigg aloud, in the high tone of one who was not to be tampered with. ‘I shall come to that presently. I act upon my own responsibility, or not at all. To the extent of such a trifling loan as a crownpiece to a man of your talents, I look upon Mr Pecksniff as certain;’ and seeing at this juncture that the expression of Mr Pecksniff’s face by no means betokened that he shared this certainty, Mr Tigg laid his finger on his nose again for that gentleman’s private and especial behoof; calling upon him thereby to take notice that the requisition of small loans was another instance of the peculiarities of genius as developed in his friend Slyme; that he, Tigg, winked at the same, because of the strong metaphysical interest which these weaknesses possessed; and that in reference to his own personal advocacy of such small advances, he merely consulted the humour of his friend, without the least regard to his own advantage or necessities.

‘Oh, Chiv, Chiv!’ added Mr Tigg, surveying his adopted brother with an air of profound contemplation after dismissing this piece of pantomime. ‘You are, upon my life, a strange instance of the little frailties that beset a mighty mind. If there had never been a telescope in the world, I should have been quite certain from my observation of you, Chiv, that there were spots on the sun! I wish I may die, if this isn’t the queerest state of existence that we find ourselves forced into without knowing why or wherefore, Mr Pecksniff! Well, never mind! Moralise as we will, the world goes on. As Hamlet says, Hercules may lay about him with his club in every possible direction, but he can’t prevent the cats from making a most intolerable row on the roofs of the houses, or the dogs from being shot in the hot weather if they run about the streets unmuzzled. Life’s a riddle; a most infernally hard riddle to guess, Mr Pecksniff. My own opinions, that like that celebrated conundrum, “Why’s a man in jail like a man out of jail?” there’s no answer to it. Upon my soul and body, it’s the queerest sort of thing altogether—but there’s no use in talking about it. Ha! Ha!’

With which consolatory deduction from the gloomy premises recited, Mr Tigg roused himself by a great effort, and proceeded in his former strain.

‘Now I’ll tell you what it is. I’m a most confoundedly soft-hearted kind of fellow in my way, and I cannot stand by, and see you two blades cutting each other’s throats when there’s nothing to be got by it. Mr Pecksniff, you’re the cousin of the testator upstairs and we’re the nephew—I say we, meaning Chiv. Perhaps in all essential points you are more nearly related to him than we are. Very good. If so, so be it. But you can’t get at him, neither can we. I give you my brightest word of honour, sir, that I’ve been looking through that keyhole with short intervals of rest, ever since nine o’clock this morning, in expectation of receiving an answer to one of the most moderate and gentlemanly applications for a little temporary assistance—only fifteen pounds, and MY security—that the mind of man can conceive. In the meantime, sir, he is perpetually closeted with, and pouring his whole confidence into the bosom of, a stranger. Now I say decisively with regard to this state of circumstances, that it won’t do; that it won’t act; that it can’t be; and that it must not be suffered to continue.’

‘Every man,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘has a right, an undoubted right, (which I, for one, would not call in question for any earthly consideration; oh no!) to regulate his own proceedings by his own likings and dislikings, supposing they are not immoral and not irreligious. I may feel in my own breast, that Mr Chuzzlewit does not regard—me, for instance; say me—with exactly that amount of Christian love which should subsist between us. I may feel grieved and hurt at the circumstance; still I may not rush to the conclusion that Mr Chuzzlewit is wholly without a justification in all his coldnesses. Heaven forbid! Besides; how, Mr Tigg,’ continued Pecksniff even more gravely and impressively than he had spoken yet, ‘how could Mr Chuzzlewit be prevented from having these peculiar and most extraordinary confidences of which you speak; the existence of which I must admit; and which I cannot but deplore—for his sake? Consider, my good sir—’ and here Mr Pecksniff eyed him wistfully—‘how very much at random you are talking.’

‘Why, as to that,’ rejoined Tigg, ‘it certainly is a difficult question.’

‘Undoubtedly it is a difficult question,’ Mr Pecksniff answered. As he spoke he drew himself aloft, and seemed to grow more mindful, suddenly, of the moral gulf between himself and the creature he addressed. ‘Undoubtedly it is a very difficult question. And I am far from feeling sure that it is a question any one is authorized to discuss. Good evening to you.’

‘You don’t know that the Spottletoes are here, I suppose?’ said Mr Tigg.

‘What do you mean, sir? what Spottletoes?’ asked Pecksniff, stopping abruptly on his way to the door.

‘Mr and Mrs Spottletoe,’ said Chevy Slyme, Esquire, speaking aloud for the first time, and speaking very sulkily; shambling with his legs the while. ‘Spottletoe married my father’s brother’s child, didn’t he? And Mrs Spottletoe is Chuzzlewit’s own niece, isn’t she? She was his favourite once. You may well ask what Spottletoes.’

‘Now upon my sacred word!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, looking upwards. ‘This is dreadful. The rapacity of these people is absolutely frightful!’

‘It’s not only the Spottletoes either, Tigg,’ said Slyme, looking at that gentleman and speaking at Mr Pecksniff. ‘Anthony Chuzzlewit and his son have got wind of it, and have come down this afternoon. I saw ‘em not five minutes ago, when I was waiting round the corner.’

‘Oh, Mammon, Mammon!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, smiting his forehead.

‘So there,’ said Slyme, regardless of the interruption, ‘are his brother and another nephew for you, already.’

‘This is the whole thing, sir,’ said Mr Tigg; ‘this is the point and purpose at which I was gradually arriving when my friend Slyme here, with six words, hit it full. Mr Pecksniff, now that your cousin (and Chiv’s uncle) has turned up, some steps must be taken to prevent his disappearing again; and, if possible, to counteract the influence which is exercised over him now, by this designing favourite. Everybody who is interested feels it, sir. The whole family is pouring down to this place. The time has come when individual jealousies and interests must be forgotten for a time, sir, and union must be made against the common enemy. When the common enemy is routed, you will all set up for yourselves again; every lady and gentleman who has a part in the game, will go in on their own account and bowl away, to the best of their ability, at the testator’s wicket, and nobody will be in a worse position than before. Think of it. Don’t commit yourself now. You’ll find us at the Half Moon and Seven Stars in this village, at any time, and open to any reasonable proposition. Hem! Chiv, my dear fellow, go out and see what sort of a night it is.’

Mr Slyme lost no time in disappearing, and it is to be presumed in going round the corner. Mr Tigg, planting his legs as wide apart as he could be reasonably expected by the most sanguine man to keep them, shook his head at Mr Pecksniff and smiled.

‘We must not be too hard,’ he said, ‘upon the little eccentricities of our friend Slyme. You saw him whisper me?’

Mr Pecksniff had seen him.

‘You heard my answer, I think?’

Mr Pecksniff had heard it.

‘Five shillings, eh?’ said Mr Tigg, thoughtfully. ‘Ah! what an extraordinary fellow! Very moderate too!’

Mr Pecksniff made no answer.

‘Five shillings!’ pursued Mr Tigg, musing; ‘and to be punctually repaid next week; that’s the best of it. You heard that?’

Mr Pecksniff had not heard that.

‘No! You surprise me!’ cried Tigg. ‘That’s the cream of the thing sir. I never knew that man fail to redeem a promise, in my life. You’re not in want of change, are you?’

‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘thank you. Not at all.’

‘Just so,’ returned Mr Tigg. ‘If you had been, I’d have got it for you.’ With that he began to whistle; but a dozen seconds had not elapsed when he stopped short, and looking earnestly at Mr Pecksniff, said:

‘Perhaps you’d rather not lend Slyme five shillings?’

‘I would much rather not,’ Mr Pecksniff rejoined.

‘Egad!’ cried Tigg, gravely nodding his head as if some ground of objection occurred to him at that moment for the first time, ‘it’s very possible you may be right. Would you entertain the same sort of objection to lending me five shillings now?’

‘Yes, I couldn’t do it, indeed,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘Not even half-a-crown, perhaps?’ urged Mr Tigg.

‘Not even half-a-crown.’

‘Why, then we come,’ said Mr Tigg, ‘to the ridiculously small amount of eighteen pence. Ha! ha!’

‘And that,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘would be equally objectionable.’

On receipt of this assurance, Mr Tigg shook him heartily by both hands, protesting with much earnestness, that he was one of the most consistent and remarkable men he had ever met, and that he desired the honour of his better acquaintance. He moreover observed that there were many little characteristics about his friend Slyme, of which he could by no means, as a man of strict honour, approve; but that he was prepared to forgive him all these slight drawbacks, and much more, in consideration of the great pleasure he himself had that day enjoyed in his social intercourse with Mr Pecksniff, which had given him a far higher and more enduring delight than the successful negotiation of any small loan on the part of his friend could possibly have imparted. With which remarks he would beg leave, he said, to wish Mr Pecksniff a very good evening. And so he took himself off; as little abashed by his recent failure as any gentleman would desire to be.

The meditations of Mr Pecksniff that evening at the bar of the Dragon, and that night in his own house, were very serious and grave indeed; the more especially as the intelligence he had received from Messrs Tigg and Slyme touching the arrival of other members of the family, were fully confirmed on more particular inquiry. For the Spottletoes had actually gone straight to the Dragon, where they were at that moment housed and mounting guard, and where their appearance had occasioned such a vast sensation that Mrs Lupin, scenting their errand before they had been under her roof half an hour, carried the news herself with all possible secrecy straight to Mr Pecksniff’s house; indeed it was her great caution in doing so which occasioned her to miss that gentleman, who entered at the front door of the Dragon just as she emerged from the back one. Moreover, Mr Anthony Chuzzlewit and his son Jonas were economically quartered at the Half Moon and Seven Stars, which was an obscure ale-house; and by the very next coach there came posting to the scene of action, so many other affectionate members of the family (who quarrelled with each other, inside and out, all the way down, to the utter distraction of the coachman), that in less than four-and-twenty hours the scanty tavern accommodation was at a premium, and all the private lodgings in the place, amounting to full four beds and sofa, rose cent per cent in the market.

In a word, things came to that pass that nearly the whole family sat down before the Blue Dragon, and formally invested it; and Martin Chuzzlewit was in a state of siege. But he resisted bravely; refusing to receive all letters, messages, and parcels; obstinately declining to treat with anybody; and holding out no hope or promise of capitulation. Meantime the family forces were perpetually encountering each other in divers parts of the neighbourhood; and, as no one branch of the Chuzzlewit tree had ever been known to agree with another within the memory of man, there was such a skirmishing, and flouting, and snapping off of heads, in the metaphorical sense of that expression; such a bandying of words and calling of names; such an upturning of noses and wrinkling of brows; such a formal interment of good feelings and violent resurrection of ancient grievances; as had never been known in those quiet parts since the earliest record of their civilized existence.

At length, in utter despair and hopelessness, some few of the belligerents began to speak to each other in only moderate terms of mutual aggravation; and nearly all addressed themselves with a show of tolerable decency to Mr Pecksniff, in recognition of his high character and influential position. Thus, by little and little, they made common cause of Martin Chuzzlewit’s obduracy, until it was agreed (if such a word can be used in connection with the Chuzzlewits) that there should be a general council and conference held at Mr Pecksniff’s house upon a certain day at noon; which all members of the family who had brought themselves within reach of the summons, were forthwith bidden and invited, solemnly, to attend.

If ever Mr Pecksniff wore an apostolic look, he wore it on this memorable day. If ever his unruffled smile proclaimed the words, ‘I am a messenger of peace!’ that was its mission now. If ever man combined within himself all the mild qualities of the lamb with a considerable touch of the dove, and not a dash of the crocodile, or the least possible suggestion of the very mildest seasoning of the serpent, that man was he. And, oh, the two Miss Pecksniffs! Oh, the serene expression on the face of Charity, which seemed to say, ‘I know that all my family have injured me beyond the possibility of reparation, but I forgive them, for it is my duty so to do!’ And, oh, the gay simplicity of Mercy; so charming, innocent, and infant-like, that if she had gone out walking by herself, and it had been a little earlier in the season, the robin-redbreasts might have covered her with leaves against her will, believing her to be one of the sweet children in the wood, come out of it, and issuing forth once more to look for blackberries in the young freshness of her heart! What words can paint the Pecksniffs in that trying hour? Oh, none; for words have naughty company among them, and the Pecksniffs were all goodness.

But when the company arrived! That was the time. When Mr Pecksniff, rising from his seat at the table’s head, with a daughter on either hand, received his guests in the best parlour and motioned them to chairs, with eyes so overflowing and countenance so damp with gracious perspiration, that he may be said to have been in a kind of moist meekness! And the company; the jealous stony-hearted distrustful company, who were all shut up in themselves, and had no faith in anybody, and wouldn’t believe anything, and would no more allow themselves to be softened or lulled asleep by the Pecksniffs than if they had been so many hedgehogs or porcupines!

First, there was Mr Spottletoe, who was so bald and had such big whiskers, that he seemed to have stopped his hair, by the sudden application of some powerful remedy, in the very act of falling off his head, and to have fastened it irrevocably on his face. Then there was Mrs Spottletoe, who being much too slim for her years, and of a poetical constitution, was accustomed to inform her more intimate friends that the said whiskers were ‘the lodestar of her existence;’ and who could now, by reason of her strong affection for her uncle Chuzzlewit, and the shock it gave her to be suspected of testamentary designs upon him, do nothing but cry—except moan. Then there were Anthony Chuzzlewit, and his son Jonas; the face of the old man so sharpened by the wariness and cunning of his life, that it seemed to cut him a passage through the crowded room, as he edged away behind the remotest chairs; while the son had so well profited by the precept and example of the father, that he looked a year or two the elder of the twain, as they stood winking their red eyes, side by side, and whispering to each other softly. Then there was the widow of a deceased brother of Mr Martin Chuzzlewit, who being almost supernaturally disagreeable, and having a dreary face and a bony figure and a masculine voice, was, in right of these qualities, what is commonly called a strong-minded woman; and who, if she could, would have established her claim to the title, and have shown herself, mentally speaking, a perfect Samson, by shutting up her brother-in-law in a private madhouse, until he proved his complete sanity by loving her very much. Beside her sat her spinster daughters, three in number, and of gentlemanly deportment, who had so mortified themselves with tight stays, that their tempers were reduced to something less than their waists, and sharp lacing was expressed in their very noses. Then there was a young gentleman, grandnephew of Mr Martin Chuzzlewit, very dark and very hairy, and apparently born for no particular purpose but to save looking-glasses the trouble of reflecting more than just the first idea and sketchy notion of a face, which had never been carried out. Then there was a solitary female cousin who was remarkable for nothing but being very deaf, and living by herself, and always having the toothache. Then there was George Chuzzlewit, a gay bachelor cousin, who claimed to be young but had been younger, and was inclined to corpulency, and rather overfed himself; to that extent, indeed, that his eyes were strained in their sockets, as if with constant surprise; and he had such an obvious disposition to pimples, that the bright spots on his cravat, the rich pattern on his waistcoat, and even his glittering trinkets, seemed to have broken out upon him, and not to have come into existence comfortably. Last of all there were present Mr Chevy Slyme and his friend Tigg. And it is worthy of remark, that although each person present disliked the other, mainly because he or she DID belong to the family, they one and all concurred in hating Mr Tigg because he didn’t.

Such was the pleasant little family circle now assembled in Mr Pecksniff’s best parlour, agreeably prepared to fall foul of Mr Pecksniff or anybody else who might venture to say anything whatever upon any subject.

‘This,’ said Mr Pecksniff, rising and looking round upon them with folded hands, ‘does me good. It does my daughters good. We thank you for assembling here. We are grateful to you with our whole hearts. It is a blessed distinction that you have conferred upon us, and believe me’—it is impossible to conceive how he smiled here—‘we shall not easily forget it.’

‘I am sorry to interrupt you, Pecksniff,’ remarked Mr Spottletoe, with his whiskers in a very portentous state; ‘but you are assuming too much to yourself, sir. Who do you imagine has it in contemplation to confer a distinction upon YOU, sir?’

A general murmur echoed this inquiry, and applauded it.

‘If you are about to pursue the course with which you have begun, sir,’ pursued Mr Spottletoe in a great heat, and giving a violent rap on the table with his knuckles, ‘the sooner you desist, and this assembly separates, the better. I am no stranger, sir, to your preposterous desire to be regarded as the head of this family, but I can tell YOU, sir—’

Oh yes, indeed! HE tell. HE! What? He was the head, was he? From the strong-minded woman downwards everybody fell, that instant, upon Mr Spottletoe, who after vainly attempting to be heard in silence was fain to sit down again, folding his arms and shaking his head most wrathfully, and giving Mrs Spottletoe to understand in dumb show, that that scoundrel Pecksniff might go on for the present, but he would cut in presently, and annihilate him.

‘I am not sorry,’ said Mr Pecksniff in resumption of his address, ‘I am really not sorry that this little incident has happened. It is good to feel that we are met here without disguise. It is good to know that we have no reserve before each other, but are appearing freely in our own characters.’

Here, the eldest daughter of the strong-minded woman rose a little way from her seat, and trembling violently from head to foot, more as it seemed with passion than timidity, expressed a general hope that some people WOULD appear in their own characters, if it were only for such a proceeding having the attraction of novelty to recommend it; and that when they (meaning the some people before mentioned) talked about their relations, they would be careful to observe who was present in company at the time; otherwise it might come round to those relations’ ears, in a way they little expected; and as to red noses (she observed) she had yet to learn that a red nose was any disgrace, inasmuch as people neither made nor coloured their own noses, but had that feature provided for them without being first consulted; though even upon that branch of the subject she had great doubts whether certain noses were redder than other noses, or indeed half as red as some. This remark being received with a shrill titter by the two sisters of the speaker, Miss Charity Pecksniff begged with much politeness to be informed whether any of those very low observations were levelled at her; and receiving no more explanatory answer than was conveyed in the adage ‘Those the cap fits, let them wear it,’ immediately commenced a somewhat acrimonious and personal retort, wherein she was much comforted and abetted by her sister Mercy, who laughed at the same with great heartiness; indeed far more naturally than life. And it being quite impossible that any difference of opinion can take place among women without every woman who is within hearing taking active part in it, the strong-minded lady and her two daughters, and Mrs Spottletoe, and the deaf cousin (who was not at all disqualified from joining in the dispute by reason of being perfectly unacquainted with its merits), one and all plunged into the quarrel directly.

The two Miss Pecksniffs being a pretty good match for the three Miss Chuzzlewits, and all five young ladies having, in the figurative language of the day, a great amount of steam to dispose of, the altercation would no doubt have been a long one but for the high valour and prowess of the strong-minded woman, who, in right of her reputation for powers of sarcasm, did so belabour and pummel Mrs Spottletoe with taunting words that the poor lady, before the engagement was two minutes old, had no refuge but in tears. These she shed so plentifully, and so much to the agitation and grief of Mr Spottletoe, that that gentleman, after holding his clenched fist close to Mr Pecksniff’s eyes, as if it were some natural curiosity from the near inspection whereof he was likely to derive high gratification and improvement, and after offering (for no particular reason that anybody could discover) to kick Mr George Chuzzlewit for, and in consideration of, the trifling sum of sixpence, took his wife under his arm and indignantly withdrew. This diversion, by distracting the attention of the combatants, put an end to the strife, which, after breaking out afresh some twice or thrice in certain inconsiderable spurts and dashes, died away in silence.

It was then that Mr Pecksniff once more rose from his chair. It was then that the two Miss Pecksniffs composed themselves to look as if there were no such beings—not to say present, but in the whole compass of the world—as the three Miss Chuzzlewits; while the three Miss Chuzzlewits became equally unconscious of the existence of the two Miss Pecksniffs.

‘It is to be lamented,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a forgiving recollection of Mr Spottletoe’s fist, ‘that our friend should have withdrawn himself so very hastily, though we have cause for mutual congratulation even in that, since we are assured that he is not distrustful of us in regard to anything we may say or do while he is absent. Now, that is very soothing, is it not?’

‘Pecksniff,’ said Anthony, who had been watching the whole party with peculiar keenness from the first—‘don’t you be a hypocrite.’

‘A what, my good sir?’ demanded Mr Pecksniff.

‘A hypocrite.’

‘Charity, my dear,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘when I take my chamber candlestick to-night, remind me to be more than usually particular in praying for Mr Anthony Chuzzlewit; who has done me an injustice.’

This was said in a very bland voice, and aside, as being addressed to his daughter’s private ear. With a cheerfulness of conscience, prompting almost a sprightly demeanour, he then resumed:

‘All our thoughts centring in our very dear but unkind relative, and he being as it were beyond our reach, we are met to-day, really as if we were a funeral party, except—a blessed exception—that there is no body in the house.’

The strong-minded lady was not at all sure that this was a blessed exception. Quite the contrary.

‘Well, my dear madam!’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Be that as it may, here we are; and being here, we are to consider whether it is possible by any justifiable means—’

‘Why, you know as well as I,’ said the strong-minded lady, ‘that any means are justifiable in such a case, don’t you?’

‘Very good, my dear madam, very good; whether it is possible by ANY means, we will say by ANY means, to open the eyes of our valued relative to his present infatuation. Whether it is possible to make him acquainted by any means with the real character and purpose of that young female whose strange, whose very strange position, in reference to himself’—here Mr Pecksniff sunk his voice to an impressive whisper—‘really casts a shadow of disgrace and shame upon this family; and who, we know’—here he raised his voice again—‘else why is she his companion? harbours the very basest designs upon his weakness and his property.’

In their strong feeling on this point, they, who agreed in nothing else, all concurred as one mind. Good Heaven, that she should harbour designs upon his property! The strong-minded lady was for poison, her three daughters were for Bridewell and bread-and-water, the cousin with the toothache advocated Botany Bay, the two Miss Pecksniffs suggested flogging. Nobody but Mr Tigg, who, notwithstanding his extreme shabbiness, was still understood to be in some sort a lady’s man, in right of his upper lip and his frogs, indicated a doubt of the justifiable nature of these measures; and he only ogled the three Miss Chuzzlewits with the least admixture of banter in his admiration, as though he would observe, ‘You are positively down upon her to too great an extent, my sweet creatures, upon my soul you are!’

‘Now,’ said Mr Pecksniff, crossing his two forefingers in a manner which was at once conciliatory and argumentative; ‘I will not, upon the one hand, go so far as to say that she deserves all the inflictions which have been so very forcibly and hilariously suggested;’ one of his ornamental sentences; ‘nor will I, upon the other, on any account compromise my common understanding as a man, by making the assertion that she does not. What I would observe is, that I think some practical means might be devised of inducing our respected, shall I say our revered—?’

‘No!’ interposed the strong-minded woman in a loud voice.

‘Then I will not,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘You are quite right, my dear madam, and I appreciate and thank you for your discriminating objection—our respected relative, to dispose himself to listen to the promptings of nature, and not to the—’

‘Go on, Pa!’ cried Mercy.

‘Why, the truth is, my dear,’ said Mr Pecksniff, smiling upon his assembled kindred, ‘that I am at a loss for a word. The name of those fabulous animals (pagan, I regret to say) who used to sing in the water, has quite escaped me.’

Mr George Chuzzlewit suggested ‘swans.’

‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Not swans. Very like swans, too. Thank you.’

The nephew with the outline of a countenance, speaking for the first and last time on that occasion, propounded ‘Oysters.’

‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with his own peculiar urbanity, ‘nor oysters. But by no means unlike oysters; a very excellent idea; thank you, my dear sir, very much. Wait! Sirens. Dear me! sirens, of course. I think, I say, that means might be devised of disposing our respected relative to listen to the promptings of nature, and not to the siren-like delusions of art. Now we must not lose sight of the fact that our esteemed friend has a grandson, to whom he was, until lately, very much attached, and whom I could have wished to see here to-day, for I have a real and deep regard for him. A fine young man, a very fine young man! I would submit to you, whether we might not remove Mr Chuzzlewit’s distrust of us, and vindicate our own disinterestedness by—’

‘If Mr George Chuzzlewit has anything to say to ME,’ interposed the strong-minded woman, sternly, ‘I beg him to speak out like a man; and not to look at me and my daughters as if he could eat us.’

‘As to looking, I have heard it said, Mrs Ned,’ returned Mr George, angrily, ‘that a cat is free to contemplate a monarch; and therefore I hope I have some right, having been born a member of this family, to look at a person who only came into it by marriage. As to eating, I beg to say, whatever bitterness your jealousies and disappointed expectations may suggest to you, that I am not a cannibal, ma’am.’

‘I don’t know that!’ cried the strong-minded woman.

‘At all events, if I was a cannibal,’ said Mr George Chuzzlewit, greatly stimulated by this retort, ‘I think it would occur to me that a lady who had outlived three husbands, and suffered so very little from their loss, must be most uncommonly tough.’

The strong-minded woman immediately rose.

‘And I will further add,’ said Mr George, nodding his head violently at every second syllable; ‘naming no names, and therefore hurting nobody but those whose consciences tell them they are alluded to, that I think it would be much more decent and becoming, if those who hooked and crooked themselves into this family by getting on the blind side of some of its members before marriage, and manslaughtering them afterwards by crowing over them to that strong pitch that they were glad to die, would refrain from acting the part of vultures in regard to other members of this family who are living. I think it would be full as well, if not better, if those individuals would keep at home, contenting themselves with what they have got (luckily for them) already; instead of hovering about, and thrusting their fingers into, a family pie, which they flavour much more than enough, I can tell them, when they are fifty miles away.’

‘I might have been prepared for this!’ cried the strong-minded woman, looking about her with a disdainful smile as she moved towards the door, followed by her three daughters. ‘Indeed I was fully prepared for it from the first. What else could I expect in such an atmosphere as this!’

‘Don’t direct your halfpay-officers’ gaze at me, ma’am, if you please,’ interposed Miss Charity; ‘for I won’t bear it.’

This was a smart stab at a pension enjoyed by the strong-minded woman, during her second widowhood and before her last coverture. It told immensely.

‘I passed from the memory of a grateful country, you very miserable minx,’ said Mrs Ned, ‘when I entered this family; and I feel now, though I did not feel then, that it served me right, and that I lost my claim upon the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland when I so degraded myself. Now, my dears, if you’re quite ready, and have sufficiently improved yourselves by taking to heart the genteel example of these two young ladies, I think we’ll go. Mr Pecksniff, we are very much obliged to you, really. We came to be entertained, and you have far surpassed our utmost expectations, in the amusement you have provided for us. Thank you. Good-bye!’

With such departing words, did this strong-minded female paralyse the Pecksniffian energies; and so she swept out of the room, and out of the house, attended by her daughters, who, as with one accord, elevated their three noses in the air, and joined in a contemptuous titter. As they passed the parlour window on the outside, they were seen to counterfeit a perfect transport of delight among themselves; and with this final blow and great discouragement for those within, they vanished.

Before Mr Pecksniff or any of his remaining visitors could offer a remark, another figure passed this window, coming, at a great rate in the opposite direction; and immediately afterwards, Mr Spottletoe burst into the chamber. Compared with his present state of heat, he had gone out a man of snow or ice. His head distilled such oil upon his whiskers, that they were rich and clogged with unctuous drops; his face was violently inflamed, his limbs trembled; and he gasped and strove for breath.

‘My good sir!’ cried Mr Pecksniff.

‘Oh yes!’ returned the other; ‘oh yes, certainly! Oh to be sure! Oh, of course! You hear him? You hear him? all of you!’

‘What’s the matter?’ cried several voices.

‘Oh nothing!’ cried Spottletoe, still gasping. ‘Nothing at all! It’s of no consequence! Ask him! HE’ll tell you!’

‘I do not understand our friend,’ said Mr Pecksniff, looking about him in utter amazement. ‘I assure you that he is quite unintelligible to me.’

‘Unintelligible, sir!’ cried the other. ‘Unintelligible! Do you mean to say, sir, that you don’t know what has happened! That you haven’t decoyed us here, and laid a plot and a plan against us! Will you venture to say that you didn’t know Mr Chuzzlewit was going, sir, and that you don’t know he’s gone, sir?’

‘Gone!’ was the general cry.

‘Gone,’ echoed Mr Spottletoe. ‘Gone while we were sitting here. Gone. Nobody knows where he’s gone. Oh, of course not! Nobody knew he was going. Oh, of course not! The landlady thought up to the very last moment that they were merely going for a ride; she had no other suspicion. Oh, of course not! She’s not this fellow’s creature. Oh, of course not!’

Adding to these exclamations a kind of ironical howl, and gazing upon the company for one brief instant afterwards, in a sudden silence, the irritated gentleman started off again at the same tremendous pace, and was seen no more.

It was in vain for Mr Pecksniff to assure them that this new and opportune evasion of the family was at least as great a shock and surprise to him as to anybody else. Of all the bullyings and denunciations that were ever heaped on one unlucky head, none can ever have exceeded in energy and heartiness those with which he was complimented by each of his remaining relatives, singly, upon bidding him farewell.

The moral position taken by Mr Tigg was something quite tremendous; and the deaf cousin, who had the complicated aggravation of seeing all the proceedings and hearing nothing but the catastrophe, actually scraped her shoes upon the scraper, and afterwards distributed impressions of them all over the top step, in token that she shook the dust from her feet before quitting that dissembling and perfidious mansion.

Mr Pecksniff had, in short, but one comfort, and that was the knowledge that all these his relations and friends had hated him to the very utmost extent before; and that he, for his part, had not distributed among them any more love than, with his ample capital in that respect, he could comfortably afford to part with. This view of his affairs yielded him great consolation; and the fact deserves to be noted, as showing with what ease a good man may be consoled under circumstances of failure and disappointment.

CHAPTER FIVE

CONTAINING A FULL ACCOUNT OF THE INSTALLATION OF MR PECKSNIFF’S NEW PUPIL INTO THE BOSOM OF MR PECKSNIFF’S FAMILY. WITH ALL THE FESTIVITIES HELD ON THAT OCCASION, AND THE GREAT ENJOYMENT OF MR PINCH

The best of architects and land surveyors kept a horse, in whom the enemies already mentioned more than once in these pages pretended to detect a fanciful resemblance to his master. Not in his outward person, for he was a raw-boned, haggard horse, always on a much shorter allowance of corn than Mr Pecksniff; but in his moral character, wherein, said they, he was full of promise, but of no performance. He was always in a manner, going to go, and never going. When at his slowest rate of travelling he would sometimes lift up his legs so high, and display such mighty action, that it was difficult to believe he was doing less than fourteen miles an hour; and he was for ever so perfectly satisfied with his own speed, and so little disconcerted by opportunities of comparing himself with the fastest trotters, that the illusion was the more difficult of resistance. He was a kind of animal who infused into the breasts of strangers a lively sense of hope, and possessed all those who knew him better with a grim despair. In what respect, having these points of character, he might be fairly likened to his master, that good man’s slanderers only can explain. But it is a melancholy truth, and a deplorable instance of the uncharitableness of the world, that they made the comparison.

In this horse, and the hooded vehicle, whatever its proper name might be, to which he was usually harnessed—it was more like a gig with a tumour than anything else—all Mr Pinch’s thoughts and wishes centred, one bright frosty morning; for with this gallant equipage he was about to drive to Salisbury alone, there to meet with the new pupil, and thence to bring him home in triumph.

Blessings on thy simple heart, Tom Pinch, how proudly dost thou button up that scanty coat, called by a sad misnomer, for these many years, a ‘great’ one; and how thoroughly, as with thy cheerful voice thou pleasantly adjurest Sam the hostler ‘not to let him go yet,’ dost thou believe that quadruped desires to go, and would go if he might! Who could repress a smile—of love for thee, Tom Pinch, and not in jest at thy expense, for thou art poor enough already, Heaven knows—to think that such a holiday as lies before thee should awaken that quick flow and hurry of the spirits, in which thou settest down again, almost untasted, on the kitchen window-sill, that great white mug (put by, by thy own hands, last night, that breakfast might not hold thee late), and layest yonder crust upon the seat beside thee, to be eaten on the road, when thou art calmer in thy high rejoicing! Who, as thou drivest off, a happy, man, and noddest with a grateful lovingness to Pecksniff in his nightcap at his chamber-window, would not cry, ‘Heaven speed thee, Tom, and send that thou wert going off for ever to some quiet home where thou mightst live at peace, and sorrow should not touch thee!’

What better time for driving, riding, walking, moving through the air by any means, than a fresh, frosty morning, when hope runs cheerily through the veins with the brisk blood, and tingles in the frame from head to foot! This was the glad commencement of a bracing day in early winter, such as may put the languid summer season (speaking of it when it can’t be had) to the blush, and shame the spring for being sometimes cold by halves. The sheep-bells rang as clearly in the vigorous air, as if they felt its wholesome influence like living creatures; the trees, in lieu of leaves or blossoms, shed upon the ground a frosty rime that sparkled as it fell, and might have been the dust of diamonds. So it was to Tom. From cottage chimneys, smoke went streaming up high, high, as if the earth had lost its grossness, being so fair, and must not be oppressed by heavy vapour. The crust of ice on the else rippling brook was so transparent, and so thin in texture, that the lively water might of its own free will have stopped—in Tom’s glad mind it had—to look upon the lovely morning. And lest the sun should break this charm too eagerly, there moved between him and the ground, a mist like that which waits upon the moon on summer nights—the very same to Tom—and wooed him to dissolve it gently.

Tom Pinch went on; not fast, but with a sense of rapid motion, which did just as well; and as he went, all kinds of things occurred to keep him happy. Thus when he came within sight of the turnpike, and was—oh a long way off!—he saw the tollman’s wife, who had that moment checked a waggon, run back into the little house again like mad, to say (she knew) that Mr Pinch was coming up. And she was right, for when he drew within hail of the gate, forth rushed the tollman’s children, shrieking in tiny chorus, ‘Mr Pinch!’ to Tom’s intense delight. The very tollman, though an ugly chap in general, and one whom folks were rather shy of handling, came out himself to take the toll, and give him rough good morning; and that with all this, and a glimpse of the family breakfast on a little round table before the fire, the crust Tom Pinch had brought away with him acquired as rich a flavour as though it had been cut from a fairy loaf.

But there was more than this. It was not only the married people and the children who gave Tom Pinch a welcome as he passed. No, no. Sparkling eyes and snowy breasts came hurriedly to many an upper casement as he clattered by, and gave him back his greeting: not stinted either, but sevenfold, good measure. They were all merry. They all laughed. And some of the wickedest among them even kissed their hands as Tom looked back. For who minded poor Mr Pinch? There was no harm in HIM.

And now the morning grew so fair, and all things were so wide awake and gay, that the sun seeming to say—Tom had no doubt he said—‘I can’t stand it any longer; I must have a look,’ streamed out in radiant majesty. The mist, too shy and gentle for such lusty company, fled off, quite scared, before it; and as it swept away, the hills and mounds and distant pasture lands, teeming with placid sheep and noisy crows, came out as bright as though they were unrolled bran new for the occasion. In compliment to which discovery, the brook stood still no longer, but ran briskly off to bear the tidings to the water-mill, three miles away.

Mr Pinch was jogging along, full of pleasant thoughts and cheerful influences, when he saw, upon the path before him, going in the same direction with himself, a traveller on foot, who walked with a light quick step, and sang as he went—for certain in a very loud voice, but not unmusically. He was a young fellow, of some five or six-and-twenty perhaps, and was dressed in such a free and fly-away fashion, that the long ends of his loose red neckcloth were streaming out behind him quite as often as before; and the bunch of bright winter berries in the buttonhole of his velveteen coat was as visible to Mr Pinch’s rearward observation, as if he had worn that garment wrong side foremost. He continued to sing with so much energy, that he did not hear the sound of wheels until it was close behind him; when he turned a whimsical face and a very merry pair of blue eyes on Mr Pinch, and checked himself directly.

‘Why, Mark?’ said Tom Pinch, stopping. ‘Who’d have thought of seeing you here? Well! this is surprising!’

Mark touched his hat, and said, with a very sudden decrease of vivacity, that he was going to Salisbury.

‘And how spruce you are, too!’ said Mr Pinch, surveying him with great pleasure. ‘Really, I didn’t think you were half such a tight-made fellow, Mark!’

‘Thankee, Mr Pinch. Pretty well for that, I believe. It’s not my fault, you know. With regard to being spruce, sir, that’s where it is, you see.’ And here he looked particularly gloomy.

‘Where what is?’ Mr Pinch demanded.

‘Where the aggravation of it is. Any man may be in good spirits and good temper when he’s well dressed. There an’t much credit in that. If I was very ragged and very jolly, then I should begin to feel I had gained a point, Mr Pinch.’

‘So you were singing just now, to bear up, as it were, against being well dressed, eh, Mark?’ said Pinch.

‘Your conversation’s always equal to print, sir,’ rejoined Mark, with a broad grin. ‘That was it.’

‘Well!’ cried Pinch, ‘you are the strangest young man, Mark, I ever knew in my life. I always thought so; but now I am quite certain of it. I am going to Salisbury, too. Will you get in? I shall be very glad of your company.’

The young fellow made his acknowledgments and accepted the offer; stepping into the carriage directly, and seating himself on the very edge of the seat with his body half out of it, to express his being there on sufferance, and by the politeness of Mr Pinch. As they went along, the conversation proceeded after this manner.

‘I more than half believed, just now, seeing you so very smart,’ said Pinch, ‘that you must be going to be married, Mark.’

‘Well, sir, I’ve thought of that, too,’ he replied. ‘There might be some credit in being jolly with a wife, ‘specially if the children had the measles and that, and was very fractious indeed. But I’m a’most afraid to try it. I don’t see my way clear.’

‘You’re not very fond of anybody, perhaps?’ said Pinch.

‘Not particular, sir, I think.’

‘But the way would be, you know, Mark, according to your views of things,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘to marry somebody you didn’t like, and who was very disagreeable.’

‘So it would, sir; but that might be carrying out a principle a little too far, mightn’t it?’

‘Perhaps it might,’ said Mr Pinch. At which they both laughed gayly.

‘Lord bless you, sir,’ said Mark, ‘you don’t half know me, though. I don’t believe there ever was a man as could come out so strong under circumstances that would make other men miserable, as I could, if I could only get a chance. But I can’t get a chance. It’s my opinion that nobody never will know half of what’s in me, unless something very unexpected turns up. And I don’t see any prospect of that. I’m a-going to leave the Dragon, sir.’

‘Going to leave the Dragon!’ cried Mr Pinch, looking at him with great astonishment. ‘Why, Mark, you take my breath away!’

‘Yes, sir,’ he rejoined, looking straight before him and a long way off, as men do sometimes when they cogitate profoundly. ‘What’s the use of my stopping at the Dragon? It an’t at all the sort of place for ME. When I left London (I’m a Kentish man by birth, though), and took that situation here, I quite made up my mind that it was the dullest little out-of-the-way corner in England, and that there would be some credit in being jolly under such circumstances. But, Lord, there’s no dullness at the Dragon! Skittles, cricket, quoits, nine-pins, comic songs, choruses, company round the chimney corner every winter’s evening. Any man could be jolly at the Dragon. There’s no credit in THAT.’

‘But if common report be true for once, Mark, as I think it is, being able to confirm it by what I know myself,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘you are the cause of half this merriment, and set it going.’

‘There may be something in that, too, sir,’ answered Mark. ‘But that’s no consolation.’

‘Well!’ said Mr Pinch, after a short silence, his usually subdued tone being even now more subdued than ever. ‘I can hardly think enough of what you tell me. Why, what will become of Mrs Lupin, Mark?’

Mark looked more fixedly before him, and further off still, as he answered that he didn’t suppose it would be much of an object to her. There were plenty of smart young fellows as would be glad of the place. He knew a dozen himself.

‘That’s probable enough,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘but I am not at all sure that Mrs Lupin would be glad of them. Why, I always supposed that Mrs Lupin and you would make a match of it, Mark; and so did every one, as far as I know.’

‘I never,’ Mark replied, in some confusion, ‘said nothing as was in a direct way courting-like to her, nor she to me, but I don’t know what I mightn’t do one of these odd times, and what she mightn’t say in answer. Well, sir, THAT wouldn’t suit.’

‘Not to be landlord of the Dragon, Mark?’ cried Mr Pinch.

‘No, sir, certainly not,’ returned the other, withdrawing his gaze from the horizon, and looking at his fellow-traveller. ‘Why that would be the ruin of a man like me. I go and sit down comfortably for life, and no man never finds me out. What would be the credit of the landlord of the Dragon’s being jolly? Why, he couldn’t help it, if he tried.’

‘Does Mrs Lupin know you are going to leave her?’ Mr Pinch inquired.

‘I haven’t broke it to her yet, sir, but I must. I’m looking out this morning for something new and suitable,’ he said, nodding towards the city.

‘What kind of thing now?’ Mr Pinch demanded.

‘I was thinking,’ Mark replied, ‘of something in the grave-digging way.’

‘Good gracious, Mark?’ cried Mr Pinch.

‘It’s a good damp, wormy sort of business, sir,’ said Mark, shaking his head argumentatively, ‘and there might be some credit in being jolly, with one’s mind in that pursuit, unless grave-diggers is usually given that way; which would be a drawback. You don’t happen to know how that is in general, do you, sir?’

‘No,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘I don’t indeed. I never thought upon the subject.’

‘In case of that not turning out as well as one could wish, you know,’ said Mark, musing again, ‘there’s other businesses. Undertaking now. That’s gloomy. There might be credit to be gained there. A broker’s man in a poor neighbourhood wouldn’t be bad perhaps. A jailor sees a deal of misery. A doctor’s man is in the very midst of murder. A bailiff’s an’t a lively office nat’rally. Even a tax-gatherer must find his feelings rather worked upon, at times. There’s lots of trades in which I should have an opportunity, I think.’

Mr Pinch was so perfectly overwhelmed by these remarks that he could do nothing but occasionally exchange a word or two on some indifferent subject, and cast sidelong glances at the bright face of his odd friend (who seemed quite unconscious of his observation), until they reached a certain corner of the road, close upon the outskirts of the city, when Mark said he would jump down there, if he pleased.

‘But bless my soul, Mark,’ said Mr Pinch, who in the progress of his observation just then made the discovery that the bosom of his companion’s shirt was as much exposed as if it was Midsummer, and was ruffled by every breath of air, ‘why don’t you wear a waistcoat?’

‘What’s the good of one, sir?’ asked Mark.

‘Good of one?’ said Mr Pinch. ‘Why, to keep your chest warm.’

‘Lord love you, sir!’ cried Mark, ‘you don’t know me. My chest don’t want no warming. Even if it did, what would no waistcoat bring it to? Inflammation of the lungs, perhaps? Well, there’d be some credit in being jolly, with a inflammation of the lungs.’

As Mr Pinch returned no other answer than such as was conveyed in his breathing very hard, and opening his eyes very wide, and nodding his head very much, Mark thanked him for his ride, and without troubling him to stop, jumped lightly down. And away he fluttered, with his red neckerchief, and his open coat, down a cross-lane; turning back from time to time to nod to Mr Pinch, and looking one of the most careless, good-humoured comical fellows in life. His late companion, with a thoughtful face pursued his way to Salisbury.

Mr Pinch had a shrewd notion that Salisbury was a very desperate sort of place; an exceeding wild and dissipated city; and when he had put up the horse, and given the hostler to understand that he would look in again in the course of an hour or two to see him take his corn, he set forth on a stroll about the streets with a vague and not unpleasant idea that they teemed with all kinds of mystery and bedevilment. To one of his quiet habits this little delusion was greatly assisted by the circumstance of its being market-day, and the thoroughfares about the market-place being filled with carts, horses, donkeys, baskets, waggons, garden-stuff, meat, tripe, pies, poultry and huckster’s wares of every opposite description and possible variety of character. Then there were young farmers and old farmers with smock-frocks, brown great-coats, drab great-coats, red worsted comforters, leather-leggings, wonderful shaped hats, hunting-whips, and rough sticks, standing about in groups, or talking noisily together on the tavern steps, or paying and receiving huge amounts of greasy wealth, with the assistance of such bulky pocket-books that when they were in their pockets it was apoplexy to get them out, and when they were out it was spasms to get them in again. Also there were farmers’ wives in beaver bonnets and red cloaks, riding shaggy horses purged of all earthly passions, who went soberly into all manner of places without desiring to know why, and who, if required, would have stood stock still in a china shop, with a complete dinner-service at each hoof. Also a great many dogs, who were strongly interested in the state of the market and the bargains of their masters; and a great confusion of tongues, both brute and human.

Mr Pinch regarded everything exposed for sale with great delight, and was particularly struck by the itinerant cutlery, which he considered of the very keenest kind, insomuch that he purchased a pocket knife with seven blades in it, and not a cut (as he afterwards found out) among them. When he had exhausted the market-place, and watched the farmers safe into the market dinner, he went back to look after the horse. Having seen him eat unto his heart’s content he issued forth again, to wander round the town and regale himself with the shop windows; previously taking a long stare at the bank, and wondering in what direction underground the caverns might be where they kept the money; and turning to look back at one or two young men who passed him, whom he knew to be articled to solicitors in the town; and who had a sort of fearful interest in his eyes, as jolly dogs who knew a thing or two, and kept it up tremendously.

But the shops. First of all there were the jewellers’ shops, with all the treasures of the earth displayed therein, and such large silver watches hanging up in every pane of glass, that if they were anything but first-rate goers it certainly was not because the works could decently complain of want of room. In good sooth they were big enough, and perhaps, as the saying is, ugly enough, to be the most correct of all mechanical performers; in Mr Pinch’s eyes, however they were smaller than Geneva ware; and when he saw one very bloated watch announced as a repeater, gifted with the uncommon power of striking every quarter of an hour inside the pocket of its happy owner, he almost wished that he were rich enough to buy it.

But what were even gold and silver, precious stones and clockwork, to the bookshops, whence a pleasant smell of paper freshly pressed came issuing forth, awakening instant recollections of some new grammar had at school, long time ago, with ‘Master Pinch, Grove House Academy,’ inscribed in faultless writing on the fly-leaf! That whiff of russia leather, too, and all those rows on rows of volumes neatly ranged within—what happiness did they suggest! And in the window were the spick-and-span new works from London, with the title-pages, and sometimes even the first page of the first chapter, laid wide open; tempting unwary men to begin to read the book, and then, in the impossibility of turning over, to rush blindly in, and buy it! Here too were the dainty frontispiece and trim vignette, pointing like handposts on the outskirts of great cities, to the rich stock of incident beyond; and store of books, with many a grave portrait and time-honoured name, whose matter he knew well, and would have given mines to have, in any form, upon the narrow shell beside his bed at Mr Pecksniff’s. What a heart-breaking shop it was!

There was another; not quite so bad at first, but still a trying shop; where children’s books were sold, and where poor Robinson Crusoe stood alone in his might, with dog and hatchet, goat-skin cap and fowling-pieces; calmly surveying Philip Quarn and the host of imitators round him, and calling Mr Pinch to witness that he, of all the crowd, impressed one solitary footprint on the shore of boyish memory, whereof the tread of generations should not stir the lightest grain of sand. And there too were the Persian tales, with flying chests and students of enchanted books shut up for years in caverns; and there too was Abudah, the merchant, with the terrible little old woman hobbling out of the box in his bedroom; and there the mighty talisman, the rare Arabian Nights, with Cassim Baba, divided by four, like the ghost of a dreadful sum, hanging up, all gory, in the robbers’ cave. Which matchless wonders, coming fast on Mr Pinch’s mind, did so rub up and chafe that wonderful lamp within him, that when he turned his face towards the busy street, a crowd of phantoms waited on his pleasure, and he lived again, with new delight, the happy days before the Pecksniff era.

He had less interest now in the chemists’ shops, with their great glowing bottles (with smaller repositories of brightness in their very stoppers); and in their agreeable compromises between medicine and perfumery, in the shape of toothsome lozenges and virgin honey. Neither had he the least regard (but he never had much) for the tailors’, where the newest metropolitan waistcoat patterns were hanging up, which by some strange transformation always looked amazing there, and never appeared at all like the same thing anywhere else. But he stopped to read the playbill at the theatre and surveyed the doorway with a kind of awe, which was not diminished when a sallow gentleman with long dark hair came out, and told a boy to run home to his lodgings and bring down his broadsword. Mr Pinch stood rooted to the spot on hearing this, and might have stood there until dark, but that the old cathedral bell began to ring for vesper service, on which he tore himself away.

Now, the organist’s assistant was a friend of Mr Pinch’s, which was a good thing, for he too was a very quiet gentle soul, and had been, like Tom, a kind of old-fashioned boy at school, though well liked by the noisy fellow too. As good luck would have it (Tom always said he had great good luck) the assistant chanced that very afternoon to be on duty by himself, with no one in the dusty organ loft but Tom; so while he played, Tom helped him with the stops; and finally, the service being just over, Tom took the organ himself. It was then turning dark, and the yellow light that streamed in through the ancient windows in the choir was mingled with a murky red. As the grand tones resounded through the church, they seemed, to Tom, to find an echo in the depth of every ancient tomb, no less than in the deep mystery of his own heart. Great thoughts and hopes came crowding on his mind as the rich music rolled upon the air and yet among them—something more grave and solemn in their purpose, but the same—were all the images of that day, down to its very lightest recollection of childhood. The feeling that the sounds awakened, in the moment of their existence, seemed to include his whole life and being; and as the surrounding realities of stone and wood and glass grew dimmer in the darkness, these visions grew so much the brighter that Tom might have forgotten the new pupil and the expectant master, and have sat there pouring out his grateful heart till midnight, but for a very earthy old verger insisting on locking up the cathedral forthwith. So he took leave of his friend, with many thanks, groped his way out, as well as he could, into the now lamp-lighted streets, and hurried off to get his dinner.

All the farmers being by this time jogging homewards, there was nobody in the sanded parlour of the tavern where he had left the horse; so he had his little table drawn out close before the fire, and fell to work upon a well-cooked steak and smoking hot potatoes, with a strong appreciation of their excellence, and a very keen sense of enjoyment. Beside him, too, there stood a jug of most stupendous Wiltshire beer; and the effect of the whole was so transcendent, that he was obliged every now and then to lay down his knife and fork, rub his hands, and think about it. By the time the cheese and celery came, Mr Pinch had taken a book out of his pocket, and could afford to trifle with the viands; now eating a little, now drinking a little, now reading a little, and now stopping to wonder what sort of a young man the new pupil would turn out to be. He had passed from this latter theme and was deep in his book again, when the door opened, and another guest came in, bringing with him such a quantity of cold air, that he positively seemed at first to put the fire out.

‘Very hard frost to-night, sir,’ said the newcomer, courteously acknowledging Mr Pinch’s withdrawal of the little table, that he might have place: ‘Don’t disturb yourself, I beg.’

Though he said this with a vast amount of consideration for Mr Pinch’s comfort, he dragged one of the great leather-bottomed chairs to the very centre of the hearth, notwithstanding; and sat down in front of the fire, with a foot on each hob.

‘My feet are quite numbed. Ah! Bitter cold to be sure.’

‘You have been in the air some considerable time, I dare say?’ said Mr Pinch.

‘All day. Outside a coach, too.’

‘That accounts for his making the room so cool,’ thought Mr Pinch. ‘Poor fellow! How thoroughly chilled he must be!’

The stranger became thoughtful likewise, and sat for five or ten minutes looking at the fire in silence. At length he rose and divested himself of his shawl and great-coat, which (far different from Mr Pinch’s) was a very warm and thick one; but he was not a whit more conversational out of his great-coat than in it, for he sat down again in the same place and attitude, and leaning back in his chair, began to bite his nails. He was young—one-and-twenty, perhaps—and handsome; with a keen dark eye, and a quickness of look and manner which made Tom sensible of a great contrast in his own bearing, and caused him to feel even more shy than usual.

There was a clock in the room, which the stranger often turned to look at. Tom made frequent reference to it also; partly from a nervous sympathy with its taciturn companion; and partly because the new pupil was to inquire for him at half after six, and the hands were getting on towards that hour. Whenever the stranger caught him looking at this clock, a kind of confusion came upon Tom as if he had been found out in something; and it was a perception of his uneasiness which caused the younger man to say, perhaps, with a smile:

‘We both appear to be rather particular about the time. The fact is, I have an engagement to meet a gentleman here.’

‘So have I,’ said Mr Pinch.

‘At half-past six,’ said the stranger.

‘At half-past six,’ said Tom in the very same breath; whereupon the other looked at him with some surprise.

‘The young gentleman, I expect,’ remarked Tom, timidly, ‘was to inquire at that time for a person by the name of Pinch.’

‘Dear me!’ cried the other, jumping up. ‘And I have been keeping the fire from you all this while! I had no idea you were Mr Pinch. I am the Mr Martin for whom you were to inquire. Pray excuse me. How do you do? Oh, do draw nearer, pray!’

‘Thank you,’ said Tom, ‘thank you. I am not at all cold, and you are; and we have a cold ride before us. Well, if you wish it, I will. I—I am very glad,’ said Tom, smiling with an embarrassed frankness peculiarly his, and which was as plainly a confession of his own imperfections, and an appeal to the kindness of the person he addressed, as if he had drawn one up in simple language and committed it to paper: ‘I am very glad indeed that you turn out to be the party I expected. I was thinking, but a minute ago, that I could wish him to be like you.’

‘I am very glad to hear it,’ returned Martin, shaking hands with him again; ‘for I assure you, I was thinking there could be no such luck as Mr Pinch’s turning out like you.’

‘No, really!’ said Tom, with great pleasure. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Upon my word I am,’ replied his new acquaintance. ‘You and I will get on excellently well, I know; which it’s no small relief to me to feel, for to tell you the truth, I am not at all the sort of fellow who could get on with everybody, and that’s the point on which I had the greatest doubts. But they’re quite relieved now.—Do me the favour to ring the bell, will you?’

Mr Pinch rose, and complied with great alacrity—the handle hung just over Martin’s head, as he warmed himself—and listened with a smiling face to what his friend went on to say. It was:

‘If you like punch, you’ll allow me to order a glass apiece, as hot as it can be made, that we may usher in our friendship in a becoming manner. To let you into a secret, Mr Pinch, I never was so much in want of something warm and cheering in my life; but I didn’t like to run the chance of being found drinking it, without knowing what kind of person you were; for first impressions, you know, often go a long way, and last a long time.’

Mr Pinch assented, and the punch was ordered. In due course it came; hot and strong. After drinking to each other in the steaming mixture, they became quite confidential.

‘I’m a sort of relation of Pecksniff’s, you know,’ said the young man.

‘Indeed!’ cried Mr Pinch.

‘Yes. My grandfather is his cousin, so he’s kith and kin to me, somehow, if you can make that out. I can’t.’

‘Then Martin is your Christian name?’ said Mr Pinch, thoughtfully. ‘Oh!’

‘Of course it is,’ returned his friend: ‘I wish it was my surname for my own is not a very pretty one, and it takes a long time to sign. Chuzzlewit is my name.’

‘Dear me!’ cried Mr Pinch, with an involuntary start.

‘You’re not surprised at my having two names, I suppose?’ returned the other, setting his glass to his lips. ‘Most people have.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘not at all. Oh dear no! Well!’ And then remembering that Mr Pecksniff had privately cautioned him to say nothing in reference to the old gentleman of the same name who had lodged at the Dragon, but to reserve all mention of that person for him, he had no better means of hiding his confusion than by raising his own glass to his mouth. They looked at each other out of their respective tumblers for a few seconds, and then put them down empty.

‘I told them in the stable to be ready for us ten minutes ago,’ said Mr Pinch, glancing at the clock again. ‘Shall we go?’

‘If you please,’ returned the other.

‘Would you like to drive?’ said Mr Pinch; his whole face beaming with a consciousness of the splendour of his offer. ‘You shall, if you wish.’

‘Why, that depends, Mr Pinch,’ said Martin, laughing, ‘upon what sort of a horse you have. Because if he’s a bad one, I would rather keep my hands warm by holding them comfortably in my greatcoat pockets.’

He appeared to think this such a good joke, that Mr Pinch was quite sure it must be a capital one. Accordingly, he laughed too, and was fully persuaded that he enjoyed it very much. Then he settled his bill, and Mr Chuzzlewit paid for the punch; and having wrapped themselves up, to the extent of their respective means, they went out together to the front door, where Mr Pecksniff’s property stopped the way.

‘I won’t drive, thank you, Mr Pinch,’ said Martin, getting into the sitter’s place. ‘By the bye, there’s a box of mine. Can we manage to take it?’

‘Oh, certainly,’ said Tom. ‘Put it in, Dick, anywhere!’

It was not precisely of that convenient size which would admit of its being squeezed into any odd corner, but Dick the hostler got it in somehow, and Mr Chuzzlewit helped him. It was all on Mr Pinch’s side, and Mr Chuzzlewit said he was very much afraid it would encumber him; to which Tom said, ‘Not at all;’ though it forced him into such an awkward position, that he had much ado to see anything but his own knees. But it is an ill wind that blows nobody any good; and the wisdom of the saying was verified in this instance; for the cold air came from Mr Pinch’s side of the carriage, and by interposing a perfect wall of box and man between it and the new pupil, he shielded that young gentleman effectually; which was a great comfort.

It was a clear evening, with a bright moon. The whole landscape was silvered by its light and by the hoar-frost; and everything looked exquisitely beautiful. At first, the great serenity and peace through which they travelled, disposed them both to silence; but in a very short time the punch within them and the healthful air without, made them loquacious, and they talked incessantly. When they were halfway home, and stopped to give the horse some water, Martin (who was very generous with his money) ordered another glass of punch, which they drank between them, and which had not the effect of making them less conversational than before. Their principal topic of discourse was naturally Mr Pecksniff and his family; of whom, and of the great obligations they had heaped upon him, Tom Pinch, with the tears standing in his eyes, drew such a picture as would have inclined any one of common feeling almost to revere them; and of which Mr Pecksniff had not the slightest foresight or preconceived idea, or he certainly (being very humble) would not have sent Tom Pinch to bring the pupil home.

In this way they went on, and on, and on—in the language of the story-books—until at last the village lights appeared before them, and the church spire cast a long reflection on the graveyard grass; as if it were a dial (alas, the truest in the world!) marking, whatever light shone out of Heaven, the flight of days and weeks and years, by some new shadow on that solemn ground.

‘A pretty church!’ said Martin, observing that his companion slackened the slack pace of the horse, as they approached.

‘Is it not?’ cried Tom, with great pride. ‘There’s the sweetest little organ there you ever heard. I play it for them.’

‘Indeed?’ said Martin. ‘It is hardly worth the trouble, I should think. What do you get for that, now?’

‘Nothing,’ answered Tom.

‘Well,’ returned his friend, ‘you ARE a very strange fellow!’

To which remark there succeeded a brief silence.

‘When I say nothing,’ observed Mr Pinch, cheerfully, ‘I am wrong, and don’t say what I mean, because I get a great deal of pleasure from it, and the means of passing some of the happiest hours I know. It led to something else the other day; but you will not care to hear about that I dare say?’

‘Oh yes I shall. What?’

‘It led to my seeing,’ said Tom, in a lower voice, ‘one of the loveliest and most beautiful faces you can possibly picture to yourself.’

‘And yet I am able to picture a beautiful one,’ said his friend, thoughtfully, ‘or should be, if I have any memory.’

‘She came’ said Tom, laying his hand upon the other’s arm, ‘for the first time very early in the morning, when it was hardly light; and when I saw her, over my shoulder, standing just within the porch, I turned quite cold, almost believing her to be a spirit. A moment’s reflection got the better of that, of course, and fortunately it came to my relief so soon, that I didn’t leave off playing.’

‘Why fortunately?’

‘Why? Because she stood there, listening. I had my spectacles on, and saw her through the chinks in the curtains as plainly as I see you; and she was beautiful. After a while she glided off, and I continued to play until she was out of hearing.’

‘Why did you do that?’

‘Don’t you see?’ responded Tom. ‘Because she might suppose I hadn’t seen her; and might return.’

‘And did she?’

‘Certainly she did. Next morning, and next evening too; but always when there were no people about, and always alone. I rose earlier and sat there later, that when she came, she might find the church door open, and the organ playing, and might not be disappointed. She strolled that way for some days, and always stayed to listen. But she is gone now, and of all unlikely things in this wide world, it is perhaps the most improbable that I shall ever look upon her face again.’

‘You don’t know anything more about her?’

‘No.’

‘And you never followed her when she went away?’

‘Why should I distress her by doing that?’ said Tom Pinch. ‘Is it likely that she wanted my company? She came to hear the organ, not to see me; and would you have had me scare her from a place she seemed to grow quite fond of? Now, Heaven bless her!’ cried Tom, ‘to have given her but a minute’s pleasure every day, I would have gone on playing the organ at those times until I was an old man; quite contented if she sometimes thought of a poor fellow like me, as a part of the music; and more than recompensed if she ever mixed me up with anything she liked as well as she liked that!’

The new pupil was clearly very much amazed by Mr Pinch’s weakness, and would probably have told him so, and given him some good advice, but for their opportune arrival at Mr Pecksniff’s door; the front door this time, on account of the occasion being one of ceremony and rejoicing. The same man was in waiting for the horse who had been adjured by Mr Pinch in the morning not to yield to his rabid desire to start; and after delivering the animal into his charge, and beseeching Mr Chuzzlewit in a whisper never to reveal a syllable of what he had just told him in the fullness of his heart, Tom led the pupil in, for instant presentation.

Mr Pecksniff had clearly not expected them for hours to come; for he was surrounded by open books, and was glancing from volume to volume, with a black lead-pencil in his mouth, and a pair of compasses in his hand, at a vast number of mathematical diagrams, of such extraordinary shapes that they looked like designs for fireworks. Neither had Miss Charity expected them, for she was busied, with a capacious wicker basket before her, in making impracticable nightcaps for the poor. Neither had Miss Mercy expected them, for she was sitting upon her stool, tying on the—oh good gracious!—the petticoat of a large doll that she was dressing for a neighbour’s child—really, quite a grown-up doll, which made it more confusing—and had its little bonnet dangling by the ribbon from one of her fair curls, to which she had fastened it lest it should be lost or sat upon. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to conceive a family so thoroughly taken by surprise as the Pecksniffs were, on this occasion.

Bless my life!’ said Mr Pecksniff, looking up, and gradually exchanging his abstracted face for one of joyful recognition. ‘Here already! Martin, my dear boy, I am delighted to welcome you to my poor house!’

With this kind greeting, Mr Pecksniff fairly took him to his arms, and patted him several times upon the back with his right hand the while, as if to express that his feelings during the embrace were too much for utterance.

‘But here,’ he said, recovering, ‘are my daughters, Martin; my two only children, whom (if you ever saw them) you have not beheld—ah, these sad family divisions!—since you were infants together. Nay, my dears, why blush at being detected in your everyday pursuits? We had prepared to give you the reception of a visitor, Martin, in our little room of state,’ said Mr Pecksniff, smiling, ‘but I like this better, I like this better!’

Oh blessed star of Innocence, wherever you may be, how did you glitter in your home of ether, when the two Miss Pecksniffs put forth each her lily hand, and gave the same, with mantling cheeks, to Martin! How did you twinkle, as if fluttering with sympathy, when Mercy, reminded of the bonnet in her hair, hid her fair face and turned her head aside; the while her gentle sister plucked it out, and smote her with a sister’s soft reproof, upon her buxom shoulder!

‘And how,’ said Mr Pecksniff, turning round after the contemplation of these passages, and taking Mr Pinch in a friendly manner by the elbow, ‘how has our friend used you, Martin?’

‘Very well indeed, sir. We are on the best terms, I assure you.’

‘Old Tom Pinch!’ said Mr Pecksniff, looking on him with affectionate sadness. ‘Ah! It seems but yesterday that Thomas was a boy fresh from a scholastic course. Yet years have passed, I think, since Thomas Pinch and I first walked the world together!’

Mr Pinch could say nothing. He was too much moved. But he pressed his master’s hand, and tried to thank him.

‘And Thomas Pinch and I,’ said Mr Pecksniff, in a deeper voice, ‘will walk it yet, in mutual faithfulness and friendship! And if it comes to pass that either of us be run over in any of those busy crossings which divide the streets of life, the other will convey him to the hospital in Hope, and sit beside his bed in Bounty!’

‘Well, well, well!’ he added in a happier tone, as he shook Mr Pinch’s elbow hard. ‘No more of this! Martin, my dear friend, that you may be at home within these walls, let me show you how we live, and where. Come!’

With that he took up a lighted candle, and, attended by his young relative, prepared to leave the room. At the door, he stopped.

‘You’ll bear us company, Tom Pinch?’

Aye, cheerfully, though it had been to death, would Tom have followed him; glad to lay down his life for such a man!

‘This,’ said Mr Pecksniff, opening the door of an opposite parlour, ‘is the little room of state, I mentioned to you. My girls have pride in it, Martin! This,’ opening another door, ‘is the little chamber in which my works (slight things at best) have been concocted. Portrait of myself by Spiller. Bust by Spoker. The latter is considered a good likeness. I seem to recognize something about the left-hand corner of the nose, myself.’

Martin thought it was very like, but scarcely intellectual enough. Mr Pecksniff observed that the same fault had been found with it before. It was remarkable it should have struck his young relation too. He was glad to see he had an eye for art.

‘Various books you observe,’ said Mr Pecksniff, waving his hand towards the wall, ‘connected with our pursuit. I have scribbled myself, but have not yet published. Be careful how you come upstairs. This,’ opening another door, ‘is my chamber. I read here when the family suppose I have retired to rest. Sometimes I injure my health rather more than I can quite justify to myself, by doing so; but art is long and time is short. Every facility you see for jotting down crude notions, even here.’

These latter words were explained by his pointing to a small round table on which were a lamp, divers sheets of paper, a piece of India rubber, and a case of instruments; all put ready, in case an architectural idea should come into Mr Pecksniff’s head in the night; in which event he would instantly leap out of bed, and fix it for ever.

Mr Pecksniff opened another door on the same floor, and shut it again, all at once, as if it were a Blue Chamber. But before he had well done so, he looked smilingly round, and said, ‘Why not?’

Martin couldn’t say why not, because he didn’t know anything at all about it. So Mr Pecksniff answered himself, by throwing open the door, and saying:

‘My daughters’ room. A poor first-floor to us, but a bower to them. Very neat. Very airy. Plants you observe; hyacinths; books again; birds.’ These birds, by the bye, comprised, in all, one staggering old sparrow without a tail, which had been borrowed expressly from the kitchen. ‘Such trifles as girls love are here. Nothing more. Those who seek heartless splendour, would seek here in vain.’

With that he led them to the floor above.

‘This,’ said Mr Pecksniff, throwing wide the door of the memorable two-pair front; ‘is a room where some talent has been developed I believe. This is a room in which an idea for a steeple occurred to me that I may one day give to the world. We work here, my dear Martin. Some architects have been bred in this room; a few, I think, Mr Pinch?’

Tom fully assented; and, what is more, fully believed it.

‘You see,’ said Mr Pecksniff, passing the candle rapidly from roll to roll of paper, ‘some traces of our doings here. Salisbury Cathedral from the north. From the south. From the east. From the west. From the south-east. From the nor’west. A bridge. An almshouse. A jail. A church. A powder-magazine. A wine-cellar. A portico. A summer-house. An ice-house. Plans, elevations, sections, every kind of thing. And this,’ he added, having by this time reached another large chamber on the same story, with four little beds in it, ‘this is your room, of which Mr Pinch here is the quiet sharer. A southern aspect; a charming prospect; Mr Pinch’s little library, you perceive; everything agreeable and appropriate. If there is any additional comfort you would desire to have here at anytime, pray mention it. Even to strangers, far less to you, my dear Martin, there is no restriction on that point.’

It was undoubtedly true, and may be stated in corroboration of Mr Pecksniff, that any pupil had the most liberal permission to mention anything in this way that suggested itself to his fancy. Some young gentlemen had gone on mentioning the very same thing for five years without ever being stopped.

‘The domestic assistants,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘sleep above; and that is all.’ After which, and listening complacently as he went, to the encomiums passed by his young friend on the arrangements generally, he led the way to the parlour again.

Here a great change had taken place; for festive preparations on a rather extensive scale were already completed, and the two Miss Pecksniffs were awaiting their return with hospitable looks. There were two bottles of currant wine, white and red; a dish of sandwiches (very long and very slim); another of apples; another of captain’s biscuits (which are always a moist and jovial sort of viand); a plate of oranges cut up small and gritty; with powdered sugar, and a highly geological home-made cake. The magnitude of these preparations quite took away Tom Pinch’s breath; for though the new pupils were usually let down softly, as one may say, particularly in the wine department, which had so many stages of declension, that sometimes a young gentleman was a whole fortnight in getting to the pump; still this was a banquet; a sort of Lord Mayor’s feast in private life; a something to think of, and hold on by, afterwards.

To this entertainment, which apart from its own intrinsic merits, had the additional choice quality, that it was in strict keeping with the night, being both light and cool, Mr Pecksniff besought the company to do full justice.

‘Martin,’ he said, ‘will seat himself between you two, my dears, and Mr Pinch will come by me. Let us drink to our new inmate, and may we be happy together! Martin, my dear friend, my love to you! Mr Pinch, if you spare the bottle we shall quarrel.’

And trying (in his regard for the feelings of the rest) to look as if the wine were not acid and didn’t make him wink, Mr Pecksniff did honour to his own toast.

‘This,’ he said, in allusion to the party, not the wine, ‘is a mingling that repays one for much disappointment and vexation. Let us be merry.’ Here he took a captain’s biscuit. ‘It is a poor heart that never rejoices; and our hearts are not poor. No!’

With such stimulants to merriment did he beguile the time, and do the honours of the table; while Mr Pinch, perhaps to assure himself that what he saw and heard was holiday reality, and not a charming dream, ate of everything, and in particular disposed of the slim sandwiches to a surprising extent. Nor was he stinted in his draughts of wine; but on the contrary, remembering Mr Pecksniff’s speech, attacked the bottle with such vigour, that every time he filled his glass anew, Miss Charity, despite her amiable resolves, could not repress a fixed and stony glare, as if her eyes had rested on a ghost. Mr Pecksniff also became thoughtful at those moments, not to say dejected; but as he knew the vintage, it is very likely he may have been speculating on the probable condition of Mr Pinch upon the morrow, and discussing within himself the best remedies for colic.

Martin and the young ladies were excellent friends already, and compared recollections of their childish days, to their mutual liveliness and entertainment. Miss Mercy laughed immensely at everything that was said; and sometimes, after glancing at the happy face of Mr Pinch, was seized with such fits of mirth as brought her to the very confines of hysterics. But for these bursts of gaiety, her sister, in her better sense, reproved her; observing, in an angry whisper, that it was far from being a theme for jest; and that she had no patience with the creature; though it generally ended in her laughing too—but much more moderately—and saying that indeed it was a little too ridiculous and intolerable to be serious about.

At length it became high time to remember the first clause of that great discovery made by the ancient philosopher, for securing health, riches, and wisdom; the infallibility of which has been for generations verified by the enormous fortunes constantly amassed by chimney-sweepers and other persons who get up early and go to bed betimes. The young ladies accordingly rose, and having taken leave of Mr Chuzzlewit with much sweetness, and of their father with much duty and of Mr Pinch with much condescension, retired to their bower. Mr Pecksniff insisted on accompanying his young friend upstairs for personal superintendence of his comforts; and taking him by the arm, conducted him once more to his bedroom, followed by Mr Pinch, who bore the light.

‘Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff, seating himself with folded arms on one of the spare beds. ‘I don’t see any snuffers in that candlestick. Will you oblige me by going down, and asking for a pair?’

Mr Pinch, only too happy to be useful, went off directly.

‘You will excuse Thomas Pinch’s want of polish, Martin,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a smile of patronage and pity, as soon as he had left the room. ‘He means well.’

‘He is a very good fellow, sir.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Yes. Thomas Pinch means well. He is very grateful. I have never regretted having befriended Thomas Pinch.’

‘I should think you never would, sir.’

‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘No. I hope not. Poor fellow, he is always disposed to do his best; but he is not gifted. You will make him useful to you, Martin, if you please. If Thomas has a fault, it is that he is sometimes a little apt to forget his position. But that is soon checked. Worthy soul! You will find him easy to manage. Good night!’

‘Good night, sir.’

By this time Mr Pinch had returned with the snuffers.

‘And good night to YOU, Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff. ‘And sound sleep to you both. Bless you! Bless you!’

Invoking this benediction on the heads of his young friends with great fervour, he withdrew to his own room; while they, being tired, soon fell asleep. If Martin dreamed at all, some clue to the matter of his visions may possibly be gathered from the after-pages of this history. Those of Thomas Pinch were all of holidays, church organs, and seraphic Pecksniffs. It was some time before Mr Pecksniff dreamed at all, or even sought his pillow, as he sat for full two hours before the fire in his own chamber, looking at the coals and thinking deeply. But he, too, slept and dreamed at last. Thus in the quiet hours of the night, one house shuts in as many incoherent and incongruous fancies as a madman’s head.

CHAPTER SIX

COMPRISES, AMONG OTHER IMPORTANT MATTERS, PECKSNIFFIAN AND ARCHITECTURAL, AND EXACT RELATION OF THE PROGRESS MADE BY MR PINCH IN THE CONFIDENCE AND FRIENDSHIP OF THE NEW PUPIL

It was morning; and the beautiful Aurora, of whom so much hath been written, said, and sung, did, with her rosy fingers, nip and tweak Miss Pecksniff’s nose. It was the frolicsome custom of the Goddess, in her intercourse with the fair Cherry, so to do; or in more prosaic phrase, the tip of that feature in the sweet girl’s countenance was always very red at breakfast-time. For the most part, indeed, it wore, at that season of the day, a scraped and frosty look, as if it had been rasped; while a similar phenomenon developed itself in her humour, which was then observed to be of a sharp and acid quality, as though an extra lemon (figuratively speaking) had been squeezed into the nectar of her disposition, and had rather damaged its flavour.

This additional pungency on the part of the fair young creature led, on ordinary occasions, to such slight consequences as the copious dilution of Mr Pinch’s tea, or to his coming off uncommonly short in respect of butter, or to other the like results. But on the morning after the Installation Banquet, she suffered him to wander to and fro among the eatables and drinkables, a perfectly free and unchecked man; so utterly to Mr Pinch’s wonder and confusion, that like the wretched captive who recovered his liberty in his old age, he could make but little use of his enlargement, and fell into a strange kind of flutter for want of some kind hand to scrape his bread, and cut him off in the article of sugar with a lump, and pay him those other little attentions to which he was accustomed. There was something almost awful, too, about the self-possession of the new pupil; who ‘troubled’ Mr Pecksniff for the loaf, and helped himself to a rasher of that gentleman’s own particular and private bacon, with all the coolness in life. He even seemed to think that he was doing quite a regular thing, and to expect that Mr Pinch would follow his example, since he took occasion to observe of that young man ‘that he didn’t get on’; a speech of so tremendous a character, that Tom cast down his eyes involuntarily, and felt as if he himself had committed some horrible deed and heinous breach of Mr Pecksniff’s confidence. Indeed, the agony of having such an indiscreet remark addressed to him before the assembled family, was breakfast enough in itself, and would, without any other matter of reflection, have settled Mr Pinch’s business and quenched his appetite, for one meal, though he had been never so hungry.

The young ladies, however, and Mr Pecksniff likewise, remained in the very best of spirits in spite of these severe trials, though with something of a mysterious understanding among themselves. When the meal was nearly over, Mr Pecksniff smilingly explained the cause of their common satisfaction.

‘It is not often,’ he said, ‘Martin, that my daughters and I desert our quiet home to pursue the giddy round of pleasures that revolves abroad. But we think of doing so to-day.’

‘Indeed, sir!’ cried the new pupil.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Pecksniff, tapping his left hand with a letter which he held in his right. ‘I have a summons here to repair to London; on professional business, my dear Martin; strictly on professional business; and I promised my girls, long ago, that whenever that happened again, they should accompany me. We shall go forth to-night by the heavy coach—like the dove of old, my dear Martin—and it will be a week before we again deposit our olive-branches in the passage. When I say olive-branches,’ observed Mr Pecksniff, in explanation, ‘I mean, our unpretending luggage.’

‘I hope the young ladies will enjoy their trip,’ said Martin.

‘Oh! that I’m sure we shall!’ cried Mercy, clapping her hands. ‘Good gracious, Cherry, my darling, the idea of London!’

‘Ardent child!’ said Mr Pecksniff, gazing on her in a dreamy way. ‘And yet there is a melancholy sweetness in these youthful hopes! It is pleasant to know that they never can be realised. I remember thinking once myself, in the days of my childhood, that pickled onions grew on trees, and that every elephant was born with an impregnable castle on his back. I have not found the fact to be so; far from it; and yet those visions have comforted me under circumstances of trial. Even when I have had the anguish of discovering that I have nourished in my breast on ostrich, and not a human pupil—even in that hour of agony, they have soothed me.’

At this dread allusion to John Westlock, Mr Pinch precipitately choked in his tea; for he had that very morning received a letter from him, as Mr Pecksniff very well knew.

‘You will take care, my dear Martin,’ said Mr Pecksniff, resuming his former cheerfulness, ‘that the house does not run away in our absence. We leave you in charge of everything. There is no mystery; all is free and open. Unlike the young man in the Eastern tale—who is described as a one-eyed almanac, if I am not mistaken, Mr Pinch?—’

‘A one-eyed calender, I think, sir,’ faltered Tom.

‘They are pretty nearly the same thing, I believe,’ said Mr Pecksniff, smiling compassionately; ‘or they used to be in my time. Unlike that young man, my dear Martin, you are forbidden to enter no corner of this house; but are requested to make yourself perfectly at home in every part of it. You will be jovial, my dear Martin, and will kill the fatted calf if you please!’

There was not the least objection, doubtless, to the young man’s slaughtering and appropriating to his own use any calf, fat or lean, that he might happen to find upon the premises; but as no such animal chanced at that time to be grazing on Mr Pecksniff’s estate, this request must be considered rather as a polite compliment that a substantial hospitality. It was the finishing ornament of the conversation; for when he had delivered it, Mr Pecksniff rose and led the way to that hotbed of architectural genius, the two-pair front.

‘Let me see,’ he said, searching among the papers, ‘how you can best employ yourself, Martin, while I am absent. Suppose you were to give me your idea of a monument to a Lord Mayor of London; or a tomb for a sheriff; or your notion of a cow-house to be erected in a nobleman’s park. Do you know, now,’ said Mr Pecksniff, folding his hands, and looking at his young relation with an air of pensive interest, ‘that I should very much like to see your notion of a cow-house?’

But Martin by no means appeared to relish this suggestion.

‘A pump,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘is very chaste practice. I have found that a lamp post is calculated to refine the mind and give it a classical tendency. An ornamental turnpike has a remarkable effect upon the imagination. What do you say to beginning with an ornamental turnpike?’

‘Whatever Mr Pecksniff pleased,’ said Martin, doubtfully.

‘Stay,’ said that gentleman. ‘Come! as you’re ambitious, and are a very neat draughtsman, you shall—ha ha!—you shall try your hand on these proposals for a grammar-school; regulating your plan, of course, by the printed particulars. Upon my word, now,’ said Mr Pecksniff, merrily, ‘I shall be very curious to see what you make of the grammar-school. Who knows but a young man of your taste might hit upon something, impracticable and unlikely in itself, but which I could put into shape? For it really is, my dear Martin, it really is in the finishing touches alone, that great experience and long study in these matters tell. Ha, ha, ha! Now it really will be,’ continued Mr Pecksniff, clapping his young friend on the back in his droll humour, ‘an amusement to me, to see what you make of the grammar-school.’

Martin readily undertook this task, and Mr Pecksniff forthwith proceeded to entrust him with the materials necessary for its execution; dwelling meanwhile on the magical effect of a few finishing touches from the hand of a master; which, indeed, as some people said (and these were the old enemies again!) was unquestionably very surprising, and almost miraculous; as there were cases on record in which the masterly introduction of an additional back window, or a kitchen door, or half-a-dozen steps, or even a water spout, had made the design of a pupil Mr Pecksniff’s own work, and had brought substantial rewards into that gentleman’s pocket. But such is the magic of genius, which changes all it handles into gold!

‘When your mind requires to be refreshed by change of occupation,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘Thomas Pinch will instruct you in the art of surveying the back garden, or in ascertaining the dead level of the road between this house and the finger-post, or in any other practical and pleasing pursuit. There are a cart-load of loose bricks, and a score or two of old flower-pots, in the back yard. If you could pile them up my dear Martin, into any form which would remind me on my return say of St. Peter’s at Rome, or the Mosque of St. Sophia at Constantinople, it would be at once improving to you and agreeable to my feelings. And now,’ said Mr Pecksniff, in conclusion, ‘to drop, for the present, our professional relations and advert to private matters, I shall be glad to talk with you in my own room, while I pack up my portmanteau.’

Martin attended him; and they remained in secret conference together for an hour or more; leaving Tom Pinch alone. When the young man returned, he was very taciturn and dull, in which state he remained all day; so that Tom, after trying him once or twice with indifferent conversation, felt a delicacy in obtruding himself upon his thoughts, and said no more.

He would not have had leisure to say much, had his new friend been ever so loquacious; for first of all Mr Pecksniff called him down to stand upon the top of his portmanteau and represent ancient statues there, until such time as it would consent to be locked; and then Miss Charity called him to come and cord her trunk; and then Miss Mercy sent for him to come and mend her box; and then he wrote the fullest possible cards for all the luggage; and then he volunteered to carry it all downstairs; and after that to see it safely carried on a couple of barrows to the old finger-post at the end of the lane; and then to mind it till the coach came up. In short, his day’s work would have been a pretty heavy one for a porter, but his thorough good-will made nothing of it; and as he sat upon the luggage at last, waiting for the Pecksniffs, escorted by the new pupil, to come down the lane, his heart was light with the hope of having pleased his benefactor.

‘I was almost afraid,’ said Tom, taking a letter from his pocket and wiping his face, for he was hot with bustling about though it was a cold day, ‘that I shouldn’t have had time to write it, and that would have been a thousand pities; postage from such a distance being a serious consideration, when one’s not rich. She will be glad to see my hand, poor girl, and to hear that Pecksniff is as kind as ever. I would have asked John Westlock to call and see her, and tell her all about me by word of mouth, but I was afraid he might speak against Pecksniff to her, and make her uneasy. Besides, they are particular people where she is, and it might have rendered her situation uncomfortable if she had had a visit from a young man like John. Poor Ruth!’

Tom Pinch seemed a little disposed to be melancholy for half a minute or so, but he found comfort very soon, and pursued his ruminations thus:

‘I’m a nice man, I don’t think, as John used to say (John was a kind, merry-hearted fellow; I wish he had liked Pecksniff better), to be feeling low, on account of the distance between us, when I ought to be thinking, instead, of my extraordinary good luck in having ever got here. I must have been born with a silver spoon in my mouth, I am sure, to have ever come across Pecksniff. And here have I fallen again into my usual good luck with the new pupil! Such an affable, generous, free fellow, as he is, I never saw. Why, we were companions directly! and he a relation of Pecksniff’s too, and a clever, dashing youth who might cut his way through the world as if it were a cheese! Here he comes while the words are on my lips’ said Tom; ‘walking down the lane as if the lane belonged to him.’

In truth, the new pupil, not at all disconcerted by the honour of having Miss Mercy Pecksniff on his arm, or by the affectionate adieux of that young lady, approached as Mr Pinch spoke, followed by Miss Charity and Mr Pecksniff. As the coach appeared at the same moment, Tom lost no time in entreating the gentleman last mentioned, to undertake the delivery of his letter.

‘Oh!’ said Mr Pecksniff, glancing at the superscription. ‘For your sister, Thomas. Yes, oh yes, it shall be delivered, Mr Pinch. Make your mind easy upon that score. She shall certainly have it, Mr Pinch.’

He made the promise with so much condescension and patronage, that Tom felt he had asked a great deal (this had not occurred to his mind before), and thanked him earnestly. The Miss Pecksniffs, according to a custom they had, were amused beyond description at the mention of Mr Pinch’s sister. Oh the fright! The bare idea of a Miss Pinch! Good heavens!

Tom was greatly pleased to see them so merry, for he took it as a token of their favour, and good-humoured regard. Therefore he laughed too and rubbed his hands and wished them a pleasant journey and safe return, and was quite brisk. Even when the coach had rolled away with the olive-branches in the boot and the family of doves inside, he stood waving his hand and bowing; so much gratified by the unusually courteous demeanour of the young ladies, that he was quite regardless, for the moment, of Martin Chuzzlewit, who stood leaning thoughtfully against the finger-post, and who after disposing of his fair charge had hardly lifted his eyes from the ground.

The perfect silence which ensued upon the bustle and departure of the coach, together with the sharp air of the wintry afternoon, roused them both at the same time. They turned, as by mutual consent, and moved off arm-in-arm.

‘How melancholy you are!’ said Tom; ‘what is the matter?’

‘Nothing worth speaking of,’ said Martin. ‘Very little more than was the matter yesterday, and much more, I hope, than will be the matter to-morrow. I’m out of spirits, Pinch.’

‘Well,’ cried Tom, ‘now do you know I am in capital spirits today, and scarcely ever felt more disposed to be good company. It was a very kind thing in your predecessor, John, to write to me, was it not?’

‘Why, yes,’ said Martin carelessly; ‘I should have thought he would have had enough to do to enjoy himself, without thinking of you, Pinch.’

‘Just what I felt to be so very likely,’ Tom rejoined; ‘but no, he keeps his word, and says, “My dear Pinch, I often think of you,” and all sorts of kind and considerate things of that description.’

‘He must be a devilish good-natured fellow,’ said Martin, somewhat peevishly: ‘because he can’t mean that, you know.’

‘I don’t suppose he can, eh?’ said Tom, looking wistfully in his companion’s face. ‘He says so to please me, you think?’

‘Why, is it likely,’ rejoined Martin, with greater earnestness, ‘that a young man newly escaped from this kennel of a place, and fresh to all the delights of being his own master in London, can have much leisure or inclination to think favourably of anything or anybody he has left behind him here? I put it to you, Pinch, is it natural?’

After a short reflection, Mr Pinch replied, in a more subdued tone, that to be sure it was unreasonable to expect any such thing, and that he had no doubt Martin knew best.

‘Of course I know best,’ Martin observed.

‘Yes, I feel that,’ said Mr Pinch mildly. ‘I said so.’ And when he had made this rejoinder, they fell into a blank silence again, which lasted until they reached home; by which time it was dark.

Now, Miss Charity Pecksniff, in consideration of the inconvenience of carrying them with her in the coach, and the impossibility of preserving them by artificial means until the family’s return, had set forth, in a couple of plates, the fragments of yesterday’s feast. In virtue of which liberal arrangement, they had the happiness to find awaiting them in the parlour two chaotic heaps of the remains of last night’s pleasure, consisting of certain filmy bits of oranges, some mummied sandwiches, various disrupted masses of the geological cake, and several entire captain’s biscuits. That choice liquor in which to steep these dainties might not be wanting, the remains of the two bottles of currant wine had been poured together and corked with a curl-paper; so that every material was at hand for making quite a heavy night of it.

Martin Chuzzlewit beheld these roystering preparations with infinite contempt, and stirring the fire into a blaze (to the great destruction of Mr Pecksniff’s coals), sat moodily down before it, in the most comfortable chair he could find. That he might the better squeeze himself into the small corner that was left for him, Mr Pinch took up his position on Miss Mercy Pecksniff’s stool, and setting his glass down upon the hearthrug and putting his plate upon his knees, began to enjoy himself.

If Diogenes coming to life again could have rolled himself, tub and all, into Mr Pecksniff’s parlour and could have seen Tom Pinch as he sat on Mercy Pecksniff’s stool with his plate and glass before him he could not have faced it out, though in his surliest mood, but must have smiled good-temperedly. The perfect and entire satisfaction of Tom; his surpassing appreciation of the husky sandwiches, which crumbled in his mouth like saw-dust; the unspeakable relish with which he swallowed the thin wine by drops, and smacked his lips, as though it were so rich and generous that to lose an atom of its fruity flavour were a sin; the look with which he paused sometimes, with his glass in his hand, proposing silent toasts to himself; and the anxious shade that came upon his contented face when, after wandering round the room, exulting in its uninvaded snugness, his glance encountered the dull brow of his companion; no cynic in the world, though in his hatred of its men a very griffin, could have withstood these things in Thomas Pinch.

Some men would have slapped him on the back, and pledged him in a bumper of the currant wine, though it had been the sharpest vinegar—aye, and liked its flavour too; some would have seized him by his honest hand, and thanked him for the lesson that his simple nature taught them. Some would have laughed with, and others would have laughed at him; of which last class was Martin Chuzzlewit, who, unable to restrain himself, at last laughed loud and long.

‘That’s right,’ said Tom, nodding approvingly. ‘Cheer up! That’s capital!’

At which encouragement young Martin laughed again; and said, as soon as he had breath and gravity enough:

‘I never saw such a fellow as you are, Pinch.’

‘Didn’t you though?’ said Tom. ‘Well, it’s very likely you do find me strange, because I have hardly seen anything of the world, and you have seen a good deal I dare say?’

‘Pretty well for my time of life,’ rejoined Martin, drawing his chair still nearer to the fire, and spreading his feet out on the fender. ‘Deuce take it, I must talk openly to somebody. I’ll talk openly to you, Pinch.’

‘Do!’ said Tom. ‘I shall take it as being very friendly of you,’

‘I’m not in your way, am I?’ inquired Martin, glancing down at Mr Pinch, who was by this time looking at the fire over his leg.

‘Not at all!’ cried Tom.

‘You must know then, to make short of a long story,’ said Martin, beginning with a kind of effort, as if the revelation were not agreeable to him; ‘that I have been bred up from childhood with great expectations, and have always been taught to believe that I should be, one day, very rich. So I should have been, but for certain brief reasons which I am going to tell you, and which have led to my being disinherited.’

‘By your father?’ inquired Mr Pinch, with open eyes.

‘By my grandfather. I have had no parents these many years. Scarcely within my remembrance.’

‘Neither have I,’ said Tom, touching the young man’s hand with his own and timidly withdrawing it again. ‘Dear me!’

‘Why, as to that, you know, Pinch,’ pursued the other, stirring the fire again, and speaking in his rapid, off-hand way; ‘it’s all very right and proper to be fond of parents when we have them, and to bear them in remembrance after they’re dead, if you have ever known anything of them. But as I never did know anything about mine personally, you know, why, I can’t be expected to be very sentimental about ‘em. And I am not; that’s the truth.’

Mr Pinch was just then looking thoughtfully at the bars. But on his companion pausing in this place, he started, and said ‘Oh! of course’—and composed himself to listen again.

‘In a word,’ said Martin, ‘I have been bred and reared all my life by this grandfather of whom I have just spoken. Now, he has a great many good points—there is no doubt about that; I’ll not disguise the fact from you—but he has two very great faults, which are the staple of his bad side. In the first place, he has the most confirmed obstinacy of character you ever met with in any human creature. In the second, he is most abominably selfish.’

‘Is he indeed?’ cried Tom.

‘In those two respects,’ returned the other, ‘there never was such a man. I have often heard from those who know, that they have been, time out of mind, the failings of our family; and I believe there’s some truth in it. But I can’t say of my own knowledge. All I have to do, you know, is to be very thankful that they haven’t descended to me, and, to be very careful that I don’t contract ‘em.’

‘To be sure,’ said Mr Pinch. ‘Very proper.’

‘Well, sir,’ resumed Martin, stirring the fire once more, and drawing his chair still closer to it, ‘his selfishness makes him exacting, you see; and his obstinacy makes him resolute in his exactions. The consequence is that he has always exacted a great deal from me in the way of respect, and submission, and self-denial when his wishes were in question, and so forth. I have borne a great deal from him, because I have been under obligations to him (if one can ever be said to be under obligations to one’s own grandfather), and because I have been really attached to him; but we have had a great many quarrels for all that, for I could not accommodate myself to his ways very often—not out of the least reference to myself, you understand, but because—’ he stammered here, and was rather at a loss.

Mr Pinch being about the worst man in the world to help anybody out of a difficulty of this sort, said nothing.

‘Well! as you understand me,’ resumed Martin, quickly, ‘I needn’t hunt for the precise expression I want. Now I come to the cream of my story, and the occasion of my being here. I am in love, Pinch.’

Mr Pinch looked up into his face with increased interest.

‘I say I am in love. I am in love with one of the most beautiful girls the sun ever shone upon. But she is wholly and entirely dependent upon the pleasure of my grandfather; and if he were to know that she favoured my passion, she would lose her home and everything she possesses in the world. There is nothing very selfish in THAT love, I think?’

‘Selfish!’ cried Tom. ‘You have acted nobly. To love her as I am sure you do, and yet in consideration for her state of dependence, not even to disclose—’

‘What are you talking about, Pinch?’ said Martin pettishly: ‘don’t make yourself ridiculous, my good fellow! What do you mean by not disclosing?’

‘I beg your pardon,’ answered Tom. ‘I thought you meant that, or I wouldn’t have said it.’

‘If I didn’t tell her I loved her, where would be the use of my being in love?’ said Martin: ‘unless to keep myself in a perpetual state of worry and vexation?’

‘That’s true,’ Tom answered. ‘Well! I can guess what SHE said when you told her,’ he added, glancing at Martin’s handsome face.

‘Why, not exactly, Pinch,’ he rejoined, with a slight frown; ‘because she has some girlish notions about duty and gratitude, and all the rest of it, which are rather hard to fathom; but in the main you are right. Her heart was mine, I found.’

‘Just what I supposed,’ said Tom. ‘Quite natural!’ and, in his great satisfaction, he took a long sip out of his wine-glass.

‘Although I had conducted myself from the first with the utmost circumspection,’ pursued Martin, ‘I had not managed matters so well but that my grandfather, who is full of jealousy and distrust, suspected me of loving her. He said nothing to her, but straightway attacked me in private, and charged me with designing to corrupt the fidelity to himself (there you observe his selfishness), of a young creature whom he had trained and educated to be his only disinterested and faithful companion, when he should have disposed of me in marriage to his heart’s content. Upon that, I took fire immediately, and told him that with his good leave I would dispose of myself in marriage, and would rather not be knocked down by him or any other auctioneer to any bidder whomsoever.’

Mr Pinch opened his eyes wider, and looked at the fire harder than he had done yet.

‘You may be sure,’ said Martin, ‘that this nettled him, and that he began to be the very reverse of complimentary to myself. Interview succeeded interview; words engendered words, as they always do; and the upshot of it was, that I was to renounce her, or be renounced by him. Now you must bear in mind, Pinch, that I am not only desperately fond of her (for though she is poor, her beauty and intellect would reflect great credit on anybody, I don’t care of what pretensions who might become her husband), but that a chief ingredient in my composition is a most determined—’

‘Obstinacy,’ suggested Tom in perfect good faith. But the suggestion was not so well received as he had expected; for the young man immediately rejoined, with some irritation,

‘What a fellow you are, Pinch!’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Tom, ‘I thought you wanted a word.’

‘I didn’t want that word,’ he rejoined. ‘I told you obstinacy was no part of my character, did I not? I was going to say, if you had given me leave, that a chief ingredient in my composition is a most determined firmness.’

‘Oh!’ cried Tom, screwing up his mouth, and nodding. ‘Yes, yes; I see!’

‘And being firm,’ pursued Martin, ‘of course I was not going to yield to him, or give way by so much as the thousandth part of an inch.’

‘No, no,’ said Tom.

‘On the contrary, the more he urged, the more I was determined to oppose him.’

‘To be sure!’ said Tom.

‘Very well,’ rejoined Martin, throwing himself back in his chair, with a careless wave of both hands, as if the subject were quite settled, and nothing more could be said about it—‘There is an end of the matter, and here am I!’

Mr Pinch sat staring at the fire for some minutes with a puzzled look, such as he might have assumed if some uncommonly difficult conundrum had been proposed, which he found it impossible to guess. At length he said:

‘Pecksniff, of course, you had known before?’

‘Only by name. No, I had never seen him, for my grandfather kept not only himself but me, aloof from all his relations. But our separation took place in a town in the adjoining country. From that place I came to Salisbury, and there I saw Pecksniff’s advertisement, which I answered, having always had some natural taste, I believe, in the matters to which it referred, and thinking it might suit me. As soon as I found it to be his, I was doubly bent on coming to him if possible, on account of his being—’

‘Such an excellent man,’ interposed Tom, rubbing his hands: ‘so he is. You were quite right.’

‘Why, not so much on that account, if the truth must be spoken,’ returned Martin, ‘as because my grandfather has an inveterate dislike to him, and after the old man’s arbitrary treatment of me, I had a natural desire to run as directly counter to all his opinions as I could. Well! As I said before, here I am. My engagement with the young lady I have been telling you about is likely to be a tolerably long one; for neither her prospects nor mine are very bright; and of course I shall not think of marrying until I am well able to do so. It would never do, you know, for me to be plunging myself into poverty and shabbiness and love in one room up three pair of stairs, and all that sort of thing.’

‘To say nothing of her,’ remarked Tom Pinch, in a low voice.

‘Exactly so,’ rejoined Martin, rising to warm his back, and leaning against the chimney-piece. ‘To say nothing of her. At the same time, of course it’s not very hard upon her to be obliged to yield to the necessity of the case; first, because she loves me very much; and secondly, because I have sacrificed a great deal on her account, and might have done much better, you know.’

It was a very long time before Tom said ‘Certainly;’ so long, that he might have taken a nap in the interval, but he did say it at last.

‘Now, there is one odd coincidence connected with this love-story,’ said Martin, ‘which brings it to an end. You remember what you told me last night as we were coming here, about your pretty visitor in the church?’

‘Surely I do,’ said Tom, rising from his stool, and seating himself in the chair from which the other had lately risen, that he might see his face. ‘Undoubtedly.’

‘That was she.’

‘I knew what you were going to say,’ cried Tom, looking fixedly at him, and speaking very softly. ‘You don’t tell me so?’

‘That was she,’ repeated the young man. ‘After what I have heard from Pecksniff, I have no doubt that she came and went with my grandfather.—Don’t you drink too much of that sour wine, or you’ll have a fit of some sort, Pinch, I see.’

‘It is not very wholesome, I am afraid,’ said Tom, setting down the empty glass he had for some time held. ‘So that was she, was it?’

Martin nodded assent; and adding, with a restless impatience, that if he had been a few days earlier he would have seen her; and that now she might be, for anything he knew, hundreds of miles away; threw himself, after a few turns across the room, into a chair, and chafed like a spoilt child.

Tom Pinch’s heart was very tender, and he could not bear to see the most indifferent person in distress; still less one who had awakened an interest in him, and who regarded him (either in fact, or as he supposed) with kindness, and in a spirit of lenient construction. Whatever his own thoughts had been a few moments before—and to judge from his face they must have been pretty serious—he dismissed them instantly, and gave his young friend the best counsel and comfort that occurred to him.

‘All will be well in time,’ said Tom, ‘I have no doubt; and some trial and adversity just now will only serve to make you more attached to each other in better days. I have always read that the truth is so, and I have a feeling within me, which tells me how natural and right it is that it should be. That never ran smooth yet,’ said Tom, with a smile which, despite the homeliness of his face, was pleasanter to see than many a proud beauty’s brightest glance; ‘what never ran smooth yet, can hardly be expected to change its character for us; so we must take it as we find it, and fashion it into the very best shape we can, by patience and good-humour. I have no power at all; I needn’t tell you that; but I have an excellent will; and if I could ever be of use to you, in any way whatever, how very glad I should be!’

‘Thank you,’ said Martin, shaking his hand. ‘You’re a good fellow, upon my word, and speak very kindly. Of course you know,’ he added, after a moment’s pause, as he drew his chair towards the fire again, ‘I should not hesitate to avail myself of your services if you could help me at all; but mercy on us!’—Here he rumpled his hair impatiently with his hand, and looked at Tom as if he took it rather ill that he was not somebody else—‘you might as well be a toasting-fork or a frying-pan, Pinch, for any help you can render me.’

‘Except in the inclination,’ said Tom, gently.

‘Oh! to be sure. I meant that, of course. If inclination went for anything, I shouldn’t want help. I tell you what you may do, though, if you will, and at the present moment too.’

‘What is that?’ demanded Tom.

‘Read to me.’

‘I shall be delighted,’ cried Tom, catching up the candle with enthusiasm. ‘Excuse my leaving you in the dark a moment, and I’ll fetch a book directly. What will you like? Shakespeare?’

‘Aye!’ replied his friend, yawning and stretching himself. ‘He’ll do. I am tired with the bustle of to-day, and the novelty of everything about me; and in such a case, there’s no greater luxury in the world, I think, than being read to sleep. You won’t mind my going to sleep, if I can?’

‘Not at all!’ cried Tom.

‘Then begin as soon as you like. You needn’t leave off when you see me getting drowsy (unless you feel tired), for it’s pleasant to wake gradually to the sounds again. Did you ever try that?’

‘No, I never tried that,’ said Tom

‘Well! You can, you know, one of these days when we’re both in the right humour. Don’t mind leaving me in the dark. Look sharp!’

Mr Pinch lost no time in moving away; and in a minute or two returned with one of the precious volumes from the shelf beside his bed. Martin had in the meantime made himself as comfortable as circumstances would permit, by constructing before the fire a temporary sofa of three chairs with Mercy’s stool for a pillow, and lying down at full-length upon it.

‘Don’t be too loud, please,’ he said to Pinch.

‘No, no,’ said Tom.

‘You’re sure you’re not cold’

‘Not at all!’ cried Tom.

‘I am quite ready, then.’

Mr Pinch accordingly, after turning over the leaves of his book with as much care as if they were living and highly cherished creatures, made his own selection, and began to read. Before he had completed fifty lines his friend was snoring.

‘Poor fellow!’ said Tom, softly, as he stretched out his head to peep at him over the backs of the chairs. ‘He is very young to have so much trouble. How trustful and generous in him to bestow all this confidence in me. And that was she, was it?’

But suddenly remembering their compact, he took up the poem at the place where he had left off, and went on reading; always forgetting to snuff the candle, until its wick looked like a mushroom. He gradually became so much interested, that he quite forgot to replenish the fire; and was only reminded of his neglect by Martin Chuzzlewit starting up after the lapse of an hour or so, and crying with a shiver.

‘Why, it’s nearly out, I declare! No wonder I dreamed of being frozen. Do call for some coals. What a fellow you are, Pinch!’

CHAPTER SEVEN

IN WHICH MR CHEVY SLYME ASSERTS THE INDEPENDENCE OF HIS SPIRIT, AND THE BLUE DRAGON LOSES A LIMB

Martin began to work at the grammar-school next morning, with so much vigour and expedition, that Mr Pinch had new reason to do homage to the natural endowments of that young gentleman, and to acknowledge his infinite superiority to himself. The new pupil received Tom’s compliments very graciously; and having by this time conceived a real regard for him, in his own peculiar way, predicted that they would always be the very best of friends, and that neither of them, he was certain (but particularly Tom), would ever have reason to regret the day on which they became acquainted. Mr Pinch was delighted to hear him say this, and felt so much flattered by his kind assurances of friendship and protection, that he was at a loss how to express the pleasure they afforded him. And indeed it may be observed of this friendship, such as it was, that it had within it more likely materials of endurance than many a sworn brotherhood that has been rich in promise; for so long as the one party found a pleasure in patronizing, and the other in being patronised (which was in the very essence of their respective characters), it was of all possible events among the least probable, that the twin demons, Envy and Pride, would ever arise between them. So in very many cases of friendship, or what passes for it, the old axiom is reversed, and like clings to unlike more than to like.

They were both very busy on the afternoon succeeding the family’s departure—Martin with the grammar-school, and Tom in balancing certain receipts of rents, and deducting Mr Pecksniff’s commission from the same; in which abstruse employment he was much distracted by a habit his new friend had of whistling aloud while he was drawing—when they were not a little startled by the unexpected obtrusion into that sanctuary of genius, of a human head which, although a shaggy and somewhat alarming head in appearance, smiled affably upon them from the doorway, in a manner that was at once waggish, conciliatory, and expressive of approbation.

‘I am not industrious myself, gents both,’ said the head, ‘but I know how to appreciate that quality in others. I wish I may turn grey and ugly, if it isn’t in my opinion, next to genius, one of the very charmingest qualities of the human mind. Upon my soul, I am grateful to my friend Pecksniff for helping me to the contemplation of such a delicious picture as you present. You remind me of Whittington, afterwards thrice Lord Mayor of London. I give you my unsullied word of honour, that you very strongly remind me of that historical character. You are a pair of Whittingtons, gents, without the cat; which is a most agreeable and blessed exception to me, for I am not attached to the feline species. My name is Tigg; how do you do?’

Martin looked to Mr Pinch for an explanation; and Tom, who had never in his life set eyes on Mr Tigg before, looked to that gentleman himself.

‘Chevy Slyme?’ said Mr Tigg, interrogatively, and kissing his left hand in token of friendship. ‘You will understand me when I say that I am the accredited agent of Chevy Slyme; that I am the ambassador from the court of Chiv? Ha ha!’

‘Heyday!’ asked Martin, starting at the mention of a name he knew. ‘Pray, what does he want with me?’

‘If your name is Pinch’—Mr Tigg began.

‘It is not’ said Martin, checking himself. ‘That is Mr Pinch.’

‘If that is Mr Pinch,’ cried Tigg, kissing his hand again, and beginning to follow his head into the room, ‘he will permit me to say that I greatly esteem and respect his character, which has been most highly commended to me by my friend Pecksniff; and that I deeply appreciate his talent for the organ, notwithstanding that I do not, if I may use the expression, grind myself. If that is Mr Pinch, I will venture to express a hope that I see him well, and that he is suffering no inconvenience from the easterly wind?’

‘Thank you,’ said Tom. ‘I am very well.’

‘That is a comfort,’ Mr Tigg rejoined. ‘Then,’ he added, shielding his lips with the palm of his hand, and applying them close to Mr Pinch’s ear, ‘I have come for the letter.’

‘For the letter,’ said Tom, aloud. ‘What letter?’

‘The letter,’ whispered Tigg in the same cautious manner as before, ‘which my friend Pecksniff addressed to Chevy Slyme, Esquire, and left with you.’

‘He didn’t leave any letter with me,’ said Tom.

‘Hush!’ cried the other. ‘It’s all the same thing, though not so delicately done by my friend Pecksniff as I could have wished. The money.’

‘The money!’ cried Tom quite scared.

‘Exactly so,’ said Mr Tigg. With which he rapped Tom twice or thrice upon the breast and nodded several times, as though he would say that he saw they understood each other; that it was unnecessary to mention the circumstance before a third person; and that he would take it as a particular favour if Tom would slip the amount into his hand, as quietly as possible.

Mr Pinch, however, was so very much astounded by this (to him) inexplicable deportment, that he at once openly declared there must be some mistake, and that he had been entrusted with no commission whatever having any reference to Mr Tigg or to his friend, either. Mr Tigg received this declaration with a grave request that Mr Pinch would have the goodness to make it again; and on Tom’s repeating it in a still more emphatic and unmistakable manner, checked it off, sentence for sentence, by nodding his head solemnly at the end of each. When it had come to a close for the second time, Mr Tigg sat himself down in a chair and addressed the young men as follows:

‘Then I tell you what it is, gents both. There is at this present moment in this very place, a perfect constellation of talent and genius, who is involved, through what I cannot but designate as the culpable negligence of my friend Pecksniff, in a situation as tremendous, perhaps, as the social intercourse of the nineteenth century will readily admit of. There is actually at this instant, at the Blue Dragon in this village—an ale-house, observe; a common, paltry, low-minded, clodhopping, pipe-smoking ale-house—an individual, of whom it may be said, in the language of the Poet, that nobody but himself can in any way come up to him; who is detained there for his bill. Ha! ha! For his bill. I repeat it—for his bill. Now,’ said Mr Tigg, ‘we have heard of Fox’s Book of Martyrs, I believe, and we have heard of the Court of Requests, and the Star Chamber; but I fear the contradiction of no man alive or dead, when I assert that my friend Chevy Slyme being held in pawn for a bill, beats any amount of cockfighting with which I am acquainted.’

Martin and Mr Pinch looked, first at each other, and afterwards at Mr Tigg, who with his arms folded on his breast surveyed them, half in despondency and half in bitterness.

‘Don’t mistake me, gents both,’ he said, stretching forth his right hand. ‘If it had been for anything but a bill, I could have borne it, and could still have looked upon mankind with some feeling of respect; but when such a man as my friend Slyme is detained for a score—a thing in itself essentially mean; a low performance on a slate, or possibly chalked upon the back of a door—I do feel that there is a screw of such magnitude loose somewhere, that the whole framework of society is shaken, and the very first principles of things can no longer be trusted. In short, gents both,’ said Mr Tigg with a passionate flourish of his hands and head, ‘when a man like Slyme is detained for such a thing as a bill, I reject the superstitions of ages, and believe nothing. I don’t even believe that I DON’T believe, curse me if I do!’

‘I am very sorry, I am sure,’ said Tom after a pause, ‘but Mr Pecksniff said nothing to me about it, and I couldn’t act without his instructions. Wouldn’t it be better, sir, if you were to go to—to wherever you came from—yourself, and remit the money to your friend?’

‘How can that be done, when I am detained also?’ said Mr Tigg; ‘and when moreover, owing to the astounding, and I must add, guilty negligence of my friend Pecksniff, I have no money for coach-hire?’

Tom thought of reminding the gentleman (who, no doubt, in his agitation had forgotten it) that there was a post-office in the land; and that possibly if he wrote to some friend or agent for a remittance it might not be lost upon the road; or at all events that the chance, however desperate, was worth trusting to. But, as his good-nature presently suggested to him certain reasons for abstaining from this hint, he paused again, and then asked:

‘Did you say, sir, that you were detained also?’

‘Come here,’ said Mr Tigg, rising. ‘You have no objection to my opening this window for a moment?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Tom.

‘Very good,’ said Mr Tigg, lifting the sash. ‘You see a fellow down there in a red neckcloth and no waistcoat?’

‘Of course I do,’ cried Tom. ‘That’s Mark Tapley.’

‘Mark Tapley is it?’ said the gentleman. ‘Then Mark Tapley had not only the great politeness to follow me to this house, but is waiting now, to see me home again. And for that attention, sir,’ added Mr Tigg, stroking his moustache, ‘I can tell you, that Mark Tapley had better in his infancy have been fed to suffocation by Mrs Tapley, than preserved to this time.’

Mr Pinch was not so dismayed by this terrible threat, but that he had voice enough to call to Mark to come in, and upstairs; a summons which he so speedily obeyed, that almost as soon as Tom and Mr Tigg had drawn in their heads and closed the window again, he, the denounced, appeared before them.

‘Come here, Mark!’ said Mr Pinch. ‘Good gracious me! what’s the matter between Mrs Lupin and this gentleman?’

‘What gentleman, sir?’ said Mark. ‘I don’t see no gentleman here sir, excepting you and the new gentleman,’ to whom he made a rough kind of bow—‘and there’s nothing wrong between Mrs Lupin and either of you, Mr Pinch, I am sure.’

‘Nonsense, Mark!’ cried Tom. ‘You see Mr—’

‘Tigg,’ interposed that gentleman. ‘Wait a bit. I shall crush him soon. All in good time!’

‘Oh HIM!’ rejoined Mark, with an air of careless defiance. ‘Yes, I see HIM. I could see him a little better, if he’d shave himself, and get his hair cut.’

Mr Tigg shook his head with a ferocious look, and smote himself once upon the breast.

‘It’s no use,’ said Mark. ‘If you knock ever so much in that quarter, you’ll get no answer. I know better. There’s nothing there but padding; and a greasy sort it is.’

‘Nay, Mark,’ urged Mr Pinch, interposing to prevent hostilities, ‘tell me what I ask you. You’re not out of temper, I hope?’

‘Out of temper, sir!’ cried Mark, with a grin; ‘why no, sir. There’s a little credit—not much—in being jolly, when such fellows as him is a-going about like roaring lions; if there is any breed of lions, at least, as is all roar and mane. What is there between him and Mrs Lupin, sir? Why, there’s a score between him and Mrs Lupin. And I think Mrs Lupin lets him and his friend off very easy in not charging ‘em double prices for being a disgrace to the Dragon. That’s my opinion. I wouldn’t have any such Peter the Wild Boy as him in my house, sir, not if I was paid race-week prices for it. He’s enough to turn the very beer in the casks sour with his looks; he is! So he would, if it had judgment enough.’

‘You’re not answering my question, you know, Mark,’ observed Mr Pinch.

‘Well, sir,’ said Mark, ‘I don’t know as there’s much to answer further than that. Him and his friend goes and stops at the Moon and Stars till they’ve run a bill there; and then comes and stops with us and does the same. The running of bills is common enough Mr Pinch; it an’t that as we object to; it’s the ways of this chap. Nothing’s good enough for him; all the women is dying for him he thinks, and is overpaid if he winks at ‘em; and all the men was made to be ordered about by him. This not being aggravation enough, he says this morning to me, in his usual captivating way, “We’re going to-night, my man.” “Are you, sir?” says I. “Perhaps you’d like the bill got ready, sir?” “Oh no, my man,” he says; “you needn’t mind that. I’ll give Pecksniff orders to see to that.” In reply to which, the Dragon makes answer, “Thankee, sir, you’re very kind to honour us so far, but as we don’t know any particular good of you, and you don’t travel with luggage, and Mr Pecksniff an’t at home (which perhaps you mayn’t happen to be aware of, sir), we should prefer something more satisfactory;” and that’s where the matter stands. And I ask,’ said Mr Tapley, pointing, in conclusion, to Mr Tigg, with his hat, ‘any lady or gentleman, possessing ordinary strength of mind, to say whether he’s a disagreeable-looking chap or not!’

‘Let me inquire,’ said Martin, interposing between this candid speech and the delivery of some blighting anathema by Mr Tigg, ‘what the amount of this debt may be?’

‘In point of money, sir, very little,’ answered Mark. ‘Only just turned of three pounds. But it an’t that; it’s the—’

‘Yes, yes, you told us so before,’ said Martin. ‘Pinch, a word with you.’

‘What is it?’ asked Tom, retiring with him to a corner of the room.

‘Why, simply—I am ashamed to say—that this Mr Slyme is a relation of mine, of whom I never heard anything pleasant; and that I don’t want him here just now, and think he would be cheaply got rid of, perhaps, for three or four pounds. You haven’t enough money to pay this bill, I suppose?’

Tom shook his head to an extent that left no doubt of his entire sincerity.

‘That’s unfortunate, for I am poor too; and in case you had had it, I’d have borrowed it of you. But if we told this landlady we would see her paid, I suppose that would answer the same purpose?’

‘Oh dear, yes!’ said Tom. ‘She knows me, bless you!’

‘Then let us go down at once and tell her so; for the sooner we are rid of their company the better. As you have conducted the conversation with this gentleman hitherto, perhaps you’ll tell him what we purpose doing; will you?’

Mr Pinch, complying, at once imparted the intelligence to Mr Tigg, who shook him warmly by the hand in return, assuring him that his faith in anything and everything was again restored. It was not so much, he said, for the temporary relief of this assistance that he prized it, as for its vindication of the high principle that Nature’s Nobs felt with Nature’s Nobs, and that true greatness of soul sympathized with true greatness of soul, all the world over. It proved to him, he said, that like him they admired genius, even when it was coupled with the alloy occasionally visible in the metal of his friend Slyme; and on behalf of that friend, he thanked them; as warmly and heartily as if the cause were his own. Being cut short in these speeches by a general move towards the stairs, he took possession at the street door of the lapel of Mr Pinch’s coat, as a security against further interruption; and entertained that gentleman with some highly improving discourse until they reached the Dragon, whither they were closely followed by Mark and the new pupil.

The rosy hostess scarcely needed Mr Pinch’s word as a preliminary to the release of her two visitors, of whom she was glad to be rid on any terms; indeed, their brief detention had originated mainly with Mr Tapley, who entertained a constitutional dislike to gentleman out-at-elbows who flourished on false pretences; and had conceived a particular aversion to Mr Tigg and his friend, as choice specimens of the species. The business in hand thus easily settled, Mr Pinch and Martin would have withdrawn immediately, but for the urgent entreaties of Mr Tigg that they would allow him the honour of presenting them to his friend Slyme, which were so very difficult of resistance that, yielding partly to these persuasions and partly to their own curiosity, they suffered themselves to be ushered into the presence of that distinguished gentleman.

He was brooding over the remains of yesterday’s decanter of brandy, and was engaged in the thoughtful occupation of making a chain of rings on the top of the table with the wet foot of his drinking-glass. Wretched and forlorn as he looked, Mr Slyme had once been in his way, the choicest of swaggerers; putting forth his pretensions boldly, as a man of infinite taste and most undoubted promise. The stock-in-trade requisite to set up an amateur in this department of business is very slight, and easily got together; a trick of the nose and a curl of the lip sufficient to compound a tolerable sneer, being ample provision for any exigency. But, in an evil hour, this off-shoot of the Chuzzlewit trunk, being lazy, and ill qualified for any regular pursuit and having dissipated such means as he ever possessed, had formally established himself as a professor of Taste for a livelihood; and finding, too late, that something more than his old amount of qualifications was necessary to sustain him in this calling, had quickly fallen to his present level, where he retained nothing of his old self but his boastfulness and his bile, and seemed to have no existence separate or apart from his friend Tigg. And now so abject and so pitiful was he—at once so maudlin, insolent, beggarly, and proud—that even his friend and parasite, standing erect beside him, swelled into a Man by contrast.

‘Chiv,’ said Mr Tigg, clapping him on the back, ‘my friend Pecksniff not being at home, I have arranged our trifling piece of business with Mr Pinch and friend. Mr Pinch and friend, Mr Chevy Slyme! Chiv, Mr Pinch and friend!’

‘These are agreeable circumstances in which to be introduced to strangers,’ said Chevy Slyme, turning his bloodshot eyes towards Tom Pinch. ‘I am the most miserable man in the world, I believe!’

Tom begged he wouldn’t mention it; and finding him in this condition, retired, after an awkward pause, followed by Martin. But Mr Tigg so urgently conjured them, by coughs and signs, to remain in the shadow of the door, that they stopped there.

‘I swear,’ cried Mr Slyme, giving the table an imbecile blow with his fist, and then feebly leaning his head upon his hand, while some drunken drops oozed from his eyes, ‘that I am the wretchedest creature on record. Society is in a conspiracy against me. I’m the most literary man alive. I’m full of scholarship. I’m full of genius; I’m full of information; I’m full of novel views on every subject; yet look at my condition! I’m at this moment obliged to two strangers for a tavern bill!’

Mr Tigg replenished his friend’s glass, pressed it into his hand, and nodded an intimation to the visitors that they would see him in a better aspect immediately.

‘Obliged to two strangers for a tavern bill, eh!’ repeated Mr Slyme, after a sulky application to his glass. ‘Very pretty! And crowds of impostors, the while, becoming famous; men who are no more on a level with me than—Tigg, I take you to witness that I am the most persecuted hound on the face of the earth.’

With a whine, not unlike the cry of the animal he named, in its lowest state of humiliation, he raised his glass to his mouth again. He found some encouragement in it; for when he set it down he laughed scornfully. Upon that Mr Tigg gesticulated to the visitors once more, and with great expression, implying that now the time was come when they would see Chiv in his greatness.

‘Ha, ha, ha,’ laughed Mr Slyme. ‘Obliged to two strangers for a tavern bill! Yet I think I’ve a rich uncle, Tigg, who could buy up the uncles of fifty strangers! Have I, or have I not? I come of a good family, I believe! Do I, or do I not? I’m not a man of common capacity or accomplishments, I think! Am I, or am I not?’

‘You are the American aloe of the human race, my dear Chiv,’ said Mr Tigg, ‘which only blooms once in a hundred years!’

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ laughed Mr Slyme again. ‘Obliged to two strangers for a tavern bill! I obliged to two architect’s apprentices. Fellows who measure earth with iron chains, and build houses like bricklayers. Give me the names of those two apprentices. How dare they oblige me!’

Mr Tigg was quite lost in admiration of this noble trait in his friend’s character; as he made known to Mr Pinch in a neat little ballet of action, spontaneously invented for the purpose.

‘I’ll let ‘em know, and I’ll let all men know,’ cried Chevy Slyme, ‘that I’m none of the mean, grovelling, tame characters they meet with commonly. I have an independent spirit. I have a heart that swells in my bosom. I have a soul that rises superior to base considerations.’

‘Oh Chiv, Chiv,’ murmured Mr Tigg, ‘you have a nobly independent nature, Chiv!’

‘You go and do your duty, sir,’ said Mr Slyme, angrily, ‘and borrow money for travelling expenses; and whoever you borrow it of, let ‘em know that I possess a haughty spirit, and a proud spirit, and have infernally finely-touched chords in my nature, which won’t brook patronage. Do you hear? Tell ‘em I hate ‘em, and that that’s the way I preserve my self-respect; and tell ‘em that no man ever respected himself more than I do!’

He might have added that he hated two sorts of men; all those who did him favours, and all those who were better off than himself; as in either case their position was an insult to a man of his stupendous merits. But he did not; for with the apt closing words above recited, Mr Slyme; of too haughty a stomach to work, to beg, to borrow, or to steal; yet mean enough to be worked or borrowed, begged or stolen for, by any catspaw that would serve his turn; too insolent to lick the hand that fed him in his need, yet cur enough to bite and tear it in the dark; with these apt closing words Mr Slyme fell forward with his head upon the table, and so declined into a sodden sleep.

‘Was there ever,’ cried Mr Tigg, joining the young men at the door, and shutting it carefully behind him, ‘such an independent spirit as is possessed by that extraordinary creature? Was there ever such a Roman as our friend Chiv? Was there ever a man of such a purely classical turn of thought, and of such a toga-like simplicity of nature? Was there ever a man with such a flow of eloquence? Might he not, gents both, I ask, have sat upon a tripod in the ancient times, and prophesied to a perfectly unlimited extent, if previously supplied with gin-and-water at the public cost?’

Mr Pinch was about to contest this latter position with his usual mildness, when, observing that his companion had already gone downstairs, he prepared to follow him.

‘You are not going, Mr Pinch?’ said Tigg.

‘Thank you,’ answered Tom. ‘Yes. Don’t come down.’

‘Do you know that I should like one little word in private with you Mr Pinch?’ said Tigg, following him. ‘One minute of your company in the skittle-ground would very much relieve my mind. Might I beseech that favour?’

‘Oh, certainly,’ replied Tom, ‘if you really wish it.’ So he accompanied Mr Tigg to the retreat in question; on arriving at which place that gentleman took from his hat what seemed to be the fossil remains of an antediluvian pocket-handkerchief, and wiped his eyes therewith.

‘You have not beheld me this day,’ said Mr Tigg, ‘in a favourable light.’

‘Don’t mention that,’ said Tom, ‘I beg.’

‘But you have NOT,’ cried Tigg. ‘I must persist in that opinion. If you could have seen me, Mr Pinch, at the head of my regiment on the coast of Africa, charging in the form of a hollow square, with the women and children and the regimental plate-chest in the centre, you would not have known me for the same man. You would have respected me, sir.’

Tom had certain ideas of his own upon the subject of glory; and consequently he was not quite so much excited by this picture as Mr Tigg could have desired.

‘But no matter!’ said that gentleman. ‘The school-boy writing home to his parents and describing the milk-and-water, said “This is indeed weakness.” I repeat that assertion in reference to myself at the present moment; and I ask your pardon. Sir, you have seen my friend Slyme?’

‘No doubt,’ said Mr Pinch.

‘Sir, you have been impressed by my friend Slyme?’

‘Not very pleasantly, I must say,’ answered Tom, after a little hesitation.

‘I am grieved but not surprised,’ cried Mr Tigg, detaining him with both hands, ‘to hear that you have come to that conclusion; for it is my own. But, Mr Pinch, though I am a rough and thoughtless man, I can honour Mind. I honour Mind in following my friend. To you of all men, Mr Pinch, I have a right to make appeal on Mind’s behalf, when it has not the art to push its fortune in the world. And so, sir—not for myself, who have no claim upon you, but for my crushed, my sensitive and independent friend, who has—I ask the loan of three half-crowns. I ask you for the loan of three half-crowns, distinctly, and without a blush. I ask it, almost as a right. And when I add that they will be returned by post, this week, I feel that you will blame me for that sordid stipulation.’

Mr Pinch took from his pocket an old-fashioned red-leather purse with a steel clasp, which had probably once belonged to his deceased grandmother. It held one half-sovereign and no more. All Tom’s worldly wealth until next quarter-day.

‘Stay!’ cried Mr Tigg, who had watched this proceeding keenly. ‘I was just about to say, that for the convenience of posting you had better make it gold. Thank you. A general direction, I suppose, to Mr Pinch at Mr Pecksniff’s—will that find you?’

‘That’ll find me,’ said Tom. ‘You had better put Esquire to Mr Pecksniff’s name, if you please. Direct to me, you know, at Seth Pecksniff’s, Esquire.’

‘At Seth Pecksniff’s, Esquire,’ repeated Mr Tigg, taking an exact note of it with a stump of pencil. ‘We said this week, I believe?’

‘Yes; or Monday will do,’ observed Tom.

‘No, no, I beg your pardon. Monday will NOT do,’ said Mr Tigg. ‘If we stipulated for this week, Saturday is the latest day. Did we stipulate for this week?’

‘Since you are so particular about it,’ said Tom, ‘I think we did.’

Mr Tigg added this condition to his memorandum; read the entry over to himself with a severe frown; and that the transaction might be the more correct and business-like, appended his initials to the whole. That done, he assured Mr Pinch that everything was now perfectly regular; and, after squeezing his hand with great fervour, departed.

Tom entertained enough suspicion that Martin might possibly turn this interview into a jest, to render him desirous to avoid the company of that young gentleman for the present. With this view he took a few turns up and down the skittle-ground, and did not re-enter the house until Mr Tigg and his friend had quitted it, and the new pupil and Mark were watching their departure from one of the windows.

‘I was just a-saying, sir, that if one could live by it,’ observed Mark, pointing after their late guests, ‘that would be the sort of service for me. Waiting on such individuals as them would be better than grave-digging, sir.’

‘And staying here would be better than either, Mark,’ replied Tom. ‘So take my advice, and continue to swim easily in smooth water.’

‘It’s too late to take it now, sir,’ said Mark. ‘I have broke it to her, sir. I am off to-morrow morning.’

‘Off!’ cried Mr Pinch, ‘where to?’

‘I shall go up to London, sir.’

‘What to be?’ asked Mr Pinch.

‘Well! I don’t know yet, sir. Nothing turned up that day I opened my mind to you, as was at all likely to suit me. All them trades I thought of was a deal too jolly; there was no credit at all to be got in any of ‘em. I must look for a private service, I suppose, sir. I might be brought out strong, perhaps, in a serious family, Mr Pinch.’

‘Perhaps you might come out rather too strong for a serious family’s taste, Mark.’

‘That’s possible, sir. If I could get into a wicked family, I might do myself justice; but the difficulty is to make sure of one’s ground, because a young man can’t very well advertise that he wants a place, and wages an’t so much an object as a wicked sitivation; can he, sir?’

‘Why, no,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘I don’t think he can.’

‘An envious family,’ pursued Mark, with a thoughtful face; ‘or a quarrelsome family, or a malicious family, or even a good out-and-out mean family, would open a field of action as I might do something in. The man as would have suited me of all other men was that old gentleman as was took ill here, for he really was a trying customer. Howsever, I must wait and see what turns up, sir; and hope for the worst.’

‘You are determined to go then?’ said Mr Pinch.

‘My box is gone already, sir, by the waggon, and I’m going to walk on to-morrow morning, and get a lift by the day coach when it overtakes me. So I wish you good-bye, Mr Pinch—and you too, sir—and all good luck and happiness!’

They both returned his greeting laughingly, and walked home arm-in-arm. Mr Pinch imparting to his new friend, as they went, such further particulars of Mark Tapley’s whimsical restlessness as the reader is already acquainted with.

In the meantime Mark, having a shrewd notion that his mistress was in very low spirits, and that he could not exactly answer for the consequences of any lengthened TETE-A-TETE in the bar, kept himself obstinately out of her way all the afternoon and evening. In this piece of generalship he was very much assisted by the great influx of company into the taproom; for the news of his intention having gone abroad, there was a perfect throng there all the evening, and much drinking of healths and clinking of mugs. At length the house was closed for the night; and there being now no help for it, Mark put the best face he could upon the matter, and walked doggedly to the bar-door.

‘If I look at her,’ said Mark to himself, ‘I’m done. I feel that I’m a-going fast.’

‘You have come at last,’ said Mrs Lupin.

Aye, Mark said: There he was.

‘And you are determined to leave us, Mark?’ cried Mrs Lupin.

‘Why, yes; I am,’ said Mark; keeping his eyes hard upon the floor.

‘I thought,’ pursued the landlady, with a most engaging hesitation, ‘that you had been—fond—of the Dragon?’

‘So I am,’ said Mark.

‘Then,’ pursued the hostess—and it really was not an unnatural inquiry—‘why do you desert it?’

But as he gave no manner of answer to this question; not even on its being repeated; Mrs Lupin put his money into his hand, and asked him—not unkindly, quite the contrary—what he would take?

It is proverbial that there are certain things which flesh and blood cannot bear. Such a question as this, propounded in such a manner, at such a time, and by such a person, proved (at least, as far as, Mark’s flesh and blood were concerned) to be one of them. He looked up in spite of himself directly; and having once looked up, there was no looking down again; for of all the tight, plump, buxom, bright-eyed, dimple-faced landladies that ever shone on earth, there stood before him then, bodily in that bar, the very pink and pineapple.

‘Why, I tell you what,’ said Mark, throwing off all his constraint in an instant and seizing the hostess round the waist—at which she was not at all alarmed, for she knew what a good young man he was—‘if I took what I liked most, I should take you. If I only thought what was best for me, I should take you. If I took what nineteen young fellows in twenty would be glad to take, and would take at any price, I should take you. Yes, I should,’ cried Mr Tapley, shaking his head expressively enough, and looking (in a momentary state of forgetfulness) rather hard at the hostess’s ripe lips. ‘And no man wouldn’t wonder if I did!’

Mrs Lupin said he amazed her. She was astonished how he could say such things. She had never thought it of him.

‘Why, I never thought if of myself till now!’ said Mark, raising his eyebrows with a look of the merriest possible surprise. ‘I always expected we should part, and never have no explanation; I meant to do it when I come in here just now; but there’s something about you, as makes a man sensible. Then let us have a word or two together; letting it be understood beforehand,’ he added this in a grave tone, to prevent the possibility of any mistake, ‘that I’m not a-going to make no love, you know.’

There was for just one second a shade, though not by any means a dark one, on the landlady’s open brow. But it passed off instantly, in a laugh that came from her very heart.

‘Oh, very good!’ she said; ‘if there is to be no love-making, you had better take your arm away.’

‘Lord, why should I!’ cried Mark. ‘It’s quite innocent.’

‘Of course it’s innocent,’ returned the hostess, ‘or I shouldn’t allow it.’

‘Very well!’ said Mark. ‘Then let it be.’

There was so much reason in this that the landlady laughed again, suffered it to remain, and bade him say what he had to say, and be quick about it. But he was an impudent fellow, she added.

‘Ha ha! I almost think I am!’ cried Mark, ‘though I never thought so before. Why, I can say anything to-night!’

‘Say what you’re going to say if you please, and be quick,’ returned the landlady, ‘for I want to get to bed.’

‘Why, then, my dear good soul,’ said Mark, ‘and a kinder woman than you are never drawed breath—let me see the man as says she did!—what would be the likely consequence of us two being—’

‘Oh nonsense!’ cried Mrs Lupin. ‘Don’t talk about that any more.’

‘No, no, but it an’t nonsense,’ said Mark; ‘and I wish you’d attend. What would be the likely consequence of us two being married? If I can’t be content and comfortable in this here lively Dragon now, is it to be looked for as I should be then? By no means. Very good. Then you, even with your good humour, would be always on the fret and worrit, always uncomfortable in your own mind, always a-thinking as you was getting too old for my taste, always a-picturing me to yourself as being chained up to the Dragon door, and wanting to break away. I don’t know that it would be so,’ said Mark, ‘but I don’t know that it mightn’t be. I am a roving sort of chap, I know. I’m fond of change. I’m always a-thinking that with my good health and spirits it would be more creditable in me to be jolly where there’s things a-going on to make one dismal. It may be a mistake of mine you see, but nothing short of trying how it acts will set it right. Then an’t it best that I should go; particular when your free way has helped me out to say all this, and we can part as good friends as we have ever been since first I entered this here noble Dragon, which,’ said Mr Tapley in conclusion, ‘has my good word and my good wish to the day of my death!’

The hostess sat quite silent for a little time, but she very soon put both her hands in Mark’s and shook them heartily.

‘For you are a good man,’ she said; looking into his face with a smile, which was rather serious for her. ‘And I do believe have been a better friend to me to-night than ever I have had in all my life.’

‘Oh! as to that, you know,’ said Mark, ‘that’s nonsense. But love my heart alive!’ he added, looking at her in a sort of rapture, ‘if you ARE that way disposed, what a lot of suitable husbands there is as you may drive distracted!’

She laughed again at this compliment; and, once more shaking him by both hands, and bidding him, if he should ever want a friend, to remember her, turned gayly from the little bar and up the Dragon staircase.

‘Humming a tune as she goes,’ said Mark, listening, ‘in case I should think she’s at all put out, and should be made down-hearted. Come, here’s some credit in being jolly, at last!’

With that piece of comfort, very ruefully uttered, he went, in anything but a jolly manner, to bed.

He rose early next morning, and was a-foot soon after sunrise. But it was of no use; the whole place was up to see Mark Tapley off; the boys, the dogs, the children, the old men, the busy people and the idlers; there they were, all calling out ‘Good-b’ye, Mark,’ after their own manner, and all sorry he was going. Somehow he had a kind of sense that his old mistress was peeping from her chamber-window, but he couldn’t make up his mind to look back.

‘Good-b’ye one, good-b’ye all!’ cried Mark, waving his hat on the top of his walking-stick, as he strode at a quick pace up the little street. ‘Hearty chaps them wheelwrights—hurrah! Here’s the butcher’s dog a-coming out of the garden—down, old fellow! And Mr Pinch a-going to his organ—good-b’ye, sir! And the terrier-bitch from over the way—hie, then, lass! And children enough to hand down human natur to the latest posterity—good-b’ye, boys and girls! There’s some credit in it now. I’m a-coming out strong at last. These are the circumstances that would try a ordinary mind; but I’m uncommon jolly. Not quite as jolly as I could wish to be, but very near. Good-b’ye! good-b’ye!’

CHAPTER EIGHT

ACCOMPANIES MR PECKSNIFF AND HIS CHARMING DAUGHTERS TO THE CITY OF LONDON; AND RELATES WHAT FELL OUT UPON THEIR WAY THITHER

When Mr Pecksniff and the two young ladies got into the heavy coach at the end of the lane, they found it empty, which was a great comfort; particularly as the outside was quite full and the passengers looked very frosty. For as Mr Pecksniff justly observed—when he and his daughters had burrowed their feet deep in the straw, wrapped themselves to the chin, and pulled up both windows—it is always satisfactory to feel, in keen weather, that many other people are not as warm as you are. And this, he said, was quite natural, and a very beautiful arrangement; not confined to coaches, but extending itself into many social ramifications. ‘For’ (he observed), ‘if every one were warm and well-fed, we should lose the satisfaction of admiring the fortitude with which certain conditions of men bear cold and hunger. And if we were no better off than anybody else, what would become of our sense of gratitude; which,’ said Mr Pecksniff with tears in his eyes, as he shook his fist at a beggar who wanted to get up behind, ‘is one of the holiest feelings of our common nature.’

His children heard with becoming reverence these moral precepts from the lips of their father, and signified their acquiescence in the same, by smiles. That he might the better feed and cherish that sacred flame of gratitude in his breast, Mr Pecksniff remarked that he would trouble his eldest daughter, even in this early stage of their journey, for the brandy-bottle. And from the narrow neck of that stone vessel he imbibed a copious refreshment.

‘What are we?’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘but coaches? Some of us are slow coaches’—

‘Goodness, Pa!’ cried Charity.

‘Some of us, I say,’ resumed her parent with increased emphasis, ‘are slow coaches; some of us are fast coaches. Our passions are the horses; and rampant animals too—!’

‘Really, Pa,’ cried both the daughters at once. ‘How very unpleasant.’

‘And rampant animals too’ repeated Mr Pecksniff with so much determination, that he may be said to have exhibited, at the moment a sort of moral rampancy himself;’—and Virtue is the drag. We start from The Mother’s Arms, and we run to The Dust Shovel.’

When he had said this, Mr Pecksniff, being exhausted, took some further refreshment. When he had done that, he corked the bottle tight, with the air of a man who had effectually corked the subject also; and went to sleep for three stages.

The tendency of mankind when it falls asleep in coaches, is to wake up cross; to find its legs in its way; and its corns an aggravation. Mr Pecksniff not being exempt from the common lot of humanity found himself, at the end of his nap, so decidedly the victim of these infirmities, that he had an irresistible inclination to visit them upon his daughters; which he had already begun to do in the shape of divers random kicks, and other unexpected motions of his shoes, when the coach stopped, and after a short delay the door was opened.

‘Now mind,’ said a thin sharp voice in the dark. ‘I and my son go inside, because the roof is full, but you agree only to charge us outside prices. It’s quite understood that we won’t pay more. Is it?’

‘All right, sir,’ replied the guard.

‘Is there anybody inside now?’ inquired the voice.

‘Three passengers,’ returned the guard.

‘Then I ask the three passengers to witness this bargain, if they will be so good,’ said the voice. ‘My boy, I think we may safely get in.’

In pursuance of which opinion, two people took their seats in the vehicle, which was solemnly licensed by Act of Parliament to carry any six persons who could be got in at the door.

‘That was lucky!’ whispered the old man, when they moved on again. ‘And a great stroke of policy in you to observe it. He, he, he! We couldn’t have gone outside. I should have died of the rheumatism!’

Whether it occurred to the dutiful son that he had in some degree over-reached himself by contributing to the prolongation of his father’s days; or whether the cold had effected his temper; is doubtful. But he gave his father such a nudge in reply, that that good old gentleman was taken with a cough which lasted for full five minutes without intermission, and goaded Mr Pecksniff to that pitch of irritation, that he said at last—and very suddenly:

‘There is no room! There is really no room in this coach for any gentleman with a cold in his head!’

‘Mine,’ said the old man, after a moment’s pause, ‘is upon my chest, Pecksniff.’

The voice and manner, together, now that he spoke out; the composure of the speaker; the presence of his son; and his knowledge of Mr Pecksniff; afforded a clue to his identity which it was impossible to mistake.

‘Hem! I thought,’ said Mr Pecksniff, returning to his usual mildness, ‘that I addressed a stranger. I find that I address a relative, Mr Anthony Chuzzlewit and his son Mr Jonas—for they, my dear children, are our travelling companions—will excuse me for an apparently harsh remark. It is not MY desire to wound the feelings of any person with whom I am connected in family bonds. I may be a Hypocrite,’ said Mr Pecksniff, cuttingly; ‘but I am not a Brute.’

‘Pooh, pooh!’ said the old man. ‘What signifies that word, Pecksniff? Hypocrite! why, we are all hypocrites. We were all hypocrites t’other day. I am sure I felt that to be agreed upon among us, or I shouldn’t have called you one. We should not have been there at all, if we had not been hypocrites. The only difference between you and the rest was—shall I tell you the difference between you and the rest now, Pecksniff?’

‘If you please, my good sir; if you please.’

‘Why, the annoying quality in YOU, is,’ said the old man, ‘that you never have a confederate or partner in YOUR juggling; you would deceive everybody, even those who practise the same art; and have a way with you, as if you—he, he, he!—as if you really believed yourself. I’d lay a handsome wager now,’ said the old man, ‘if I laid wagers, which I don’t and never did, that you keep up appearances by a tacit understanding, even before your own daughters here. Now I, when I have a business scheme in hand, tell Jonas what it is, and we discuss it openly. You’re not offended, Pecksniff?’

‘Offended, my good sir!’ cried that gentleman, as if he had received the highest compliments that language could convey.

‘Are you travelling to London, Mr Pecksniff?’ asked the son.

‘Yes, Mr Jonas, we are travelling to London. We shall have the pleasure of your company all the way, I trust?’

‘Oh! ecod, you had better ask father that,’ said Jonas. ‘I am not a-going to commit myself.’

Mr Pecksniff was, as a matter of course, greatly entertained by this retort. His mirth having subsided, Mr Jonas gave him to understand that himself and parent were in fact travelling to their home in the metropolis; and that, since the memorable day of the great family gathering, they had been tarrying in that part of the country, watching the sale of certain eligible investments, which they had had in their copartnership eye when they came down; for it was their custom, Mr Jonas said, whenever such a thing was practicable, to kill two birds with one stone, and never to throw away sprats, but as bait for whales. When he had communicated to Mr Pecksniff these pithy scraps of intelligence, he said, ‘That if it was all the same to him, he would turn him over to father, and have a chat with the gals;’ and in furtherance of this polite scheme, he vacated his seat adjoining that gentleman, and established himself in the opposite corner, next to the fair Miss Mercy.

The education of Mr Jonas had been conducted from his cradle on the strictest principles of the main chance. The very first word he learnt to spell was ‘gain,’ and the second (when he got into two syllables), ‘money.’ But for two results, which were not clearly foreseen perhaps by his watchful parent in the beginning, his training may be said to have been unexceptionable. One of these flaws was, that having been long taught by his father to over-reach everybody, he had imperceptibly acquired a love of over-reaching that venerable monitor himself. The other, that from his early habits of considering everything as a question of property, he had gradually come to look, with impatience, on his parent as a certain amount of personal estate, which had no right whatever to be going at large, but ought to be secured in that particular description of iron safe which is commonly called a coffin, and banked in the grave.

‘Well, cousin!’ said Mr Jonas—‘Because we ARE cousins, you know, a few times removed—so you’re going to London?’

Miss Mercy replied in the affirmative, pinching her sister’s arm at the same time, and giggling excessively.

‘Lots of beaux in London, cousin!’ said Mr Jonas, slightly advancing his elbow.

‘Indeed, sir!’ cried the young lady. ‘They won’t hurt us, sir, I dare say.’ And having given him this answer with great demureness she was so overcome by her own humour, that she was fain to stifle her merriment in her sister’s shawl.

‘Merry,’ cried that more prudent damsel, ‘really I am ashamed of you. How can you go on so? You wild thing!’ At which Miss Merry only laughed the more, of course.

‘I saw a wildness in her eye, t’other day,’ said Mr Jonas, addressing Charity. ‘But you’re the one to sit solemn! I say—You were regularly prim, cousin!’

‘Oh! The old-fashioned fright!’ cried Merry, in a whisper. ‘Cherry my dear, upon my word you must sit next him. I shall die outright if he talks to me any more; I shall, positively!’ To prevent which fatal consequence, the buoyant creature skipped out of her seat as she spoke, and squeezed her sister into the place from which she had risen.

‘Don’t mind crowding me,’ cried Mr Jonas. ‘I like to be crowded by gals. Come a little closer, cousin.’

‘No, thank you, sir,’ said Charity.

‘There’s that other one a-laughing again,’ said Mr Jonas; ‘she’s a-laughing at my father, I shouldn’t wonder. If he puts on that old flannel nightcap of his, I don’t know what she’ll do! Is that my father a-snoring, Pecksniff?’

‘Yes, Mr Jonas.’

‘Tread upon his foot, will you be so good?’ said the young gentleman. ‘The foot next you’s the gouty one.’

Mr Pecksniff hesitating to perform this friendly office, Mr Jonas did it himself; at the same time crying:

‘Come, wake up, father, or you’ll be having the nightmare, and screeching out, I know.—Do you ever have the nightmare, cousin?’ he asked his neighbour, with characteristic gallantry, as he dropped his voice again.

‘Sometimes,’ answered Charity. ‘Not often.’

‘The other one,’ said Mr Jonas, after a pause. ‘Does SHE ever have the nightmare?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied Charity. ‘You had better ask her.’

‘She laughs so,’ said Jonas; ‘there’s no talking to her. Only hark how she’s a-going on now! You’re the sensible one, cousin!’

‘Tut, tut!’ cried Charity.

‘Oh! But you are! You know you are!’

‘Mercy is a little giddy,’ said Miss Charity. But she’ll sober down in time.’

‘It’ll be a very long time, then, if she does at all,’ rejoined her cousin. ‘Take a little more room.’

‘I am afraid of crowding you,’ said Charity. But she took it notwithstanding; and after one or two remarks on the extreme heaviness of the coach, and the number of places it stopped at, they fell into a silence which remained unbroken by any member of the party until supper-time.

Although Mr Jonas conducted Charity to the hotel and sat himself beside her at the board, it was pretty clear that he had an eye to ‘the other one’ also, for he often glanced across at Mercy, and seemed to draw comparisons between the personal appearance of the two, which were not unfavourable to the superior plumpness of the younger sister. He allowed himself no great leisure for this kind of observation, however, being busily engaged with the supper, which, as he whispered in his fair companion’s ear, was a contract business, and therefore the more she ate, the better the bargain was. His father and Mr Pecksniff, probably acting on the same wise principle, demolished everything that came within their reach, and by that means acquired a greasy expression of countenance, indicating contentment, if not repletion, which it was very pleasant to contemplate.

When they could eat no more, Mr Pecksniff and Mr Jonas subscribed for two sixpenny-worths of hot brandy-and-water, which the latter gentleman considered a more politic order than one shillingsworth; there being a chance of their getting more spirit out of the innkeeper under this arrangement than if it were all in one glass. Having swallowed his share of the enlivening fluid, Mr Pecksniff, under pretence of going to see if the coach were ready, went secretly to the bar, and had his own little bottle filled, in order that he might refresh himself at leisure in the dark coach without being observed.

These arrangements concluded, and the coach being ready, they got into their old places and jogged on again. But before he composed himself for a nap, Mr Pecksniff delivered a kind of grace after meat, in these words:

‘The process of digestion, as I have been informed by anatomical friends, is one of the most wonderful works of nature. I do not know how it may be with others, but it is a great satisfaction to me to know, when regaling on my humble fare, that I am putting in motion the most beautiful machinery with which we have any acquaintance. I really feel at such times as if I was doing a public service. When I have wound myself up, if I may employ such a term,’ said Mr Pecksniff with exquisite tenderness, ‘and know that I am Going, I feel that in the lesson afforded by the works within me, I am a Benefactor to my Kind!’

As nothing could be added to this, nothing was said; and Mr Pecksniff, exulting, it may be presumed, in his moral utility, went to sleep again.

The rest of the night wore away in the usual manner. Mr Pecksniff and Old Anthony kept tumbling against each other and waking up much terrified, or crushed their heads in opposite corners of the coach and strangely tattooed the surface of their faces—Heaven knows how—in their sleep. The coach stopped and went on, and went on and stopped, times out of number. Passengers got up and passengers got down, and fresh horses came and went and came again, with scarcely any interval between each team as it seemed to those who were dozing, and with a gap of a whole night between every one as it seemed to those who were broad awake. At length they began to jolt and rumble over horribly uneven stones, and Mr Pecksniff looking out of window said it was to-morrow morning, and they were there.

Very soon afterwards the coach stopped at the office in the city; and the street in which it was situated was already in a bustle, that fully bore out Mr Pecksniff’s words about its being morning, though for any signs of day yet appearing in the sky it might have been midnight. There was a dense fog too; as if it were a city in the clouds, which they had been travelling to all night up a magic beanstalk; and there was a thick crust upon the pavement like oilcake; which, one of the outsides (mad, no doubt) said to another (his keeper, of course), was Snow.

Taking a confused leave of Anthony and his son, and leaving the luggage of himself and daughters at the office to be called for afterwards, Mr Pecksniff, with one of the young ladies under each arm, dived across the street, and then across other streets, and so up the queerest courts, and down the strangest alleys and under the blindest archways, in a kind of frenzy; now skipping over a kennel, now running for his life from a coach and horses; now thinking he had lost his way, now thinking he had found it; now in a state of the highest confidence, now despondent to the last degree, but always in a great perspiration and flurry; until at length they stopped in a kind of paved yard near the Monument. That is to say, Mr Pecksniff told them so; for as to anything they could see of the Monument, or anything else but the buildings close at hand, they might as well have been playing blindman’s buff at Salisbury.

Mr Pecksniff looked about him for a moment, and then knocked at the door of a very dingy edifice, even among the choice collection of dingy edifices at hand; on the front of which was a little oval board like a tea-tray, with this inscription—‘Commercial Boarding-House: M. Todgers.’

It seemed that M. Todgers was not up yet, for Mr Pecksniff knocked twice and rang thrice, without making any impression on anything but a dog over the way. At last a chain and some bolts were withdrawn with a rusty noise, as if the weather had made the very fastenings hoarse, and a small boy with a large red head, and no nose to speak of, and a very dirty Wellington boot on his left arm, appeared; who (being surprised) rubbed the nose just mentioned with the back of a shoe-brush, and said nothing.

‘Still a-bed my man?’ asked Mr Pecksniff.

‘Still a-bed!’ replied the boy. ‘I wish they wos still a-bed. They’re very noisy a-bed; all calling for their boots at once. I thought you was the Paper, and wondered why you didn’t shove yourself through the grating as usual. What do you want?’

Considering his years, which were tender, the youth may be said to have preferred this question sternly, and in something of a defiant manner. But Mr Pecksniff, without taking umbrage at his bearing put a card in his hand, and bade him take that upstairs, and show them in the meanwhile into a room where there was a fire.

‘Or if there’s one in the eating parlour,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘I can find it myself.’ So he led his daughters, without waiting for any further introduction, into a room on the ground-floor, where a table-cloth (rather a tight and scanty fit in reference to the table it covered) was already spread for breakfast; displaying a mighty dish of pink boiled beef; an instance of that particular style of loaf which is known to housekeepers as a slack-baked, crummy quartern; a liberal provision of cups and saucers; and the usual appendages.

Inside the fender were some half-dozen pairs of shoes and boots, of various sizes, just cleaned and turned with the soles upwards to dry; and a pair of short black gaiters, on one of which was chalked—in sport, it would appear, by some gentleman who had slipped down for the purpose, pending his toilet, and gone up again—‘Jinkins’s Particular,’ while the other exhibited a sketch in profile, claiming to be the portrait of Jinkins himself.

M. Todgers’s Commercial Boarding-House was a house of that sort which is likely to be dark at any time; but that morning it was especially dark. There was an odd smell in the passage, as if the concentrated essence of all the dinners that had been cooked in the kitchen since the house was built, lingered at the top of the kitchen stairs to that hour, and like the Black Friar in Don Juan, ‘wouldn’t be driven away.’ In particular, there was a sensation of cabbage; as if all the greens that had ever been boiled there, were evergreens, and flourished in immortal strength. The parlour was wainscoted, and communicated to strangers a magnetic and instinctive consciousness of rats and mice. The staircase was very gloomy and very broad, with balustrades so thick and heavy that they would have served for a bridge. In a sombre corner on the first landing, stood a gruff old giant of a clock, with a preposterous coronet of three brass balls on his head; whom few had ever seen—none ever looked in the face—and who seemed to continue his heavy tick for no other reason than to warn heedless people from running into him accidentally. It had not been papered or painted, hadn’t Todgers’s, within the memory of man. It was very black, begrimed, and mouldy. And, at the top of the staircase, was an old, disjointed, rickety, ill-favoured skylight, patched and mended in all kinds of ways, which looked distrustfully down at everything that passed below, and covered Todgers’s up as if it were a sort of human cucumber-frame, and only people of a peculiar growth were reared there.

Mr Pecksniff and his fair daughters had not stood warming themselves at the fire ten minutes, when the sound of feet was heard upon the stairs, and the presiding deity of the establishment came hurrying in.

M. Todgers was a lady, rather a bony and hard-featured lady, with a row of curls in front of her head, shaped like little barrels of beer; and on the top of it something made of net—you couldn’t call it a cap exactly—which looked like a black cobweb. She had a little basket on her arm, and in it a bunch of keys that jingled as she came. In her other hand she bore a flaming tallow candle, which, after surveying Mr Pecksniff for one instant by its light, she put down upon the table, to the end that she might receive him with the greater cordiality.

‘Mr Pecksniff!’ cried Mrs Todgers. ‘Welcome to London! Who would have thought of such a visit as this, after so—dear, dear!—so many years! How do you DO, Mr Pecksniff?’

‘As well as ever; and as glad to see you, as ever;’ Mr Pecksniff made response. ‘Why, you are younger than you used to be!’

‘YOU are, I am sure!’ said Mrs Todgers. ‘You’re not a bit changed.’

‘What do you say to this?’ cried Mr Pecksniff, stretching out his hand towards the young ladies. ‘Does this make me no older?’

‘Not your daughters!’ exclaimed the lady, raising her hands and clasping them. ‘Oh, no, Mr Pecksniff! Your second, and her bridesmaid!’

Mr Pecksniff smiled complacently; shook his head; and said, ‘My daughters, Mrs Todgers. Merely my daughters.’

‘Ah!’ sighed the good lady, ‘I must believe you, for now I look at ‘em I think I should have known ‘em anywhere. My dear Miss Pecksniffs, how happy your Pa has made me!’

She hugged them both; and being by this time overpowered by her feelings or the inclemency of the morning, jerked a little pocket handkerchief out of the little basket, and applied the same to her face.

‘Now, my good madam,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘I know the rules of your establishment, and that you only receive gentlemen boarders. But it occurred to me, when I left home, that perhaps you would give my daughters house room, and make an exception in their favour.’

‘Perhaps?’ cried Mrs Todgers ecstatically. ‘Perhaps?’

‘I may say then, that I was sure you would,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘I know that you have a little room of your own, and that they can be comfortable there, without appearing at the general table.’

‘Dear girls!’ said Mrs Todgers. ‘I must take that liberty once more.’

Mrs Todgers meant by this that she must embrace them once more, which she accordingly did with great ardour. But the truth was that the house being full with the exception of one bed, which would now be occupied by Mr Pecksniff, she wanted time for consideration; and so much time too (for it was a knotty point how to dispose of them), that even when this second embrace was over, she stood for some moments gazing at the sisters, with affection beaming in one eye, and calculation shining out of the other.

‘I think I know how to arrange it,’ said Mrs Todgers, at length. ‘A sofa bedstead in the little third room which opens from my own parlour.—Oh, you dear girls!’

Thereupon she embraced them once more, observing that she could not decide which was most like their poor mother (which was highly probable, seeing that she had never beheld that lady), but that she rather thought the youngest was; and then she said that as the gentlemen would be down directly, and the ladies were fatigued with travelling, would they step into her room at once?

It was on the same floor; being, in fact, the back parlour; and had, as Mrs Todgers said, the great advantage (in London) of not being overlooked; as they would see when the fog cleared off. Nor was this a vainglorious boast, for it commanded at a perspective of two feet, a brown wall with a black cistern on the top. The sleeping apartment designed for the young ladies was approached from this chamber by a mightily convenient little door, which would only open when fallen against by a strong person. It commanded from a similar point of sight another angle of the wall, and another side of the cistern. ‘Not the damp side,’ said Mrs Todgers. ‘THAT is Mr Jinkins’s.’

In the first of these sanctuaries a fire was speedily kindled by the youthful porter, who, whistling at his work in the absence of Mrs Todgers (not to mention his sketching figures on his corduroys with burnt firewood), and being afterwards taken by that lady in the fact, was dismissed with a box on his ears. Having prepared breakfast for the young ladies with her own hands, she withdrew to preside in the other room; where the joke at Mr Jinkins’s expense seemed to be proceeding rather noisily.

‘I won’t ask you yet, my dears,’ said Mr Pecksniff, looking in at the door, ‘how you like London. Shall I?’

‘We haven’t seen much of it, Pa!’ cried Merry.

‘Nothing, I hope,’ said Cherry. (Both very miserably.)

‘Indeed,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘that’s true. We have our pleasure, and our business too, before us. All in good time. All in good time!’

Whether Mr Pecksniff’s business in London was as strictly professional as he had given his new pupil to understand, we shall see, to adopt that worthy man’s phraseology, ‘all in good time.’

CHAPTER NINE

TOWN AND TODGER’S

Surely there never was, in any other borough, city, or hamlet in the world, such a singular sort of a place as Todgers’s. And surely London, to judge from that part of it which hemmed Todgers’s round and hustled it, and crushed it, and stuck its brick-and-mortar elbows into it, and kept the air from it, and stood perpetually between it and the light, was worthy of Todgers’s, and qualified to be on terms of close relationship and alliance with hundreds and thousands of the odd family to which Todgers’s belonged.

You couldn’t walk about Todgers’s neighbourhood, as you could in any other neighbourhood. You groped your way for an hour through lanes and byways, and court-yards, and passages; and you never once emerged upon anything that might be reasonably called a street. A kind of resigned distraction came over the stranger as he trod those devious mazes, and, giving himself up for lost, went in and out and round about and quietly turned back again when he came to a dead wall or was stopped by an iron railing, and felt that the means of escape might possibly present themselves in their own good time, but that to anticipate them was hopeless. Instances were known of people who, being asked to dine at Todgers’s, had travelled round and round for a weary time, with its very chimney-pots in view; and finding it, at last, impossible of attainment, had gone home again with a gentle melancholy on their spirits, tranquil and uncomplaining. Nobody had ever found Todgers’s on a verbal direction, though given within a few minutes’ walk of it. Cautious emigrants from Scotland or the North of England had been known to reach it safely, by impressing a charity-boy, town-bred, and bringing him along with them; or by clinging tenaciously to the postman; but these were rare exceptions, and only went to prove the rule that Todgers’s was in a labyrinth, whereof the mystery was known but to a chosen few.

Several fruit-brokers had their marts near Todgers’s; and one of the first impressions wrought upon the stranger’s senses was of oranges—of damaged oranges—with blue and green bruises on them, festering in boxes, or mouldering away in cellars. All day long, a stream of porters from the wharves beside the river, each bearing on his back a bursting chest of oranges, poured slowly through the narrow passages; while underneath the archway by the public-house, the knots of those who rested and regaled within, were piled from morning until night. Strange solitary pumps were found near Todgers’s hiding themselves for the most part in blind alleys, and keeping company with fire-ladders. There were churches also by dozens, with many a ghostly little churchyard, all overgrown with such straggling vegetation as springs up spontaneously from damp, and graves, and rubbish. In some of these dingy resting-places which bore much the same analogy to green churchyards, as the pots of earth for mignonette and wall-flower in the windows overlooking them did to rustic gardens, there were trees; tall trees; still putting forth their leaves in each succeeding year, with such a languishing remembrance of their kind (so one might fancy, looking on their sickly boughs) as birds in cages have of theirs. Here, paralysed old watchmen guarded the bodies of the dead at night, year after year, until at last they joined that solemn brotherhood; and, saving that they slept below the ground a sounder sleep than even they had ever known above it, and were shut up in another kind of box, their condition can hardly be said to have undergone any material change when they, in turn, were watched themselves.

Among the narrow thoroughfares at hand, there lingered, here and there, an ancient doorway of carved oak, from which, of old, the sounds of revelry and feasting often came; but now these mansions, only used for storehouses, were dark and dull, and, being filled with wool, and cotton, and the like—such heavy merchandise as stifles sound and stops the throat of echo—had an air of palpable deadness about them which, added to their silence and desertion, made them very grim. In like manner, there were gloomy courtyards in these parts, into which few but belated wayfarers ever strayed, and where vast bags and packs of goods, upward or downward bound, were for ever dangling between heaven and earth from lofty cranes There were more trucks near Todgers’s than you would suppose whole city could ever need; not active trucks, but a vagabond race, for ever lounging in the narrow lanes before their masters’ doors and stopping up the pass; so that when a stray hackney-coach or lumbering waggon came that way, they were the cause of such an uproar as enlivened the whole neighbourhood, and made the bells in the next churchtower vibrate again. In the throats and maws of dark no-thoroughfares near Todgers’s, individual wine-merchants and wholesale dealers in grocery-ware had perfect little towns of their own; and, deep among the foundations of these buildings, the ground was undermined and burrowed out into stables, where cart-horses, troubled by rats, might be heard on a quiet Sunday rattling their halters, as disturbed spirits in tales of haunted houses are said to clank their chains.

To tell of half the queer old taverns that had a drowsy and secret existence near Todgers’s, would fill a goodly book; while a second volume no less capacious might be devoted to an account of the quaint old guests who frequented their dimly lighted parlours. These were, in general, ancient inhabitants of that region; born, and bred there from boyhood, who had long since become wheezy and asthmatical, and short of breath, except in the article of story-telling; in which respect they were still marvellously long-winded. These gentry were much opposed to steam and all new-fangled ways, and held ballooning to be sinful, and deplored the degeneracy of the times; which that particular member of each little club who kept the keys of the nearest church, professionally, always attributed to the prevalence of dissent and irreligion; though the major part of the company inclined to the belief that virtue went out with hair-powder, and that Old England’s greatness had decayed amain with barbers.

As to Todgers’s itself—speaking of it only as a house in that neighbourhood, and making no reference to its merits as a commercial boarding establishment—it was worthy to stand where it did. There was one staircase-window in it, at the side of the house, on the ground floor; which tradition said had not been opened for a hundred years at least, and which, abutting on an always dirty lane, was so begrimed and coated with a century’s mud, that no one pane of glass could possibly fall out, though all were cracked and broken twenty times. But the grand mystery of Todgers’s was the cellarage, approachable only by a little back door and a rusty grating; which cellarage within the memory of man had had no connection with the house, but had always been the freehold property of somebody else, and was reported to be full of wealth; though in what shape—whether in silver, brass, or gold, or butts of wine, or casks of gun-powder—was matter of profound uncertainty and supreme indifference to Todgers’s and all its inmates.

The top of the house was worthy of notice. There was a sort of terrace on the roof, with posts and fragments of rotten lines, once intended to dry clothes upon; and there were two or three tea-chests out there, full of earth, with forgotten plants in them, like old walking-sticks. Whoever climbed to this observatory, was stunned at first from having knocked his head against the little door in coming out; and after that, was for the moment choked from having looked perforce, straight down the kitchen chimney; but these two stages over, there were things to gaze at from the top of Todgers’s, well worth your seeing too. For first and foremost, if the day were bright, you observed upon the house-tops, stretching far away, a long dark path; the shadow of the Monument; and turning round, the tall original was close beside you, with every hair erect upon his golden head, as if the doings of the city frightened him. Then there were steeples, towers, belfries, shining vanes, and masts of ships; a very forest. Gables, housetops, garret-windows, wilderness upon wilderness. Smoke and noise enough for all the world at once.

After the first glance, there were slight features in the midst of this crowd of objects, which sprung out from the mass without any reason, as it were, and took hold of the attention whether the spectator would or no. Thus, the revolving chimney-pots on one great stack of buildings seemed to be turning gravely to each other every now and then, and whispering the result of their separate observation of what was going on below. Others, of a crook-backed shape, appeared to be maliciously holding themselves askew, that they might shut the prospect out and baffle Todgers’s. The man who was mending a pen at an upper window over the way, became of paramount importance in the scene, and made a blank in it, ridiculously disproportionate in its extent, when he retired. The gambols of a piece of cloth upon the dyer’s pole had far more interest for the moment than all the changing motion of the crowd. Yet even while the looker-on felt angry with himself for this, and wondered how it was, the tumult swelled into a roar; the hosts of objects seemed to thicken and expand a hundredfold, and after gazing round him, quite scared, he turned into Todgers’s again, much more rapidly than he came out; and ten to one he told M. Todgers afterwards that if he hadn’t done so, he would certainly have come into the street by the shortest cut; that is to say, head-foremost.

So said the two Miss Pecksniffs, when they retired with Mrs Todgers from this place of espial, leaving the youthful porter to close the door and follow them downstairs; who, being of a playful temperament, and contemplating with a delight peculiar to his sex and time of life, any chance of dashing himself into small fragments, lingered behind to walk upon the parapet.

It being the second day of their stay in London, the Miss Pecksniffs and Mrs Todgers were by this time highly confidential, insomuch that the last-named lady had already communicated the particulars of three early disappointments of a tender nature; and had furthermore possessed her young friends with a general summary of the life, conduct, and character of Mr Todgers. Who, it seemed, had cut his matrimonial career rather short, by unlawfully running away from his happiness, and establishing himself in foreign countries as a bachelor.

‘Your pa was once a little particular in his attentions, my dears,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘but to be your ma was too much happiness denied me. You’d hardly know who this was done for, perhaps?’

She called their attention to an oval miniature, like a little blister, which was tacked up over the kettle-holder, and in which there was a dreamy shadowing forth of her own visage.

‘It’s a speaking likeness!’ cried the two Miss Pecksniffs.

‘It was considered so once,’ said Mrs Todgers, warming herself in a gentlemanly manner at the fire; ‘but I hardly thought you would have known it, my loves.’

They would have known it anywhere. If they could have met with it in the street, or seen it in a shop window, they would have cried ‘Good gracious! Mrs Todgers!’

‘Presiding over an establishment like this, makes sad havoc with the features, my dear Miss Pecksniffs,’ said Mrs Todgers. ‘The gravy alone, is enough to add twenty years to one’s age, I do assure you.’

‘Lor’!’ cried the two Miss Pecksniffs.

‘The anxiety of that one item, my dears,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘keeps the mind continually upon the stretch. There is no such passion in human nature, as the passion for gravy among commercial gentlemen. It’s nothing to say a joint won’t yield—a whole animal wouldn’t yield—the amount of gravy they expect each day at dinner. And what I have undergone in consequence,’ cried Mrs Todgers, raising her eyes and shaking her head, ‘no one would believe!’

‘Just like Mr Pinch, Merry!’ said Charity. ‘We have always noticed it in him, you remember?’

‘Yes, my dear,’ giggled Merry, ‘but we have never given it him, you know.’

‘You, my dears, having to deal with your pa’s pupils who can’t help themselves, are able to take your own way,’ said Mrs Todgers; ‘but in a commercial establishment, where any gentleman may say any Saturday evening, “Mrs Todgers, this day week we part, in consequence of the cheese,” it is not so easy to preserve a pleasant understanding. Your pa was kind enough,’ added the good lady, ‘to invite me to take a ride with you to-day; and I think he mentioned that you were going to call upon Miss Pinch. Any relation to the gentleman you were speaking of just now, Miss Pecksniff?’

‘For goodness sake, Mrs Todgers,’ interposed the lively Merry, ‘don’t call him a gentleman. My dear Cherry, Pinch a gentleman! The idea!’

‘What a wicked girl you are!’ cried Mrs Todgers, embracing her with great affection. ‘You are quite a quiz, I do declare! My dear Miss Pecksniff, what a happiness your sister’s spirits must be to your pa and self!’

‘He’s the most hideous, goggle-eyed creature, Mrs Todgers, in existence,’ resumed Merry: ‘quite an ogre. The ugliest, awkwardest frightfullest being, you can imagine. This is his sister, so I leave you to suppose what SHE is. I shall be obliged to laugh outright, I know I shall!’ cried the charming girl, ‘I never shall be able to keep my countenance. The notion of a Miss Pinch presuming to exist at all is sufficient to kill one, but to see her—oh my stars!’

Mrs Todgers laughed immensely at the dear love’s humour, and declared she was quite afraid of her, that she was. She was so very severe.

‘Who is severe?’ cried a voice at the door. ‘There is no such thing as severity in our family, I hope!’ And then Mr Pecksniff peeped smilingly into the room, and said, ‘May I come in, Mrs Todgers?’

Mrs Todgers almost screamed, for the little door of communication between that room and the inner one being wide open, there was a full disclosure of the sofa bedstead in all its monstrous impropriety. But she had the presence of mind to close this portal in the twinkling of an eye; and having done so, said, though not without confusion, ‘Oh yes, Mr Pecksniff, you can come in, if you please.’

‘How are we to-day,’ said Mr Pecksniff, jocosely, ‘and what are our plans? Are we ready to go and see Tom Pinch’s sister? Ha, ha, ha! Poor Thomas Pinch!’

‘Are we ready,’ returned Mrs Todgers, nodding her head with mysterious intelligence, ‘to send a favourable reply to Mr Jinkins’s round-robin? That’s the first question, Mr Pecksniff.’

‘Why Mr Jinkins’s robin, my dear madam?’ asked Mr Pecksniff, putting one arm round Mercy, and the other round Mrs Todgers, whom he seemed, in the abstraction of the moment, to mistake for Charity. ‘Why Mr Jinkins’s?’

‘Because he began to get it up, and indeed always takes the lead in the house,’ said Mrs Todgers, playfully. ‘That’s why, sir.’

‘Jinkins is a man of superior talents,’ observed Mr Pecksniff. ‘I have conceived a great regard for Jinkins. I take Jinkins’s desire to pay polite attention to my daughters, as an additional proof of the friendly feeling of Jinkins, Mrs Todgers.’

‘Well now,’ returned that lady, ‘having said so much, you must say the rest, Mr Pecksniff; so tell the dear young ladies all about it.’

With these words she gently eluded Mr Pecksniff’s grasp, and took Miss Charity into her own embrace; though whether she was impelled to this proceeding solely by the irrepressible affection she had conceived for that young lady, or whether it had any reference to a lowering, not to say distinctly spiteful expression which had been visible in her face for some moments, has never been exactly ascertained. Be this as it may, Mr Pecksniff went on to inform his daughters of the purport and history of the round-robin aforesaid, which was in brief, that the commercial gentlemen who helped to make up the sum and substance of that noun of multitude signifying many, called Todgers’s, desired the honour of their presence at the general table, so long as they remained in the house, and besought that they would grace the board at dinner-time next day, the same being Sunday. He further said, that Mrs Todgers being a consenting party to this invitation, he was willing, for his part, to accept it; and so left them that he might write his gracious answer, the while they armed themselves with their best bonnets for the utter defeat and overthrow of Miss Pinch.

Tom Pinch’s sister was governess in a family, a lofty family; perhaps the wealthiest brass and copper founders’ family known to mankind. They lived at Camberwell; in a house so big and fierce, that its mere outside, like the outside of a giant’s castle, struck terror into vulgar minds and made bold persons quail. There was a great front gate; with a great bell, whose handle was in itself a note of admiration; and a great lodge; which being close to the house, rather spoilt the look-out certainly but made the look-in tremendous. At this entry, a great porter kept constant watch and ward; and when he gave the visitor high leave to pass, he rang a second great bell, responsive to whose note a great footman appeared in due time at the great halldoor, with such great tags upon his liveried shoulder that he was perpetually entangling and hooking himself among the chairs and tables, and led a life of torment which could scarcely have been surpassed, if he had been a blue-bottle in a world of cobwebs.

To this mansion Mr Pecksniff, accompanied by his daughters and Mrs Todgers, drove gallantly in a one-horse fly. The foregoing ceremonies having been all performed, they were ushered into the house; and so, by degrees, they got at last into a small room with books in it, where Mr Pinch’s sister was at that moment instructing her eldest pupil; to wit, a premature little woman of thirteen years old, who had already arrived at such a pitch of whalebone and education that she had nothing girlish about her, which was a source of great rejoicing to all her relations and friends.

‘Visitors for Miss Pinch!’ said the footman. He must have been an ingenious young man, for he said it very cleverly; with a nice discrimination between the cold respect with which he would have announced visitors to the family, and the warm personal interest with which he would have announced visitors to the cook.

‘Visitors for Miss Pinch!’

Miss Pinch rose hastily; with such tokens of agitation as plainly declared that her list of callers was not numerous. At the same time, the little pupil became alarmingly upright, and prepared herself to take mental notes of all that might be said and done. For the lady of the establishment was curious in the natural history and habits of the animal called Governess, and encouraged her daughters to report thereon whenever occasion served; which was, in reference to all parties concerned, very laudable, improving, and pleasant.

It is a melancholy fact; but it must be related, that Mr Pinch’s sister was not at all ugly. On the contrary, she had a good face; a very mild and prepossessing face; and a pretty little figure—slight and short, but remarkable for its neatness. There was something of her brother, much of him indeed, in a certain gentleness of manner, and in her look of timid trustfulness; but she was so far from being a fright, or a dowdy, or a horror, or anything else, predicted by the two Miss Pecksniffs, that those young ladies naturally regarded her with great indignation, feeling that this was by no means what they had come to see.

Miss Mercy, as having the larger share of gaiety, bore up the best against this disappointment, and carried it off, in outward show at least, with a titter; but her sister, not caring to hide her disdain, expressed it pretty openly in her looks. As to Mrs Todgers, she leaned on Mr Pecksniff’s arm and preserved a kind of genteel grimness, suitable to any state of mind, and involving any shade of opinion.

‘Don’t be alarmed, Miss Pinch,’ said Mr Pecksniff, taking her hand condescendingly in one of his, and patting it with the other. ‘I have called to see you, in pursuance of a promise given to your brother, Thomas Pinch. My name—compose yourself, Miss Pinch—is Pecksniff.’

The good man emphasised these words as though he would have said, ‘You see in me, young person, the benefactor of your race; the patron of your house; the preserver of your brother, who is fed with manna daily from my table; and in right of whom there is a considerable balance in my favour at present standing in the books beyond the sky. But I have no pride, for I can afford to do without it!’

The poor girl felt it all as if it had been Gospel truth. Her brother writing in the fullness of his simple heart, had often told her so, and how much more! As Mr Pecksniff ceased to speak, she hung her head, and dropped a tear upon his hand.

‘Oh very well, Miss Pinch!’ thought the sharp pupil, ‘crying before strangers, as if you didn’t like the situation!’

‘Thomas is well,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘and sends his love and this letter. I cannot say, poor fellow, that he will ever be distinguished in our profession; but he has the will to do well, which is the next thing to having the power; and, therefore, we must bear with him. Eh?’

‘I know he has the will, sir,’ said Tom Pinch’s sister, ‘and I know how kindly and considerately you cherish it, for which neither he nor I can ever be grateful enough, as we very often say in writing to each other. The young ladies too,’ she added, glancing gratefully at his two daughters, ‘I know how much we owe to them.’

‘My dears,’ said Mr Pecksniff, turning to them with a smile: ‘Thomas’s sister is saying something you will be glad to hear, I think.’

‘We can’t take any merit to ourselves, papa!’ cried Cherry, as they both apprised Tom Pinch’s sister, with a curtsey, that they would feel obliged if she would keep her distance. ‘Mr Pinch’s being so well provided for is owing to you alone, and we can only say how glad we are to hear that he is as grateful as he ought to be.’

‘Oh very well, Miss Pinch!’ thought the pupil again. ‘Got a grateful brother, living on other people’s kindness!’

‘It was very kind of you,’ said Tom Pinch’s sister, with Tom’s own simplicity and Tom’s own smile, ‘to come here; very kind indeed; though how great a kindness you have done me in gratifying my wish to see you, and to thank you with my own lips, you, who make so light of benefits conferred, can scarcely think.’

‘Very grateful; very pleasant; very proper,’ murmured Mr Pecksniff.

‘It makes me happy too,’ said Ruth Pinch, who now that her first surprise was over, had a chatty, cheerful way with her, and a single-hearted desire to look upon the best side of everything, which was the very moral and image of Tom; ‘very happy to think that you will be able to tell him how more than comfortably I am situated here, and how unnecessary it is that he should ever waste a regret on my being cast upon my own resources. Dear me! So long as I heard that he was happy, and he heard that I was,’ said Tom’s sister, ‘we could both bear, without one impatient or complaining thought, a great deal more than ever we have had to endure, I am very certain.’ And if ever the plain truth were spoken on this occasionally false earth, Tom’s sister spoke it when she said that.

‘Ah!’ cried Mr Pecksniff whose eyes had in the meantime wandered to the pupil; ‘certainly. And how do YOU do, my very interesting child?’

‘Quite well, I thank you, sir,’ replied that frosty innocent.

‘A sweet face this, my dears,’ said Mr Pecksniff, turning to his daughters. ‘A charming manner!’

Both young ladies had been in ecstasies with the scion of a wealthy house (through whom the nearest road and shortest cut to her parents might be supposed to lie) from the first. Mrs Todgers vowed that anything one quarter so angelic she had never seen. ‘She wanted but a pair of wings, a dear,’ said that good woman, ‘to be a young syrup’—meaning, possibly, young sylph, or seraph.

‘If you will give that to your distinguished parents, my amiable little friend,’ said Mr Pecksniff, producing one of his professional cards, ‘and will say that I and my daughters—’

‘And Mrs Todgers, pa,’ said Merry.

‘And Mrs Todgers, of London,’ added Mr Pecksniff; ‘that I, and my daughters, and Mrs Todgers, of London, did not intrude upon them, as our object simply was to take some notice of Miss Pinch, whose brother is a young man in my employment; but that I could not leave this very chaste mansion, without adding my humble tribute, as an Architect, to the correctness and elegance of the owner’s taste, and to his just appreciation of that beautiful art to the cultivation of which I have devoted a life, and to the promotion of whose glory and advancement I have sacrified a—a fortune—I shall be very much obliged to you.’

‘Missis’s compliments to Miss Pinch,’ said the footman, suddenly appearing, and speaking in exactly the same key as before, ‘and begs to know wot my young lady is a-learning of just now.’

‘Oh!’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘Here is the young man. HE will take the card. With my compliments, if you please, young man. My dears, we are interrupting the studies. Let us go.’

Some confusion was occasioned for an instant by Mrs Todgers’s unstrapping her little flat hand-basket, and hurriedly entrusting the ‘young man’ with one of her own cards, which, in addition to certain detailed information relative to the terms of the commercial establishment, bore a foot-note to the effect that M. T. took that opportunity of thanking those gentlemen who had honoured her with their favours, and begged they would have the goodness, if satisfied with the table, to recommend her to their friends. But Mr Pecksniff, with admirable presence of mind, recovered this document, and buttoned it up in his own pocket.

Then he said to Miss Pinch—with more condescension and kindness than ever, for it was desirable the footman should expressly understand that they were not friends of hers, but patrons:

‘Good morning. Good-bye. God bless you! You may depend upon my continued protection of your brother Thomas. Keep your mind quite at ease, Miss Pinch!’

‘Thank you,’ said Tom’s sister heartily; ‘a thousand times.’

‘Not at all,’ he retorted, patting her gently on the head. ‘Don’t mention it. You will make me angry if you do. My sweet child’—to the pupil—‘farewell! That fairy creature,’ said Mr Pecksniff, looking in his pensive mood hard at the footman, as if he meant him, ‘has shed a vision on my path, refulgent in its nature, and not easily to be obliterated. My dears, are you ready?’

They were not quite ready yet, for they were still caressing the pupil. But they tore themselves away at length; and sweeping past Miss Pinch with each a haughty inclination of the head and a curtsey strangled in its birth, flounced into the passage.

The young man had rather a long job in showing them out; for Mr Pecksniff’s delight in the tastefulness of the house was such that he could not help often stopping (particularly when they were near the parlour door) and giving it expression, in a loud voice and very learned terms. Indeed, he delivered, between the study and the hall, a familiar exposition of the whole science of architecture as applied to dwelling-houses, and was yet in the freshness of his eloquence when they reached the garden.

‘If you look,’ said Mr Pecksniff, backing from the steps, with his head on one side and his eyes half-shut that he might the better take in the proportions of the exterior: ‘If you look, my dears, at the cornice which supports the roof, and observe the airiness of its construction, especially where it sweeps the southern angle of the building, you will feel with me—How do you do, sir? I hope you’re well?’

Interrupting himself with these words, he very politely bowed to a middle-aged gentleman at an upper window, to whom he spoke—not because the gentleman could hear him (for he certainly could not), but as an appropriate accompaniment to his salutation.

‘I have no doubt, my dears,’ said Mr Pecksniff, feigning to point out other beauties with his hand, ‘that this is the proprietor. I should be glad to know him. It might lead to something. Is he looking this way, Charity?’

‘He is opening the window pa!’

‘Ha, ha!’ cried Mr Pecksniff softly. ‘All right! He has found I’m professional. He heard me inside just now, I have no doubt. Don’t look! With regard to the fluted pillars in the portico, my dears—’

‘Hallo!’ cried the gentleman.

‘Sir, your servant!’ said Mr Pecksniff, taking off his hat. ‘I am proud to make your acquaintance.’

‘Come off the grass, will you!’ roared the gentleman.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, doubtful of his having heard aright. ‘Did you—?’

‘Come off the grass!’ repeated the gentleman, warmly.

‘We are unwilling to intrude, sir,’ Mr Pecksniff smilingly began.

‘But you ARE intruding,’ returned the other, ‘unwarrantably intruding. Trespassing. You see a gravel walk, don’t you? What do you think it’s meant for? Open the gate there! Show that party out!’

With that he clapped down the window again, and disappeared.

Mr Pecksniff put on his hat, and walked with great deliberation and in profound silence to the fly, gazing at the clouds as he went, with great interest. After helping his daughters and Mrs Todgers into that conveyance, he stood looking at it for some moments, as if he were not quite certain whether it was a carriage or a temple; but having settled this point in his mind, he got into his place, spread his hands out on his knees, and smiled upon the three beholders.

But his daughters, less tranquil-minded, burst into a torrent of indignation. This came, they said, of cherishing such creatures as the Pinches. This came of lowering themselves to their level. This came of putting themselves in the humiliating position of seeming to know such bold, audacious, cunning, dreadful girls as that. They had expected this. They had predicted it to Mrs Todgers, as she (Todgers) could depone, that very morning. To this, they added, that the owner of the house, supposing them to be Miss Pinch’s friends, had acted, in their opinion, quite correctly, and had done no more than, under such circumstances, might reasonably have been expected. To that they added (with a trifling inconsistency), that he was a brute and a bear; and then they merged into a flood of tears, which swept away all wandering epithets before it.

Perhaps Miss Pinch was scarcely so much to blame in the matter as the Seraph, who, immediately on the withdrawal of the visitors, had hastened to report them at head-quarters, with a full account of their having presumptuously charged her with the delivery of a message afterwards consigned to the footman; which outrage, taken in conjunction with Mr Pecksniff’s unobtrusive remarks on the establishment, might possibly have had some share in their dismissal. Poor Miss Pinch, however, had to bear the brunt of it with both parties; being so severely taken to task by the Seraph’s mother for having such vulgar acquaintances, that she was fain to retire to her own room in tears, which her natural cheerfulness and submission, and the delight of having seen Mr Pecksniff, and having received a letter from her brother, were at first insufficient to repress.

As to Mr Pecksniff, he told them in the fly, that a good action was its own reward; and rather gave them to understand, that if he could have been kicked in such a cause, he would have liked it all the better. But this was no comfort to the young ladies, who scolded violently the whole way back, and even exhibited, more than once, a keen desire to attack the devoted Mrs Todgers; on whose personal appearance, but particularly on whose offending card and hand-basket, they were secretly inclined to lay the blame of half their failure.

Todgers’s was in a great bustle that evening, partly owing to some additional domestic preparations for the morrow, and partly to the excitement always inseparable in that house from Saturday night, when every gentleman’s linen arrived at a different hour in its own little bundle, with his private account pinned on the outside. There was always a great clinking of pattens downstairs, too, until midnight or so, on Saturdays; together with a frequent gleaming of mysterious lights in the area; much working at the pump; and a constant jangling of the iron handle of the pail. Shrill altercations from time to time arose between Mrs Todgers and unknown females in remote back kitchens; and sounds were occasionally heard, indicative of small articles of iron mongery and hardware being thrown at the boy. It was the custom of that youth on Saturdays, to roll up his shirt sleeves to his shoulders, and pervade all parts of the house in an apron of coarse green baize; moreover, he was more strongly tempted on Saturdays than on other days (it being a busy time), to make excursive bolts into the neighbouring alleys when he answered the door, and there to play at leap-frog and other sports with vagrant lads, until pursued and brought back by the hair of his head or the lobe of his ear; thus he was quite a conspicuous feature among the peculiar incidents of the last day in the week at Todgers’s.

He was especially so on this particular Saturday evening, and honoured the Miss Pecksniffs with a deal of notice; seldom passing the door of Mrs Todgers’s private room, where they sat alone before the fire, working by the light of a solitary candle, without putting in his head and greeting them with some such compliments as, ‘There you are agin!’ ‘An’t it nice?’—and similar humorous attentions.

‘I say,’ he whispered, stopping in one of his journeys to and fro, ‘young ladies, there’s soup to-morrow. She’s a-making it now. An’t she a-putting in the water? Oh! not at all neither!’

In the course of answering another knock, he thrust in his head again.

‘I say! There’s fowls to-morrow. Not skinny ones. Oh no!’

Presently he called through the key-hole:

‘There’s a fish to-morrow. Just come. Don’t eat none of him!’ And, with this special warning, vanished again.

By-and-bye, he returned to lay the cloth for supper; it having been arranged between Mrs Todgers and the young ladies, that they should partake of an exclusive veal-cutlet together in the privacy of that apartment. He entertained them on this occasion by thrusting the lighted candle into his mouth, and exhibiting his face in a state of transparency; after the performance of which feat, he went on with his professional duties; brightening every knife as he laid it on the table, by breathing on the blade and afterwards polishing the same on the apron already mentioned. When he had completed his preparations, he grinned at the sisters, and expressed his belief that the approaching collation would be of ‘rather a spicy sort.’

‘Will it be long, before it’s ready, Bailey?’ asked Mercy.

‘No,’ said Bailey, ‘it IS cooked. When I come up, she was dodging among the tender pieces with a fork, and eating of ‘em.’

But he had scarcely achieved the utterance of these words, when he received a manual compliment on the head, which sent him staggering against the wall; and Mrs Todgers, dish in hand, stood indignantly before him.

‘Oh you little villain!’ said that lady. ‘Oh you bad, false boy!’

‘No worse than yerself,’ retorted Bailey, guarding his head, on a principle invented by Mr Thomas Cribb. ‘Ah! Come now! Do that again, will yer?’

‘He’s the most dreadful child,’ said Mrs Todgers, setting down the dish, ‘I ever had to deal with. The gentlemen spoil him to that extent, and teach him such things, that I’m afraid nothing but hanging will ever do him any good.’

‘Won’t it!’ cried Bailey. ‘Oh! Yes! Wot do you go a-lowerin the table-beer for then, and destroying my constitooshun?’

‘Go downstairs, you vicious boy,’ said Mrs Todgers, holding the door open. ‘Do you hear me? Go along!’

After two or three dexterous feints, he went, and was seen no more that night, save once, when he brought up some tumblers and hot water, and much disturbed the two Miss Pecksniffs by squinting hideously behind the back of the unconscious Mrs Todgers. Having done this justice to his wounded feelings, he retired underground; where, in company with a swarm of black beetles and a kitchen candle, he employed his faculties in cleaning boots and brushing clothes until the night was far advanced.

Benjamin was supposed to be the real name of this young retainer but he was known by a great variety of names. Benjamin, for instance, had been converted into Uncle Ben, and that again had been corrupted into Uncle; which, by an easy transition, had again passed into Barnwell, in memory of the celebrated relative in that degree who was shot by his nephew George, while meditating in his garden at Camberwell. The gentlemen at Todgers’s had a merry habit, too, of bestowing upon him, for the time being, the name of any notorious malefactor or minister; and sometimes when current events were flat they even sought the pages of history for these distinctions; as Mr Pitt, Young Brownrigg, and the like. At the period of which we write, he was generally known among the gentlemen as Bailey junior; a name bestowed upon him in contradistinction, perhaps, to Old Bailey; and possibly as involving the recollection of an unfortunate lady of the same name, who perished by her own hand early in life, and has been immortalised in a ballad.

The usual Sunday dinner-hour at Todgers’s was two o’clock—a suitable time, it was considered for all parties; convenient to Mrs Todgers, on account of the bakers; and convenient to the gentlemen with reference to their afternoon engagements. But on the Sunday which was to introduce the two Miss Pecksniffs to a full knowledge of Todgers’s and its society, the dinner was postponed until five, in order that everything might be as genteel as the occasion demanded.

When the hour drew nigh, Bailey junior, testifying great excitement, appeared in a complete suit of cast-off clothes several sizes too large for him, and in particular, mounted a clean shirt of such extraordinary magnitude, that one of the gentlemen (remarkable for his ready wit) called him ‘collars’ on the spot. At about a quarter before five, a deputation, consisting of Mr Jinkins, and another gentleman, whose name was Gander, knocked at the door of Mrs Todgers’s room, and, being formally introduced to the two Miss Pecksniffs by their parent who was in waiting, besought the honour of conducting them upstairs.

The drawing-room at Todgers’s was out of the common style; so much so indeed, that you would hardly have taken it to be a drawingroom, unless you were told so by somebody who was in the secret. It was floor-clothed all over; and the ceiling, including a great beam in the middle, was papered. Besides the three little windows, with seats in them, commanding the opposite archway, there was another window looking point blank, without any compromise at all about it into Jinkins’s bedroom; and high up, all along one side of the wall was a strip of panes of glass, two-deep, giving light to the staircase. There were the oddest closets possible, with little casements in them like eight-day clocks, lurking in the wainscot and taking the shape of the stairs; and the very door itself (which was painted black) had two great glass eyes in its forehead, with an inquisitive green pupil in the middle of each.

Here the gentlemen were all assembled. There was a general cry of ‘Hear, hear!’ and ‘Bravo Jink!’ when Mr Jinkins appeared with Charity on his arm; which became quite rapturous as Mr Gander followed, escorting Mercy, and Mr Pecksniff brought up the rear with Mrs Todgers.

Then the presentations took place. They included a gentleman of a sporting turn, who propounded questions on jockey subjects to the editors of Sunday papers, which were regarded by his friends as rather stiff things to answer; and they included a gentleman of a theatrical turn, who had once entertained serious thoughts of ‘coming out,’ but had been kept in by the wickedness of human nature; and they included a gentleman of a debating turn, who was strong at speech-making; and a gentleman of a literary turn, who wrote squibs upon the rest, and knew the weak side of everybody’s character but his own. There was a gentleman of a vocal turn, and a gentleman of a smoking turn, and a gentleman of a convivial turn; some of the gentlemen had a turn for whist, and a large proportion of the gentlemen had a strong turn for billiards and betting. They had all, it may be presumed, a turn for business; being all commercially employed in one way or other; and had, every one in his own way, a decided turn for pleasure to boot. Mr Jinkins was of a fashionable turn; being a regular frequenter of the Parks on Sundays, and knowing a great many carriages by sight. He spoke mysteriously, too, of splendid women, and was suspected of having once committed himself with a Countess. Mr Gander was of a witty turn being indeed the gentleman who had originated the sally about ‘collars;’ which sparkling pleasantry was now retailed from mouth to mouth, under the title of Gander’s Last, and was received in all parts of the room with great applause. Mr Jinkins it may be added, was much the oldest of the party; being a fish-salesman’s book-keeper, aged forty. He was the oldest boarder also; and in right of his double seniority, took the lead in the house, as Mrs Todgers had already said.

There was considerable delay in the production of dinner, and poor Mrs Todgers, being reproached in confidence by Jinkins, slipped in and out, at least twenty times to see about it; always coming back as though she had no such thing upon her mind, and hadn’t been out at all. But there was no hitch in the conversation nevertheless; for one gentleman, who travelled in the perfumery line, exhibited an interesting nick-nack, in the way of a remarkable cake of shaving soap which he had lately met with in Germany; and the gentleman of a literary turn repeated (by desire) some sarcastic stanzas he had recently produced on the freezing of the tank at the back of the house. These amusements, with the miscellaneous conversation arising out of them, passed the time splendidly, until dinner was announced by Bailey junior in these terms:

‘The wittles is up!’

On which notice they immediately descended to the banquet-hall; some of the more facetious spirits in the rear taking down gentlemen as if they were ladies, in imitation of the fortunate possessors of the two Miss Pecksniffs.

Mr Pecksniff said grace—a short and pious grace, involving a blessing on the appetites of those present, and committing all persons who had nothing to eat, to the care of Providence; whose business (so said the grace, in effect) it clearly was, to look after them. This done, they fell to with less ceremony than appetite; the table groaning beneath the weight, not only of the delicacies whereof the Miss Pecksniffs had been previously forewarned, but of boiled beef, roast veal, bacon, pies and abundance of such heavy vegetables as are favourably known to housekeepers for their satisfying qualities. Besides which, there were bottles of stout, bottles of wine, bottles of ale, and divers other strong drinks, native and foreign.

All this was highly agreeable to the two Miss Pecksniffs, who were in immense request; sitting one on either hand of Mr Jinkins at the bottom of the table; and who were called upon to take wine with some new admirer every minute. They had hardly ever felt so pleasant, and so full of conversation, in their lives; Mercy, in particular, was uncommonly brilliant, and said so many good things in the way of lively repartee that she was looked upon as a prodigy. ‘In short,’ as that young lady observed, ‘they felt now, indeed, that they were in London, and for the first time too.’

Their young friend Bailey sympathized in these feelings to the fullest extent, and, abating nothing of his patronage, gave them every encouragement in his power; favouring them, when the general attention was diverted from his proceedings, with many nods and winks and other tokens of recognition, and occasionally touching his nose with a corkscrew, as if to express the Bacchanalian character of the meeting. In truth, perhaps even the spirits of the two Miss Pecksniffs, and the hungry watchfulness of Mrs Todgers, were less worthy of note than the proceedings of this remarkable boy, whom nothing disconcerted or put out of his way. If any piece of crockery, a dish or otherwise, chanced to slip through his hands (which happened once or twice), he let it go with perfect good breeding, and never added to the painful emotions of the company by exhibiting the least regret. Nor did he, by hurrying to and fro, disturb the repose of the assembly, as many well-trained servants do; on the contrary, feeling the hopelessness of waiting upon so large a party, he left the gentlemen to help themselves to what they wanted, and seldom stirred from behind Mr Jinkins’s chair, where, with his hands in his pockets, and his legs planted pretty wide apart, he led the laughter, and enjoyed the conversation.

The dessert was splendid. No waiting either. The pudding-plates had been washed in a little tub outside the door while cheese was on, and though they were moist and warm with friction, still there they were again, up to the mark, and true to time. Quarts of almonds; dozens of oranges; pounds of raisins; stacks of biffins; soup-plates full of nuts.—Oh, Todgers’s could do it when it chose! mind that.

Then more wine came on; red wines and white wines; and a large china bowl of punch, brewed by the gentleman of a convivial turn, who adjured the Miss Pecksniffs not to be despondent on account of its dimensions, as there were materials in the house for the decoction of half a dozen more of the same size. Good gracious, how they laughed! How they coughed when they sipped it, because it was so strong; and how they laughed again when somebody vowed that but for its colour it might have been mistaken, in regard of its innocuous qualities, for new milk! What a shout of ‘No!’ burst from the gentlemen when they pathetically implored Mr Jinkins to suffer them to qualify it with hot water; and how blushingly, by little and little, did each of them drink her whole glassful, down to its very dregs!

Now comes the trying time. The sun, as Mr Jinkins says (gentlemanly creature, Jinkins—never at a loss!), is about to leave the firmament. ‘Miss Pecksniff!’ says Mrs Todgers, softly, ‘will you—?’ ‘Oh dear, no more, Mrs Todgers.’ Mrs Todgers rises; the two Miss Pecksniffs rise; all rise. Miss Mercy Pecksniff looks downward for her scarf. Where is it? Dear me, where CAN it be? Sweet girl, she has it on; not on her fair neck, but loose upon her flowing figure. A dozen hands assist her. She is all confusion. The youngest gentleman in company thirsts to murder Jinkins. She skips and joins her sister at the door. Her sister has her arm about the waist of Mrs Todgers. She winds her arm around her sister. Diana, what a picture! The last things visible are a shape and a skip. ‘Gentlemen, let us drink the ladies!’

The enthusiasm is tremendous. The gentleman of a debating turn rises in the midst, and suddenly lets loose a tide of eloquence which bears down everything before it. He is reminded of a toast—a toast to which they will respond. There is an individual present; he has him in his eye; to whom they owe a debt of gratitude. He repeats it—a debt of gratitude. Their rugged natures have been softened and ameliorated that day, by the society of lovely woman. There is a gentleman in company whom two accomplished and delightful females regard with veneration, as the fountain of their existence. Yes, when yet the two Miss Pecksniffs lisped in language scarce intelligible, they called that individual ‘Father!’ There is great applause. He gives them ‘Mr Pecksniff, and God bless him!’ They all shake hands with Mr Pecksniff, as they drink the toast. The youngest gentleman in company does so with a thrill; for he feels that a mysterious influence pervades the man who claims that being in the pink scarf for his daughter.

What saith Mr Pecksniff in reply? Or rather let the question be, What leaves he unsaid? Nothing. More punch is called for, and produced, and drunk. Enthusiasm mounts still higher. Every man comes out freely in his own character. The gentleman of a theatrical turn recites. The vocal gentleman regales them with a song. Gander leaves the Gander of all former feasts whole leagues behind. HE rises to propose a toast. It is, The Father of Todgers’s. It is their common friend Jink—it is old Jink, if he may call him by that familiar and endearing appellation. The youngest gentleman in company utters a frantic negative. He won’t have it—he can’t bear it—it mustn’t be. But his depth of feeling is misunderstood. He is supposed to be a little elevated; and nobody heeds him.

Mr Jinkins thanks them from his heart. It is, by many degrees, the proudest day in his humble career. When he looks around him on the present occasion, he feels that he wants words in which to express his gratitude. One thing he will say. He hopes it has been shown that Todgers’s can be true to itself; and that, an opportunity arising, it can come out quite as strong as its neighbours—perhaps stronger. He reminds them, amidst thunders of encouragement, that they have heard of a somewhat similar establishment in Cannon Street; and that they have heard it praised. He wishes to draw no invidious comparisons; he would be the last man to do it; but when that Cannon Street establishment shall be able to produce such a combination of wit and beauty as has graced that board that day, and shall be able to serve up (all things considered) such a dinner as that of which they have just partaken, he will be happy to talk to it. Until then, gentlemen, he will stick to Todgers’s.

More punch, more enthusiasm, more speeches. Everybody’s health is drunk, saving the youngest gentleman’s in company. He sits apart, with his elbow on the back of a vacant chair, and glares disdainfully at Jinkins. Gander, in a convulsing speech, gives them the health of Bailey junior; hiccups are heard; and a glass is broken. Mr Jinkins feels that it is time to join the ladies. He proposes, as a final sentiment, Mrs Todgers. She is worthy to be remembered separately. Hear, hear. So she is; no doubt of it. They all find fault with her at other times; but every man feels now, that he could die in her defence.

They go upstairs, where they are not expected so soon; for Mrs Todgers is asleep, Miss Charity is adjusting her hair, and Mercy, who has made a sofa of one of the window-seats is in a gracefully recumbent attitude. She is rising hastily, when Mr Jinkins implores her, for all their sakes, not to stir; she looks too graceful and too lovely, he remarks, to be disturbed. She laughs, and yields, and fans herself, and drops her fan, and there is a rush to pick it up. Being now installed, by one consent, as the beauty of the party, she is cruel and capricious, and sends gentlemen on messages to other gentlemen, and forgets all about them before they can return with the answer, and invents a thousand tortures, rending their hearts to pieces. Bailey brings up the tea and coffee. There is a small cluster of admirers round Charity; but they are only those who cannot get near her sister. The youngest gentleman in company is pale, but collected, and still sits apart; for his spirit loves to hold communion with itself, and his soul recoils from noisy revellers. She has a consciousness of his presence and adoration. He sees it flashing sometimes in the corner of her eye. Have a care, Jinkins, ere you provoke a desperate man to frenzy!

Mr Pecksniff had followed his younger friends upstairs, and taken a chair at the side of Mrs Todgers. He had also spilt a cup of coffee over his legs without appearing to be aware of the circumstance; nor did he seem to know that there was muffin on his knee.

‘And how have they used you downstairs, sir?’ asked the hostess.

‘Their conduct has been such, my dear madam,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘as I can never think of without emotion, or remember without a tear. Oh, Mrs Todgers!’

‘My goodness!’ exclaimed that lady. ‘How low you are in your spirits, sir!’

‘I am a man, my dear madam,’ said Mr Pecksniff, shedding tears and speaking with an imperfect articulation, ‘but I am also a father. I am also a widower. My feelings, Mrs Todgers, will not consent to be entirely smothered, like the young children in the Tower. They are grown up, and the more I press the bolster on them, the more they look round the corner of it.’

He suddenly became conscious of the bit of muffin, and stared at it intently; shaking his head the while, in a forlorn and imbecile manner, as if he regarded it as his evil genius, and mildly reproached it.

‘She was beautiful, Mrs Todgers,’ he said, turning his glazed eye again upon her, without the least preliminary notice. ‘She had a small property.’

‘So I have heard,’ cried Mrs Todgers with great sympathy.

‘Those are her daughters,’ said Mr Pecksniff, pointing out the young ladies, with increased emotion.

Mrs Todgers had no doubt about it.

‘Mercy and Charity,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘Charity and Mercy. Not unholy names, I hope?’

‘Mr Pecksniff!’ cried Mrs Todgers. ‘What a ghastly smile! Are you ill, sir?’

He pressed his hand upon her arm, and answered in a solemn manner, and a faint voice, ‘Chronic.’

‘Cholic?’ cried the frightened Mrs Todgers.

‘Chron-ic,’ he repeated with some difficulty. ‘Chron-ic. A chronic disorder. I have been its victim from childhood. It is carrying me to my grave.’

‘Heaven forbid!’ cried Mrs Todgers.

‘Yes, it is,’ said Mr Pecksniff, reckless with despair. ‘I am rather glad of it, upon the whole. You are like her, Mrs Todgers.’

‘Don’t squeeze me so tight, pray, Mr Pecksniff. If any of the gentlemen should notice us.’

‘For her sake,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Permit me—in honour of her memory. For the sake of a voice from the tomb. You are VERY like her Mrs Todgers! What a world this is!’

‘Ah! Indeed you may say that!’ cried Mrs Todgers.

‘I’m afraid it is a vain and thoughtless world,’ said Mr Pecksniff, overflowing with despondency. ‘These young people about us. Oh! what sense have they of their responsibilities? None. Give me your other hand, Mrs Todgers.’

The lady hesitated, and said ‘she didn’t like.’

‘Has a voice from the grave no influence?’ said Mr Pecksniff, with, dismal tenderness. ‘This is irreligious! My dear creature.’

‘Hush!’ urged Mrs Todgers. ‘Really you mustn’t.’

‘It’s not me,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Don’t suppose it’s me; it’s the voice; it’s her voice.’

Mrs Pecksniff deceased, must have had an unusually thick and husky voice for a lady, and rather a stuttering voice, and to say the truth somewhat of a drunken voice, if it had ever borne much resemblance to that in which Mr Pecksniff spoke just then. But perhaps this was delusion on his part.

‘It has been a day of enjoyment, Mrs Todgers, but still it has been a day of torture. It has reminded me of my loneliness. What am I in the world?’

‘An excellent gentleman, Mr Pecksniff,’ said Mrs Todgers.

‘There is consolation in that too,’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘Am I?’

‘There is no better man living,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘I am sure.’

Mr Pecksniff smiled through his tears, and slightly shook his head. ‘You are very good,’ he said, ‘thank you. It is a great happiness to me, Mrs Todgers, to make young people happy. The happiness of my pupils is my chief object. I dote upon ‘em. They dote upon me too—sometimes.’

‘Always,’ said Mrs Todgers.

‘When they say they haven’t improved, ma’am,’ whispered Mr Pecksniff, looking at her with profound mystery, and motioning to her to advance her ear a little closer to his mouth. ‘When they say they haven’t improved, ma’am, and the premium was too high, they lie! I shouldn’t wish it to be mentioned; you will understand me; but I say to you as to an old friend, they lie.’

‘Base wretches they must be!’ said Mrs Todgers.

‘Madam,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘you are right. I respect you for that observation. A word in your ear. To Parents and Guardians. This is in confidence, Mrs Todgers?’

‘The strictest, of course!’ cried that lady.

‘To Parents and Guardians,’ repeated Mr Pecksniff. ‘An eligible opportunity now offers, which unites the advantages of the best practical architectural education with the comforts of a home, and the constant association with some, who, however humble their sphere and limited their capacity—observe!—are not unmindful of their moral responsibilities.’

Mrs Todgers looked a little puzzled to know what this might mean, as well she might; for it was, as the reader may perchance remember, Mr Pecksniff’s usual form of advertisement when he wanted a pupil; and seemed to have no particular reference, at present, to anything. But Mr Pecksniff held up his finger as a caution to her not to interrupt him.

‘Do you know any parent or guardian, Mrs Todgers,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘who desires to avail himself of such an opportunity for a young gentleman? An orphan would be preferred. Do you know of any orphan with three or four hundred pound?’

Mrs Todgers reflected, and shook her head.

‘When you hear of an orphan with three or four hundred pound,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘let that dear orphan’s friends apply, by letter post-paid, to S. P., Post Office, Salisbury. I don’t know who he is exactly. Don’t be alarmed, Mrs Todgers,’ said Mr Pecksniff, falling heavily against her; ‘Chronic—chronic! Let’s have a little drop of something to drink.’

‘Bless my life, Miss Pecksniffs!’ cried Mrs Todgers, aloud, ‘your dear pa’s took very poorly!’

Mr Pecksniff straightened himself by a surprising effort, as every one turned hastily towards him; and standing on his feet, regarded the assembly with a look of ineffable wisdom. Gradually it gave place to a smile; a feeble, helpless, melancholy smile; bland, almost to sickliness. ‘Do not repine, my friends,’ said Mr Pecksniff, tenderly. ‘Do not weep for me. It is chronic.’ And with these words, after making a futile attempt to pull off his shoes, he fell into the fireplace.

The youngest gentleman in company had him out in a second. Yes, before a hair upon his head was singed, he had him on the hearth-rug—her father!

She was almost beside herself. So was her sister. Jinkins consoled them both. They all consoled them. Everybody had something to say, except the youngest gentleman in company, who with a noble self-devotion did the heavy work, and held up Mr Pecksniff’s head without being taken notice of by anybody. At last they gathered round, and agreed to carry him upstairs to bed. The youngest gentleman in company was rebuked by Jinkins for tearing Mr Pecksniff’s coat! Ha, ha! But no matter.

They carried him upstairs, and crushed the youngest gentleman at every step. His bedroom was at the top of the house, and it was a long way; but they got him there in course of time. He asked them frequently on the road for a little drop of something to drink. It seemed an idiosyncrasy. The youngest gentleman in company proposed a draught of water. Mr Pecksniff called him opprobious names for the suggestion.

Jinkins and Gander took the rest upon themselves, and made him as comfortable as they could, on the outside of his bed; and when he seemed disposed to sleep, they left him. But before they had all gained the bottom of the staircase, a vision of Mr Pecksniff, strangely attired, was seen to flutter on the top landing. He desired to collect their sentiments, it seemed, upon the nature of human life.

‘My friends,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, looking over the banisters, ‘let us improve our minds by mutual inquiry and discussion. Let us be moral. Let us contemplate existence. Where is Jinkins?’

‘Here,’ cried that gentleman. ‘Go to bed again’

‘To bed!’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Bed! ‘Tis the voice of the sluggard, I hear him complain, you have woke me too soon, I must slumber again. If any young orphan will repeat the remainder of that simple piece from Doctor Watts’s collection, an eligible opportunity now offers.’

Nobody volunteered.

‘This is very soothing,’ said Mr Pecksniff, after a pause. ‘Extremely so. Cool and refreshing; particularly to the legs! The legs of the human subject, my friends, are a beautiful production. Compare them with wooden legs, and observe the difference between the anatomy of nature and the anatomy of art. Do you know,’ said Mr Pecksniff, leaning over the banisters, with an odd recollection of his familiar manner among new pupils at home, ‘that I should very much like to see Mrs Todgers’s notion of a wooden leg, if perfectly agreeable to herself!’

As it appeared impossible to entertain any reasonable hopes of him after this speech, Mr Jinkins and Mr Gander went upstairs again, and once more got him into bed. But they had not descended to the second floor before he was out again; nor, when they had repeated the process, had they descended the first flight, before he was out again. In a word, as often as he was shut up in his own room, he darted out afresh, charged with some new moral sentiment, which he continually repeated over the banisters, with extraordinary relish, and an irrepressible desire for the improvement of his fellow creatures that nothing could subdue.

Under these circumstances, when they had got him into bed for the thirtieth time or so, Mr Jinkins held him, while his companion went downstairs in search of Bailey junior, with whom he presently returned. That youth having been apprised of the service required of him, was in great spirits, and brought up a stool, a candle, and his supper; to the end that he might keep watch outside the bedroom door with tolerable comfort.

When he had completed his arrangements, they locked Mr Pecksniff in, and left the key on the outside; charging the young page to listen attentively for symptoms of an apoplectic nature, with which the patient might be troubled, and, in case of any such presenting themselves, to summon them without delay. To which Mr Bailey modestly replied that ‘he hoped he knowed wot o’clock it wos in gineral, and didn’t date his letters to his friends from Todgers’s for nothing.’

CHAPTER TEN

CONTAINING STRANGE MATTER, ON WHICH MANY EVENTS IN THIS HISTORY MAY, FOR THEIR GOOD OR EVIL INFLUENCE, CHIEFLY DEPEND

But Mr Pecksniff came to town on business. Had he forgotten that? Was he always taking his pleasure with Todgers’s jovial brood, unmindful of the serious demands, whatever they might be, upon his calm consideration? No.

Time and tide will wait for no man, saith the adage. But all men have to wait for time and tide. That tide which, taken at the flood, would lead Seth Pecksniff on to fortune, was marked down in the table, and about to flow. No idle Pecksniff lingered far inland, unmindful of the changes of the stream; but there, upon the water’s edge, over his shoes already, stood the worthy creature, prepared to wallow in the very mud, so that it slid towards the quarter of his hope.

The trustfulness of his two fair daughters was beautiful indeed. They had that firm reliance on their parent’s nature, which taught them to feel certain that in all he did he had his purpose straight and full before him. And that its noble end and object was himself, which almost of necessity included them, they knew. The devotion of these maids was perfect.

Their filial confidence was rendered the more touching, by their having no knowledge of their parent’s real designs, in the present instance. All that they knew of his proceedings was, that every morning, after the early breakfast, he repaired to the post office and inquired for letters. That task performed, his business for the day was over; and he again relaxed, until the rising of another sun proclaimed the advent of another post.

This went on for four or five days. At length, one morning, Mr Pecksniff returned with a breathless rapidity, strange to observe in him, at other times so calm; and, seeking immediate speech with his daughters, shut himself up with them in private conference for two whole hours. Of all that passed in this period, only the following words of Mr Pecksniff’s utterance are known:

‘How he has come to change so very much (if it should turn out as I expect, that he has), we needn’t stop to inquire. My dears, I have my thoughts upon the subject, but I will not impart them. It is enough that we will not be proud, resentful, or unforgiving. If he wants our friendship he shall have it. We know our duty, I hope!’

That same day at noon, an old gentleman alighted from a hackney-coach at the post-office, and, giving his name, inquired for a letter addressed to himself, and directed to be left till called for. It had been lying there some days. The superscription was in Mr Pecksniff’s hand, and it was sealed with Mr Pecksniff’s seal.

It was very short, containing indeed nothing more than an address ‘with Mr Pecksniff’s respectful, and (not withstanding what has passed) sincerely affectionate regards.’ The old gentleman tore off the direction—scattering the rest in fragments to the winds—and giving it to the coachman, bade him drive as near that place as he could. In pursuance of these instructions he was driven to the Monument; where he again alighted, and dismissed the vehicle, and walked towards Todgers’s.

Though the face, and form, and gait of this old man, and even his grip of the stout stick on which he leaned, were all expressive of a resolution not easily shaken, and a purpose (it matters little whether right or wrong, just now) such as in other days might have survived the rack, and had its strongest life in weakest death; still there were grains of hesitation in his mind, which made him now avoid the house he sought, and loiter to and fro in a gleam of sunlight, that brightened the little churchyard hard by. There may have been, in the presence of those idle heaps of dust among the busiest stir of life, something to increase his wavering; but there he walked, awakening the echoes as he paced up and down, until the church clock, striking the quarters for the second time since he had been there, roused him from his meditation. Shaking off his incertitude as the air parted with the sound of the bells, he walked rapidly to the house, and knocked at the door.

Mr Pecksniff was seated in the landlady’s little room, and his visitor found him reading—by an accident; he apologised for it—an excellent theological work. There were cake and wine upon a little table—by another accident, for which he also apologised. Indeed he said, he had given his visitor up, and was about to partake of that simple refreshment with his children, when he knocked at the door.

‘Your daughters are well?’ said old Martin, laying down his hat and stick.

Mr Pecksniff endeavoured to conceal his agitation as a father when he answered Yes, they were. They were good girls, he said, very good. He would not venture to recommend Mr Chuzzlewit to take the easy-chair, or to keep out of the draught from the door. If he made any such suggestion, he would expose himself, he feared, to most unjust suspicion. He would, therefore, content himself with remarking that there was an easy-chair in the room, and that the door was far from being air-tight. This latter imperfection, he might perhaps venture to add, was not uncommonly to be met with in old houses.

The old man sat down in the easy-chair, and after a few moments’ silence, said:

‘In the first place, let me thank you for coming to London so promptly, at my almost unexplained request; I need scarcely add, at my cost.’

‘At YOUR cost, my good sir!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, in a tone of great surprise.

‘It is not,’ said Martin, waving his hand impatiently, ‘my habit to put my—well! my relatives—to any personal expense to gratify my caprices.’

‘Caprices, my good sir!’ cried Mr Pecksniff

‘That is scarcely the proper word either, in this instance,’ said the old man. ‘No. You are right.’

Mr Pecksniff was inwardly very much relieved to hear it, though he didn’t at all know why.

‘You are right,’ repeated Martin. ‘It is not a caprice. It is built up on reason, proof, and cool comparison. Caprices never are. Moreover, I am not a capricious man. I never was.’

‘Most assuredly not,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘How do you know?’ returned the other quickly. ‘You are to begin to know it now. You are to test and prove it, in time to come. You and yours are to find that I can be constant, and am not to be diverted from my end. Do you hear?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘I very much regret,’ Martin resumed, looking steadily at him, and speaking in a slow and measured tone; ‘I very much regret that you and I held such a conversation together, as that which passed between us at our last meeting. I very much regret that I laid open to you what were then my thoughts of you, so freely as I did. The intentions that I bear towards you now are of another kind; deserted by all in whom I have ever trusted; hoodwinked and beset by all who should help and sustain me; I fly to you for refuge. I confide in you to be my ally; to attach yourself to me by ties of Interest and Expectation’—he laid great stress upon these words, though Mr Pecksniff particularly begged him not to mention it; ‘and to help me to visit the consequences of the very worst species of meanness, dissimulation, and subtlety, on the right heads.’

‘My noble sir!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, catching at his outstretched hand. ‘And YOU regret the having harboured unjust thoughts of me! YOU with those grey hairs!’

‘Regrets,’ said Martin, ‘are the natural property of grey hairs; and I enjoy, in common with all other men, at least my share of such inheritance. And so enough of that. I regret having been severed from you so long. If I had known you sooner, and sooner used you as you well deserve, I might have been a happier man.’

Mr Pecksniff looked up to the ceiling, and clasped his hands in rapture.

‘Your daughters,’ said Martin, after a short silence. ‘I don’t know them. Are they like you?’

‘In the nose of my eldest and the chin of my youngest, Mr Chuzzlewit,’ returned the widower, ‘their sainted parent (not myself, their mother) lives again.’

‘I don’t mean in person,’ said the old man. ‘Morally, morally.’

‘’Tis not for me to say,’ retorted Mr Pecksniff with a gentle smile. ‘I have done my best, sir.’

‘I could wish to see them,’ said Martin; ‘are they near at hand?’

They were, very near; for they had in fact been listening at the door from the beginning of this conversation until now, when they precipitately retired. Having wiped the signs of weakness from his eyes, and so given them time to get upstairs, Mr Pecksniff opened the door, and mildly cried in the passage,

‘My own darlings, where are you?’

‘Here, my dear pa!’ replied the distant voice of Charity.

‘Come down into the back parlour, if you please, my love,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘and bring your sister with you.’

‘Yes, my dear pa,’ cried Merry; and down they came directly (being all obedience), singing as they came.

Nothing could exceed the astonishment of the two Miss Pecksniffs when they found a stranger with their dear papa. Nothing could surpass their mute amazement when he said, ‘My children, Mr Chuzzlewit!’ But when he told them that Mr Chuzzlewit and he were friends, and that Mr Chuzzlewit had said such kind and tender words as pierced his very heart, the two Miss Pecksniffs cried with one accord, ‘Thank Heaven for this!’ and fell upon the old man’s neck. And when they had embraced him with such fervour of affection that no words can describe it, they grouped themselves about his chair, and hung over him, as figuring to themselves no earthly joy like that of ministering to his wants, and crowding into the remainder of his life, the love they would have diffused over their whole existence, from infancy, if he—dear obdurate!—had but consented to receive the precious offering.

The old man looked attentively from one to the other, and then at Mr Pecksniff, several times.

‘What,’ he asked of Mr Pecksniff, happening to catch his eye in its descent; for until now it had been piously upraised, with something of that expression which the poetry of ages has attributed to a domestic bird, when breathing its last amid the ravages of an electric storm: ‘What are their names?’

Mr Pecksniff told him, and added, rather hastily; his caluminators would have said, with a view to any testamentary thoughts that might be flitting through old Martin’s mind; ‘Perhaps, my dears, you had better write them down. Your humble autographs are of no value in themselves, but affection may prize them.’

‘Affection,’ said the old man, ‘will expend itself on the living originals. Do not trouble yourselves, my girls, I shall not so easily forget you, Charity and Mercy, as to need such tokens of remembrance. Cousin!’

‘Sir!’ said Mr Pecksniff, with alacrity.

‘Do you never sit down?’

‘Why—yes—occasionally, sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, who had been standing all this time.

‘Will you do so now?’

‘Can you ask me,’ returned Mr Pecksniff, slipping into a chair immediately, ‘whether I will do anything that you desire?’

‘You talk confidently,’ said Martin, ‘and you mean well; but I fear you don’t know what an old man’s humours are. You don’t know what it is to be required to court his likings and dislikings; to adapt yourself to his prejudices; to do his bidding, be it what it may; to bear with his distrusts and jealousies; and always still be zealous in his service. When I remember how numerous these failings are in me, and judge of their occasional enormity by the injurious thoughts I lately entertained of you, I hardly dare to claim you for my friend.’

‘My worthy sir,’ returned his relative, ‘how CAN you talk in such a painful strain! What was more natural than that you should make one slight mistake, when in all other respects you were so very correct, and have had such reason—such very sad and undeniable reason—to judge of every one about you in the worst light!’

‘True,’ replied the other. ‘You are very lenient with me.’

‘We always said, my girls and I,’ cried Mr Pecksniff with increasing obsequiousness, ‘that while we mourned the heaviness of our misfortune in being confounded with the base and mercenary, still we could not wonder at it. My dears, you remember?’

Oh vividly! A thousand times!

‘We uttered no complaint,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Occasionally we had the presumption to console ourselves with the remark that Truth would in the end prevail, and Virtue be triumphant; but not often. My loves, you recollect?’

Recollect! Could he doubt it! Dearest pa, what strange unnecessary questions!

‘And when I saw you,’ resumed Mr Pecksniff, with still greater deference, ‘in the little, unassuming village where we take the liberty of dwelling, I said you were mistaken in me, my dear sir; that was all, I think?’

‘No—not all,’ said Martin, who had been sitting with his hand upon his brow for some time past, and now looked up again; ‘you said much more, which, added to other circumstances that have come to my knowledge, opened my eyes. You spoke to me, disinterestedly, on behalf of—I needn’t name him. You know whom I mean.’

Trouble was expressed in Mr Pecksniff’s visage, as he pressed his hot hands together, and replied, with humility, ‘Quite disinterestedly, sir, I assure you.’

‘I know it,’ said old Martin, in his quiet way. ‘I am sure of it. I said so. It was disinterested too, in you, to draw that herd of harpies off from me, and be their victim yourself; most other men would have suffered them to display themselves in all their rapacity, and would have striven to rise, by contrast, in my estimation. You felt for me, and drew them off, for which I owe you many thanks. Although I left the place, I know what passed behind my back, you see!’

‘You amaze me, sir!’ cried Mr Pecksniff; which was true enough.

‘My knowledge of your proceedings,’ said the old man, does not stop at this. You have a new inmate in your house.’

‘Yes, sir,’ rejoined the architect, ‘I have.’

‘He must quit it’ said Martin.

‘For—for yours?’ asked Mr Pecksniff, with a quavering mildness.

‘For any shelter he can find,’ the old man answered. ‘He has deceived you.’

‘I hope not’ said Mr Pecksniff, eagerly. ‘I trust not. I have been extremely well disposed towards that young man. I hope it cannot be shown that he has forfeited all claim to my protection. Deceit—deceit, my dear Mr Chuzzlewit, would be final. I should hold myself bound, on proof of deceit, to renounce him instantly.’

The old man glanced at both his fair supporters, but especially at Miss Mercy, whom, indeed, he looked full in the face, with a greater demonstration of interest than had yet appeared in his features. His gaze again encountered Mr Pecksniff, as he said, composedly:

‘Of course you know that he has made his matrimonial choice?’

‘Oh dear!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, rubbing his hair up very stiff upon his head, and staring wildly at his daughters. ‘This is becoming tremendous!’

‘You know the fact?’ repeated Martin

‘Surely not without his grandfather’s consent and approbation my dear sir!’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘Don’t tell me that. For the honour of human nature, say you’re not about to tell me that!’

‘I thought he had suppressed it,’ said the old man.

The indignation felt by Mr Pecksniff at this terrible disclosure, was only to be equalled by the kindling anger of his daughters. What! Had they taken to their hearth and home a secretly contracted serpent; a crocodile, who had made a furtive offer of his hand; an imposition on society; a bankrupt bachelor with no effects, trading with the spinster world on false pretences! And oh, to think that he should have disobeyed and practised on that sweet, that venerable gentleman, whose name he bore; that kind and tender guardian; his more than father—to say nothing at all of mother—horrible, horrible! To turn him out with ignominy would be treatment much too good. Was there nothing else that could be done to him? Had he incurred no legal pains and penalties? Could it be that the statutes of the land were so remiss as to have affixed no punishment to such delinquency? Monster; how basely had they been deceived!

‘I am glad to find you second me so warmly,’ said the old man holding up his hand to stay the torrent of their wrath. ‘I will not deny that it is a pleasure to me to find you so full of zeal. We will consider that topic as disposed of.’

‘No, my dear sir,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, ‘not as disposed of, until I have purged my house of this pollution.’

‘That will follow,’ said the old man, ‘in its own time. I look upon that as done.’

‘You are very good, sir,’ answered Mr Pecksniff, shaking his hand. ‘You do me honour. You MAY look upon it as done, I assure you.’

‘There is another topic,’ said Martin, ‘on which I hope you will assist me. You remember Mary, cousin?’

‘The young lady that I mentioned to you, my dears, as having interested me so very much,’ remarked Mr Pecksniff. ‘Excuse my interrupting you, sir.’

‘I told you her history?’ said the old man.

‘Which I also mentioned, you will recollect, my dears,’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘Silly girls, Mr Chuzzlewit—quite moved by it, they were!’

‘Why, look now!’ said Martin, evidently pleased; ‘I feared I should have had to urge her case upon you, and ask you to regard her favourably for my sake. But I find you have no jealousies! Well! You have no cause for any, to be sure. She has nothing to gain from me, my dears, and she knows it.’

The two Miss Pecksniffs murmured their approval of this wise arrangement, and their cordial sympathy with its interesting object.

‘If I could have anticipated what has come to pass between us four,’ said the old man thoughfully; ‘but it is too late to think of that. You would receive her courteously, young ladies, and be kind to her, if need were?’

Where was the orphan whom the two Miss Pecksniffs would not have cherished in their sisterly bosom! But when that orphan was commended to their care by one on whom the dammed-up love of years was gushing forth, what exhaustless stores of pure affection yearned to expend themselves upon her!

An interval ensued, during which Mr Chuzzlewit, in an absent frame of mind, sat gazing at the ground, without uttering a word; and as it was plain that he had no desire to be interrupted in his meditations, Mr Pecksniff and his daughters were profoundly silent also. During the whole of the foregoing dialogue, he had borne his part with a cold, passionless promptitude, as though he had learned and painfully rehearsed it all a hundred times. Even when his expressions were warmest and his language most encouraging, he had retained the same manner, without the least abatement. But now there was a keener brightness in his eye, and more expression in his voice, as he said, awakening from his thoughtful mood:

‘You know what will be said of this? Have you reflected?’

‘Said of what, my dear sir?’ Mr Pecksniff asked.

‘Of this new understanding between us.’

Mr Pecksniff looked benevolently sagacious, and at the same time far above all earthly misconstruction, as he shook his head, and observed that a great many things would be said of it, no doubt.

‘A great many,’ rejoined the old man. ‘Some will say that I dote in my old age; that illness has shaken me; that I have lost all strength of mind, and have grown childish. You can bear that?’

Mr Pecksniff answered that it would be dreadfully hard to bear, but he thought he could, if he made a great effort.

‘Others will say—I speak of disappointed, angry people only—that you have lied and fawned, and wormed yourself through dirty ways into my favour; by such concessions and such crooked deeds, such meannesses and vile endurances, as nothing could repay; no, not the legacy of half the world we live in. You can bear that?’

Mr Pecksniff made reply that this would be also very hard to bear, as reflecting, in some degree, on the discernment of Mr Chuzzlewit. Still he had a modest confidence that he could sustain the calumny, with the help of a good conscience, and that gentleman’s friendship.

‘With the great mass of slanderers,’ said old Martin, leaning back in his chair, ‘the tale, as I clearly foresee, will run thus: That to mark my contempt for the rabble whom I despised, I chose from among them the very worst, and made him do my will, and pampered and enriched him at the cost of all the rest. That, after casting about for the means of a punishment which should rankle in the bosoms of these kites the most, and strike into their gall, I devised this scheme at a time when the last link in the chain of grateful love and duty, that held me to my race, was roughly snapped asunder; roughly, for I loved him well; roughly, for I had ever put my trust in his affection; roughly, for that he broke it when I loved him most—God help me!—and he without a pang could throw me off, while I clung about his heart! Now,’ said the old man, dismissing this passionate outburst as suddenly as he had yielded to it, ‘is your mind made up to bear this likewise? Lay your account with having it to bear, and put no trust in being set right by me.’

‘My dear Mr Chuzzlewit,’ cried Pecksniff in an ecstasy, ‘for such a man as you have shown yourself to be this day; for a man so injured, yet so very humane; for a man so—I am at a loss what precise term to use—yet at the same time so remarkably—I don’t know how to express my meaning; for such a man as I have described, I hope it is no presumption to say that I, and I am sure I may add my children also (my dears, we perfectly agree in this, I think?), would bear anything whatever!’

‘Enough,’ said Martin. ‘You can charge no consequences on me. When do you retire home?’

‘Whenever you please, my dear sir. To-night if you desire it.’

‘I desire nothing,’ returned the old man, ‘that is unreasonable. Such a request would be. Will you be ready to return at the end of this week?’

The very time of all others that Mr Pecksniff would have suggested if it had been left to him to make his own choice. As to his daughters—the words, ‘Let us be at home on Saturday, dear pa,’ were actually upon their lips.

‘Your expenses, cousin,’ said Martin, taking a folded slip of paper from his pocketbook, ‘may possibly exceed that amount. If so, let me know the balance that I owe you, when we next meet. It would be useless if I told you where I live just now; indeed, I have no fixed abode. When I have, you shall know it. You and your daughters may expect to see me before long; in the meantime I need not tell you that we keep our own confidence. What you will do when you get home is understood between us. Give me no account of it at any time; and never refer to it in any way. I ask that as a favour. I am commonly a man of few words, cousin; and all that need be said just now is said, I think.’

‘One glass of wine—one morsel of this homely cake?’ cried Mr Pecksniff, venturing to detain him. ‘My dears—!’

The sisters flew to wait upon him.

‘Poor girls!’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘You will excuse their agitation, my dear sir. They are made up of feeling. A bad commodity to go through the world with, Mr Chuzzlewit! My youngest daughter is almost as much of a woman as my eldest, is she not, sir?’

‘Which IS the youngest?’ asked the old man.

‘Mercy, by five years,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘We sometimes venture to consider her rather a fine figure, sir. Speaking as an artist, I may perhaps be permitted to suggest that its outline is graceful and correct. I am naturally,’ said Mr Pecksniff, drying his hands upon his handkerchief, and looking anxiously in his cousin’s face at almost every word, ‘proud, if I may use the expression, to have a daughter who is constructed on the best models.’

‘She seems to have a lively disposition,’ observed Martin.

‘Dear me!’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘That is quite remarkable. You have defined her character, my dear sir, as correctly as if you had known her from her birth. She HAS a lively disposition. I assure you, my dear sir, that in our unpretending home her gaiety is delightful.’

‘No doubt,’ returned the old man.

‘Charity, upon the other hand,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘is remarkable for strong sense, and for rather a deep tone of sentiment, if the partiality of a father may be excused in saying so. A wonderful affection between them, my dear sir! Allow me to drink your health. Bless you!’

‘I little thought,’ retorted Martin, ‘but a month ago, that I should be breaking bread and pouring wine with you. I drink to you.’

Not at all abashed by the extraordinary abruptness with which these latter words were spoken, Mr Pecksniff thanked him devoutly.

‘Now let me go,’ said Martin, putting down the wine when he had merely touched it with his lips. ‘My dears, good morning!’

But this distant form of farewell was by no means tender enough for the yearnings of the young ladies, who again embraced him with all their hearts—with all their arms at any rate—to which parting caresses their new-found friend submitted with a better grace than might have been expected from one who, not a moment before, had pledged their parent in such a very uncomfortable manner. These endearments terminated, he took a hasty leave of Mr Pecksniff and withdrew, followed to the door by both father and daughters, who stood there kissing their hands and beaming with affection until he disappeared; though, by the way, he never once looked back, after he had crossed the threshold.

When they returned into the house, and were again alone in Mrs Todgers’s room, the two young ladies exhibited an unusual amount of gaiety; insomuch that they clapped their hands, and laughed, and looked with roguish aspects and a bantering air upon their dear papa. This conduct was so very unaccountable, that Mr Pecksniff (being singularly grave himself) could scarcely choose but ask them what it meant; and took them to task, in his gentle manner, for yielding to such light emotions.

‘If it was possible to divine any cause for this merriment, even the most remote,’ he said, ‘I should not reprove you. But when you can have none whatever—oh, really, really!’

This admonition had so little effect on Mercy, that she was obliged to hold her handkerchief before her rosy lips, and to throw herself back in her chair, with every demonstration of extreme amusement; which want of duty so offended Mr Pecksniff that he reproved her in set terms, and gave her his parental advice to correct herself in solitude and contemplation. But at that juncture they were disturbed by the sound of voices in dispute; and as it proceeded from the next room, the subject matter of the altercation quickly reached their ears.

‘I don’t care that! Mrs Todgers,’ said the young gentleman who had been the youngest gentleman in company on the day of the festival; ‘I don’t care THAT, ma’am,’ said he, snapping his fingers, ‘for Jinkins. Don’t suppose I do.’

‘I am quite certain you don’t, sir,’ replied Mrs Todgers. ‘You have too independent a spirit, I know, to yield to anybody. And quite right. There is no reason why you should give way to any gentleman. Everybody must be well aware of that.’

‘I should think no more of admitting daylight into the fellow,’ said the youngest gentleman, in a desperate voice, ‘than if he was a bulldog.’

Mrs Todgers did not stop to inquire whether, as a matter of principle, there was any particular reason for admitting daylight even into a bulldog, otherwise than by the natural channel of his eyes, but she seemed to wring her hands, and she moaned.

‘Let him be careful,’ said the youngest gentleman. ‘I give him warning. No man shall step between me and the current of my vengeance. I know a Cove—’ he used that familiar epithet in his agitation but corrected himself by adding, ‘a gentleman of property, I mean—who practices with a pair of pistols (fellows too) of his own. If I am driven to borrow ‘em, and to send at friend to Jinkins, a tragedy will get into the papers. That’s all.’

Again Mrs Todgers moaned.

‘I have borne this long enough,’ said the youngest gentleman but now my soul rebels against it, and I won’t stand it any longer. I left home originally, because I had that within me which wouldn’t be domineered over by a sister; and do you think I’m going to be put down by HIM? No.’

‘It is very wrong in Mr Jinkins; I know it is perfectly inexcusable in Mr Jinkins, if he intends it,’ observed Mrs Todgers

‘If he intends it!’ cried the youngest gentleman. ‘Don’t he interrupt and contradict me on every occasion? Does he ever fail to interpose himself between me and anything or anybody that he sees I have set my mind upon? Does he make a point of always pretending to forget me, when he’s pouring out the beer? Does he make bragging remarks about his razors, and insulting allusions to people who have no necessity to shave more than once a week? But let him look out! He’ll find himself shaved, pretty close, before long, and so I tell him.’

The young gentleman was mistaken in this closing sentence, inasmuch as he never told it to Jinkins, but always to Mrs Todgers.

‘However,’ he said, ‘these are not proper subjects for ladies’ ears. All I’ve got to say to you, Mrs Todgers, is, a week’s notice from next Saturday. The same house can’t contain that miscreant and me any longer. If we get over the intermediate time without bloodshed, you may think yourself pretty fortunate. I don’t myself expect we shall.’

‘Dear, dear!’ cried Mrs Todgers, ‘what would I have given to have prevented this? To lose you, sir, would be like losing the house’s right-hand. So popular as you are among the gentlemen; so generally looked up to; and so much liked! I do hope you’ll think better of it; if on nobody else’s account, on mine.’

‘There’s Jinkins,’ said the youngest gentleman, moodily. ‘Your favourite. He’ll console you, and the gentlemen too, for the loss of twenty such as me. I’m not understood in this house. I never have been.’

‘Don’t run away with that opinion, sir!’ cried Mrs Todgers, with a show of honest indignation. ‘Don’t make such a charge as that against the establishment, I must beg of you. It is not so bad as that comes to, sir. Make any remark you please against the gentlemen, or against me; but don’t say you’re not understood in this house.’

‘I’m not treated as if I was,’ said the youngest gentleman.

‘There you make a great mistake, sir,’ returned Mrs Todgers, in the same strain. ‘As many of the gentlemen and I have often said, you are too sensitive. That’s where it is. You are of too susceptible a nature; it’s in your spirit.’

The young gentleman coughed.

‘And as,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘as to Mr Jinkins, I must beg of you, if we ARE to part, to understand that I don’t abet Mr Jinkins by any means. Far from it. I could wish that Mr Jinkins would take a lower tone in this establishment, and would not be the means of raising differences between me and gentlemen that I can much less bear to part with than I could with Mr Jinkins. Mr Jinkins is not such a boarder, sir,’ added Mrs Todgers, ‘that all considerations of private feeling and respect give way before him. Quite the contrary, I assure you.’

The young gentleman was so much mollified by these and similar speeches on the part of Mrs Todgers, that he and that lady gradually changed positions; so that she became the injured party, and he was understood to be the injurer; but in a complimentary, not in an offensive sense; his cruel conduct being attributable to his exalted nature, and to that alone. So, in the end, the young gentleman withdrew his notice, and assured Mrs Todgers of his unalterable regard; and having done so, went back to business.

‘Goodness me, Miss Pecksniffs!’ cried that lady, as she came into the back room, and sat wearily down, with her basket on her knees, and her hands folded upon it, ‘what a trial of temper it is to keep a house like this! You must have heard most of what has just passed. Now did you ever hear the like?’

‘Never!’ said the two Miss Pecksniffs.

‘Of all the ridiculous young fellows that ever I had to deal with,’ resumed Mrs Todgers, ‘that is the most ridiculous and unreasonable. Mr Jinkins is hard upon him sometimes, but not half as hard as he deserves. To mention such a gentleman as Mr Jinkins in the same breath with HIM—you know it’s too much! And yet he’s as jealous of him, bless you, as if he was his equal.’

The young ladies were greatly entertained by Mrs Todgers’s account, no less than with certain anecdotes illustrative of the youngest gentleman’s character, which she went on to tell them. But Mr Pecksniff looked quite stern and angry; and when she had concluded, said in a solemn voice:

‘Pray, Mrs Todgers, if I may inquire, what does that young gentleman contribute towards the support of these premises?’

‘Why, sir, for what HE has, he pays about eighteen shillings a week!’ said Mrs Todgers.

‘Eighteen shillings a week!’ repeated Mr Pecksniff.

‘Taking one week with another; as near that as possible,’ said Mrs Todgers.

Mr Pecksniff rose from his chair, folded his arms, looked at her, and shook his head.

‘And do you mean to say, ma’am—is it possible, Mrs Todgers—that for such a miserable consideration as eighteen shillings a week, a female of your understanding can so far demean herself as to wear a double face, even for an instant?’

‘I am forced to keep things on the square if I can, sir,’ faltered Mrs Todgers. ‘I must preserve peace among them, and keep my connection together, if possible, Mr Pecksniff. The profit is very small.’

‘The profit!’ cried that gentleman, laying great stress upon the word. ‘The profit, Mrs Todgers! You amaze me!’

He was so severe, that Mrs Todgers shed tears.

‘The profit!’ repeated Mr pecksniff. ‘The profit of dissimulation! To worship the golden calf of Baal, for eighteen shillings a week!’

‘Don’t in your own goodness be too hard upon me, Mr Pecksniff,’ cried Mrs Todgers, taking out her handkerchief.

‘Oh Calf, Calf!’ cried Mr Pecksniff mournfully. ‘Oh, Baal, Baal! oh my friend, Mrs Todgers! To barter away that precious jewel, self-esteem, and cringe to any mortal creature—for eighteen shillings a week!’

He was so subdued and overcome by the reflection, that he immediately took down his hat from its peg in the passage, and went out for a walk, to compose his feelings. Anybody passing him in the street might have known him for a good man at first sight; for his whole figure teemed with a consciousness of the moral homily he had read to Mrs Todgers.

Eighteen shillings a week! Just, most just, thy censure, upright Pecksniff! Had it been for the sake of a ribbon, star, or garter; sleeves of lawn, a great man’s smile, a seat in parliament, a tap upon the shoulder from a courtly sword; a place, a party, or a thriving lie, or eighteen thousand pounds, or even eighteen hundred;—but to worship the golden calf for eighteen shillings a week! oh pitiful, pitiful!

CHAPTER ELEVEN

WHEREIN A CERTAIN GENTLEMAN BECOMES PARTICULAR IN HIS ATTENTIONS TO A CERTAIN LADY; AND MORE COMING EVENTS THAN ONE, CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE

The family were within two or three days of their departure from Mrs Todgers’s, and the commercial gentlemen were to a man despondent and not to be comforted, because of the approaching separation, when Bailey junior, at the jocund time of noon, presented himself before Miss Charity Pecksniff, then sitting with her sister in the banquet chamber, hemming six new pocket-handkerchiefs for Mr Jinkins; and having expressed a hope, preliminary and pious, that he might be blest, gave her in his pleasant way to understand that a visitor attended to pay his respects to her, and was at that moment waiting in the drawing-room. Perhaps this last announcement showed in a more striking point of view than many lengthened speeches could have done, the trustfulness and faith of Bailey’s nature; since he had, in fact, last seen the visitor on the door-mat, where, after signifying to him that he would do well to go upstairs, he had left him to the guidance of his own sagacity. Hence it was at least an even chance that the visitor was then wandering on the roof of the house, or vainly seeking to extricate himself from the maze of bedrooms; Todgers’s being precisely that kind of establishment in which an unpiloted stranger is pretty sure to find himself in some place where he least expects and least desires to be.

‘A gentleman for me!’ cried Charity, pausing in her work; ‘my gracious, Bailey!’

‘Ah!’ said Bailey. ‘It IS my gracious, an’t it? Wouldn’t I be gracious neither, not if I wos him!’

The remark was rendered somewhat obscure in itself, by reason (as the reader may have observed) of a redundancy of negatives; but accompanied by action expressive of a faithful couple walking arm-in-arm towards a parochial church, mutually exchanging looks of love, it clearly signified this youth’s conviction that the caller’s purpose was of an amorous tendency. Miss Charity affected to reprove so great a liberty; but she could not help smiling. He was a strange boy, to be sure. There was always some ground of probability and likelihood mingled with his absurd behaviour. That was the best of it!

‘But I don’t know any gentlemen, Bailey,’ said Miss Pecksniff. ‘I think you must have made a mistake.’

Mr Bailey smiled at the extreme wildness of such a supposition, and regarded the young ladies with unimpaired affability.

‘My dear Merry,’ said Charity, ‘who CAN it be? Isn’t it odd? I have a great mind not to go to him really. So very strange, you know!’

The younger sister plainly considered that this appeal had its origin in the pride of being called upon and asked for; and that it was intended as an assertion of superiority, and a retaliation upon her for having captured the commercial gentlemen. Therefore, she replied, with great affection and politeness, that it was, no doubt, very strange indeed; and that she was totally at a loss to conceive what the ridiculous person unknown could mean by it.

‘Quite impossible to divine!’ said Charity, with some sharpness, ‘though still, at the same time, you needn’t be angry, my dear.’

‘Thank you,’ retorted Merry, singing at her needle. ‘I am quite aware of that, my love.’

‘I am afraid your head is turned, you silly thing,’ said Cherry.

‘Do you know, my dear,’ said Merry, with engaging candour, ‘that I have been afraid of that, myself, all along! So much incense and nonsense, and all the rest of it, is enough to turn a stronger head than mine. What a relief it must be to you, my dear, to be so very comfortable in that respect, and not to be worried by those odious men! How do you do it, Cherry?’

This artless inquiry might have led to turbulent results, but for the strong emotions of delight evinced by Bailey junior, whose relish in the turn the conversation had lately taken was so acute, that it impelled and forced him to the instantaneous performance of a dancing step, extremely difficult in its nature, and only to be achieved in a moment of ecstasy, which is commonly called The Frog’s Hornpipe. A manifestation so lively, brought to their immediate recollection the great virtuous precept, ‘Keep up appearances whatever you do,’ in which they had been educated. They forbore at once, and jointly signified to Mr Bailey that if he should presume to practice that figure any more in their presence, they would instantly acquaint Mrs Todgers with the fact, and would demand his condign punishment, at the hands of that lady. The young gentleman having expressed the bitterness of his contrition by affecting to wipe away scalding tears with his apron, and afterwards feigning to wring a vast amount of water from that garment, held the door open while Miss Charity passed out; and so that damsel went in state upstairs to receive her mysterious adorer.

By some strange occurrence of favourable circumstances he had found out the drawing-room, and was sitting there alone.

‘Ah, cousin!’ he said. ‘Here I am, you see. You thought I was lost, I’ll be bound. Well! how do you find yourself by this time?’

Miss Charity replied that she was quite well, and gave Mr Jonas Chuzzlewit her hand.

‘That’s right,’ said Mr Jonas, ‘and you’ve got over the fatigues of the journey have you? I say. How’s the other one?’

‘My sister is very well, I believe,’ returned the young lady. ‘I have not heard her complain of any indisposition, sir. Perhaps you would like to see her, and ask her yourself?’

‘No, no cousin!’ said Mr Jonas, sitting down beside her on the window-seat. ‘Don’t be in a hurry. There’s no occasion for that, you know. What a cruel girl you are!’

‘It’s impossible for YOU to know,’ said Cherry, ‘whether I am or not.’

‘Well, perhaps it is,’ said Mr Jonas. ‘I say—Did you think I was lost? You haven’t told me that.’

‘I didn’t think at all about it,’ answered Cherry.

‘Didn’t you though?’ said Jonas, pondering upon this strange reply. ‘Did the other one?’

‘I am sure it’s impossible for me to say what my sister may, or may not have thought on such a subject,’ cried Cherry. ‘She never said anything to me about it, one way or other.’

‘Didn’t she laugh about it?’ inquired Jonas.

‘No. She didn’t even laugh about it,’ answered Charity.

‘She’s a terrible one to laugh, an’t she?’ said Jonas, lowering his voice.

‘She is very lively,’ said Cherry.

‘Liveliness is a pleasant thing—when it don’t lead to spending money. An’t it?’ asked Mr Jonas.

‘Very much so, indeed,’ said Cherry, with a demureness of manner that gave a very disinterested character to her assent.

‘Such liveliness as yours I mean, you know,’ observed Mr Jonas, as he nudged her with his elbow. ‘I should have come to see you before, but I didn’t know where you was. How quick you hurried off, that morning!’

‘I was amenable to my papa’s directions,’ said Miss Charity.

‘I wish he had given me his direction,’ returned her cousin, ‘and then I should have found you out before. Why, I shouldn’t have found you even now, if I hadn’t met him in the street this morning. What a sleek, sly chap he is! Just like a tomcat, an’t he?’

‘I must trouble you to have the goodness to speak more respectfully of my papa, Mr Jonas,’ said Charity. ‘I can’t allow such a tone as that, even in jest.’

‘Ecod, you may say what you like of MY father, then, and so I give you leave,’ said Jonas. ‘I think it’s liquid aggravation that circulates through his veins, and not regular blood. How old should you think my father was, cousin?’

‘Old, no doubt,’ replied Miss Charity; ‘but a fine old gentleman.’

‘A fine old gentleman!’ repeated Jonas, giving the crown of his hat an angry knock. ‘Ah! It’s time he was thinking of being drawn out a little finer too. Why, he’s eighty!’

‘Is he, indeed?’ said the young lady.

‘And ecod,’ cried Jonas, ‘now he’s gone so far without giving in, I don’t see much to prevent his being ninety; no, nor even a hundred. Why, a man with any feeling ought to be ashamed of being eighty, let alone more. Where’s his religion, I should like to know, when he goes flying in the face of the Bible like that? Threescore-and-ten’s the mark, and no man with a conscience, and a proper sense of what’s expected of him, has any business to live longer.’

Is any one surprised at Mr Jonas making such a reference to such a book for such a purpose? Does any one doubt the old saw, that the Devil (being a layman) quotes Scripture for his own ends? If he will take the trouble to look about him, he may find a greater number of confirmations of the fact in the occurrences of any single day, than the steam-gun can discharge balls in a minute.

‘But there’s enough of my father,’ said Jonas; ‘it’s of no use to go putting one’s self out of the way by talking about HIM. I called to ask you to come and take a walk, cousin, and see some of the sights; and to come to our house afterwards, and have a bit of something. Pecksniff will most likely look in in the evening, he says, and bring you home. See, here’s his writing; I made him put it down this morning when he told me he shouldn’t be back before I came here; in case you wouldn’t believe me. There’s nothing like proof, is there? Ha, ha! I say—you’ll bring the other one, you know!’

Miss Charity cast her eyes upon her father’s autograph, which merely said—‘Go, my children, with your cousin. Let there be union among us when it is possible;’ and after enough of hesitation to impart a proper value to her consent, withdrew to prepare her sister and herself for the excursion. She soon returned, accompanied by Miss Mercy, who was by no means pleased to leave the brilliant triumphs of Todgers’s for the society of Mr Jonas and his respected father.

‘Aha!’ cried Jonas. ‘There you are, are you?’

‘Yes, fright,’ said Mercy, ‘here I am; and I would much rather be anywhere else, I assure you.’

‘You don’t mean that,’ cried Mr Jonas. ‘You can’t, you know. It isn’t possible.’

‘You can have what opinion you like, fright,’ retorted Mercy. ‘I am content to keep mine; and mine is that you are a very unpleasant, odious, disagreeable person.’ Here she laughed heartily, and seemed to enjoy herself very much.

‘Oh, you’re a sharp gal!’ said Mr Jonas. ‘She’s a regular teaser, an’t she, cousin?’

Miss Charity replied in effect, that she was unable to say what the habits and propensities of a regular teaser might be; and that even if she possessed such information, it would ill become her to admit the existence of any creature with such an unceremonious name in her family; far less in the person of a beloved sister; ‘whatever,’ added Cherry with an angry glance, ‘whatever her real nature may be.’

‘Well, my dear,’ said Merry, ‘the only observation I have to make is, that if we don’t go out at once, I shall certainly take my bonnet off again, and stay at home.’

This threat had the desired effect of preventing any farther altercation, for Mr Jonas immediately proposed an adjournment, and the same being carried unanimously, they departed from the house straightway. On the doorstep, Mr Jonas gave an arm to each cousin; which act of gallantry being observed by Bailey junior, from the garret window, was by him saluted with a loud and violent fit of coughing, to which paroxysm he was still the victim when they turned the corner.

Mr Jonas inquired in the first instance if they were good walkers and being answered, ‘Yes,’ submitted their pedestrian powers to a pretty severe test; for he showed them as many sights, in the way of bridges, churches, streets, outsides of theatres, and other free spectacles, in that one forenoon, as most people see in a twelvemonth. It was observable in this gentleman, that he had an insurmountable distaste to the insides of buildings, and that he was perfectly acquainted with the merits of all shows, in respect of which there was any charge for admission, which it seemed were every one detestable, and of the very lowest grade of merit. He was so thoroughly possessed with this opinion, that when Miss Charity happened to mention the circumstance of their having been twice or thrice to the theatre with Mr Jinkins and party, he inquired, as a matter of course, ‘where the orders came from?’ and being told that Mr Jinkins and party paid, was beyond description entertained, observing that ‘they must be nice flats, certainly;’ and often in the course of the walk, bursting out again into a perfect convulsion of laughter at the surpassing silliness of those gentlemen, and (doubtless) at his own superior wisdom.

When they had been out for some hours and were thoroughly fatigued, it being by that time twilight, Mr Jonas intimated that he would show them one of the best pieces of fun with which he was acquainted. This joke was of a practical kind, and its humour lay in taking a hackney-coach to the extreme limits of possibility for a shilling. Happily it brought them to the place where Mr Jonas dwelt, or the young ladies might have rather missed the point and cream of the jest.

The old-established firm of Anthony Chuzzlewit and Son, Manchester Warehousemen, and so forth, had its place of business in a very narrow street somewhere behind the Post Office; where every house was in the brightest summer morning very gloomy; and where light porters watered the pavement, each before his own employer’s premises, in fantastic patterns, in the dog-days; and where spruce gentlemen with their hands in the pockets of symmetrical trousers, were always to be seen in warm weather, contemplating their undeniable boots in dusty warehouse doorways; which appeared to be the hardest work they did, except now and then carrying pens behind their ears. A dim, dirty, smoky, tumble-down, rotten old house it was, as anybody would desire to see; but there the firm of Anthony Chuzzlewit and Son transacted all their business and their pleasure too, such as it was; for neither the young man nor the old had any other residence, or any care or thought beyond its narrow limits.

Business, as may be readily supposed, was the main thing in this establishment; insomuch indeed that it shouldered comfort out of doors, and jostled the domestic arrangements at every turn. Thus in the miserable bedrooms there were files of moth-eaten letters hanging up against the walls; and linen rollers, and fragments of old patterns, and odds and ends of spoiled goods, strewed upon the ground; while the meagre bedsteads, washing-stands, and scraps of carpet, were huddled away into corners as objects of secondary consideration, not to be thought of but as disagreeable necessities, furnishing no profit, and intruding on the one affair of life. The single sitting-room was on the same principle, a chaos of boxes and old papers, and had more counting-house stools in it than chairs; not to mention a great monster of a desk straddling over the middle of the floor, and an iron safe sunk into the wall above the fireplace. The solitary little table for purposes of refection and social enjoyment, bore as fair a proportion to the desk and other business furniture, as the graces and harmless relaxations of life had ever done, in the persons of the old man and his son, to their pursuit of wealth. It was meanly laid out now for dinner; and in a chair before the fire sat Anthony himself, who rose to greet his son and his fair cousins as they entered.

An ancient proverb warns us that we should not expect to find old heads upon young shoulders; to which it may be added that we seldom meet with that unnatural combination, but we feel a strong desire to knock them off; merely from an inherent love we have of seeing things in their right places. It is not improbable that many men, in no wise choleric by nature, felt this impulse rising up within them, when they first made the acquaintance of Mr Jonas; but if they had known him more intimately in his own house, and had sat with him at his own board, it would assuredly have been paramount to all other considerations.

‘Well, ghost!’ said Mr Jonas, dutifully addressing his parent by that title. ‘Is dinner nearly ready?’

‘I should think it was,’ rejoined the old man.

‘What’s the good of that?’ rejoined the son. ‘I should think it was. I want to know.’

‘Ah! I don’t know for certain,’ said Anthony.

‘You don’t know for certain,’ rejoined his son in a lower tone. ‘No. You don’t know anything for certain, YOU don’t. Give me your candle here. I want it for the gals.’

Anthony handed him a battered old office candlestick, with which Mr Jonas preceded the young ladies to the nearest bedroom, where he left them to take off their shawls and bonnets; and returning, occupied himself in opening a bottle of wine, sharpening the carving-knife, and muttering compliments to his father, until they and the dinner appeared together. The repast consisted of a hot leg of mutton with greens and potatoes; and the dishes having been set upon the table by a slipshod old woman, they were left to enjoy it after their own manner.

‘Bachelor’s Hall, you know, cousin,’ said Mr Jonas to Charity. ‘I say—the other one will be having a laugh at this when she gets home, won’t she? Here; you sit on the right side of me, and I’ll have her upon the left. Other one, will you come here?’

‘You’re such a fright,’ replied Mercy, ‘that I know I shall have no appetite if I sit so near you; but I suppose I must.’

‘An’t she lively?’ whispered Mr Jonas to the elder sister, with his favourite elbow emphasis.

‘Oh I really don’t know!’ replied Miss Pecksniff, tartly. ‘I am tired of being asked such ridiculous questions.’

‘What’s that precious old father of mine about now?’ said Mr Jonas, seeing that his parent was travelling up and down the room instead of taking his seat at table. ‘What are you looking for?’

‘I’ve lost my glasses, Jonas,’ said old Anthony.

‘Sit down without your glasses, can’t you?’ returned his son. ‘You don’t eat or drink out of ‘em, I think; and where’s that sleepy-headed old Chuffey got to! Now, stupid. Oh! you know your name, do you?’

It would seem that he didn’t, for he didn’t come until the father called. As he spoke, the door of a small glass office, which was partitioned off from the rest of the room, was slowly opened, and a little blear-eyed, weazen-faced, ancient man came creeping out. He was of a remote fashion, and dusty, like the rest of the furniture; he was dressed in a decayed suit of black; with breeches garnished at the knees with rusty wisps of ribbon, the very paupers of shoestrings; on the lower portion of his spindle legs were dingy worsted stockings of the same colour. He looked as if he had been put away and forgotten half a century before, and somebody had just found him in a lumber-closet.

Such as he was, he came slowly creeping on towards the table, until at last he crept into the vacant chair, from which, as his dim faculties became conscious of the presence of strangers, and those strangers ladies, he rose again, apparently intending to make a bow. But he sat down once more without having made it, and breathing on his shrivelled hands to warm them, remained with his poor blue nose immovable above his plate, looking at nothing, with eyes that saw nothing, and a face that meant nothing. Take him in that state, and he was an embodiment of nothing. Nothing else.

‘Our clerk,’ said Mr Jonas, as host and master of the ceremonies: ‘Old Chuffey.’

‘Is he deaf?’ inquired one of the young ladies.

‘No, I don’t know that he is. He an’t deaf, is he, father?’

‘I never heard him say he was,’ replied the old man.

‘Blind?’ inquired the young ladies.

‘N—no. I never understood that he was at all blind,’ said Jonas, carelessly. ‘You don’t consider him so, do you, father?’

‘Certainly not,’ replied Anthony.

‘What is he, then?’

‘Why, I’ll tell you what he is,’ said Mr Jonas, apart to the young ladies, ‘he’s precious old, for one thing; and I an’t best pleased with him for that, for I think my father must have caught it of him. He’s a strange old chap, for another,’ he added in a louder voice, ‘and don’t understand any one hardly, but HIM!’ He pointed to his honoured parent with the carving-fork, in order that they might know whom he meant.

‘How very strange!’ cried the sisters.

‘Why, you see,’ said Mr Jonas, ‘he’s been addling his old brains with figures and book-keeping all his life; and twenty years ago or so he went and took a fever. All the time he was out of his head (which was three weeks) he never left off casting up; and he got to so many million at last that I don’t believe he’s ever been quite right since. We don’t do much business now though, and he an’t a bad clerk.’

‘A very good one,’ said Anthony.

‘Well! He an’t a dear one at all events,’ observed Jonas; ‘and he earns his salt, which is enough for our look-out. I was telling you that he hardly understands any one except my father; he always understands him, though, and wakes up quite wonderful. He’s been used to his ways so long, you see! Why, I’ve seen him play whist, with my father for a partner; and a good rubber too; when he had no more notion what sort of people he was playing against, than you have.’

‘Has he no appetite?’ asked Merry.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Jonas, plying his own knife and fork very fast. ‘He eats—when he’s helped. But he don’t care whether he waits a minute or an hour, as long as father’s here; so when I’m at all sharp set, as I am to-day, I come to him after I’ve taken the edge off my own hunger, you know. Now, Chuffey, stupid, are you ready?’

Chuffey remained immovable.

‘Always a perverse old file, he was,’ said Mr Jonas, coolly helping himself to another slice. ‘Ask him, father.’

‘Are you ready for your dinner, Chuffey?’ asked the old man

‘Yes, yes,’ said Chuffey, lighting up into a sentient human creature at the first sound of the voice, so that it was at once a curious and quite a moving sight to see him. ‘Yes, yes. Quite ready, Mr Chuzzlewit. Quite ready, sir. All ready, all ready, all ready.’ With that he stopped, smilingly, and listened for some further address; but being spoken to no more, the light forsook his face by little and little, until he was nothing again.

‘He’ll be very disagreeable, mind,’ said Jonas, addressing his cousins as he handed the old man’s portion to his father. ‘He always chokes himself when it an’t broth. Look at him, now! Did you ever see a horse with such a wall-eyed expression as he’s got? If it hadn’t been for the joke of it I wouldn’t have let him come in to-day; but I thought he’d amuse you.’

The poor old subject of this humane speech was, happily for himself, as unconscious of its purport as of most other remarks that were made in his presence. But the mutton being tough, and his gums weak, he quickly verified the statement relative to his choking propensities, and underwent so much in his attempts to dine, that Mr Jonas was infinitely amused; protesting that he had seldom seen him better company in all his life, and that he was enough to make a man split his sides with laughing. Indeed, he went so far as to assure the sisters, that in this point of view he considered Chuffey superior to his own father; which, as he significantly added, was saying a great deal.

It was strange enough that Anthony Chuzzlewit, himself so old a man, should take a pleasure in these gibings of his estimable son at the expense of the poor shadow at their table. But he did, unquestionably; though not so much—to do him justice—with reference to their ancient clerk, as in exultation at the sharpness of Jonas. For the same reason that young man’s coarse allusions, even to himself, filled him with a stealthy glee; causing him to rub his hands and chuckle covertly, as if he said in his sleeve, ‘I taught him. I trained him. This is the heir of my bringing-up. Sly, cunning, and covetous, he’ll not squander my money. I worked for this; I hoped for this; it has been the great end and aim of my life.’

What a noble end and aim it was to contemplate in the attainment truly! But there be some who manufacture idols after the fashion of themselves, and fail to worship them when they are made; charging their deformity on outraged nature. Anthony was better than these at any rate.

Chuffey boggled over his plate so long, that Mr Jonas, losing patience, took it from him at last with his own hands, and requested his father to signify to that venerable person that he had better ‘peg away at his bread;’ which Anthony did.

‘Aye, aye!’ cried the old man, brightening up as before, when this was communicated to him in the same voice, ‘quite right, quite right. He’s your own son, Mr Chuzzlewit! Bless him for a sharp lad! Bless him, bless him!’

Mr Jonas considered this so particularly childish (perhaps with some reason), that he only laughed the more, and told his cousins that he was afraid one of these fine days, Chuffey would be the death of him. The cloth was then removed, and the bottle of wine set upon the table, from which Mr Jonas filled the young ladies’ glasses, calling on them not to spare it, as they might be certain there was plenty more where that came from. But he added with some haste after this sally that it was only his joke, and they wouldn’t suppose him to be in earnest, he was sure.

‘I shall drink,’ said Anthony, ‘to Pecksniff. Your father, my dears. A clever man, Pecksniff. A wary man! A hypocrite, though, eh? A hypocrite, girls, eh? Ha, ha, ha! Well, so he is. Now, among friends, he is. I don’t think the worse of him for that, unless it is that he overdoes it. You may overdo anything, my darlings. You may overdo even hypocrisy. Ask Jonas!’

‘You can’t overdo taking care of yourself,’ observed that hopeful gentleman with his mouth full.

‘Do you hear that, my dears?’ cried Anthony, quite enraptured. ‘Wisdom, wisdom! A good exception, Jonas. No. It’s not easy to overdo that.’

‘Except,’ whispered Mr Jonas to his favourite cousin, ‘except when one lives too long. Ha, ha! Tell the other one that—I say!’

‘Good gracious me!’ said Cherry, in a petulant manner. ‘You can tell her yourself, if you wish, can’t you?’

‘She seems to make such game of one,’ replied Mr Jonas.

‘Then why need you trouble yourself about her?’ said Charity. ‘I am sure she doesn’t trouble herself much about you.’

‘Don’t she though?’ asked Jonas.

‘Good gracious me, need I tell you that she don’t?’ returned the young lady.

Mr Jonas made no verbal rejoinder, but he glanced at Mercy with an odd expression in his face; and said THAT wouldn’t break his heart, she might depend upon it. Then he looked on Charity with even greater favour than before, and besought her, as his polite manner was, to ‘come a little closer.’

‘There’s another thing that’s not easily overdone, father,’ remarked Jonas, after a short silence.

‘What’s that?’ asked the father; grinning already in anticipation.

‘A bargain,’ said the son. ‘Here’s the rule for bargains—“Do other men, for they would do you.” That’s the true business precept. All others are counterfeits.’

The delighted father applauded this sentiment to the echo; and was so much tickled by it, that he was at the pains of imparting the same to his ancient clerk, who rubbed his hands, nodded his palsied head, winked his watery eyes, and cried in his whistling tones, ‘Good! good! Your own son, Mr Chuzzlewit’ with every feeble demonstration of delight that he was capable of making. But this old man’s enthusiasm had the redeeming quality of being felt in sympathy with the only creature to whom he was linked by ties of long association, and by his present helplessness. And if there had been anybody there, who cared to think about it, some dregs of a better nature unawakened, might perhaps have been descried through that very medium, melancholy though it was, yet lingering at the bottom of the worn-out cask called Chuffey.

As matters stood, nobody thought or said anything upon the subject; so Chuffey fell back into a dark corner on one side of the fireplace, where he always spent his evenings, and was neither seen nor heard again that night; save once, when a cup of tea was given him, in which he was seen to soak his bread mechanically. There was no reason to suppose that he went to sleep at these seasons, or that he heard, or saw, or felt, or thought. He remained, as it were, frozen up—if any term expressive of such a vigorous process can be applied to him—until he was again thawed for the moment by a word or touch from Anthony.

Miss Charity made tea by desire of Mr Jonas, and felt and looked so like the lady of the house that she was in the prettiest confusion imaginable; the more so from Mr Jonas sitting close beside her, and whispering a variety of admiring expressions in her ear. Miss Mercy, for her part, felt the entertainment of the evening to be so distinctly and exclusively theirs, that she silently deplored the commercial gentlemen—at that moment, no doubt, wearying for her return—and yawned over yesterday’s newspaper. As to Anthony, he went to sleep outright, so Jonas and Cherry had a clear stage to themselves as long as they chose to keep possession of it.

When the tea-tray was taken away, as it was at last, Mr Jonas produced a dirty pack of cards, and entertained the sisters with divers small feats of dexterity: whereof the main purpose of every one was, that you were to decoy somebody into laying a wager with you that you couldn’t do it; and were then immediately to win and pocket his money. Mr Jonas informed them that these accomplishments were in high vogue in the most intellectual circles, and that large amounts were constantly changing hands on such hazards. And it may be remarked that he fully believed this; for there is a simplicity of cunning no less than a simplicity of innocence; and in all matters where a lively faith in knavery and meanness was required as the ground-work of belief, Mr Jonas was one of the most credulous of men. His ignorance, which was stupendous, may be taken into account, if the reader pleases, separately.

This fine young man had all the inclination to be a profligate of the first water, and only lacked the one good trait in the common catalogue of debauched vices—open-handedness—to be a notable vagabond. But there his griping and penurious habits stepped in; and as one poison will sometimes neutralise another, when wholesome remedies would not avail, so he was restrained by a bad passion from quaffing his full measure of evil, when virtue might have sought to hold him back in vain.

By the time he had unfolded all the peddling schemes he knew upon the cards, it was growing late in the evening; and Mr Pecksniff not making his appearance, the young ladies expressed a wish to return home. But this, Mr Jonas, in his gallantry, would by no means allow, until they had partaken of some bread and cheese and porter; and even then he was excessively unwilling to allow them to depart; often beseeching Miss Charity to come a little closer, or to stop a little longer, and preferring many other complimentary petitions of that nature in his own hospitable and earnest way. When all his efforts to detain them were fruitless, he put on his hat and greatcoat preparatory to escorting them to Todgers’s; remarking that he knew they would rather walk thither than ride; and that for his part he was quite of their opinion.

‘Good night,’ said Anthony. ‘Good night; remember me to—ha, ha, ha!—to Pecksniff. Take care of your cousin, my dears; beware of Jonas; he’s a dangerous fellow. Don’t quarrel for him, in any case!’

‘Oh, the creature!’ cried Mercy. ‘The idea of quarrelling for HIM! You may take him, Cherry, my love, all to yourself. I make you a present of my share.’

‘What! I’m a sour grape, am I, cousin?’ said Jonas.

Miss Charity was more entertained by this repartee than one would have supposed likely, considering its advanced age and simple character. But in her sisterly affection she took Mr Jonas to task for leaning so very hard upon a broken reed, and said that he must not be so cruel to poor Merry any more, or she (Charity) would positively be obliged to hate him. Mercy, who really had her share of good humour, only retorted with a laugh; and they walked home in consequence without any angry passages of words upon the way. Mr Jonas being in the middle, and having a cousin on each arm, sometimes squeezed the wrong one; so tightly too, as to cause her not a little inconvenience; but as he talked to Charity in whispers the whole time, and paid her great attention, no doubt this was an accidental circumstance. When they arrived at Todgers’s, and the door was opened, Mercy broke hastily from them, and ran upstairs; but Charity and Jonas lingered on the steps talking together for more than five minutes; so, as Mrs Todgers observed next morning, to a third party, ‘It was pretty clear what was going on THERE, and she was glad of it, for it really was high time that Miss Pecksniff thought of settling.’

And now the day was coming on, when that bright vision which had burst on Todgers’s so suddenly, and made a sunshine in the shady breast of Jinkins, was to be seen no more; when it was to be packed, like a brown paper parcel, or a fish-basket, or an oyster barrel or a fat gentleman, or any other dull reality of life, in a stagecoach and carried down into the country.

‘Never, my dear Miss Pecksniffs,’ said Mrs Todgers, when they retired to rest on the last night of their stay, ‘never have I seen an establishment so perfectly broken-hearted as mine is at this present moment of time. I don’t believe the gentlemen will be the gentlemen they were, or anything like it—no, not for weeks to come. You have a great deal to answer for, both of you.’

They modestly disclaimed any wilful agency in this disastrous state of things, and regretted it very much.

‘Your pious pa, too,’ said Mrs Todgers. ‘There’s a loss! My dear Miss Pecksniffs, your pa is a perfect missionary of peace and love.’

Entertaining an uncertainty as to the particular kind of love supposed to be comprised in Mr Pecksniff’s mission, the young ladies received the compliment rather coldly.

‘If I dared,’ said Mrs Todgers, perceiving this, ‘to violate a confidence which has been reposed in me, and to tell you why I must beg of you to leave the little door between your room and mine open tonight, I think you would be interested. But I mustn’t do it, for I promised Mr Jinkins faithfully, that I would be as silent as the tomb.’

‘Dear Mrs Todgers! What can you mean?’

‘Why, then, my sweet Miss Pecksniffs,’ said the lady of the house; ‘my own loves, if you will allow me the privilege of taking that freedom on the eve of our separation, Mr Jinkins and the gentlemen have made up a little musical party among themselves, and DO intend, in the dead of this night, to perform a serenade upon the stairs outside the door. I could have wished, I own,’ said Mrs Todgers, with her usual foresight, ‘that it had been fixed to take place an hour or two earlier; because when gentlemen sit up late they drink, and when they drink they’re not so musical, perhaps, as when they don’t. But this is the arrangement; and I know you will be gratified, my dear Miss Pecksniffs, by such a mark of their attention.’

The young ladies were at first so much excited by the news, that they vowed they couldn’t think of going to bed until the serenade was over. But half an hour of cool waiting so altered their opinion that they not only went to bed, but fell asleep; and were, moreover, not ecstatically charmed to be awakened some time afterwards by certain dulcet strains breaking in upon the silent watches of the night.

It was very affecting—very. Nothing more dismal could have been desired by the most fastidious taste. The gentleman of a vocal turn was head mute, or chief mourner; Jinkins took the bass; and the rest took anything they could get. The youngest gentleman blew his melancholy into a flute. He didn’t blow much out of it, but that was all the better. If the two Miss Pecksniffs and Mrs Todgers had perished by spontaneous combustion, and the serenade had been in honour of their ashes, it would have been impossible to surpass the unutterable despair expressed in that one chorus, ‘Go where glory waits thee!’ It was a requiem, a dirge, a moan, a howl, a wail, a lament, an abstract of everything that is sorrowful and hideous in sound. The flute of the youngest gentleman was wild and fitful. It came and went in gusts, like the wind. For a long time together he seemed to have left off, and when it was quite settled by Mrs Todgers and the young ladies that, overcome by his feelings, he had retired in tears, he unexpectedly turned up again at the very top of the tune, gasping for breath. He was a tremendous performer. There was no knowing where to have him; and exactly when you thought he was doing nothing at all, then was he doing the very thing that ought to astonish you most.

There were several of these concerted pieces; perhaps two or three too many, though that, as Mrs Todgers said, was a fault on the right side. But even then, even at that solemn moment, when the thrilling sounds may be presumed to have penetrated into the very depths of his nature, if he had any depths, Jinkins couldn’t leave the youngest gentleman alone. He asked him distinctly, before the second song began—as a personal favour too, mark the villain in that—not to play. Yes; he said so; not to play. The breathing of the youngest gentleman was heard through the key-hole of the door. He DIDN’T play. What vent was a flute for the passions swelling up within his breast? A trombone would have been a world too mild.

The serenade approached its close. Its crowning interest was at hand. The gentleman of a literary turn had written a song on the departure of the ladies, and adapted it to an old tune. They all joined, except the youngest gentleman in company, who, for the reasons aforesaid, maintained a fearful silence. The song (which was of a classical nature) invoked the oracle of Apollo, and demanded to know what would become of Todgers’s when CHARITY and MERCY were banished from its walls. The oracle delivered no opinion particularly worth remembering, according to the not infrequent practice of oracles from the earliest ages down to the present time. In the absence of enlightenment on that subject, the strain deserted it, and went on to show that the Miss Pecksniffs were nearly related to Rule Britannia, and that if Great Britain hadn’t been an island, there could have been no Miss Pecksniffs. And being now on a nautical tack, it closed with this verse:

‘All hail to the vessel of Pecksniff the sire! And favouring breezes to fan; While Tritons flock round it, and proudly admire The architect, artist, and man!’

As they presented this beautiful picture to the imagination, the gentlemen gradually withdrew to bed to give the music the effect of distance; and so it died away, and Todgers’s was left to its repose.

Mr Bailey reserved his vocal offering until the morning, when he put his head into the room as the young ladies were kneeling before their trunks, packing up, and treated them to an imitation of the voice of a young dog in trying circumstances; when that animal is supposed by persons of a lively fancy, to relieve his feelings by calling for pen and ink.

‘Well, young ladies,’ said the youth, ‘so you’re a-going home, are you, worse luck?’

‘Yes, Bailey, we’re going home,’ returned Mercy.

‘An’t you a-going to leave none of ‘em a lock of your hair?’ inquired the youth. ‘It’s real, an’t it?’

They laughed at this, and told him of course it was.

‘Oh, is it of course, though?’ said Bailey. ‘I know better than that. Hers an’t. Why, I see it hanging up once, on that nail by the winder. Besides, I have gone behind her at dinner-time and pulled it; and she never know’d. I say, young ladies, I’m a-going to leave. I an’t a-going to stand being called names by her, no longer.’

Miss Mercy inquired what his plans for the future might be; in reply to whom Mr Bailey intimated that he thought of going either into top-boots, or into the army.

‘Into the army!’ cried the young ladies, with a laugh.

‘Ah!’ said Bailey, ‘why not? There’s a many drummers in the Tower. I’m acquainted with ‘em. Don’t their country set a valley on ‘em, mind you! Not at all!’

‘You’ll be shot, I see,’ observed Mercy.

‘Well!’ cried Mr Bailey, ‘wot if I am? There’s something gamey in it, young ladies, an’t there? I’d sooner be hit with a cannon-ball than a rolling-pin, and she’s always a-catching up something of that sort, and throwing it at me, when the gentlemans’ appetites is good. Wot,’ said Mr Bailey, stung by the recollection of his wrongs, ‘wot, if they DO consume the per-vishuns. It an’t MY fault, is it?’

‘Surely no one says it is,’ said Mercy.

‘Don’t they though?’ retorted the youth. ‘No. Yes. Ah! oh! No one mayn’t say it is! but some one knows it is. But I an’t a-going to have every rise in prices wisited on me. I an’t a-going to be killed because the markets is dear. I won’t stop. And therefore,’ added Mr Bailey, relenting into a smile, ‘wotever you mean to give me, you’d better give me all at once, becos if ever you come back agin, I shan’t be here; and as to the other boy, HE won’t deserve nothing, I know.’

The young ladies, on behalf of Mr Pecksniff and themselves, acted on this thoughtful advice; and in consideration of their private friendship, presented Mr Bailey with a gratuity so liberal that he could hardly do enough to show his gratitude; which found but an imperfect vent, during the remainder of the day, in divers secret slaps upon his pocket, and other such facetious pantomime. Nor was it confined to these ebullitions; for besides crushing a bandbox, with a bonnet in it, he seriously damaged Mr Pecksniff’s luggage, by ardently hauling it down from the top of the house; and in short evinced, by every means in his power, a lively sense of the favours he had received from that gentleman and his family.

Mr Pecksniff and Mr Jinkins came home to dinner arm-in-arm; for the latter gentleman had made half-holiday on purpose; thus gaining an immense advantage over the youngest gentleman and the rest, whose time, as it perversely chanced, was all bespoke, until the evening. The bottle of wine was Mr Pecksniff’s treat, and they were very sociable indeed; though full of lamentations on the necessity of parting. While they were in the midst of their enjoyment, old Anthony and his son were announced; much to the surprise of Mr Pecksniff, and greatly to the discomfiture of Jinkins.

‘Come to say good-bye, you see,’ said Anthony, in a low voice, to Mr Pecksniff, as they took their seats apart at the table, while the rest conversed among themselves. ‘Where’s the use of a division between you and me? We are the two halves of a pair of scissors, when apart, Pecksniff; but together we are something. Eh?’

‘Unanimity, my good sir,’ rejoined Mr Pecksniff, ‘is always delightful.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said the old man, ‘for there are some people I would rather differ from than agree with. But you know my opinion of you.’

Mr Pecksniff, still having ‘hypocrite’ in his mind, only replied by a motion of his head, which was something between an affirmative bow, and a negative shake.

‘Complimentary,’ said Anthony. ‘Complimentary, upon my word. It was an involuntary tribute to your abilities, even at the time; and it was not a time to suggest compliments either. But we agreed in the coach, you know, that we quite understood each other.’

‘Oh, quite!’ assented Mr Pecksniff, in a manner which implied that he himself was misunderstood most cruelly, but would not complain.

Anthony glanced at his son as he sat beside Miss Charity, and then at Mr Pecksniff, and then at his son again, very many times. It happened that Mr Pecksniff’s glances took a similar direction; but when he became aware of it, he first cast down his eyes, and then closed them; as if he were determined that the old man should read nothing there.

‘Jonas is a shrewd lad,’ said the old man.

‘He appears,’ rejoined Mr Pecksniff in his most candid manner, ‘to be very shrewd.’

‘And careful,’ said the old man.

‘And careful, I have no doubt,’ returned Mr Pecksniff.

‘Look ye!’ said Anthony in his ear. ‘I think he is sweet upon you daughter.’

‘Tut, my good sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with his eyes still closed; ‘young people—young people—a kind of cousins, too—no more sweetness than is in that, sir.’

‘Why, there is very little sweetness in that, according to our experience,’ returned Anthony. ‘Isn’t there a trifle more here?’

‘Impossible to say,’ rejoined Mr Pecksniff. ‘Quite impossible! You surprise me.’

‘Yes, I know that,’ said the old man, drily. ‘It may last; I mean the sweetness, not the surprise; and it may die off. Supposing it should last, perhaps (you having feathered your nest pretty well, and I having done the same), we might have a mutual interest in the matter.’

Mr Pecksniff, smiling gently, was about to speak, but Anthony stopped him.

‘I know what you are going to say. It’s quite unnecessary. You have never thought of this for a moment; and in a point so nearly affecting the happiness of your dear child, you couldn’t, as a tender father, express an opinion; and so forth. Yes, quite right. And like you! But it seems to me, my dear Pecksniff,’ added Anthony, laying his hand upon his sleeve, ‘that if you and I kept up the joke of pretending not to see this, one of us might possibly be placed in a position of disadvantage; and as I am very unwilling to be that party myself, you will excuse my taking the liberty of putting the matter beyond a doubt thus early; and having it distinctly understood, as it is now, that we do see it, and do know it. Thank you for your attention. We are now upon an equal footing; which is agreeable to us both, I am sure.’

He rose as he spoke; and giving Mr Pecksniff a nod of intelligence, moved away from him to where the young people were sitting; leaving that good man somewhat puzzled and discomfited by such very plain dealing, and not quite free from a sense of having been foiled in the exercise of his familiar weapons.

But the night-coach had a punctual character, and it was time to join it at the office; which was so near at hand that they had already sent their luggage and arranged to walk. Thither the whole party repaired, therefore, after no more delay than sufficed for the equipment of the Miss Pecksniffs and Mrs Todgers. They found the coach already at its starting-place, and the horses in; there, too, were a large majority of the commercial gentlemen, including the youngest, who was visibly agitated, and in a state of deep mental dejection.

Nothing could equal the distress of Mrs Todgers in parting from the young ladies, except the strong emotions with which she bade adieu to Mr Pecksniff. Never surely was a pocket-handkerchief taken in and out of a flat reticule so often as Mrs Todgers’s was, as she stood upon the pavement by the coach-door supported on either side by a commercial gentleman; and by the sight of the coach-lamps caught such brief snatches and glimpses of the good man’s face, as the constant interposition of Mr Jinkins allowed. For Jinkins, to the last the youngest gentleman’s rock a-head in life, stood upon the coachstep talking to the ladies. Upon the other step was Mr Jonas, who maintained that position in right of his cousinship; whereas the youngest gentleman, who had been first upon the ground, was deep in the booking-office among the black and red placards, and the portraits of fast coaches, where he was ignominiously harassed by porters, and had to contend and strive perpetually with heavy baggage. This false position, combined with his nervous excitement, brought about the very consummation and catastrophe of his miseries; for when in the moment of parting he aimed a flower, a hothouse flower that had cost money, at the fair hand of Mercy, it reached, instead, the coachman on the box, who thanked him kindly, and stuck it in his buttonhole.

They were off now; and Todgers’s was alone again. The two young ladies, leaning back in their separate corners, resigned themselves to their own regretful thoughts. But Mr Pecksniff, dismissing all ephemeral considerations of social pleasure and enjoyment, concentrated his meditations on the one great virtuous purpose before him, of casting out that ingrate and deceiver, whose presence yet troubled his domestic hearth, and was a sacrilege upon the altars of his household gods.

CHAPTER TWELVE

WILL BE SEEN IN THE LONG RUN, IF NOT IN THE SHORT ONE, TO CONCERN MR PINCH AND OTHERS, NEARLY. MR PECKSNIFF ASSERTS THE DIGNITY OF OUTRAGED VIRTUE. YOUNG MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT FORMS A DESPERATE RESOLUTION

Mr Pinch and Martin, little dreaming of the stormy weather that impended, made themselves very comfortable in the Pecksniffian halls, and improved their friendship daily. Martin’s facility, both of invention and execution, being remarkable, the grammar-school proceeded with great vigour; and Tom repeatedly declared, that if there were anything like certainty in human affairs, or impartiality in human judges, a design so new and full of merit could not fail to carry off the first prize when the time of competition arrived. Without being quite so sanguine himself, Martin had his hopeful anticipations too; and they served to make him brisk and eager at his task.

‘If I should turn out a great architect, Tom,’ said the new pupil one day, as he stood at a little distance from his drawing, and eyed it with much complacency, ‘I’ll tell you what should be one of the things I’d build.’

‘Aye!’ cried Tom. ‘What?’

‘Why, your fortune.’

‘No!’ said Tom Pinch, quite as much delighted as if the thing were done. ‘Would you though? How kind of you to say so.’

‘I’d build it up, Tom,’ returned Martin, ‘on such a strong foundation, that it should last your life—aye, and your children’s lives too, and their children’s after them. I’d be your patron, Tom. I’d take you under my protection. Let me see the man who should give the cold shoulder to anybody I chose to protect and patronise, if I were at the top of the tree, Tom!’

‘Now, I don’t think,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘upon my word, that I was ever more gratified than by this. I really don’t.’

‘Oh! I mean what I say,’ retorted Martin, with a manner as free and easy in its condescension to, not to say in its compassion for, the other, as if he were already First Architect in ordinary to all the Crowned Heads in Europe. ‘I’d do it. I’d provide for you.’

‘I am afraid,’ said Tom, shaking his head, ‘that I should be a mighty awkward person to provide for.’

‘Pooh, pooh!’ rejoined Martin. ‘Never mind that. If I took it in my head to say, “Pinch is a clever fellow; I approve of Pinch;” I should like to know the man who would venture to put himself in opposition to me. Besides, confound it, Tom, you could be useful to me in a hundred ways.’

‘If I were not useful in one or two, it shouldn’t be for want of trying,’ said Tom.

‘For instance,’ pursued Martin, after a short reflection, ‘you’d be a capital fellow, now, to see that my ideas were properly carried out; and to overlook the works in their progress before they were sufficiently advanced to be very interesting to ME; and to take all that sort of plain sailing. Then you’d be a splendid fellow to show people over my studio, and to talk about Art to ‘em, when I couldn’t be bored myself, and all that kind of thing. For it would be devilish creditable, Tom (I’m quite in earnest, I give you my word), to have a man of your information about one, instead of some ordinary blockhead. Oh, I’d take care of you. You’d be useful, rely upon it!’

To say that Tom had no idea of playing first fiddle in any social orchestra, but was always quite satisfied to be set down for the hundred and fiftieth violin in the band, or thereabouts, is to express his modesty in very inadequate terms. He was much delighted, therefore, by these observations.

‘I should be married to her then, Tom, of course,’ said Martin.

What was that which checked Tom Pinch so suddenly, in the high flow of his gladness; bringing the blood into his honest cheeks, and a remorseful feeling to his honest heart, as if he were unworthy of his friend’s regard?

‘I should be married to her then,’ said Martin, looking with a smile towards the light; ‘and we should have, I hope, children about us. They’d be very fond of you, Tom.’

But not a word said Mr Pinch. The words he would have uttered died upon his lips, and found a life more spiritual in self-denying thoughts.

‘All the children hereabouts are fond of you, Tom, and mine would be, of course,’ pursued Martin. ‘Perhaps I might name one of ‘em after you. Tom, eh? Well, I don’t know. Tom’s not a bad name. Thomas Pinch Chuzzlewit. T. P. C. on his pinafores—no objection to that, I should say?’

Tom cleared his throat, and smiled.

‘SHE would like you, Tom, I know,’ said Martin.

‘Aye!’ cried Tom Pinch, faintly.

‘I can tell exactly what she would think of you,’ said Martin leaning his chin upon his hand, and looking through the window-glass as if he read there what he said; ‘I know her so well. She would smile, Tom, often at first when you spoke to her, or when she looked at you—merrily too—but you wouldn’t mind that. A brighter smile you never saw.’

‘No, no,’ said Tom. ‘I wouldn’t mind that.’

‘She would be as tender with you, Tom,’ said Martin, ‘as if you were a child yourself. So you are almost, in some things, an’t you, Tom?’

Mr Pinch nodded his entire assent.

‘She would always be kind and good-humoured, and glad to see you,’ said Martin; ‘and when she found out exactly what sort of fellow you were (which she’d do very soon), she would pretend to give you little commissions to execute, and to ask little services of you, which she knew you were burning to render; so that when she really pleased you most, she would try to make you think you most pleased her. She would take to you uncommonly, Tom; and would understand you far more delicately than I ever shall; and would often say, I know, that you were a harmless, gentle, well-intentioned, good fellow.’

How silent Tom Pinch was!

‘In honour of old time,’ said Martin, ‘and of her having heard you play the organ in this damp little church down here—for nothing too—we will have one in the house. I shall build an architectural music-room on a plan of my own, and it’ll look rather knowing in a recess at one end. There you shall play away, Tom, till you tire yourself; and, as you like to do so in the dark, it shall BE dark; and many’s the summer evening she and I will sit and listen to you, Tom; be sure of that!’

It may have required a stronger effort on Tom Pinch’s part to leave the seat on which he sat, and shake his friend by both hands, with nothing but serenity and grateful feeling painted on his face; it may have required a stronger effort to perform this simple act with a pure heart, than to achieve many and many a deed to which the doubtful trumpet blown by Fame has lustily resounded. Doubtful, because from its long hovering over scenes of violence, the smoke and steam of death have clogged the keys of that brave instrument; and it is not always that its notes are either true or tuneful.

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

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

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

‘YOU know. What is it? Northkey.’

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

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

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

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

‘No,’ said Tom; ‘not all.’

‘What’s the rest?’ asked Martin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘No!’ said Tom Pinch. ‘Have you?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John Westlock shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

John Westlock smiled, but made no answer.

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

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

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

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

‘Oh! well! Then I know what course they take beforehand,’ said Martin; ‘and, therefore, you can have no delicacy in speaking plainly. Don’t mind me, I beg. I don’t like him I tell you frankly. I am with him because it happens from particular circumstances to suit my convenience. I have some ability, I believe, in that way; and the obligation, if any, will most likely be on his side and not mine. At the lowest mark, the balance will be even, and there’ll be no obligation at all. So you may talk to me, as if I had no connection with him.’

‘If you press me to give my opinion—’ returned John Westlock.

‘Yes, I do,’ said Martin. ‘You’ll oblige me.’

‘—I should say,’ resumed the other, ‘that he is the most consummate scoundrel on the face of the earth.’

‘Oh!’ said Martin, as coolly as ever. ‘That’s rather strong.’

‘Not stronger than he deserves,’ said John; ‘and if he called upon me to express my opinion of him to his face, I would do so in the very same terms, without the least qualification. His treatment of Pinch is in itself enough to justify them; but when I look back upon the five years I passed in that house, and remember the hyprocrisy, the knavery, the meannesses, the false pretences, the lip service of that fellow, and his trading in saintly semblances for the very worst realities; when I remember how often I was the witness of all this and how often I was made a kind of party to it, by the fact of being there, with him for my teacher; I swear to you that I almost despise myself.’

Martin drained his glass, and looked at the fire.

‘I don’t mean to say that is a right feeling,’ pursued John Westlock ‘because it was no fault of mine; and I can quite understand—you for instance, fully appreciating him, and yet being forced by circumstances to remain there. I tell you simply what my feeling is; and even now, when, as you say, it’s all over; and when I have the satisfaction of knowing that he always hated me, and we always quarrelled, and I always told him my mind; even now, I feel sorry that I didn’t yield to an impulse I often had, as a boy, of running away from him and going abroad.’

‘Why abroad?’ asked Martin, turning his eyes upon the speaker.

‘In search,’ replied John Westlock, shrugging his shoulders, ‘of the livelihood I couldn’t have earned at home. There would have been something spirited in that. But, come! Fill your glass, and let us forget him.’

‘As soon as you please,’ said Martin. ‘In reference to myself and my connection with him, I have only to repeat what I said before. I have taken my own way with him so far, and shall continue to do so, even more than ever; for the fact is, to tell you the truth, that I believe he looks to me to supply his defects, and couldn’t afford to lose me. I had a notion of that in first going there. Your health!’

‘Thank you,’ returned young Westlock. ‘Yours. And may the new pupil turn out as well as you can desire!’

‘What new pupil?’

‘The fortunate youth, born under an auspicious star,’ returned John Westlock, laughing; ‘whose parents, or guardians, are destined to be hooked by the advertisement. What! Don’t you know that he has advertised again?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, yes. I read it just before dinner in the old newspaper. I know it to be his; having some reason to remember the style. Hush! Here’s Pinch. Strange, is it not, that the more he likes Pecksniff (if he can like him better than he does), the greater reason one has to like HIM? Not a word more, or we shall spoil his whole enjoyment.’

Tom entered as the words were spoken, with a radiant smile upon his face; and rubbing his hands, more from a sense of delight than because he was cold (for he had been running fast), sat down in his warm corner again, and was as happy as only Tom Pinch could be. There is no other simile that will express his state of mind.

‘And so,’ he said, when he had gazed at his friend for some time in silent pleasure, ‘so you really are a gentleman at last, John. Well, to be sure!’

‘Trying to be, Tom; trying to be,’ he rejoined good-humouredly. ‘There is no saying what I may turn out, in time.’

‘I suppose you wouldn’t carry your own box to the mail now?’ said Tom Pinch, smiling; ‘although you lost it altogether by not taking it.’

‘Wouldn’t I?’ retorted John. ‘That’s all you know about it, Pinch. It must be a very heavy box that I wouldn’t carry to get away from Pecksniff’s, Tom.’

‘There!’ cried Pinch, turning to Martin, ‘I told you so. The great fault in his character is his injustice to Pecksniff. You mustn’t mind a word he says on that subject. His prejudice is most extraordinary.’

‘The absence of anything like prejudice on Tom’s part, you know,’ said John Westlock, laughing heartily, as he laid his hand on Mr Pinch’s shoulder, ‘is perfectly wonderful. If one man ever had a profound knowledge of another, and saw him in a true light, and in his own proper colours, Tom has that knowledge of Mr Pecksniff.’

‘Why, of course I have,’ cried Tom. ‘That’s exactly what I have so often said to you. If you knew him as well as I do—John, I’d give almost any money to bring that about—you’d admire, respect, and reverence him. You couldn’t help it. Oh, how you wounded his feelings when you went away!’

‘If I had known whereabout his feelings lay,’ retorted young Westlock, ‘I’d have done my best, Tom, with that end in view, you may depend upon it. But as I couldn’t wound him in what he has not, and in what he knows nothing of, except in his ability to probe them to the quick in other people, I am afraid I can lay no claim to your compliment.’

Mr Pinch, being unwilling to protract a discussion which might possibly corrupt Martin, forbore to say anything in reply to this speech; but John Westlock, whom nothing short of an iron gag would have silenced when Mr Pecksniff’s merits were once in question, continued notwithstanding.

‘HIS feelings! Oh, he’s a tender-hearted man. HIS feelings! Oh, he’s a considerate, conscientious, self-examining, moral vagabond, he is! HIS feelings! Oh!—what’s the matter, Tom?’

Mr Pinch was by this time erect upon the hearth-rug, buttoning his coat with great energy.

‘I can’t bear it,’ said Tom, shaking his head. ‘No. I really cannot. You must excuse me, John. I have a great esteem and friendship for you; I love you very much; and have been perfectly charmed and overjoyed to-day, to find you just the same as ever; but I cannot listen to this.’

‘Why, it’s my old way, Tom; and you say yourself that you are glad to find me unchanged.’

‘Not in this respect,’ said Tom Pinch. ‘You must excuse me, John. I cannot, really; I will not. It’s very wrong; you should be more guarded in your expressions. It was bad enough when you and I used to be alone together, but under existing circumstances, I can’t endure it, really. No. I cannot, indeed.’

‘You are quite right!’ exclaimed the other, exchanging looks with Martin. ‘and I am quite wrong, Tom, I don’t know how the deuce we fell on this unlucky theme. I beg your pardon with all my heart.’

‘You have a free and manly temper, I know,’ said Pinch; ‘and therefore, your being so ungenerous in this one solitary instance, only grieves me the more. It’s not my pardon you have to ask, John. You have done ME nothing but kindnesses.’

‘Well! Pecksniff’s pardon then,’ said young Westlock. ‘Anything Tom, or anybody. Pecksniff’s pardon—will that do? Here! let us drink Pecksniff’s health!’

‘Thank you,’ cried Tom, shaking hands with him eagerly, and filling a bumper. ‘Thank you; I’ll drink it with all my heart, John. Mr Pecksniff’s health, and prosperity to him!’

John Westlock echoed the sentiment, or nearly so; for he drank Mr Pecksniff’s health, and Something to him—but what, was not quite audible. The general unanimity being then completely restored, they drew their chairs closer round the fire, and conversed in perfect harmony and enjoyment until bed-time.

No slight circumstance, perhaps, could have better illustrated the difference of character between John Westlock and Martin Chuzzlewit, than the manner in which each of the young men contemplated Tom Pinch, after the little rupture just described. There was a certain amount of jocularity in the looks of both, no doubt, but there all resemblance ceased. The old pupil could not do enough to show Tom how cordially he felt towards him, and his friendly regard seemed of a graver and more thoughtful kind than before. The new one, on the other hand, had no impulse but to laugh at the recollection of Tom’s extreme absurdity; and mingled with his amusement there was something slighting and contemptuous, indicative, as it appeared, of his opinion that Mr Pinch was much too far gone in simplicity to be admitted as the friend, on serious and equal terms, of any rational man.

John Westlock, who did nothing by halves, if he could help it, had provided beds for his two guests in the hotel; and after a very happy evening, they retired. Mr Pinch was sitting on the side of his bed with his cravat and shoes off, ruminating on the manifold good qualities of his old friend, when he was interrupted by a knock at his chamber door, and the voice of John himself.

‘You’re not asleep yet, are you, Tom?’

‘Bless you, no! not I. I was thinking of you,’ replied Tom, opening the door. ‘Come in.’

‘I am not going to detail you,’ said John; ‘but I have forgotten all the evening a little commission I took upon myself; and I am afraid I may forget it again, if I fail to discharge it at once. You know a Mr Tigg, Tom, I believe?’

‘Tigg!’ cried Tom. ‘Tigg! The gentleman who borrowed some money of me?’

‘Exactly,’ said John Westlock. ‘He begged me to present his compliments, and to return it with many thanks. Here it is. I suppose it’s a good one, but he is rather a doubtful kind of customer, Tom.’

Mr Pinch received the little piece of gold with a face whose brightness might have shamed the metal; and said he had no fear about that. He was glad, he added, to find Mr Tigg so prompt and honourable in his dealings; very glad.

‘Why, to tell you the truth, Tom,’ replied his friend, ‘he is not always so. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll avoid him as much as you can, in the event of your encountering him again. And by no means, Tom—pray bear this in mind, for I am very serious—by no means lend him money any more.’

‘Aye, aye!’ said Tom, with his eyes wide open.

‘He is very far from being a reputable acquaintance,’ returned young Westlock; ‘and the more you let him know you think so, the better for you, Tom.’

‘I say, John,’ quoth Mr Pinch, as his countenance fell, and he shook his head in a dejected manner. ‘I hope you are not getting into bad company.’

‘No, no,’ he replied laughing. ‘Don’t be uneasy on that score.’

‘Oh, but I AM uneasy,’ said Tom Pinch; ‘I can’t help it, when I hear you talking in that way. If Mr Tigg is what you describe him to be, you have no business to know him, John. You may laugh, but I don’t consider it by any means a laughing matter, I assure you.’

‘No, no,’ returned his friend, composing his features. ‘Quite right. It is not, certainly.’

‘You know, John,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘your very good nature and kindness of heart make you thoughtless, and you can’t be too careful on such a point as this. Upon my word, if I thought you were falling among bad companions, I should be quite wretched, for I know how difficult you would find it to shake them off. I would much rather have lost this money, John, than I would have had it back again on such terms.’

‘I tell you, my dear good old fellow,’ cried his friend, shaking him to and fro with both hands, and smiling at him with a cheerful, open countenance, that would have carried conviction to a mind much more suspicious than Tom’s; ‘I tell you there is no danger.’

‘Well!’ cried Tom, ‘I am glad to hear it; I am overjoyed to hear it. I am sure there is not, when you say so in that manner. You won’t take it ill, John, that I said what I did just now!’

‘Ill!’ said the other, giving his hand a hearty squeeze; ‘why what do you think I am made of? Mr Tigg and I are not on such an intimate footing that you need be at all uneasy, I give you my solemn assurance of that, Tom. You are quite comfortable now?’

‘Quite,’ said Tom.

‘Then once more, good night!’

‘Good night!’ cried Tom; ‘and such pleasant dreams to you as should attend the sleep of the best fellow in the world!’

‘—Except Pecksniff,’ said his friend, stopping at the door for a moment, and looking gayly back.

‘Except Pecksniff,’ answered Tom, with great gravity; ‘of course.’

And thus they parted for the night; John Westlock full of light-heartedness and good humour, and poor Tom Pinch quite satisfied; though still, as he turned over on his side in bed, he muttered to himself, ‘I really do wish, for all that, though, that he wasn’t acquainted with Mr Tigg.’

They breakfasted together very early next morning, for the two young men desired to get back again in good season; and John Westlock was to return to London by the coach that day. As he had some hours to spare, he bore them company for three or four miles on their walk, and only parted from them at last in sheer necessity. The parting was an unusually hearty one, not only as between him and Tom Pinch, but on the side of Martin also, who had found in the old pupil a very different sort of person from the milksop he had prepared himself to expect.

Young Westlock stopped upon a rising ground, when he had gone a little distance, and looked back. They were walking at a brisk pace, and Tom appeared to be talking earnestly. Martin had taken off his greatcoat, the wind being now behind them, and carried it upon his arm. As he looked, he saw Tom relieve him of it, after a faint resistance, and, throwing it upon his own, encumber himself with the weight of both. This trivial incident impressed the old pupil mightily, for he stood there, gazing after them, until they were hidden from his view; when he shook his head, as if he were troubled by some uneasy reflection, and thoughtfully retraced his steps to Salisbury.

In the meantime, Martin and Tom pursued their way, until they halted, safe and sound, at Mr Pecksniff’s house, where a brief epistle from that good gentleman to Mr Pinch announced the family’s return by that night’s coach. As it would pass the corner of the lane at about six o’clock in the morning, Mr Pecksniff requested that the gig might be in waiting at the finger-post about that time, together with a cart for the luggage. And to the end that he might be received with the greater honour, the young men agreed to rise early, and be upon the spot themselves.

It was the least cheerful day they had yet passed together. Martin was out of spirits and out of humour, and took every opportunity of comparing his condition and prospects with those of young Westlock; much to his own disadvantage always. This mood of his depressed Tom; and neither that morning’s parting, nor yesterday’s dinner, helped to mend the matter. So the hours dragged on heavily enough; and they were glad to go to bed early.

They were not quite so glad to get up again at half-past four o’clock, in all the shivering discomfort of a dark winter’s morning; but they turned out punctually, and were at the finger-post full half-an-hour before the appointed time. It was not by any means a lively morning, for the sky was black and cloudy, and it rained hard; but Martin said there was some satisfaction in seeing that brute of a horse (by this, he meant Mr Pecksniff’s Arab steed) getting very wet; and that he rejoiced, on his account, that it rained so fast. From this it may be inferred that Martin’s spirits had not improved, as indeed they had not; for while he and Mr Pinch stood waiting under a hedge, looking at the rain, the gig, the cart, and its reeking driver, he did nothing but grumble; and, but that it is indispensable to any dispute that there should be two parties to it, he would certainly have picked a quarrel with Tom.

At length the noise of wheels was faintly audible in the distance and presently the coach came splashing through the mud and mire with one miserable outside passenger crouching down among wet straw, under a saturated umbrella; and the coachman, guard, and horses, in a fellowship of dripping wretchedness. Immediately on its stopping, Mr Pecksniff let down the window-glass and hailed Tom Pinch.

‘Dear me, Mr Pinch! Is it possible that you are out upon this very inclement morning?’

‘Yes, sir,’ cried Tom, advancing eagerly, ‘Mr Chuzzlewit and I, sir.’

‘Oh!’ said Mr Pecksniff, looking not so much at Martin as at the spot on which he stood. ‘Oh! Indeed. Do me the favour to see to the trunks, if you please, Mr Pinch.’

Then Mr Pecksniff descended, and helped his daughters to alight; but neither he nor the young ladies took the slightest notice of Martin, who had advanced to offer his assistance, but was repulsed by Mr Pecksniff’s standing immediately before his person, with his back towards him. In the same manner, and in profound silence, Mr Pecksniff handed his daughters into the gig; and following himself and taking the reins, drove off home.

Lost in astonishment, Martin stood staring at the coach, and when the coach had driven away, at Mr Pinch, and the luggage, until the cart moved off too; when he said to Tom:

‘Now will you have the goodness to tell me what THIS portends?’

‘What?’ asked Tom.

‘This fellow’s behaviour. Mr Pecksniff’s, I mean. You saw it?’

‘No. Indeed I did not,’ cried Tom. ‘I was busy with the trunks.’

‘It is no matter,’ said Martin. ‘Come! Let us make haste back!’ And without another word started off at such a pace, that Tom had some difficulty in keeping up with him.

He had no care where he went, but walked through little heaps of mud and little pools of water with the utmost indifference; looking straight before him, and sometimes laughing in a strange manner within himself. Tom felt that anything he could say would only render him the more obstinate, and therefore trusted to Mr Pecksniff’s manner when they reached the house, to remove the mistaken impression under which he felt convinced so great a favourite as the new pupil must unquestionably be labouring. But he was not a little amazed himself, when they did reach it, and entered the parlour where Mr Pecksniff was sitting alone before the fire, drinking some hot tea, to find that instead of taking favourable notice of his relative and keeping him, Mr Pinch, in the background, he did exactly the reverse, and was so lavish in his attentions to Tom, that Tom was thoroughly confounded.

‘Take some tea, Mr Pinch—take some tea,’ said Pecksniff, stirring the fire. ‘You must be very cold and damp. Pray take some tea, and come into a warm place, Mr Pinch.’

Tom saw that Martin looked at Mr Pecksniff as though he could have easily found it in his heart to give HIM an invitation to a very warm place; but he was quite silent, and standing opposite that gentleman at the table, regarded him attentively.

‘Take a chair, Pinch,’ said Pecksniff. ‘Take a chair, if you please. How have things gone on in our absence, Mr Pinch?’

‘You—you will be very much pleased with the grammar-school, sir,’ said Tom. ‘It’s nearly finished.’

‘If you will have the goodness, Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff, waving his hand and smiling, ‘we will not discuss anything connected with that question at present. What have YOU been doing, Thomas, humph?’

Mr Pinch looked from master to pupil, and from pupil to master, and was so perplexed and dismayed that he wanted presence of mind to answer the question. In this awkward interval, Mr Pecksniff (who was perfectly conscious of Martin’s gaze, though he had never once glanced towards him) poked the fire very much, and when he couldn’t do that any more, drank tea assiduously.

‘Now, Mr Pecksniff,’ said Martin at last, in a very quiet voice, ‘if you have sufficiently refreshed and recovered yourself, I shall be glad to hear what you mean by this treatment of me.’

‘And what,’ said Mr Pecksniff, turning his eyes on Tom Pinch, even more placidly and gently than before, ‘what have YOU been doing, Thomas, humph?’

When he had repeated this inquiry, he looked round the walls of the room as if he were curious to see whether any nails had been left there by accident in former times.

Tom was almost at his wit’s end what to say between the two, and had already made a gesture as if he would call Mr Pecksniff’s attention to the gentleman who had last addressed him, when Martin saved him further trouble, by doing so himself.

‘Mr Pecksniff,’ he said, softly rapping the table twice or thrice, and moving a step or two nearer, so that he could have touched him with his hand; ‘you heard what I said just now. Do me the favour to reply, if you please. I ask you’—he raised his voice a little here—‘what you mean by this?’

‘I will talk to you, sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff in a severe voice, as he looked at him for the first time, ‘presently.’

‘You are very obliging,’ returned Martin; ‘presently will not do. I must trouble you to talk to me at once.’

Mr Pecksniff made a feint of being deeply interested in his pocketbook, but it shook in his hands; he trembled so.

‘Now,’ retorted Martin, rapping the table again. ‘Now. Presently will not do. Now!’

‘Do you threaten me, sir?’ cried Mr Pecksniff.

Martin looked at him, and made no answer; but a curious observer might have detected an ominous twitching at his mouth, and perhaps an involuntary attraction of his right hand in the direction of Mr Pecksniff’s cravat.

‘I lament to be obliged to say, sir,’ resumed Mr Pecksniff, ‘that it would be quite in keeping with your character if you did threaten me. You have deceived me. You have imposed upon a nature which you knew to be confiding and unsuspicious. You have obtained admission, sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, rising, ‘to this house, on perverted statements and on false pretences.’

‘Go on,’ said Martin, with a scornful smile. ‘I understand you now. What more?’

‘Thus much more, sir,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, trembling from head to foot, and trying to rub his hands, as though he were only cold. ‘Thus much more, if you force me to publish your shame before a third party, which I was unwilling and indisposed to do. This lowly roof, sir, must not be contaminated by the presence of one who has deceived, and cruelly deceived, an honourable, beloved, venerated, and venerable gentleman; and who wisely suppressed that deceit from me when he sought my protection and favour, knowing that, humble as I am, I am an honest man, seeking to do my duty in this carnal universe, and setting my face against all vice and treachery. I weep for your depravity, sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘I mourn over your corruption, I pity your voluntary withdrawal of yourself from the flowery paths of purity and peace;’ here he struck himself upon his breast, or moral garden; ‘but I cannot have a leper and a serpent for an inmate. Go forth,’ said Mr Pecksniff, stretching out his hand: ‘go forth, young man! Like all who know you, I renounce you!’

With what intention Martin made a stride forward at these words, it is impossible to say. It is enough to know that Tom Pinch caught him in his arms, and that, at the same moment, Mr Pecksniff stepped back so hastily, that he missed his footing, tumbled over a chair, and fell in a sitting posture on the ground; where he remained without an effort to get up again, with his head in a corner, perhaps considering it the safest place.

‘Let me go, Pinch!’ cried Martin, shaking him away. ‘Why do you hold me? Do you think a blow could make him a more abject creature than he is? Do you think that if I spat upon him, I could degrade him to a lower level than his own? Look at him. Look at him, Pinch!’

Mr Pinch involuntarily did so. Mr Pecksniff sitting, as has been already mentioned, on the carpet, with his head in an acute angle of the wainscot, and all the damage and detriment of an uncomfortable journey about him, was not exactly a model of all that is prepossessing and dignified in man, certainly. Still he WAS Pecksniff; it was impossible to deprive him of that unique and paramount appeal to Tom. And he returned Tom’s glance, as if he would have said, ‘Aye, Mr Pinch, look at me! Here I am! You know what the Poet says about an honest man; and an honest man is one of the few great works that can be seen for nothing! Look at me!’

‘I tell you,’ said Martin, ‘that as he lies there, disgraced, bought, used; a cloth for dirty hands, a mat for dirty feet, a lying, fawning, servile hound, he is the very last and worst among the vermin of the world. And mark me, Pinch! The day will come—he knows it; see it written on his face, while I speak!—when even you will find him out, and will know him as I do, and as he knows I do. HE renounce ME! Cast your eyes on the Renouncer, Pinch, and be the wiser for the recollection!’

He pointed at him as he spoke, with unutterable contempt, and flinging his hat upon his head, walked from the room and from the house. He went so rapidly that he was already clear of the village, when he heard Tom Pinch calling breathlessly after him in the distance.

‘Well! what now?’ he said, when Tom came up.

‘Dear, dear!’ cried Tom, ‘are you going?’

‘Going!’ he echoed. ‘Going!’

‘I didn’t so much mean that, as were you going now at once—in this bad weather—on foot—without your clothes—with no money?’ cried Tom.

‘Yes,’ he answered sternly, ‘I am.’

‘And where?’ cried Tom. ‘Oh where will you go?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Yes, I do. I’ll go to America!’

‘No, no,’ cried Tom, in a kind of agony. ‘Don’t go there. Pray don’t. Think better of it. Don’t be so dreadfully regardless of yourself. Don’t go to America!’

‘My mind is made up,’ he said. ‘Your friend was right. I’ll go to America. God bless you, Pinch!’

‘Take this!’ cried Tom, pressing a book upon him in great agitation. ‘I must make haste back, and can’t say anything I would. Heaven be with you. Look at the leaf I have turned down. Good-bye, good-bye!’

The simple fellow wrung him by the hand, with tears stealing down his cheeks; and they parted hurriedly upon their separate ways.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SHOWING WHAT BECAME OF MARTIN AND HIS DESPARATE RESOLVE, AFTER HE LEFT MR PECKSNIFF’S HOUSE; WHAT PERSONS HE ENCOUNTERED; WHAT ANXIETIES HE SUFFERED; AND WHAT NEWS HE HEARD

Carrying Tom Pinch’s book quite unconsciously under his arm, and not even buttoning his coat as a protection against the heavy rain, Martin went doggedly forward at the same quick pace, until he had passed the finger-post, and was on the high road to London. He slackened very little in his speed even then, but he began to think, and look about him, and to disengage his senses from the coil of angry passions which hitherto had held them prisoner.

It must be confessed that, at that moment, he had no very agreeable employment either for his moral or his physical perceptions. The day was dawning from a patch of watery light in the east, and sullen clouds came driving up before it, from which the rain descended in a thick, wet mist. It streamed from every twig and bramble in the hedge; made little gullies in the path; ran down a hundred channels in the road; and punched innumerable holes into the face of every pond and gutter. It fell with an oozy, slushy sound among the grass; and made a muddy kennel of every furrow in the ploughed fields. No living creature was anywhere to be seen. The prospect could hardly have been more desolate if animated nature had been dissolved in water, and poured down upon the earth again in that form.

The range of view within the solitary traveller was quite as cheerless as the scene without. Friendless and penniless; incensed to the last degree; deeply wounded in his pride and self-love; full of independent schemes, and perfectly destitute of any means of realizing them; his most vindictive enemy might have been satisfied with the extent of his troubles. To add to his other miseries, he was by this time sensible of being wet to the skin, and cold at his very heart.

In this deplorable condition he remembered Mr Pinch’s book; more because it was rather troublesome to carry, than from any hope of being comforted by that parting gift. He looked at the dingy lettering on the back, and finding it to be an odd volume of the ‘Bachelor of Salamanca,’ in the French tongue, cursed Tom Pinch’s folly twenty times. He was on the point of throwing it away, in his ill-humour and vexation, when he bethought himself that Tom had referred him to a leaf, turned down; and opening it at that place, that he might have additional cause of complaint against him for supposing that any cold scrap of the Bachelor’s wisdom could cheer him in such circumstances, found!—

Well, well! not much, but Tom’s all. The half-sovereign. He had wrapped it hastily in a piece of paper, and pinned it to the leaf. These words were scrawled in pencil on the inside: ‘I don’t want it indeed. I should not know what to do with it if I had it.’

There are some falsehoods, Tom, on which men mount, as on bright wings, towards Heaven. There are some truths, cold bitter taunting truths, wherein your worldly scholars are very apt and punctual, which bind men down to earth with leaden chains. Who would not rather have to fan him, in his dying hour, the lightest feather of a falsehood such as thine, than all the quills that have been plucked from the sharp porcupine, reproachful truth, since time began!

Martin felt keenly for himself, and he felt this good deed of Tom’s keenly. After a few minutes it had the effect of raising his spirits, and reminding him that he was not altogether destitute, as he had left a fair stock of clothes behind him, and wore a gold hunting-watch in his pocket. He found a curious gratification, too, in thinking what a winning fellow he must be to have made such an impression on Tom; and in reflecting how superior he was to Tom; and how much more likely to make his way in the world. Animated by these thoughts, and strengthened in his design of endeavouring to push his fortune in another country, he resolved to get to London as a rallying-point, in the best way he could; and to lose no time about it.

He was ten good miles from the village made illustrious by being the abiding-place of Mr Pecksniff, when he stopped to breakfast at a little roadside alehouse; and resting upon a high-backed settle before the fire, pulled off his coat, and hung it before the cheerful blaze to dry. It was a very different place from the last tavern in which he had regaled; boasting no greater extent of accommodation than the brick-floored kitchen yielded; but the mind so soon accommodates itself to the necessities of the body, that this poor waggoner’s house-of-call, which he would have despised yesterday, became now quite a choice hotel; while his dish of eggs and bacon, and his mug of beer, were not by any means the coarse fare he had supposed, but fully bore out the inscription on the window-shutter, which proclaimed those viands to be ‘Good entertainment for Travellers.’

He pushed away his empty plate; and with a second mug upon the hearth before him, looked thoughtfully at the fire until his eyes ached. Then he looked at the highly-coloured scripture pieces on the walls, in little black frames like common shaving-glasses, and saw how the Wise Men (with a strong family likeness among them) worshipped in a pink manger; and how the Prodigal Son came home in red rags to a purple father, and already feasted his imagination on a sea-green calf. Then he glanced through the window at the falling rain, coming down aslant upon the sign-post over against the house, and overflowing the horse-trough; and then he looked at the fire again, and seemed to descry a double distant London, retreating among the fragments of the burning wood.

He had repeated this process in just the same order, many times, as if it were a matter of necessity, when the sound of wheels called his attention to the window out of its regular turn; and there he beheld a kind of light van drawn by four horses, and laden, as well as he could see (for it was covered in), with corn and straw. The driver, who was alone, stopped at the door to water his team, and presently came stamping and shaking the wet off his hat and coat, into the room where Martin sat.

He was a red-faced burly young fellow; smart in his way, and with a good-humoured countenance. As he advanced towards the fire he touched his shining forehead with the forefinger of his stiff leather glove, by way of salutation; and said (rather unnecessarily) that it was an uncommon wet day.

‘Very wet,’ said Martin.

‘I don’t know as ever I see a wetter.’

‘I never felt one,’ said Martin.

The driver glanced at Martin’s soiled dress, and his damp shirt-sleeves, and his coat hung up to dry; and said, after a pause, as he warmed his hands:

‘You have been caught in it, sir?’

‘Yes,’ was the short reply.

‘Out riding, maybe?’ said the driver

‘I should have been, if I owned a horse; but I don’t,’ returned Martin.

‘That’s bad,’ said the driver.

‘And may be worse,’ said Martin.

Now the driver said ‘That’s bad,’ not so much because Martin didn’t own a horse, as because he said he didn’t with all the reckless desperation of his mood and circumstances, and so left a great deal to be inferred. Martin put his hands in his pockets and whistled when he had retorted on the driver; thus giving him to understand that he didn’t care a pin for Fortune; that he was above pretending to be her favourite when he was not; and that he snapped his fingers at her, the driver, and everybody else.

The driver looked at him stealthily for a minute or so; and in the pauses of his warming whistled too. At length he asked, as he pointed his thumb towards the road.

‘Up or down?’

‘Which IS up?’ said Martin.

‘London, of course,’ said the driver.

‘Up then,’ said Martin. He tossed his head in a careless manner afterwards, as if he would have added, ‘Now you know all about it.’ put his hands deeper into his pockets; changed his tune, and whistled a little louder.

‘I’m going up,’ observed the driver; ‘Hounslow, ten miles this side London.’

‘Are you?’ cried Martin, stopping short and looking at him.

The driver sprinkled the fire with his wet hat until it hissed again and answered, ‘Aye, to be sure he was.’

‘Why, then,’ said Martin, ‘I’ll be plain with you. You may suppose from my dress that I have money to spare. I have not. All I can afford for coach-hire is a crown, for I have but two. If you can take me for that, and my waistcoat, or this silk handkerchief, do. If you can’t, leave it alone.’

‘Short and sweet,’ remarked the driver.

‘You want more?’ said Martin. ‘Then I haven’t got more, and I can’t get it, so there’s an end of that.’ Whereupon he began to whistle again.

‘I didn’t say I wanted more, did I?’ asked the driver, with something like indignation.

‘You didn’t say my offer was enough,’ rejoined Martin.

‘Why, how could I, when you wouldn’t let me? In regard to the waistcoat, I wouldn’t have a man’s waistcoat, much less a gentleman’s waistcoat, on my mind, for no consideration; but the silk handkerchief’s another thing; and if you was satisfied when we got to Hounslow, I shouldn’t object to that as a gift.’

‘Is it a bargain, then?’ said Martin.

‘Yes, it is,’ returned the other.

‘Then finish this beer,’ said Martin, handing him the mug, and pulling on his coat with great alacrity; ‘and let us be off as soon as you like.’

In two minutes more he had paid his bill, which amounted to a shilling; was lying at full length on a truss of straw, high and dry at the top of the van, with the tilt a little open in front for the convenience of talking to his new friend; and was moving along in the right direction with a most satisfactory and encouraging briskness.

The driver’s name, as he soon informed Martin, was William Simmons, better known as Bill; and his spruce appearance was sufficiently explained by his connection with a large stage-coaching establishment at Hounslow, whither he was conveying his load from a farm belonging to the concern in Wiltshire. He was frequently up and down the road on such errands, he said, and to look after the sick and rest horses, of which animals he had much to relate that occupied a long time in the telling. He aspired to the dignity of the regular box, and expected an appointment on the first vacancy. He was musical besides, and had a little key-bugle in his pocket, on which, whenever the conversation flagged, he played the first part of a great many tunes, and regularly broke down in the second.

‘Ah!’ said Bill, with a sigh, as he drew the back of his hand across his lips, and put this instrument in his pocket, after screwing off the mouth-piece to drain it; ‘Lummy Ned of the Light Salisbury, HE was the one for musical talents. He WAS a guard. What you may call a Guard’an Angel, was Ned.’

‘Is he dead?’ asked Martin.

‘Dead!’ replied the other, with a contemptuous emphasis. ‘Not he. You won’t catch Ned a-dying easy. No, no. He knows better than that.’

‘You spoke of him in the past tense,’ observed Martin, ‘so I supposed he was no more.

‘He’s no more in England,’ said Bill, ‘if that’s what you mean. He went to the U-nited States.’

‘Did he?’ asked Martin, with sudden interest. ‘When?’

‘Five year ago, or then about,’ said Bill. ‘He had set up in the public line here, and couldn’t meet his engagements, so he cut off to Liverpool one day, without saying anything about it, and went and shipped himself for the U-nited States.’

‘Well?’ said Martin.

‘Well! as he landed there without a penny to bless himself with, of course they wos very glad to see him in the U-nited States.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Martin, with some scorn.

‘What do I mean?’ said Bill. ‘Why, THAT. All men are alike in the U-nited States, an’t they? It makes no odds whether a man has a thousand pound, or nothing, there. Particular in New York, I’m told, where Ned landed.’

‘New York, was it?’ asked Martin, thoughtfully.

‘Yes,’ said Bill. ‘New York. I know that, because he sent word home that it brought Old York to his mind, quite vivid, in consequence of being so exactly unlike it in every respect. I don’t understand what particular business Ned turned his mind to, when he got there; but he wrote home that him and his friends was always a-singing, Ale Columbia, and blowing up the President, so I suppose it was something in the public line; or free-and-easy way again. Anyhow, he made his fortune.’

‘No!’ cried Martin.

‘Yes, he did,’ said Bill. ‘I know that, because he lost it all the day after, in six-and-twenty banks as broke. He settled a lot of the notes on his father, when it was ascertained that they was really stopped and sent ‘em over with a dutiful letter. I know that, because they was shown down our yard for the old gentleman’s benefit, that he might treat himself with tobacco in the workus.’

‘He was a foolish fellow not to take care of his money when he had it,’ said Martin, indignantly.

‘There you’re right,’ said Bill, ‘especially as it was all in paper, and he might have took care of it so very easy, by folding it up in a small parcel.’

Martin said nothing in reply, but soon afterwards fell asleep, and remained so for an hour or more. When he awoke, finding it had ceased to rain, he took his seat beside the driver, and asked him several questions; as how long had the fortunate guard of the Light Salisbury been in crossing the Atlantic; at what time of the year had he sailed; what was the name of the ship in which he made the voyage; how much had he paid for passage-money; did he suffer greatly from sea-sickness? and so forth. But on these points of detail his friend was possessed of little or no information; either answering obviously at random or acknowledging that he had never heard, or had forgotten; nor, although he returned to the charge very often, could he obtain any useful intelligence on these essential particulars.

They jogged on all day, and stopped so often—now to refresh, now to change their team of horses, now to exchange or bring away a set of harness, now on one point of business, and now upon another, connected with the coaching on that line of road—that it was midnight when they reached Hounslow. A little short of the stables for which the van was bound, Martin got down, paid his crown, and forced his silk handkerchief upon his honest friend, notwithstanding the many protestations that he didn’t wish to deprive him of it, with which he tried to give the lie to his longing looks. That done, they parted company; and when the van had driven into its own yard and the gates were closed, Martin stood in the dark street, with a pretty strong sense of being shut out, alone, upon the dreary world, without the key of it.

But in this moment of despondency, and often afterwards, the recollection of Mr Pecksniff operated as a cordial to him; awakening in his breast an indignation that was very wholesome in nerving him to obstinate endurance. Under the influence of this fiery dram he started off for London without more ado. Arriving there in the middle of the night, and not knowing where to find a tavern open, he was fain to stroll about the streets and market-places until morning.

He found himself, about an hour before dawn, in the humbler regions of the Adelphi; and addressing himself to a man in a fur-cap, who was taking down the shutters of an obscure public-house, informed him that he was a stranger, and inquired if he could have a bed there. It happened by good luck that he could. Though none of the gaudiest, it was tolerably clean, and Martin felt very glad and grateful when he crept into it, for warmth, rest, and forgetfulness.

It was quite late in the afternoon when he awoke; and by the time he had washed and dressed, and broken his fast, it was growing dusk again. This was all the better, for it was now a matter of absolute necessity that he should part with his watch to some obliging pawn-broker. He would have waited until after dark for this purpose, though it had been the longest day in the year, and he had begun it without a breakfast.

He passed more Golden Balls than all the jugglers in Europe have juggled with, in the course of their united performances, before he could determine in favour of any particular shop where those symbols were displayed. In the end he came back to one of the first he had seen, and entering by a side-door in a court, where the three balls, with the legend ‘Money Lent,’ were repeated in a ghastly transparency, passed into one of a series of little closets, or private boxes, erected for the accommodation of the more bashful and uninitiated customers. He bolted himself in; pulled out his watch; and laid it on the counter.

‘Upon my life and soul!’ said a low voice in the next box to the shopman who was in treaty with him, ‘you must make it more; you must make it a trifle more, you must indeed! You must dispense with one half-quarter of an ounce in weighing out your pound of flesh, my best of friends, and make it two-and-six.’

Martin drew back involuntarily, for he knew the voice at once.

‘You’re always full of your chaff,’ said the shopman, rolling up the article (which looked like a shirt) quite as a matter of course, and nibbing his pen upon the counter.

‘I shall never be full of my wheat,’ said Mr Tigg, ‘as long as I come here. Ha, ha! Not bad! Make it two-and-six, my dear friend, positively for this occasion only. Half-a-crown is a delightful coin. Two-and-six. Going at two-and-six! For the last time at two-and-six!’

‘It’ll never be the last time till it’s quite worn out,’ rejoined the shopman. ‘It’s grown yellow in the service as it is.’

‘Its master has grown yellow in the service, if you mean that, my friend,’ said Mr Tigg; ‘in the patriotic service of an ungrateful country. You are making it two-and-six, I think?’

‘I’m making it,’ returned the shopman, ‘what it always has been—two shillings. Same name as usual, I suppose?’

‘Still the same name,’ said Mr Tigg; ‘my claim to the dormant peerage not being yet established by the House of Lords.’

‘The old address?’

‘Not at all,’ said Mr Tigg; ‘I have removed my town establishment from thirty-eight, Mayfair, to number fifteen-hundred-and-forty-two, Park Lane.’

‘Come, I’m not going to put down that, you know,’ said the shopman with a grin.

‘You may put down what you please, my friend,’ quoth Mr Tigg. ‘The fact is still the same. The apartments for the under-butler and the fifth footman being of a most confounded low and vulgar kind at thirty-eight, Mayfair, I have been compelled, in my regard for the feelings which do them so much honour, to take on lease for seven, fourteen, or twenty-one years, renewable at the option of the tenant, the elegant and commodious family mansion, number fifteen-hundred-and-forty-two Park Lane. Make it two-and-six, and come and see me!’

The shopman was so highly entertained by this piece of humour that Mr Tigg himself could not repress some little show of exultation. It vented itself, in part, in a desire to see how the occupant of the next box received his pleasantry; to ascertain which he glanced round the partition, and immediately, by the gaslight, recognized Martin.

‘I wish I may die,’ said Mr Tigg, stretching out his body so far that his head was as much in Martin’s little cell as Martin’s own head was, ‘but this is one of the most tremendous meetings in Ancient or Modern History! How are you? What is the news from the agricultural districts? How are our friends the P.’s? Ha, ha! David, pay particular attention to this gentleman immediately, as a friend of mine, I beg.’

‘Here! Please to give me the most you can for this,’ said Martin, handing the watch to the shopman. ‘I want money sorely.’

‘He wants money, sorely!’ cried Mr Tigg with excessive sympathy. ‘David, will you have the goodness to do your very utmost for my friend, who wants money sorely. You will deal with my friend as if he were myself. A gold hunting-watch, David, engine-turned, capped and jewelled in four holes, escape movement, horizontal lever, and warranted to perform correctly, upon my personal reputation, who have observed it narrowly for many years, under the most trying circumstances’—here he winked at Martin, that he might understand this recommendation would have an immense effect upon the shopman; ‘what do you say, David, to my friend? Be very particular to deserve my custom and recommendation, David.’

‘I can lend you three pounds on this, if you like’ said the shopman to Martin, confidentially. ‘It is very old-fashioned. I couldn’t say more.’

‘And devilish handsome, too,’ cried Mr Tigg. ‘Two-twelve-six for the watch, and seven-and-six for personal regard. I am gratified; it may be weakness, but I am. Three pounds will do. We take it. The name of my friend is Smivey: Chicken Smivey, of Holborn, twenty-six-and-a-half B: lodger.’ Here he winked at Martin again, to apprise him that all the forms and ceremonies prescribed by law were now complied with, and nothing remained but the receipt for the money.

In point of fact, this proved to be the case, for Martin, who had no resource but to take what was offered him, signified his acquiescence by a nod of his head, and presently came out with the cash in his pocket. He was joined in the entry by Mr Tigg, who warmly congratulated him, as he took his arm and accompanied him into the street, on the successful issue of the negotiation.

‘As for my part in the same,’ said Mr Tigg, ‘don’t mention it. Don’t compliment me, for I can’t bear it!’

‘I have no such intention, I assure you,’ retorted Martin, releasing his arm and stopping.

‘You oblige me very much’ said Mr Tigg. ‘Thank you.’

‘Now, sir,’ observed Martin, biting his lip, ‘this is a large town, and we can easily find different ways in it. If you will show me which is your way, I will take another.’

Mr Tigg was about to speak, but Martin interposed:

‘I need scarcely tell you, after what you have just seen, that I have nothing to bestow upon your friend Mr Slyme. And it is quite as unnecessary for me to tell you that I don’t desire the honour of your company.’

‘Stop’ cried Mr Tigg, holding out his hand. ‘Hold! There is a most remarkably long-headed, flowing-bearded, and patriarchal proverb, which observes that it is the duty of a man to be just before he is generous. Be just now, and you can be generous presently. Do not confuse me with the man Slyme. Do not distinguish the man Slyme as a friend of mine, for he is no such thing. I have been compelled, sir, to abandon the party whom you call Slyme. I have no knowledge of the party whom you call Slyme. I am, sir,’ said Mr Tigg, striking himself upon the breast, ‘a premium tulip, of a very different growth and cultivation from the cabbage Slyme, sir.’

‘It matters very little to me,’ said Martin coolly, ‘whether you have set up as a vagabond on your own account, or are still trading on behalf of Mr Slyme. I wish to hold no correspondence with you. In the devil’s name, man’ said Martin, scarcely able, despite his vexation, to repress a smile as Mr Tigg stood leaning his back against the shutters of a shop window, adjusting his hair with great composure, ‘will you go one way or other?’

‘You will allow me to remind you, sir,’ said Mr Tigg, with sudden dignity, ‘that you—not I—that you—I say emphatically, YOU—have reduced the proceedings of this evening to a cold and distant matter of business, when I was disposed to place them on a friendly footing. It being made a matter of business, sir, I beg to say that I expect a trifle (which I shall bestow in charity) as commission upon the pecuniary advance, in which I have rendered you my humble services. After the terms in which you have addressed me, sir,’ concluded Mr Tigg, ‘you will not insult me, if you please, by offering more than half-a-crown.’

Martin drew that piece of money from his pocket, and tossed it towards him. Mr Tigg caught it, looked at it to assure himself of its goodness, spun it in the air after the manner of a pieman, and buttoned it up. Finally, he raised his hat an inch or two from his head with a military air, and, after pausing a moment with deep gravity, as to decide in which direction he should go, and to what Earl or Marquis among his friends he should give the preference in his next call, stuck his hands in his skirt-pockets and swaggered round the corner. Martin took the directly opposite course; and so, to his great content, they parted company.

It was with a bitter sense of humiliation that he cursed, again and again, the mischance of having encountered this man in the pawnbroker’s shop. The only comfort he had in the recollection was, Mr Tigg’s voluntary avowal of a separation between himself and Slyme, that would at least prevent his circumstances (so Martin argued) from being known to any member of his family, the bare possibility of which filled him with shame and wounded pride. Abstractedly there was greater reason, perhaps, for supposing any declaration of Mr Tigg’s to be false, than for attaching the least credence to it; but remembering the terms on which the intimacy between that gentleman and his bosom friend had subsisted, and the strong probability of Mr Tigg’s having established an independent business of his own on Mr Slyme’s connection, it had a reasonable appearance of probability; at all events, Martin hoped so; and that went a long way.

His first step, now that he had a supply of ready money for his present necessities, was, to retain his bed at the public-house until further notice, and to write a formal note to Tom Pinch (for he knew Pecksniff would see it) requesting to have his clothes forwarded to London by coach, with a direction to be left at the office until called for. These measures taken, he passed the interval before the box arrived—three days—in making inquiries relative to American vessels, at the offices of various shipping-agents in the city; and in lingering about the docks and wharves, with the faint hope of stumbling upon some engagement for the voyage, as clerk or supercargo, or custodian of something or somebody, which would enable him to procure a free passage. But finding, soon, that no such means of employment were likely to present themselves, and dreading the consequences of delay, he drew up a short advertisement, stating what he wanted, and inserted it in the leading newspapers. Pending the receipt of the twenty or thirty answers which he vaguely expected, he reduced his wardrobe to the narrowest limits consistent with decent respectability, and carried the overplus at different times to the pawnbroker’s shop, for conversion into money.

And it was strange, very strange, even to himself, to find how, by quick though almost imperceptible degrees, he lost his delicacy and self-respect, and gradually came to do that as a matter of course, without the least compunction, which but a few short days before had galled him to the quick. The first time he visited the pawnbroker’s, he felt on his way there as if every person whom he passed suspected whither he was going; and on his way back again, as if the whole human tide he stemmed, knew well where he had come from. When did he care to think of their discernment now! In his first wanderings up and down the weary streets, he counterfeited the walk of one who had an object in his view; but soon there came upon him the sauntering, slipshod gait of listless idleness, and the lounging at street-corners, and plucking and biting of stray bits of straw, and strolling up and down the same place, and looking into the same shop-windows, with a miserable indifference, fifty times a day. At first, he came out from his lodging with an uneasy sense of being observed—even by those chance passers-by, on whom he had never looked before, and hundreds to one would never see again—issuing in the morning from a public-house; but now, in his comings-out and goings-in he did not mind to lounge about the door, or to stand sunning himself in careless thought beside the wooden stem, studded from head to heel with pegs, on which the beer-pots dangled like so many boughs upon a pewter-tree. And yet it took but five weeks to reach the lowest round of this tall ladder!

Oh, moralists, who treat of happiness and self-respect, innate in every sphere of life, and shedding light on every grain of dust in God’s highway, so smooth below your carriage-wheels, so rough beneath the tread of naked feet, bethink yourselves in looking on the swift descent of men who HAVE lived in their own esteem, that there are scores of thousands breathing now, and breathing thick with painful toil, who in that high respect have never lived at all, nor had a chance of life! Go ye, who rest so placidly upon the sacred Bard who had been young, and when he strung his harp was old, and had never seen the righteous forsaken, or his seed begging their bread; go, Teachers of content and honest pride, into the mine, the mill, the forge, the squalid depths of deepest ignorance, and uttermost abyss of man’s neglect, and say can any hopeful plant spring up in air so foul that it extinguishes the soul’s bright torch as fast as it is kindled! And, oh! ye Pharisees of the nineteen hundredth year of Christian Knowledge, who soundingly appeal to human nature, see that it be human first. Take heed it has not been transformed, during your slumber and the sleep of generations, into the nature of the Beasts!

Five weeks! Of all the twenty or thirty answers, not one had come. His money—even the additional stock he had raised from the disposal of his spare clothes (and that was not much, for clothes, though dear to buy, are cheap to pawn)—was fast diminishing. Yet what could he do? At times an agony came over him in which he darted forth again, though he was but newly home, and, returning to some place where he had been already twenty times, made some new attempt to gain his end, but always unsuccessfully. He was years and years too old for a cabin-boy, and years upon years too inexperienced to be accepted as a common seaman. His dress and manner, too, militated fatally against any such proposal as the latter; and yet he was reduced to making it; for even if he could have contemplated the being set down in America totally without money, he had not enough left now for a steerage passage and the poorest provisions upon the voyage.

It is an illustration of a very common tendency in the mind of man, that all this time he never once doubted, one may almost say the certainty of doing great things in the New World, if he could only get there. In proportion as he became more and more dejected by his present circumstances, and the means of gaining America receded from his grasp, the more he fretted himself with the conviction that that was the only place in which he could hope to achieve any high end, and worried his brain with the thought that men going there in the meanwhile might anticipate him in the attainment of those objects which were dearest to his heart. He often thought of John Westlock, and besides looking out for him on all occasions, actually walked about London for three days together for the express purpose of meeting with him. But although he failed in this; and although he would not have scrupled to borrow money of him; and although he believed that John would have lent it; yet still he could not bring his mind to write to Pinch and inquire where he was to be found. For although, as we have seen, he was fond of Tom after his own fashion, he could not endure the thought (feeling so superior to Tom) of making him the stepping-stone to his fortune, or being anything to him but a patron; and his pride so revolted from the idea that it restrained him even now.

It might have yielded, however; and no doubt must have yielded soon, but for a very strange and unlooked-for occurrence.

The five weeks had quite run out, and he was in a truly desperate plight, when one evening, having just returned to his lodging, and being in the act of lighting his candle at the gas jet in the bar before stalking moodily upstairs to his own room, his landlord called him by his name. Now as he had never told it to the man, but had scrupulously kept it to himself, he was not a little startled by this; and so plainly showed his agitation that the landlord, to reassure him, said ‘it was only a letter.’

‘A letter!’ cried Martin.

‘For Mr Martin Chuzzlewit,’ said the landlord, reading the superscription of one he held in his hand. ‘Noon. Chief office. Paid.’

Martin took it from him, thanked him, and walked upstairs. It was not sealed, but pasted close; the handwriting was quite unknown to him. He opened it and found enclosed, without any name, address, or other inscription or explanation of any kind whatever, a Bank of England note for Twenty Pounds.

To say that he was perfectly stunned with astonishment and delight; that he looked again and again at the note and the wrapper; that he hurried below stairs to make quite certain that the note was a good note; and then hurried up again to satisfy himself for the fiftieth time that he had not overlooked some scrap of writing on the wrapper; that he exhausted and bewildered himself with conjectures; and could make nothing of it but that there the note was, and he was suddenly enriched; would be only to relate so many matters of course to no purpose. The final upshot of the business at that time was, that he resolved to treat himself to a comfortable but frugal meal in his own chamber; and having ordered a fire to be kindled, went out to purchase it forthwith.

He bought some cold beef, and ham, and French bread, and butter, and came back with his pockets pretty heavily laden. It was somewhat of a damping circumstance to find the room full of smoke, which was attributable to two causes; firstly, to the flue being naturally vicious and a smoker; and secondly, to their having forgotten, in lighting the fire, an odd sack or two and some trifles, which had been put up the chimney to keep the rain out. They had already remedied this oversight, however; and propped up the window-sash with a bundle of firewood to keep it open; so that except in being rather inflammatory to the eyes and choking to the lungs, the apartment was quite comfortable.

Martin was in no vein to quarrel with it, if it had been in less tolerable order, especially when a gleaming pint of porter was set upon the table, and the servant-girl withdrew, bearing with her particular instructions relative to the production of something hot when he should ring the bell. The cold meat being wrapped in a playbill, Martin laid the cloth by spreading that document on the little round table with the print downwards, and arranging the collation upon it. The foot of the bed, which was very close to the fire, answered for a sideboard; and when he had completed these preparations, he squeezed an old arm-chair into the warmest corner, and sat down to enjoy himself.

He had begun to eat with great appetite, glancing round the room meanwhile with a triumphant anticipation of quitting it for ever on the morrow, when his attention was arrested by a stealthy footstep on the stairs, and presently by a knock at his chamber door, which, although it was a gentle knock enough, communicated such a start to the bundle of firewood, that it instantly leaped out of window, and plunged into the street.

‘More coals, I suppose,’ said Martin. ‘Come in!’

‘It an’t a liberty, sir, though it seems so,’ rejoined a man’s voice. ‘Your servant, sir. Hope you’re pretty well, sir.’

Martin stared at the face that was bowing in the doorway, perfectly remembering the features and expression, but quite forgetting to whom they belonged.

‘Tapley, sir,’ said his visitor. ‘Him as formerly lived at the Dragon, sir, and was forced to leave in consequence of a want of jollity, sir.’

‘To be sure!’ cried Martin. ‘Why, how did you come here?’

‘Right through the passage, and up the stairs, sir,’ said Mark.

‘How did you find me out, I mean?’ asked Martin.

‘Why, sir,’ said Mark, ‘I’ve passed you once or twice in the street, if I’m not mistaken; and when I was a-looking in at the beef-and-ham shop just now, along with a hungry sweep, as was very much calculated to make a man jolly, sir—I see you a-buying that.’

Martin reddened as he pointed to the table, and said, somewhat hastily:

‘Well! What then?’

‘Why, then, sir,’ said Mark, ‘I made bold to foller; and as I told ‘em downstairs that you expected me, I was let up.’

‘Are you charged with any message, that you told them you were expected?’ inquired Martin.

‘No, sir, I an’t,’ said Mark. ‘That was what you may call a pious fraud, sir, that was.’

Martin cast an angry look at him; but there was something in the fellow’s merry face, and in his manner—which with all its cheerfulness was far from being obtrusive or familiar—that quite disarmed him. He had lived a solitary life too, for many weeks, and the voice was pleasant in his ear.

‘Tapley,’ he said, ‘I’ll deal openly with you. From all I can judge and from all I have heard of you through Pinch, you are not a likely kind of fellow to have been brought here by impertinent curiosity or any other offensive motive. Sit down. I’m glad to see you.’

‘Thankee, sir,’ said Mark. ‘I’d as lieve stand.’

‘If you don’t sit down,’ retorted Martin, ‘I’ll not talk to you.’

‘Very good, sir,’ observed Mark. ‘Your will’s a law, sir. Down it is;’ and he sat down accordingly upon the bedstead.

‘Help yourself,’ said Martin, handing him the only knife.

‘Thankee, sir,’ rejoined Mark. ‘After you’ve done.’

‘If you don’t take it now, you’ll not have any,’ said Martin.

‘Very good, sir,’ rejoined Mark. ‘That being your desire—now it is.’ With which reply he gravely helped himself and went on eating. Martin having done the like for a short time in silence, said abruptly:

‘What are you doing in London?’

‘Nothing at all, sir,’ rejoined Mark.

‘How’s that?’ asked Martin.

‘I want a place,’ said Mark.

‘I’m sorry for you,’ said Martin.

‘—To attend upon a single gentleman,’ resumed Mark. ‘If from the country the more desirable. Makeshifts would be preferred. Wages no object.’

He said this so pointedly, that Martin stopped in his eating, and said:

‘If you mean me—’

‘Yes, I do, sir,’ interposed Mark.

‘Then you may judge from my style of living here, of my means of keeping a man-servant. Besides, I am going to America immediately.’

‘Well, sir,’ returned Mark, quite unmoved by this intelligence ‘from all that ever I heard about it, I should say America is a very likely sort of place for me to be jolly in!’

Again Martin looked at him angrily; and again his anger melted away in spite of himself.

‘Lord bless you, sir,’ said Mark, ‘what is the use of us a-going round and round, and hiding behind the corner, and dodging up and down, when we can come straight to the point in six words? I’ve had my eye upon you any time this fortnight. I see well enough there’s a screw loose in your affairs. I know’d well enough the first time I see you down at the Dragon that it must be so, sooner or later. Now, sir here am I, without a sitiwation; without any want of wages for a year to come; for I saved up (I didn’t mean to do it, but I couldn’t help it) at the Dragon—here am I with a liking for what’s wentersome, and a liking for you, and a wish to come out strong under circumstances as would keep other men down; and will you take me, or will you leave me?’

‘How can I take you?’ cried Martin.

‘When I say take,’ rejoined Mark, ‘I mean will you let me go? and when I say will you let me go, I mean will you let me go along with you? for go I will, somehow or another. Now that you’ve said America, I see clear at once, that that’s the place for me to be jolly in. Therefore, if I don’t pay my own passage in the ship you go in, sir, I’ll pay my own passage in another. And mark my words, if I go alone it shall be, to carry out the principle, in the rottenest, craziest, leakingest tub of a wessel that a place can be got in for love or money. So if I’m lost upon the way, sir, there’ll be a drowned man at your door—and always a-knocking double knocks at it, too, or never trust me!’

‘This is mere folly,’ said Martin.

‘Very good, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘I’m glad to hear it, because if you don’t mean to let me go, you’ll be more comfortable, perhaps, on account of thinking so. Therefore I contradict no gentleman. But all I say is, that if I don’t emigrate to America in that case, in the beastliest old cockle-shell as goes out of port, I’m—’

‘You don’t mean what you say, I’m sure,’ said Martin.

‘Yes I do,’ cried Mark.

‘I tell you I know better,’ rejoined Martin.

‘Very good, sir,’ said Mark, with the same air of perfect satisfaction. ‘Let it stand that way at present, sir, and wait and see how it turns out. Why, love my heart alive! the only doubt I have is, whether there’s any credit in going with a gentleman like you, that’s as certain to make his way there as a gimlet is to go through soft deal.’

This was touching Martin on his weak point, and having him at a great advantage. He could not help thinking, either, what a brisk fellow this Mark was, and how great a change he had wrought in the atmosphere of the dismal little room already.

‘Why, certainly, Mark,’ he said, ‘I have hopes of doing well there, or I shouldn’t go. I may have the qualifications for doing well, perhaps.’

‘Of course you have, sir,’ returned Mark Tapley. ‘Everybody knows that.’

‘You see,’ said Martin, leaning his chin upon his hand, and looking at the fire, ‘ornamental architecture applied to domestic purposes, can hardly fail to be in great request in that country; for men are constantly changing their residences there, and moving further off; and it’s clear they must have houses to live in.’

‘I should say, sir,’ observed Mark, ‘that that’s a state of things as opens one of the jolliest look-outs for domestic architecture that ever I heerd tell on.’

Martin glanced at him hastily, not feeling quite free from a suspicion that this remark implied a doubt of the successful issue of his plans. But Mr Tapley was eating the boiled beef and bread with such entire good faith and singleness of purpose expressed in his visage that he could not but be satisfied. Another doubt arose in his mind however, as this one disappeared. He produced the blank cover in which the note had been enclosed, and fixing his eyes on Mark as he put it in his hands, said:

‘Now tell me the truth. Do you know anything about that?’

Mark turned it over and over; held it near his eyes; held it away from him at arm’s length; held it with the superscription upwards and with the superscription downwards; and shook his head with such a genuine expression of astonishment at being asked the question, that Martin said, as he took it from him again:

‘No, I see you don’t. How should you! Though, indeed, your knowing about it would not be more extraordinary than its being here. Come, Tapley,’ he added, after a moment’s thought, ‘I’ll trust you with my history, such as it is, and then you’ll see more clearly what sort of fortunes you would link yourself to, if you followed me.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Mark; ‘but afore you enter upon it will you take me if I choose to go? Will you turn off me—Mark Tapley—formerly of the Blue Dragon, as can be well recommended by Mr Pinch, and as wants a gentleman of your strength of mind to look up to; or will you, in climbing the ladder as you’re certain to get to the top of, take me along with you at a respectful distance? Now, sir,’ said Mark, ‘it’s of very little importance to you, I know, there’s the difficulty; but it’s of very great importance to me, and will you be so good as to consider of it?’

If this were meant as a second appeal to Martin’s weak side, founded on his observation of the effect of the first, Mr Tapley was a skillful and shrewd observer. Whether an intentional or an accidental shot, it hit the mark fully for Martin, relenting more and more, said with a condescension which was inexpressibly delicious to him, after his recent humiliation:

‘We’ll see about it, Tapley. You shall tell me in what disposition you find yourself to-morrow.’

‘Then, sir,’ said Mark, rubbing his hands, ‘the job’s done. Go on, sir, if you please. I’m all attention.’

Throwing himself back in his arm-chair, and looking at the fire, with now and then a glance at Mark, who at such times nodded his head sagely, to express his profound interest and attention. Martin ran over the chief points in his history, to the same effect as he had related them, weeks before, to Mr Pinch. But he adapted them, according to the best of his judgment, to Mr Tapley’s comprehension; and with that view made as light of his love affair as he could, and referred to it in very few words. But here he reckoned without his host; for Mark’s interest was keenest in this part of the business, and prompted him to ask sundry questions in relation to it; for which he apologised as one in some measure privileged to do so, from having seen (as Martin explained to him) the young lady at the Blue Dragon.

‘And a young lady as any gentleman ought to feel more proud of being in love with,’ said Mark, energetically, ‘don’t draw breath.’

‘Aye! You saw her when she was not happy,’ said Martin, gazing at the fire again. ‘If you had seen her in the old times, indeed—’

‘Why, she certainly was a little down-hearted, sir, and something paler in her colour than I could have wished,’ said Mark, ‘but none the worse in her looks for that. I think she seemed better, sir, after she come to London.’

Martin withdrew his eyes from the fire; stared at Mark as if he thought he had suddenly gone mad; and asked him what he meant.

‘No offence intended, sir,’ urged Mark. ‘I don’t mean to say she was any the happier without you; but I thought she was a-looking better, sir.’

‘Do you mean to tell me she has been in London?’ asked Martin, rising hurriedly, and pushing back his chair.

‘Of course I do,’ said Mark, rising too, in great amazement from the bedstead.

‘Do you mean to tell me she is in London now?’

‘Most likely, sir. I mean to say she was a week ago.’

‘And you know where?’

‘Yes!’ cried Mark. ‘What! Don’t you?’

‘My good fellow!’ exclaimed Martin, clutching him by both arms, ‘I have never seen her since I left my grandfather’s house.’

‘Why, then!’ cried Mark, giving the little table such a blow with his clenched fist that the slices of beef and ham danced upon it, while all his features seemed, with delight, to be going up into his forehead, and never coming back again any more, ‘if I an’t your nat’ral born servant, hired by Fate, there an’t such a thing in natur’ as a Blue Dragon. What! when I was a-rambling up and down a old churchyard in the City, getting myself into a jolly state, didn’t I see your grandfather a-toddling to and fro for pretty nigh a mortal hour! Didn’t I watch him into Todgers’s commercial boarding-house, and watch him out, and watch him home to his hotel, and go and tell him as his was the service for my money, and I had said so, afore I left the Dragon! Wasn’t the young lady a-sitting with him then, and didn’t she fall a-laughing in a manner as was beautiful to see! Didn’t your grandfather say, “Come back again next week,” and didn’t I go next week; and didn’t he say that he couldn’t make up his mind to trust nobody no more; and therefore wouldn’t engage me, but at the same time stood something to drink as was handsome! Why,’ cried Mr Tapley, with a comical mixture of delight and chagrin, ‘where’s the credit of a man’s being jolly under such circumstances! Who could help it, when things come about like this!’

For some moments Martin stood gazing at him, as if he really doubted the evidence of his senses, and could not believe that Mark stood there, in the body, before him. At length he asked him whether, if the young lady were still in London, he thought he could contrive to deliver a letter to her secretly.

‘Do I think I can?’ cried Mark. ‘THINK I can? Here, sit down, sir. Write it out, sir!’

With that he cleared the table by the summary process of tilting everything upon it into the fireplace; snatched some writing materials from the mantel-shelf; set Martin’s chair before them; forced him down into it; dipped a pen into the ink; and put it in his hand.

‘Cut away, sir!’ cried Mark. ‘Make it strong, sir. Let it be wery pinted, sir. Do I think so? I should think so. Go to work, sir!’

Martin required no further adjuration, but went to work at a great rate; while Mr Tapley, installing himself without any more formalities into the functions of his valet and general attendant, divested himself of his coat, and went on to clear the fireplace and arrange the room; talking to himself in a low voice the whole time.

‘Jolly sort of lodgings,’ said Mark, rubbing his nose with the knob at the end of the fire-shovel, and looking round the poor chamber; ‘that’s a comfort. The rain’s come through the roof too. That an’t bad. A lively old bedstead, I’ll be bound; popilated by lots of wampires, no doubt. Come! my spirits is a-getting up again. An uncommon ragged nightcap this. A very good sign. We shall do yet! Here, Jane, my dear,’ calling down the stairs, ‘bring up that there hot tumbler for my master as was a-mixing when I come in. That’s right, sir,’ to Martin. ‘Go at it as if you meant it, sir. Be very tender, sir, if you please. You can’t make it too strong, sir!’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

IN WHICH MARTIN BIDS ADIEU TO THE LADY OF HIS LOVE; AND HONOURS AN OBSCURE INDIVIDUAL WHOSE FORTUNE HE INTENDS TO MAKE BY COMMENDING HER TO HIS PROTECTION

The letter being duly signed, sealed, and delivered, was handed to Mark Tapley, for immediate conveyance if possible. And he succeeded so well in his embassy as to be enabled to return that same night, just as the house was closing, with the welcome intelligence that he had sent it upstairs to the young lady, enclosed in a small manuscript of his own, purporting to contain his further petition to be engaged in Mr Chuzzlewit’s service; and that she had herself come down and told him, in great haste and agitation, that she would meet the gentleman at eight o’clock to-morrow morning in St. James’s Park. It was then agreed between the new master and the new man, that Mark should be in waiting near the hotel in good time, to escort the young lady to the place of appointment; and when they had parted for the night with this understanding, Martin took up his pen again; and before he went to bed wrote another letter, whereof more will be seen presently.

He was up before daybreak, and came upon the Park with the morning, which was clad in the least engaging of the three hundred and sixty-five dresses in the wardrobe of the year. It was raw, damp, dark, and dismal; the clouds were as muddy as the ground; and the short perspective of every street and avenue was closed up by the mist as by a filthy curtain.

‘Fine weather indeed,’ Martin bitterly soliloquised, ‘to be wandering up and down here in, like a thief! Fine weather indeed, for a meeting of lovers in the open air, and in a public walk! I need be departing, with all speed, for another country; for I have come to a pretty pass in this!’

He might perhaps have gone on to reflect that of all mornings in the year, it was not the best calculated for a young lady’s coming forth on such an errand, either. But he was stopped on the road to this reflection, if his thoughts tended that way, by her appearance at a short distance, on which he hurried forward to meet her. Her squire, Mr Tapley, at the same time fell discreetly back, and surveyed the fog above him with an appearance of attentive interest.

‘My dear Martin,’ said Mary.

‘My dear Mary,’ said Martin; and lovers are such a singular kind of people that this is all they did say just then, though Martin took her arm, and her hand too, and they paced up and down a short walk that was least exposed to observation, half-a-dozen times.

‘If you have changed at all, my love, since we parted,’ said Martin at length, as he looked upon her with a proud delight, ‘it is only to be more beautiful than ever!’

Had she been of the common metal of love-worn young ladies, she would have denied this in her most interesting manner; and would have told him that she knew she had become a perfect fright; or that she had wasted away with weeping and anxiety; or that she was dwindling gently into an early grave; or that her mental sufferings were unspeakable; or would, either by tears or words, or a mixture of both, have furnished him with some other information to that effect, and made him as miserable as possible. But she had been reared up in a sterner school than the minds of most young girls are formed in; she had had her nature strengthened by the hands of hard endurance and necessity; had come out from her young trials constant, self-denying, earnest, and devoted; had acquired in her maidenhood—whether happily in the end, for herself or him, is foreign to our present purpose to inquire—something of that nobler quality of gentle hearts which is developed often by the sorrows and struggles of matronly years, but often by their lessons only. Unspoiled, unpampered in her joys or griefs; with frank and full, and deep affection for the object of her early love; she saw in him one who for her sake was an outcast from his home and fortune, and she had no more idea of bestowing that love upon him in other than cheerful and sustaining words, full of high hope and grateful trustfulness, than she had of being unworthy of it, in her lightest thought or deed, for any base temptation that the world could offer.

‘What change is there in YOU, Martin,’ she replied; ‘for that concerns me nearest? You look more anxious and more thoughtful than you used.’

‘Why, as to that, my love,’ said Martin as he drew her waist within his arm, first looking round to see that there were no observers near, and beholding Mr Tapley more intent than ever on the fog; ‘it would be strange if I did not; for my life—especially of late—has been a hard one.’

‘I know it must have been,’ she answered. ‘When have I forgotten to think of it and you?’

‘Not often, I hope,’ said Martin. ‘Not often, I am sure. Not often, I have some right to expect, Mary; for I have undergone a great deal of vexation and privation, and I naturally look for that return, you know.’

‘A very, very poor return,’ she answered with a fainter smile. ‘But you have it, and will have it always. You have paid a dear price for a poor heart, Martin; but it is at least your own, and a true one.’

‘Of course I feel quite certain of that,’ said Martin, ‘or I shouldn’t have put myself in my present position. And don’t say a poor heart, Mary, for I say a rich one. Now, I am about to break a design to you, dearest, which will startle you at first, but which is undertaken for your sake. I am going,’ he added slowly, looking far into the deep wonder of her bright dark eyes, ‘abroad.’

‘Abroad, Martin!’

‘Only to America. See now. How you droop directly!’

‘If I do, or, I hope I may say, if I did,’ she answered, raising her head after a short silence, and looking once more into his face, ‘it was for grief to think of what you are resolved to undergo for me. I would not venture to dissuade you, Martin; but it is a long, long distance; there is a wide ocean to be crossed; illness and want are sad calamities in any place, but in a foreign country dreadful to endure. Have you thought of all this?’

‘Thought of it!’ cried Martin, abating, in his fondness—and he WAS very fond of her—hardly an iota of his usual impetuosity. ‘What am I to do? It’s very well to say, “Have I thought of it?” my love; but you should ask me in the same breath, have I thought of starving at home; have I thought of doing porter’s work for a living; have I thought of holding horses in the streets to earn my roll of bread from day to day? Come, come,’ he added, in a gentler tone, ‘do not hang down your head, my dear, for I need the encouragement that your sweet face alone can give me. Why, that’s well! Now you are brave again.’

‘I am endeavouring to be,’ she answered, smiling through her tears.

‘Endeavouring to be anything that’s good, and being it, is, with you, all one. Don’t I know that of old?’ cried Martin, gayly. ‘So! That’s famous! Now I can tell you all my plans as cheerfully as if you were my little wife already, Mary.’

She hung more closely on his arm, and looking upwards in his face, bade him speak on.

‘You see,’ said Martin, playing with the little hand upon his wrist, ‘that my attempts to advance myself at home have been baffled and rendered abortive. I will not say by whom, Mary, for that would give pain to us both. But so it is. Have you heard him speak of late of any relative of mine or his, called Pecksniff? Only tell me what I ask you, no more.’

‘I have heard, to my surprise, that he is a better man than was supposed.’

‘I thought so,’ interrupted Martin.

‘And that it is likely we may come to know him, if not to visit and reside with him and—I think—his daughters. He HAS daughters, has he, love?’

‘A pair of them,’ Martin answered. ‘A precious pair! Gems of the first water!’

‘Ah! You are jesting!’

‘There is a sort of jesting which is very much in earnest, and includes some pretty serious disgust,’ said Martin. ‘I jest in reference to Mr Pecksniff (at whose house I have been living as his assistant, and at whose hands I have received insult and injury), in that vein. Whatever betides, or however closely you may be brought into communication with this family, never forget that, Mary; and never for an instant, whatever appearances may seem to contradict me, lose sight of this assurance—Pecksniff is a scoundrel.’

‘Indeed!’

‘In thought, and in deed, and in everything else. A scoundrel from the topmost hair of his head, to the nethermost atom of his heel. Of his daughters I will only say that, to the best of my knowledge and belief, they are dutiful young ladies, and take after their father closely. This is a digression from the main point, and yet it brings me to what I was going to say.’

He stopped to look into her eyes again, and seeing, in a hasty glance over his shoulder, that there was no one near, and that Mark was still intent upon the fog, not only looked at her lips, too, but kissed them into the bargain.

‘Now I am going to America, with great prospects of doing well, and of returning home myself very soon; it may be to take you there for a few years, but, at all events, to claim you for my wife; which, after such trials, I should do with no fear of your still thinking it a duty to cleave to him who will not suffer me to live (for this is true), if he can help it, in my own land. How long I may be absent is, of course, uncertain; but it shall not be very long. Trust me for that.’

‘In the meantime, dear Martin—’

‘That’s the very thing I am coming to. In the meantime you shall hear, constantly, of all my goings-on. Thus.’

He paused to take from his pocket the letter he had written overnight, and then resumed:

‘In this fellow’s employment, and living in this fellow’s house (by fellow, I mean Mr Pecksniff, of course), there is a certain person of the name of Pinch. Don’t forget; a poor, strange, simple oddity, Mary; but thoroughly honest and sincere; full of zeal; and with a cordial regard for me. Which I mean to return one of these days, by setting him up in life in some way or other.’

‘Your old kind nature, Martin!’

‘Oh!’ said Martin, ‘that’s not worth speaking of, my love. He’s very grateful and desirous to serve me; and I am more than repaid. Now one night I told this Pinch my history, and all about myself and you; in which he was not a little interested, I can tell you, for he knows you! Aye, you may look surprised—and the longer the better for it becomes you—but you have heard him play the organ in the church of that village before now; and he has seen you listening to his music; and has caught his inspiration from you, too!’

‘Was HE the organist?’ cried Mary. ‘I thank him from my heart!’

‘Yes, he was,’ said Martin, ‘and is, and gets nothing for it either. There never was such a simple fellow! Quite an infant! But a very good sort of creature, I assure you.’

‘I am sure of that,’ she said with great earnestness. ‘He must be!’

‘Oh, yes, no doubt at all about it,’ rejoined Martin, in his usual careless way. ‘He is. Well! It has occurred to me—but stay. If I read you what I have written and intend sending to him by post to-night it will explain itself. “My dear Tom Pinch.” That’s rather familiar perhaps,’ said Martin, suddenly remembering that he was proud when they had last met, ‘but I call him my dear Tom Pinch because he likes it, and it pleases him.’

‘Very right, and very kind,’ said Mary.

‘Exactly so!’ cried Martin. ‘It’s as well to be kind whenever one can; and, as I said before, he really is an excellent fellow. “My dear Tom Pinch—I address this under cover to Mrs Lupin, at the Blue Dragon, and have begged her in a short note to deliver it to you without saying anything about it elsewhere; and to do the same with all future letters she may receive from me. My reason for so doing will be at once apparent to you”—I don’t know that it will be, by the bye,’ said Martin, breaking off, ‘for he’s slow of comprehension, poor fellow; but he’ll find it out in time. My reason simply is, that I don’t want my letters to be read by other people; and particularly by the scoundrel whom he thinks an angel.’

‘Mr Pecksniff again?’ asked Mary.

‘The same,’ said Martin ‘—will be at once apparent to you. I have completed my arrangements for going to America; and you will be surprised to hear that I am to be accompanied by Mark Tapley, upon whom I have stumbled strangely in London, and who insists on putting himself under my protection’—meaning, my love,’ said Martin, breaking off again, ‘our friend in the rear, of course.’

She was delighted to hear this, and bestowed a kind glance upon Mark, which he brought his eyes down from the fog to encounter and received with immense satisfaction. She said in his hearing, too, that he was a good soul and a merry creature, and would be faithful, she was certain; commendations which Mr Tapley inwardly resolved to deserve, from such lips, if he died for it.

‘“Now, my dear Pinch,”’ resumed Martin, proceeding with his letter; ‘“I am going to repose great trust in you, knowing that I may do so with perfect reliance on your honour and secrecy, and having nobody else just now to trust in.”’

‘I don’t think I would say that, Martin.’

‘Wouldn’t you? Well! I’ll take that out. It’s perfectly true, though.’

‘But it might seem ungracious, perhaps.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind Pinch,’ said Martin. ‘There’s no occasion to stand on any ceremony with HIM. However, I’ll take it out, as you wish it, and make the full stop at “secrecy.” Very well! “I shall not only”—this is the letter again, you know.’

‘I understand.’

‘“I shall not only enclose my letters to the young lady of whom I have told you, to your charge, to be forwarded as she may request; but I most earnestly commit her, the young lady herself, to your care and regard, in the event of your meeting in my absence. I have reason to think that the probabilities of your encountering each other—perhaps very frequently—are now neither remote nor few; and although in our position you can do very little to lessen the uneasiness of hers, I trust to you implicitly to do that much, and so deserve the confidence I have reposed in you.” You see, my dear Mary,’ said Martin, ‘it will be a great consolation to you to have anybody, no matter how simple, with whom you can speak about ME; and the very first time you talk to Pinch, you’ll feel at once that there is no more occasion for any embarrassment or hesitation in talking to him, than if he were an old woman.’

‘However that may be,’ she returned, smiling, ‘he is your friend, and that is enough.’

‘Oh, yes, he’s my friend,’ said Martin, ‘certainly. In fact, I have told him in so many words that we’ll always take notice of him, and protect him; and it’s a good trait in his character that he’s grateful—very grateful indeed. You’ll like him of all things, my love, I know. You’ll observe very much that’s comical and old-fashioned about Pinch, but you needn’t mind laughing at him; for he’ll not care about it. He’ll rather like it indeed!’

‘I don’t think I shall put that to the test, Martin.’

‘You won’t if you can help it, of course,’ he said, ‘but I think you’ll find him a little too much for your gravity. However, that’s neither here nor there, and it certainly is not the letter; which ends thus: “Knowing that I need not impress the nature and extent of that confidence upon you at any greater length, as it is already sufficiently established in your mind, I will only say, in bidding you farewell and looking forward to our next meeting, that I shall charge myself from this time, through all changes for the better, with your advancement and happiness, as if they were my own. You may rely upon that. And always believe me, my dear Tom Pinch, faithfully your friend, Martin Chuzzlewit. P.S.—I enclose the amount which you so kindly”—Oh,’ said Martin, checking himself, and folding up the letter, ‘that’s nothing!’

At this crisis Mark Tapley interposed, with an apology for remarking that the clock at the Horse Guards was striking.

‘Which I shouldn’t have said nothing about, sir,’ added Mark, ‘if the young lady hadn’t begged me to be particular in mentioning it.’

‘I did,’ said Mary. ‘Thank you. You are quite right. In another minute I shall be ready to return. We have time for a very few words more, dear Martin, and although I had much to say, it must remain unsaid until the happy time of our next meeting. Heaven send it may come speedily and prosperously! But I have no fear of that.’

‘Fear!’ cried Martin. ‘Why, who has? What are a few months? What is a whole year? When I come gayly back, with a road through life hewn out before me, then indeed, looking back upon this parting, it may seem a dismal one. But now! I swear I wouldn’t have it happen under more favourable auspices, if I could; for then I should be less inclined to go, and less impressed with the necessity.’

‘Yes, yes. I feel that too. When do you go?’

‘To-night. We leave for Liverpool to-night. A vessel sails from that port, as I hear, in three days. In a month, or less, we shall be there. Why, what’s a month! How many months have flown by, since our last parting!’

‘Long to look back upon,’ said Mary, echoing his cheerful tone, ‘but nothing in their course!’

‘Nothing at all!’ cried Martin. ‘I shall have change of scene and change of place; change of people, change of manners, change of cares and hopes! Time will wear wings indeed! I can bear anything, so that I have swift action, Mary.’

Was he thinking solely of her care for him, when he took so little heed of her share in the separation; of her quiet monotonous endurance, and her slow anxiety from day to day? Was there nothing jarring and discordant even in his tone of courage, with this one note ‘self’ for ever audible, however high the strain? Not in her ears. It had been better otherwise, perhaps, but so it was. She heard the same bold spirit which had flung away as dross all gain and profit for her sake, making light of peril and privation that she might be calm and happy; and she heard no more. That heart where self has found no place and raised no throne, is slow to recognize its ugly presence when it looks upon it. As one possessed of an evil spirit was held in old time to be alone conscious of the lurking demon in the breasts of other men, so kindred vices know each other in their hiding-places every day, when Virtue is incredulous and blind.

‘The quarter’s gone!’ cried Mr Tapley, in a voice of admonition.

‘I shall be ready to return immediately,’ she said. ‘One thing, dear Martin, I am bound to tell you. You entreated me a few minutes since only to answer what you asked me in reference to one theme, but you should and must know (otherwise I could not be at ease) that since that separation of which I was the unhappy occasion, he has never once uttered your name; has never coupled it, or any faint allusion to it, with passion or reproach; and has never abated in his kindness to me.’

‘I thank him for that last act,’ said Martin, ‘and for nothing else. Though on consideration I may thank him for his other forbearance also, inasmuch as I neither expect nor desire that he will mention my name again. He may once, perhaps—to couple it with reproach—in his will. Let him, if he please! By the time it reaches me, he will be in his grave; a satire on his own anger, God help him!’

‘Martin! If you would but sometimes, in some quiet hour; beside the winter fire; in the summer air; when you hear gentle music, or think of Death, or Home, or Childhood; if you would at such a season resolve to think, but once a month, or even once a year, of him, or any one who ever wronged you, you would forgive him in your heart, I know!’

‘If I believed that to be true, Mary,’ he replied, ‘I would resolve at no such time to bear him in my mind; wishing to spare myself the shame of such a weakness. I was not born to be the toy and puppet of any man, far less his; to whose pleasure and caprice, in return for any good he did me, my whole youth was sacrificed. It became between us two a fair exchange—a barter—and no more; and there is no such balance against me that I need throw in a mawkish forgiveness to poise the scale. He has forbidden all mention of me to you, I know,’ he added hastily. ‘Come! Has he not?’

‘That was long ago,’ she returned; ‘immediately after your parting; before you had left the house. He has never done so since.’

‘He has never done so since because he has seen no occasion,’ said Martin; ‘but that is of little consequence, one way or other. Let all allusion to him between you and me be interdicted from this time forth. And therefore, love’—he drew her quickly to him, for the time of parting had now come—‘in the first letter that you write to me through the Post Office, addressed to New York; and in all the others that you send through Pinch; remember he has no existence, but has become to us as one who is dead. Now, God bless you! This is a strange place for such a meeting and such a parting; but our next meeting shall be in a better, and our next and last parting in a worse.’

‘One other question, Martin, I must ask. Have you provided money for this journey?’

‘Have I?’ cried Martin; it might have been in his pride; it might have been in his desire to set her mind at ease: ‘Have I provided money? Why, there’s a question for an emigrant’s wife! How could I move on land or sea without it, love?’

‘I mean, enough.’

‘Enough! More than enough. Twenty times more than enough. A pocket-full. Mark and I, for all essential ends, are quite as rich as if we had the purse of Fortunatus in our baggage.’

‘The half-hour’s a-going!’ cried Mr Tapley.

‘Good-bye a hundred times!’ cried Mary, in a trembling voice.

But how cold the comfort in Good-bye! Mark Tapley knew it perfectly. Perhaps he knew it from his reading, perhaps from his experience, perhaps from intuition. It is impossible to say; but however he knew it, his knowledge instinctively suggested to him the wisest course of proceeding that any man could have adopted under the circumstances. He was taken with a violent fit of sneezing, and was obliged to turn his head another way. In doing which, he, in a manner fenced and screened the lovers into a corner by themselves.

There was a short pause, but Mark had an undefined sensation that it was a satisfactory one in its way. Then Mary, with her veil lowered, passed him with a quick step, and beckoned him to follow. She stopped once more before they lost that corner; looked back; and waved her hand to Martin. He made a start towards them at the moment as if he had some other farewell words to say; but she only hurried off the faster, and Mr Tapley followed as in duty bound.

When he rejoined Martin again in his own chamber, he found that gentleman seated moodily before the dusty grate, with his two feet on the fender, his two elbows on his knees, and his chin supported, in a not very ornamental manner, on the palms of his hands.

‘Well, Mark!’

‘Well, sir,’ said Mark, taking a long breath, ‘I see the young lady safe home, and I feel pretty comfortable after it. She sent a lot of kind words, sir, and this,’ handing him a ring, ‘for a parting keepsake.’

‘Diamonds!’ said Martin, kissing it—let us do him justice, it was for her sake; not for theirs—and putting it on his little finger. ‘Splendid diamonds! My grandfather is a singular character, Mark. He must have given her this now.’

Mark Tapley knew as well that she had bought it, to the end that that unconscious speaker might carry some article of sterling value with him in his necessity; as he knew that it was day, and not night. Though he had no more acquaintance of his own knowledge with the history of the glittering trinket on Martin’s outspread finger, than Martin himself had, he was as certain that in its purchase she had expended her whole stock of hoarded money, as if he had seen it paid down coin by coin. Her lover’s strange obtuseness in relation to this little incident, promptly suggested to Mark’s mind its real cause and root; and from that moment he had a clear and perfect insight into the one absorbing principle of Martin’s character.

‘She is worthy of the sacrifices I have made,’ said Martin, folding his arms, and looking at the ashes in the stove, as if in resumption of some former thoughts. ‘Well worthy of them. No riches’—here he stroked his chin and mused—‘could have compensated for the loss of such a nature. Not to mention that in gaining her affection I have followed the bent of my own wishes, and baulked the selfish schemes of others who had no right to form them. She is quite worthy—more than worthy—of the sacrifices I have made. Yes, she is. No doubt of it.’

These ruminations might or might not have reached Mark Tapley; for though they were by no means addressed to him, yet they were softly uttered. In any case, he stood there, watching Martin with an indescribable and most involved expression on his visage, until that young man roused himself and looked towards him; when he turned away, as being suddenly intent upon certain preparations for the journey, and, without giving vent to any articulate sound, smiled with surpassing ghastliness, and seemed by a twist of his features and a motion of his lips, to release himself of this word:

‘Jolly!’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE BURDEN WHEREOF, IS HAIL COLUMBIA!

A dark and dreary night; people nestling in their beds or circling late about the fire; Want, colder than Charity, shivering at the street corners; church-towers humming with the faint vibration of their own tongues, but newly resting from the ghostly preachment ‘One!’ The earth covered with a sable pall as for the burial of yesterday; the clumps of dark trees, its giant plumes of funeral feathers, waving sadly to and fro: all hushed, all noiseless, and in deep repose, save the swift clouds that skim across the moon, and the cautious wind, as, creeping after them upon the ground, it stops to listen, and goes rustling on, and stops again, and follows, like a savage on the trail.

Whither go the clouds and wind so eagerly? If, like guilty spirits, they repair to some dread conference with powers like themselves, in what wild regions do the elements hold council, or where unbend in terrible disport?

Here! Free from that cramped prison called the earth, and out upon the waste of waters. Here, roaring, raging, shrieking, howling, all night long. Hither come the sounding voices from the caverns on the coast of that small island, sleeping, a thousand miles away, so quietly in the midst of angry waves; and hither, to meet them, rush the blasts from unknown desert places of the world. Here, in the fury of their unchecked liberty, they storm and buffet with each other, until the sea, lashed into passion like their own, leaps up, in ravings mightier than theirs, and the whole scene is madness.

On, on, on, over the countless miles of angry space roll the long heaving billows. Mountains and caves are here, and yet are not; for what is now the one, is now the other; then all is but a boiling heap of rushing water. Pursuit, and flight, and mad return of wave on wave, and savage struggle, ending in a spouting-up of foam that whitens the black night; incessant change of place, and form, and hue; constancy in nothing, but eternal strife; on, on, on, they roll, and darker grows the night, and louder howls the wind, and more clamorous and fierce become the million voices in the sea, when the wild cry goes forth upon the storm ‘A ship!’

Onward she comes, in gallant combat with the elements, her tall masts trembling, and her timbers starting on the strain; onward she comes, now high upon the curling billows, now low down in the hollows of the sea, as hiding for the moment from its fury; and every storm-voice in the air and water cries more loudly yet, ‘A ship!’

Still she comes striving on; and at her boldness and the spreading cry, the angry waves rise up above each other’s hoary heads to look; and round about the vessel, far as the mariners on the decks can pierce into the gloom, they press upon her, forcing each other down and starting up, and rushing forward from afar, in dreadful curiosity. High over her they break; and round her surge and roar; and giving place to others, moaningly depart, and dash themselves to fragments in their baffled anger. Still she comes onward bravely. And though the eager multitude crowd thick and fast upon her all the night, and dawn of day discovers the untiring train yet bearing down upon the ship in an eternity of troubled water, onward she comes, with dim lights burning in her hull, and people there, asleep; as if no deadly element were peering in at every seam and chink, and no drowned seaman’s grave, with but a plank to cover it, were yawning in the unfathomable depths below.

Among these sleeping voyagers were Martin and Mark Tapley, who, rocked into a heavy drowsiness by the unaccustomed motion, were as insensible to the foul air in which they lay, as to the uproar without. It was broad day when the latter awoke with a dim idea that he was dreaming of having gone to sleep in a four-post bedstead which had turned bottom upwards in the course of the night. There was more reason in this too, than in the roasting of eggs; for the first objects Mr Tapley recognized when he opened his eyes were his own heels—looking down to him, as he afterwards observed, from a nearly perpendicular elevation.

‘Well!’ said Mark, getting himself into a sitting posture, after various ineffectual struggles with the rolling of the ship. ‘This is the first time as ever I stood on my head all night.’

‘You shouldn’t go to sleep upon the ground with your head to leeward then,’ growled a man in one of the berths.

‘With my head to WHERE?’ asked Mark.

The man repeated his previous sentiment.

‘No, I won’t another time,’ said Mark, ‘when I know whereabouts on the map that country is. In the meanwhile I can give you a better piece of advice. Don’t you nor any other friend of mine never go to sleep with his head in a ship any more.’

The man gave a grunt of discontented acquiescence, turned over in his berth, and drew his blanket over his head.

‘—For,’ said Mr Tapley, pursuing the theme by way of soliloquy in a low tone of voice; ‘the sea is as nonsensical a thing as any going. It never knows what to do with itself. It hasn’t got no employment for its mind, and is always in a state of vacancy. Like them Polar bears in the wild-beast shows as is constantly a-nodding their heads from side to side, it never CAN be quiet. Which is entirely owing to its uncommon stupidity.’

‘Is that you, Mark?’ asked a faint voice from another berth.

‘It’s as much of me as is left, sir, after a fortnight of this work,’ Mr Tapley replied, ‘What with leading the life of a fly, ever since I’ve been aboard—for I’ve been perpetually holding-on to something or other in a upside-down position—what with that, sir, and putting a very little into myself, and taking a good deal out of myself, there an’t too much of me to swear by. How do you find yourself this morning, sir?’

‘Very miserable,’ said Martin, with a peevish groan. ‘Ugh. This is wretched, indeed!’

‘Creditable,’ muttered Mark, pressing one hand upon his aching head and looking round him with a rueful grin. ‘That’s the great comfort. It IS creditable to keep up one’s spirits here. Virtue’s its own reward. So’s jollity.’

Mark was so far right that unquestionably any man who retained his cheerfulness among the steerage accommodations of that noble and fast-sailing line-of-packet ship, ‘THE SCREW,’ was solely indebted to his own resources, and shipped his good humour, like his provisions, without any contribution or assistance from the owners. A dark, low, stifling cabin, surrounded by berths all filled to overflowing with men, women, and children, in various stages of sickness and misery, is not the liveliest place of assembly at any time; but when it is so crowded (as the steerage cabin of the Screw was, every passage out), that mattresses and beds are heaped upon the floor, to the extinction of everything like comfort, cleanliness, and decency, it is liable to operate not only as a pretty strong banner against amiability of temper, but as a positive encourager of selfish and rough humours. Mark felt this, as he sat looking about him; and his spirits rose proportionately.

There were English people, Irish people, Welsh people, and Scotch people there; all with their little store of coarse food and shabby clothes; and nearly all with their families of children. There were children of all ages; from the baby at the breast, to the slattern-girl who was as much a grown woman as her mother. Every kind of domestic suffering that is bred in poverty, illness, banishment, sorrow, and long travel in bad weather, was crammed into the little space; and yet was there infinitely less of complaint and querulousness, and infinitely more of mutual assistance and general kindness to be found in that unwholesome ark, than in many brilliant ballrooms.

Mark looked about him wistfully, and his face brightened as he looked. Here an old grandmother was crooning over a sick child, and rocking it to and fro, in arms hardly more wasted than its own young limbs; here a poor woman with an infant in her lap, mended another little creature’s clothes, and quieted another who was creeping up about her from their scanty bed upon the floor. Here were old men awkwardly engaged in little household offices, wherein they would have been ridiculous but for their good-will and kind purpose; and here were swarthy fellows—giants in their way—doing such little acts of tenderness for those about them, as might have belonged to gentlest-hearted dwarfs. The very idiot in the corner who sat mowing there, all day, had his faculty of imitation roused by what he saw about him; and snapped his fingers to amuse a crying child.

‘Now, then,’ said Mark, nodding to a woman who was dressing her three children at no great distance from him—and the grin upon his face had by this time spread from ear to ear—‘Hand over one of them young ‘uns according to custom.’

‘I wish you’d get breakfast, Mark, instead of worrying with people who don’t belong to you,’ observed Martin, petulantly.

‘All right,’ said Mark. ‘SHE’ll do that. It’s a fair division of labour, sir. I wash her boys, and she makes our tea. I never COULD make tea, but any one can wash a boy.’

The woman, who was delicate and ill, felt and understood his kindness, as well she might, for she had been covered every night with his greatcoat, while he had for his own bed the bare boards and a rug. But Martin, who seldom got up or looked about him, was quite incensed by the folly of this speech, and expressed his dissatisfaction by an impatient groan.

‘So it is, certainly,’ said Mark, brushing the child’s hair as coolly as if he had been born and bred a barber.

‘What are you talking about, now?’ asked Martin.

‘What you said,’ replied Mark; ‘or what you meant, when you gave that there dismal vent to your feelings. I quite go along with it, sir. It IS very hard upon her.’

‘What is?’

‘Making the voyage by herself along with these young impediments here, and going such a way at such a time of the year to join her husband. If you don’t want to be driven mad with yellow soap in your eye, young man,’ said Mr Tapley to the second urchin, who was by this time under his hands at the basin, ‘you’d better shut it.’

‘Where does she join her husband?’ asked Martin, yawning.

‘Why, I’m very much afraid,’ said Mr Tapley, in a low voice, ‘that she don’t know. I hope she mayn’t miss him. But she sent her last letter by hand, and it don’t seem to have been very clearly understood between ‘em without it, and if she don’t see him a-waving his pocket-handkerchief on the shore, like a pictur out of a song-book, my opinion is, she’ll break her heart.’

‘Why, how, in Folly’s name, does the woman come to be on board ship on such a wild-goose venture!’ cried Martin.

Mr Tapley glanced at him for a moment as he lay prostrate in his berth, and then said, very quietly:

‘Ah! How indeed! I can’t think! He’s been away from her for two year; she’s been very poor and lonely in her own country; and has always been a-looking forward to meeting him. It’s very strange she should be here. Quite amazing! A little mad perhaps! There can’t be no other way of accounting for it.’

Martin was too far gone in the lassitude of sea-sickness to make any reply to these words, or even to attend to them as they were spoken. And the subject of their discourse returning at this crisis with some hot tea, effectually put a stop to any resumption of the theme by Mr Tapley; who, when the meal was over and he had adjusted Martin’s bed, went up on deck to wash the breakfast service, which consisted of two half-pint tin mugs, and a shaving-pot of the same metal.

It is due to Mark Tapley to state that he suffered at least as much from sea-sickness as any man, woman, or child, on board; and that he had a peculiar faculty of knocking himself about on the smallest provocation, and losing his legs at every lurch of the ship. But resolved, in his usual phrase, to ‘come out strong’ under disadvantageous circumstances, he was the life and soul of the steerage, and made no more of stopping in the middle of a facetious conversation to go away and be excessively ill by himself, and afterwards come back in the very best and gayest of tempers to resume it, than if such a course of proceeding had been the commonest in the world.

It cannot be said that as his illness wore off, his cheerfulness and good nature increased, because they would hardly admit of augmentation; but his usefulness among the weaker members of the party was much enlarged; and at all times and seasons there he was exerting it. If a gleam of sun shone out of the dark sky, down Mark tumbled into the cabin, and presently up he came again with a woman in his arms, or half-a-dozen children, or a man, or a bed, or a saucepan, or a basket, or something animate or inanimate, that he thought would be the better for the air. If an hour or two of fine weather in the middle of the day tempted those who seldom or never came on deck at other times to crawl into the long-boat, or lie down upon the spare spars, and try to eat, there, in the centre of the group, was Mr Tapley, handing about salt beef and biscuit, or dispensing tastes of grog, or cutting up the children’s provisions with his pocketknife, for their greater ease and comfort, or reading aloud from a venerable newspaper, or singing some roaring old song to a select party, or writing the beginnings of letters to their friends at home for people who couldn’t write, or cracking jokes with the crew, or nearly getting blown over the side, or emerging, half-drowned, from a shower of spray, or lending a hand somewhere or other; but always doing something for the general entertainment. At night, when the cooking-fire was lighted on the deck, and the driving sparks that flew among the rigging, and the clouds of sails, seemed to menace the ship with certain annihilation by fire, in case the elements of air and water failed to compass her destruction; there, again, was Mr Tapley, with his coat off and his shirt-sleeves turned up to his elbows, doing all kinds of culinary offices; compounding the strangest dishes; recognized by every one as an established authority; and helping all parties to achieve something which, left to themselves, they never could have done, and never would have dreamed of. In short, there never was a more popular character than Mark Tapley became, on board that noble and fast-sailing line-of-packet ship, the Screw; and he attained at last to such a pitch of universal admiration, that he began to have grave doubts within himself whether a man might reasonably claim any credit for being jolly under such exciting circumstances.

‘If this was going to last,’ said Tapley, ‘there’d be no great difference as I can perceive, between the Screw and the Dragon. I never am to get credit, I think. I begin to be afraid that the Fates is determined to make the world easy to me.’

‘Well, Mark,’ said Martin, near whose berth he had ruminated to this effect. ‘When will this be over?’

‘Another week, they say, sir,’ returned Mark, ‘will most likely bring us into port. The ship’s a-going along at present, as sensible as a ship can, sir; though I don’t mean to say as that’s any very high praise.’

‘I don’t think it is, indeed,’ groaned Martin.

‘You’d feel all the better for it, sir, if you was to turn out,’ observed Mark.

‘And be seen by the ladies and gentlemen on the after-deck,’ returned Martin, with a scronful emphasis upon the words, ‘mingling with the beggarly crowd that are stowed away in this vile hole. I should be greatly the better for that, no doubt.’

‘I’m thankful that I can’t say from my own experience what the feelings of a gentleman may be,’ said Mark, ‘but I should have thought, sir, as a gentleman would feel a deal more uncomfortable down here than up in the fresh air, especially when the ladies and gentlemen in the after-cabin know just as much about him as he does about them, and are likely to trouble their heads about him in the same proportion. I should have thought that, certainly.’

‘I tell you, then,’ rejoined Martin, ‘you would have thought wrong, and do think wrong.’

‘Very likely, sir,’ said Mark, with imperturbable good temper. ‘I often do.’

‘As to lying here,’ cried Martin, raising himself on his elbow, and looking angrily at his follower. ‘Do you suppose it’s a pleasure to lie here?’

‘All the madhouses in the world,’ said Mr Tapley, ‘couldn’t produce such a maniac as the man must be who could think that.’

‘Then why are you forever goading and urging me to get up?’ asked Martin, ‘I lie here because I don’t wish to be recognized, in the better days to which I aspire, by any purse-proud citizen, as the man who came over with him among the steerage passengers. I lie here because I wish to conceal my circumstances and myself, and not to arrive in a new world badged and ticketed as an utterly poverty-stricken man. If I could have afforded a passage in the after-cabin I should have held up my head with the rest. As I couldn’t I hide it. Do you understand that?’

‘I am very sorry, sir,’ said Mark. ‘I didn’t know you took it so much to heart as this comes to.’

‘Of course you didn’t know,’ returned his master. ‘How should you know, unless I told you? It’s no trial to you, Mark, to make yourself comfortable and to bustle about. It’s as natural for you to do so under the circumstances as it is for me not to do so. Why, you don’t suppose there is a living creature in this ship who can by possibility have half so much to undergo on board of her as I have? Do you?’ he asked, sitting upright in his berth and looking at Mark, with an expression of great earnestness not unmixed with wonder.

Mark twisted his face into a tight knot, and with his head very much on one side, pondered upon this question as if he felt it an extremely difficult one to answer. He was relieved from his embarrassment by Martin himself, who said, as he stretched himself upon his back again and resumed the book he had been reading:

‘But what is the use of my putting such a case to you, when the very essence of what I have been saying is, that you cannot by possibility understand it! Make me a little brandy-and-water—cold and very weak—and give me a biscuit, and tell your friend, who is a nearer neighbour of ours than I could wish, to try and keep her children a little quieter to-night than she did last night; that’s a good fellow.’

Mr Tapley set himself to obey these orders with great alacrity, and pending their execution, it may be presumed his flagging spirits revived; inasmuch as he several times observed, below his breath, that in respect of its power of imparting a credit to jollity, the Screw unquestionably had some decided advantages over the Dragon. He also remarked that it was a high gratification to him to reflect that he would carry its main excellence ashore with him, and have it constantly beside him wherever he went; but what he meant by these consolatory thoughts he did not explain.

And now a general excitement began to prevail on board; and various predictions relative to the precise day, and even the precise hour at which they would reach New York, were freely broached. There was infinitely more crowding on deck and looking over the ship’s side than there had been before; and an epidemic broke out for packing up things every morning, which required unpacking again every night. Those who had any letters to deliver, or any friends to meet, or any settled plans of going anywhere or doing anything, discussed their prospects a hundred times a day; and as this class of passengers was very small, and the number of those who had no prospects whatever was very large, there were plenty of listeners and few talkers. Those who had been ill all along, got well now, and those who had been well, got better. An American gentleman in the after-cabin, who had been wrapped up in fur and oilskin the whole passage, unexpectedly appeared in a very shiny, tall, black hat, and constantly overhauled a very little valise of pale leather, which contained his clothes, linen, brushes, shaving apparatus, books, trinkets, and other baggage. He likewise stuck his hands deep into his pockets, and walked the deck with his nostrils dilated, as already inhaling the air of Freedom which carries death to all tyrants, and can never (under any circumstances worth mentioning) be breathed by slaves. An English gentleman who was strongly suspected of having run away from a bank, with something in his possession belonging to its strong box besides the key, grew eloquent upon the subject of the rights of man, and hummed the Marseillaise Hymn constantly. In a word, one great sensation pervaded the whole ship, and the soil of America lay close before them; so close at last, that, upon a certain starlight night they took a pilot on board, and within a few hours afterwards lay to until the morning, awaiting the arrival of a steamboat in which the passengers were to be conveyed ashore.

Off she came, soon after it was light next morning, and lying alongside an hour or more—during which period her very firemen were objects of hardly less interest and curiosity than if they had been so many angels, good or bad—took all her living freight aboard. Among them Mark, who still had his friend and her three children under his close protection; and Martin, who had once more dressed himself in his usual attire, but wore a soiled, old cloak above his ordinary clothes, until such time as he should separate for ever from his late companions.

The steamer—which, with its machinery on deck, looked, as it worked its long slim legs, like some enormously magnified insect or antediluvian monster—dashed at great speed up a beautiful bay; and presently they saw some heights, and islands, and a long, flat, straggling city.

‘And this,’ said Mr Tapley, looking far ahead, ‘is the Land of Liberty, is it? Very well. I’m agreeable. Any land will do for me, after so much water!’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

MARTIN DISEMBARKS FROM THAT NOBLE AND FAST-SAILING LINE-OF-PACKET SHIP, ‘THE SCREW’, AT THE PORT OF NEW YORK, IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. HE MAKES SOME ACQUAINTANCES, AND DINES AT A BOARDING-HOUSE. THE PARTICULARS OF THOSE TRANSACTIONS

Some trifling excitement prevailed upon the very brink and margin of the land of liberty; for an alderman had been elected the day before; and Party Feeling naturally running rather high on such an exciting occasion, the friends of the disappointed candidate had found it necessary to assert the great principles of Purity of Election and Freedom of opinion by breaking a few legs and arms, and furthermore pursuing one obnoxious gentleman through the streets with the design of hitting his nose. These good-humoured little outbursts of the popular fancy were not in themselves sufficiently remarkable to create any great stir, after the lapse of a whole night; but they found fresh life and notoriety in the breath of the newsboys, who not only proclaimed them with shrill yells in all the highways and byways of the town, upon the wharves and among the shipping, but on the deck and down in the cabins of the steamboat; which, before she touched the shore, was boarded and overrun by a legion of those young citizens.

‘Here’s this morning’s New York Sewer!’ cried one. ‘Here’s this morning’s New York Stabber! Here’s the New York Family Spy! Here’s the New York Private Listener! Here’s the New York Peeper! Here’s the New York Plunderer! Here’s the New York Keyhole Reporter! Here’s the New York Rowdy Journal! Here’s all the New York papers! Here’s full particulars of the patriotic locofoco movement yesterday, in which the whigs was so chawed up; and the last Alabama gouging case; and the interesting Arkansas dooel with Bowie knives; and all the Political, Commercial, and Fashionable News. Here they are! Here they are! Here’s the papers, here’s the papers!’

‘Here’s the Sewer!’ cried another. ‘Here’s the New York Sewer! Here’s some of the twelfth thousand of to-day’s Sewer, with the best accounts of the markets, and all the shipping news, and four whole columns of country correspondence, and a full account of the Ball at Mrs White’s last night, where all the beauty and fashion of New York was assembled; with the Sewer’s own particulars of the private lives of all the ladies that was there! Here’s the Sewer! Here’s some of the twelfth thousand of the New York Sewer! Here’s the Sewer’s exposure of the Wall Street Gang, and the Sewer’s exposure of the Washington Gang, and the Sewer’s exclusive account of a flagrant act of dishonesty committed by the Secretary of State when he was eight years old; now communicated, at a great expense, by his own nurse. Here’s the Sewer! Here’s the New York Sewer, in its twelfth thousand, with a whole column of New Yorkers to be shown up, and all their names printed! Here’s the Sewer’s article upon the Judge that tried him, day afore yesterday, for libel, and the Sewer’s tribute to the independent Jury that didn’t convict him, and the Sewer’s account of what they might have expected if they had! Here’s the Sewer, here’s the Sewer! Here’s the wide-awake Sewer; always on the lookout; the leading Journal of the United States, now in its twelfth thousand, and still a-printing off:—Here’s the New York Sewer!’

‘It is in such enlightened means,’ said a voice almost in Martin’s ear, ‘that the bubbling passions of my country find a vent.’

Martin turned involuntarily, and saw, standing close at his side, a sallow gentleman, with sunken cheeks, black hair, small twinkling eyes, and a singular expression hovering about that region of his face, which was not a frown, nor a leer, and yet might have been mistaken at the first glance for either. Indeed it would have been difficult, on a much closer acquaintance, to describe it in any more satisfactory terms than as a mixed expression of vulgar cunning and conceit. This gentleman wore a rather broad-brimmed hat for the greater wisdom of his appearance; and had his arms folded for the greater impressiveness of his attitude. He was somewhat shabbily dressed in a blue surtout reaching nearly to his ankles, short loose trousers of the same colour, and a faded buff waistcoat, through which a discoloured shirt-frill struggled to force itself into notice, as asserting an equality of civil rights with the other portions of his dress, and maintaining a declaration of Independence on its own account. His feet, which were of unusually large proportions, were leisurely crossed before him as he half leaned against, half sat upon, the steamboat’s bulwark; and his thick cane, shod with a mighty ferule at one end and armed with a great metal knob at the other, depended from a line-and-tassel on his wrist. Thus attired, and thus composed into an aspect of great profundity, the gentleman twitched up the right-hand corner of his mouth and his right eye simultaneously, and said, once more:

‘It is in such enlightened means that the bubbling passions of my country find a vent.’

As he looked at Martin, and nobody else was by, Martin inclined his head, and said:

‘You allude to—?’

‘To the Palladium of rational Liberty at home, sir, and the dread of Foreign oppression abroad,’ returned the gentleman, as he pointed with his cane to an uncommonly dirty newsboy with one eye. ‘To the Envy of the world, sir, and the leaders of Human Civilization. Let me ask you sir,’ he added, bringing the ferule of his stick heavily upon the deck with the air of a man who must not be equivocated with, ‘how do you like my Country?’

‘I am hardly prepared to answer that question yet,’ said Martin ‘seeing that I have not been ashore.’

‘Well, I should expect you were not prepared, sir,’ said the gentleman, ‘to behold such signs of National Prosperity as those?’

He pointed to the vessels lying at the wharves; and then gave a vague flourish with his stick, as if he would include the air and water, generally, in this remark.

‘Really,’ said Martin, ‘I don’t know. Yes. I think I was.’

The gentleman glanced at him with a knowing look, and said he liked his policy. It was natural, he said, and it pleased him as a philosopher to observe the prejudices of human nature.

‘You have brought, I see, sir,’ he said, turning round towards Martin, and resting his chin on the top of his stick, ‘the usual amount of misery and poverty and ignorance and crime, to be located in the bosom of the great Republic. Well, sir! let ‘em come on in shiploads from the old country. When vessels are about to founder, the rats are said to leave ‘em. There is considerable of truth, I find, in that remark.’

‘The old ship will keep afloat a year or two longer yet, perhaps,’ said Martin with a smile, partly occasioned by what the gentleman said, and partly by his manner of saying it, which was odd enough for he emphasised all the small words and syllables in his discourse, and left the others to take care of themselves; as if he thought the larger parts of speech could be trusted alone, but the little ones required to be constantly looked after.

‘Hope is said by the poet, sir,’ observed the gentleman, ‘to be the nurse of young Desire.’

Martin signified that he had heard of the cardinal virtue in question serving occasionally in that domestic capacity.

‘She will not rear her infant in the present instance, sir, you’ll find,’ observed the gentleman.

‘Time will show,’ said Martin.

The gentleman nodded his head gravely; and said, ‘What is your name, sir?’

Martin told him.

‘How old are you, sir?’

Martin told him.

‘What is your profession, sir?’

Martin told him that also.

‘What is your destination, sir?’ inquired the gentleman.

‘Really,’ said Martin laughing, ‘I can’t satisfy you in that particular, for I don’t know it myself.’

‘Yes?’ said the gentleman.

‘No,’ said Martin.

The gentleman adjusted his cane under his left arm, and took a more deliberate and complete survey of Martin than he had yet had leisure to make. When he had completed his inspection, he put out his right hand, shook Martin’s hand, and said:

‘My name is Colonel Diver, sir. I am the Editor of the New York Rowdy Journal.’

Martin received the communication with that degree of respect which an announcement so distinguished appeared to demand.

‘The New York Rowdy Journal, sir,’ resumed the colonel, ‘is, as I expect you know, the organ of our aristocracy in this city.’

‘Oh! there IS an aristocracy here, then?’ said Martin. ‘Of what is it composed?’

‘Of intelligence, sir,’ replied the colonel; ‘of intelligence and virtue. And of their necessary consequence in this republic—dollars, sir.’

Martin was very glad to hear this, feeling well assured that if intelligence and virtue led, as a matter of course, to the acquisition of dollars, he would speedily become a great capitalist. He was about to express the gratification such news afforded him, when he was interrupted by the captain of the ship, who came up at the moment to shake hands with the colonel; and who, seeing a well-dressed stranger on the deck (for Martin had thrown aside his cloak), shook hands with him also. This was an unspeakable relief to Martin, who, in spite of the acknowledged supremacy of Intelligence and virtue in that happy country, would have been deeply mortified to appear before Colonel Diver in the poor character of a steerage passenger.

‘Well cap’en!’ said the colonel.

‘Well colonel,’ cried the captain. ‘You’re looking most uncommon bright, sir. I can hardly realise its being you, and that’s a fact.’

‘A good passage, cap’en?’ inquired the colonel, taking him aside,

‘Well now! It was a pretty spanking run, sir,’ said, or rather sung, the captain, who was a genuine New Englander; ‘considerin’ the weather.’

‘Yes?’ said the colonel.

‘Well! It was, sir,’ said the captain. ‘I’ve just now sent a boy up to your office with the passenger-list, colonel.’

‘You haven’t got another boy to spare, p’raps, cap’en?’ said the colonel, in a tone almost amounting to severity.

‘I guess there air a dozen if you want ‘em, colonel,’ said the captain.

‘One moderate big ‘un could convey a dozen champagne, perhaps,’ observed the colonel, musing, ‘to my office. You said a spanking run, I think?’

‘Well, so I did,’ was the reply.

‘It’s very nigh, you know,’ observed the colonel. ‘I’m glad it was a spanking run, cap’en. Don’t mind about quarts if you’re short of ‘em. The boy can as well bring four-and-twenty pints, and travel twice as once.—A first-rate spanker, cap’en, was it? Yes?’

‘A most e—tarnal spanker,’ said the skipper.

‘I admire at your good fortun, cap’en. You might loan me a corkscrew at the same time, and half-a-dozen glasses if you liked. However bad the elements combine against my country’s noble packet-ship, the Screw, sir,’ said the colonel, turning to Martin, and drawing a flourish on the surface of the deck with his cane, ‘her passage either way is almost certain to eventuate a spanker!’

The captain, who had the Sewer below at that moment, lunching expensively in one cabin, while the amiable Stabber was drinking himself into a state of blind madness in another, took a cordial leave of his friend the colonel, and hurried away to dispatch the champagne; well knowing (as it afterwards appeared) that if he failed to conciliate the editor of the Rowdy Journal, that potentate would denounce him and his ship in large capitals before he was a day older; and would probably assault the memory of his mother also, who had not been dead more than twenty years. The colonel being again left alone with Martin, checked him as he was moving away, and offered in consideration of his being an Englishman, to show him the town and to introduce him, if such were his desire, to a genteel boarding-house. But before they entered on these proceedings (he said), he would beseech the honour of his company at the office of the Rowdy Journal, to partake of a bottle of champagne of his own importation.

All this was so extremely kind and hospitable, that Martin, though it was quite early in the morning, readily acquiesced. So, instructing Mark, who was deeply engaged with his friend and her three children, that when he had done assisting them, and had cleared the baggage, he was to wait for further orders at the Rowdy Journal Office, Martin accompanied his new friend on shore.

They made their way as they best could through the melancholy crowd of emigrants upon the wharf, who, grouped about their beds and boxes, with the bare ground below them and the bare sky above, might have fallen from another planet, for anything they knew of the country; and walked for some short distance along a busy street, bounded on one side by the quays and shipping; and on the other by a long row of staring red-brick storehouses and offices, ornamented with more black boards and white letters, and more white boards and black letters, than Martin had ever seen before, in fifty times the space. Presently they turned up a narrow street, and presently into other narrow streets, until at last they stopped before a house whereon was painted in great characters, ‘ROWDY JOURNAL.’

The colonel, who had walked the whole way with one hand in his breast, his head occasionally wagging from side to side, and his hat thrown back upon his ears, like a man who was oppressed to inconvenience by a sense of his own greatness, led the way up a dark and dirty flight of stairs into a room of similar character, all littered and bestrewn with odds and ends of newspapers and other crumpled fragments, both in proof and manuscript. Behind a mangy old writing-table in this apartment sat a figure with a stump of a pen in its mouth and a great pair of scissors in its right hand, clipping and slicing at a file of Rowdy Journals; and it was such a laughable figure that Martin had some difficulty in preserving his gravity, though conscious of the close observation of Colonel Diver.

The individual who sat clipping and slicing as aforesaid at the Rowdy Journals, was a small young gentleman of very juvenile appearance, and unwholesomely pale in the face; partly, perhaps, from intense thought, but partly, there is no doubt, from the excessive use of tobacco, which he was at that moment chewing vigorously. He wore his shirt-collar turned down over a black ribbon; and his lank hair, a fragile crop, was not only smoothed and parted back from his brow, that none of the Poetry of his aspect might be lost, but had, here and there, been grubbed up by the roots; which accounted for his loftiest developments being somewhat pimply. He had that order of nose on which the envy of mankind has bestowed the appellation ‘snub,’ and it was very much turned up at the end, as with a lofty scorn. Upon the upper lip of this young gentleman were tokens of a sandy down; so very, very smooth and scant, that, though encouraged to the utmost, it looked more like a recent trace of gingerbread than the fair promise of a moustache; and this conjecture, his apparently tender age went far to strengthen. He was intent upon his work. Every time he snapped the great pair of scissors, he made a corresponding motion with his jaws, which gave him a very terrible appearance.

Martin was not long in determining within himself that this must be Colonel Diver’s son; the hope of the family, and future mainspring of the Rowdy Journal. Indeed he had begun to say that he presumed this was the colonel’s little boy, and that it was very pleasant to see him playing at Editor in all the guilelessness of childhood, when the colonel proudly interposed and said:

‘My War Correspondent, sir—Mr Jefferson Brick!’

Martin could not help starting at this unexpected announcement, and the consciousness of the irretrievable mistake he had nearly made.

Mr Brick seemed pleased with the sensation he produced upon the stranger, and shook hands with him, with an air of patronage designed to reassure him, and to let him blow that there was no occasion to be frightened, for he (Brick) wouldn’t hurt him.

‘You have heard of Jefferson Brick, I see, sir,’ quoth the colonel, with a smile. ‘England has heard of Jefferson Brick. Europe has heard of Jefferson Brick. Let me see. When did you leave England, sir?’

‘Five weeks ago,’ said Martin.

‘Five weeks ago,’ repeated the colonel, thoughtfully; as he took his seat upon the table, and swung his legs. ‘Now let me ask you, sir which of Mr Brick’s articles had become at that time the most obnoxious to the British Parliament and the Court of Saint James’s?’

‘Upon my word,’ said Martin, ‘I—’

‘I have reason to know, sir,’ interrupted the colonel, ‘that the aristocratic circles of your country quail before the name of Jefferson Brick. I should like to be informed, sir, from your lips, which of his sentiments has struck the deadliest blow—’

‘At the hundred heads of the Hydra of Corruption now grovelling in the dust beneath the lance of Reason, and spouting up to the universal arch above us, its sanguinary gore,’ said Mr Brick, putting on a little blue cloth cap with a glazed front, and quoting his last article.

‘The libation of freedom, Brick’—hinted the colonel.

‘—Must sometimes be quaffed in blood, colonel,’ cried Brick. And when he said ‘blood,’ he gave the great pair of scissors a sharp snap, as if THEY said blood too, and were quite of his opinion.

This done, they both looked at Martin, pausing for a reply.

‘Upon my life,’ said Martin, who had by this time quite recovered his usual coolness, ‘I can’t give you any satisfactory information about it; for the truth is that I—’

‘Stop!’ cried the colonel, glancing sternly at his war correspondent and giving his head one shake after every sentence. ‘That you never heard of Jefferson Brick, sir. That you never read Jefferson Brick, sir. That you never saw the Rowdy Journal, sir. That you never knew, sir, of its mighty influence upon the cabinets of Europe. Yes?’

‘That’s what I was about to observe, certainly,’ said Martin.

‘Keep cool, Jefferson,’ said the colonel gravely. ‘Don’t bust! oh you Europeans! After that, let’s have a glass of wine!’ So saying, he got down from the table, and produced, from a basket outside the door, a bottle of champagne, and three glasses.

‘Mr Jefferson Brick, sir,’ said the colonel, filling Martin’s glass and his own, and pushing the bottle to that gentleman, ‘will give us a sentiment.’

‘Well, sir!’ cried the war correspondent, ‘Since you have concluded to call upon me, I will respond. I will give you, sir, The Rowdy Journal and its brethren; the well of Truth, whose waters are black from being composed of printers’ ink, but are quite clear enough for my country to behold the shadow of her Destiny reflected in.’

‘Hear, hear!’ cried the colonel, with great complacency. ‘There are flowery components, sir, in the language of my friend?’

‘Very much so, indeed,’ said Martin.

‘There is to-day’s Rowdy, sir,’ observed the colonel, handing him a paper. ‘You’ll find Jefferson Brick at his usual post in the van of human civilization and moral purity.’

The colonel was by this time seated on the table again. Mr Brick also took up a position on that same piece of furniture; and they fell to drinking pretty hard. They often looked at Martin as he read the paper, and then at each other. When he laid it down, which was not until they had finished a second bottle, the colonel asked him what he thought of it.

‘Why, it’s horribly personal,’ said Martin.

The colonel seemed much flattered by this remark; and said he hoped it was.

‘We are independent here, sir,’ said Mr Jefferson Brick. ‘We do as we like.’

‘If I may judge from this specimen,’ returned Martin, ‘there must be a few thousands here, rather the reverse of independent, who do as they don’t like.’

‘Well! They yield to the popular mind of the Popular Instructor, sir,’ said the colonel. ‘They rile up, sometimes; but in general we have a hold upon our citizens, both in public and in private life, which is as much one of the ennobling institutions of our happy country as—’

‘As nigger slavery itself,’ suggested Mr Brick.

‘En—tirely so,’ remarked the colonel.

‘Pray,’ said Martin, after some hesitation, ‘may I venture to ask, with reference to a case I observe in this paper of yours, whether the Popular Instructor often deals in—I am at a loss to express it without giving you offence—in forgery? In forged letters, for instance,’ he pursued, for the colonel was perfectly calm and quite at his ease, ‘solemnly purporting to have been written at recent periods by living men?’

‘Well, sir!’ replied the colonel. ‘It does, now and then.’

‘And the popular instructed—what do they do?’ asked Martin.

‘Buy ‘em:’ said the colonel.

Mr Jefferson Brick expectorated and laughed; the former copiously, the latter approvingly.

‘Buy ‘em by hundreds of thousands,’ resumed the colonel. ‘We are a smart people here, and can appreciate smartness.’

‘Is smartness American for forgery?’ asked Martin.

‘Well!’ said the colonel, ‘I expect it’s American for a good many things that you call by other names. But you can’t help yourself in Europe. We can.’

‘And do, sometimes,’ thought Martin. ‘You help yourselves with very little ceremony, too!’

‘At all events, whatever name we choose to employ,’ said the colonel, stooping down to roll the third empty bottle into a corner after the other two, ‘I suppose the art of forgery was not invented here sir?’

‘I suppose not,’ replied Martin.

‘Nor any other kind of smartness I reckon?’

‘Invented! No, I presume not.’

‘Well!’ said the colonel; ‘then we got it all from the old country, and the old country’s to blame for it, and not the new ‘un. There’s an end of THAT. Now, if Mr Jefferson Brick and you will be so good as to clear, I’ll come out last, and lock the door.’

Rightly interpreting this as the signal for their departure, Martin walked downstairs after the war correspondent, who preceded him with great majesty. The colonel following, they left the Rowdy Journal Office and walked forth into the streets; Martin feeling doubtful whether he ought to kick the colonel for having presumed to speak to him, or whether it came within the bounds of possibility that he and his establishment could be among the boasted usages of that regenerated land.

It was clear that Colonel Diver, in the security of his strong position, and in his perfect understanding of the public sentiment, cared very little what Martin or anybody else thought about him. His high-spiced wares were made to sell, and they sold; and his thousands of readers could as rationally charge their delight in filth upon him, as a glutton can shift upon his cook the responsibility of his beastly excess. Nothing would have delighted the colonel more than to be told that no such man as he could walk in high success the streets of any other country in the world; for that would only have been a logical assurance to him of the correct adaptation of his labours to the prevailing taste, and of his being strictly and peculiarly a national feature of America.

They walked a mile or more along a handsome street which the colonel said was called Broadway, and which Mr Jefferson Brick said ‘whipped the universe.’ Turning, at length, into one of the numerous streets which branched from this main thoroughfare, they stopped before a rather mean-looking house with jalousie blinds to every window; a flight of steps before the green street-door; a shining white ornament on the rails on either side like a petrified pineapple, polished; a little oblong plate of the same material over the knocker whereon the name of ‘Pawkins’ was engraved; and four accidental pigs looking down the area.

The colonel knocked at this house with the air of a man who lived there; and an Irish girl popped her head out of one of the top windows to see who it was. Pending her journey downstairs, the pigs were joined by two or three friends from the next street, in company with whom they lay down sociably in the gutter.

‘Is the major indoors?’ inquired the colonel, as he entered.

‘Is it the master, sir?’ returned the girl, with a hesitation which seemed to imply that they were rather flush of majors in that establishment.

‘The master!’ said Colonel Diver, stopping short and looking round at his war correspondent.

‘Oh! The depressing institutions of that British empire, colonel!’ said Jefferson Brick. ‘Master!’

‘What’s the matter with the word?’ asked Martin.

‘I should hope it was never heard in our country, sir; that’s all,’ said Jefferson Brick; ‘except when it is used by some degraded Help, as new to the blessings of our form of government, as this Help is. There are no masters here.’

‘All “owners,” are they?’ said Martin.

Mr Jefferson Brick followed in the Rowdy Journal’s footsteps without returning any answer. Martin took the same course, thinking as he went, that perhaps the free and independent citizens, who in their moral elevation, owned the colonel for their master, might render better homage to the goddess, Liberty, in nightly dreams upon the oven of a Russian Serf.

The colonel led the way into a room at the back of the house upon the ground-floor, light, and of fair dimensions, but exquisitely uncomfortable; having nothing in it but the four cold white walls and ceiling, a mean carpet, a dreary waste of dining-table reaching from end to end, and a bewildering collection of cane-bottomed chairs. In the further region of this banqueting-hall was a stove, garnished on either side with a great brass spittoon, and shaped in itself like three little iron barrels set up on end in a fender, and joined together on the principle of the Siamese Twins. Before it, swinging himself in a rocking-chair, lounged a large gentleman with his hat on, who amused himself by spitting alternately into the spittoon on the right hand of the stove, and the spittoon on the left, and then working his way back again in the same order. A negro lad in a soiled white jacket was busily engaged in placing on the table two long rows of knives and forks, relieved at intervals by jugs of water; and as he travelled down one side of this festive board, he straightened with his dirty hands the dirtier cloth, which was all askew, and had not been removed since breakfast. The atmosphere of this room was rendered intensely hot and stifling by the stove; but being further flavoured by a sickly gush of soup from the kitchen, and by such remote suggestions of tobacco as lingered within the brazen receptacles already mentioned, it became, to a stranger’s senses, almost insupportable.

The gentleman in the rocking-chair having his back towards them, and being much engaged in his intellectual pastime, was not aware of their approach until the colonel, walking up to the stove, contributed his mite towards the support of the left-hand spittoon, just as the major—for it was the major—bore down upon it. Major Pawkins then reserved his fire, and looking upward, said, with a peculiar air of quiet weariness, like a man who had been up all night—an air which Martin had already observed both in the colonel and Mr Jefferson Brick—

‘Well, colonel!’

‘Here is a gentleman from England, major,’ the colonel replied, ‘who has concluded to locate himself here if the amount of compensation suits him.’

‘I am glad to see you, sir,’ observed the major, shaking hands with Martin, and not moving a muscle of his face. ‘You are pretty bright, I hope?’

‘Never better,’ said Martin.

‘You are never likely to be,’ returned the major. ‘You will see the sun shine HERE.’

‘I think I remember to have seen it shine at home sometimes,’ said Martin, smiling.

‘I think not,’ replied the major. He said so with a stoical indifference certainly, but still in a tone of firmness which admitted of no further dispute on that point. When he had thus settled the question, he put his hat a little on one side for the greater convenience of scratching his head, and saluted Mr Jefferson Brick with a lazy nod.

Major Pawkins (a gentleman of Pennsylvanian origin) was distinguished by a very large skull, and a great mass of yellow forehead; in deference to which commodities it was currently held in bar-rooms and other such places of resort that the major was a man of huge sagacity. He was further to be known by a heavy eye and a dull slow manner; and for being a man of that kind who—mentally speaking—requires a deal of room to turn himself in. But, in trading on his stock of wisdom, he invariably proceeded on the principle of putting all the goods he had (and more) into his window; and that went a great way with his constituency of admirers. It went a great way, perhaps, with Mr Jefferson Brick, who took occasion to whisper in Martin’s ear:

‘One of the most remarkable men in our country, sir!’

It must not be supposed, however, that the perpetual exhibition in the market-place of all his stock-in-trade for sale or hire, was the major’s sole claim to a very large share of sympathy and support. He was a great politician; and the one article of his creed, in reference to all public obligations involving the good faith and integrity of his country, was, ‘run a moist pen slick through everything, and start fresh.’ This made him a patriot. In commercial affairs he was a bold speculator. In plainer words he had a most distinguished genius for swindling, and could start a bank, or negotiate a loan, or form a land-jobbing company (entailing ruin, pestilence, and death, on hundreds of families), with any gifted creature in the Union. This made him an admirable man of business. He could hang about a bar-room, discussing the affairs of the nation, for twelve hours together; and in that time could hold forth with more intolerable dulness, chew more tobacco, smoke more tobacco, drink more rum-toddy, mint-julep, gin-sling, and cocktail, than any private gentleman of his acquaintance. This made him an orator and a man of the people. In a word, the major was a rising character, and a popular character, and was in a fair way to be sent by the popular party to the State House of New York, if not in the end to Washington itself. But as a man’s private prosperity does not always keep pace with his patriotic devotion to public affairs; and as fraudulent transactions have their downs as well as ups, the major was occasionally under a cloud. Hence, just now Mrs Pawkins kept a boarding-house, and Major Pawkins rather ‘loafed’ his time away than otherwise.

‘You have come to visit our country, sir, at a season of great commercial depression,’ said the major.

‘At an alarming crisis,’ said the colonel.

‘At a period of unprecedented stagnation,’ said Mr Jefferson Brick.

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ returned Martin. ‘It’s not likely to last, I hope?’

Martin knew nothing about America, or he would have known perfectly well that if its individual citizens, to a man, are to be believed, it always IS depressed, and always IS stagnated, and always IS at an alarming crisis, and never was otherwise; though as a body they are ready to make oath upon the Evangelists at any hour of the day or night, that it is the most thriving and prosperous of all countries on the habitable globe.

‘It’s not likely to last, I hope?’ said Martin.

‘Well!’ returned the major, ‘I expect we shall get along somehow, and come right in the end.’

‘We are an elastic country,’ said the Rowdy Journal.

‘We are a young lion,’ said Mr Jefferson Brick.

‘We have revivifying and vigorous principles within ourselves,’ observed the major. ‘Shall we drink a bitter afore dinner, colonel?’

The colonel assenting to this proposal with great alacrity, Major Pawkins proposed an adjournment to a neighbouring bar-room, which, as he observed, was ‘only in the next block.’ He then referred Martin to Mrs Pawkins for all particulars connected with the rate of board and lodging, and informed him that he would have the pleasure of seeing that lady at dinner, which would soon be ready, as the dinner hour was two o’clock, and it only wanted a quarter now. This reminded him that if the bitter were to be taken at all, there was no time to lose; so he walked off without more ado, and left them to follow if they thought proper.

When the major rose from his rocking-chair before the stove, and so disturbed the hot air and balmy whiff of soup which fanned their brows, the odour of stale tobacco became so decidedly prevalent as to leave no doubt of its proceeding mainly from that gentleman’s attire. Indeed, as Martin walked behind him to the bar-room, he could not help thinking that the great square major, in his listlessness and langour, looked very much like a stale weed himself; such as might be hoed out of the public garden, with great advantage to the decent growth of that preserve, and tossed on some congenial dunghill.

They encountered more weeds in the bar-room, some of whom (being thirsty souls as well as dirty) were pretty stale in one sense, and pretty fresh in another. Among them was a gentleman who, as Martin gathered from the conversation that took place over the bitter, started that afternoon for the Far West on a six months’ business tour, and who, as his outfit and equipment for this journey, had just such another shiny hat and just such another little pale valise as had composed the luggage of the gentleman who came from England in the Screw.

They were walking back very leisurely; Martin arm-in-arm with Mr Jefferson Brick, and the major and the colonel side-by-side before them; when, as they came within a house or two of the major’s residence, they heard a bell ringing violently. The instant this sound struck upon their ears, the colonel and the major darted off, dashed up the steps and in at the street-door (which stood ajar) like lunatics; while Mr Jefferson Brick, detaching his arm from Martin’s, made a precipitate dive in the same direction, and vanished also.

‘Good Heaven!’ thought Martin. ‘The premises are on fire! It was an alarm bell!’

But there was no smoke to be seen, nor any flame, nor was there any smell of fire. As Martin faltered on the pavement, three more gentlemen, with horror and agitation depicted in their faces, came plunging wildly round the street corner; jostled each other on the steps; struggled for an instant; and rushed into the house, a confused heap of arms and legs. Unable to bear it any longer, Martin followed. Even in his rapid progress he was run down, thrust aside, and passed, by two more gentlemen, stark mad, as it appeared, with fierce excitement.

‘Where is it?’ cried Martin, breathlessly, to a negro whom he encountered in the passage.

‘In a eatin room, sa. Kernell, sa, him kep a seat ‘side himself, sa.’

‘A seat!’ cried Martin.

‘For a dinnar, sa.’

Martin started at him for a moment, and burst into a hearty laugh; to which the negro, out of his natural good humour and desire to please, so heartily responded, that his teeth shone like a gleam of light. ‘You’re the pleasantest fellow I have seen yet,’ said Martin clapping him on the back, ‘and give me a better appetite than bitters.’

With this sentiment he walked into the dining-room and slipped into a chair next the colonel, which that gentleman (by this time nearly through his dinner) had turned down in reserve for him, with its back against the table.

It was a numerous company—eighteen or twenty perhaps. Of these some five or six were ladies, who sat wedged together in a little phalanx by themselves. All the knives and forks were working away at a rate that was quite alarming; very few words were spoken; and everybody seemed to eat his utmost in self-defence, as if a famine were expected to set in before breakfast time to-morrow morning, and it had become high time to assert the first law of nature. The poultry, which may perhaps be considered to have formed the staple of the entertainment—for there was a turkey at the top, a pair of ducks at the bottom, and two fowls in the middle—disappeared as rapidly as if every bird had had the use of its wings, and had flown in desperation down a human throat. The oysters, stewed and pickled, leaped from their capacious reservoirs, and slid by scores into the mouths of the assembly. The sharpest pickles vanished, whole cucumbers at once, like sugar-plums, and no man winked his eye. Great heaps of indigestible matter melted away as ice before the sun. It was a solemn and an awful thing to see. Dyspeptic individuals bolted their food in wedges; feeding, not themselves, but broods of nightmares, who were continually standing at livery within them. Spare men, with lank and rigid cheeks, came out unsatisfied from the destruction of heavy dishes, and glared with watchful eyes upon the pastry. What Mrs Pawkins felt each day at dinner-time is hidden from all human knowledge. But she had one comfort. It was very soon over.

When the colonel had finished his dinner, which event took place while Martin, who had sent his plate for some turkey, was waiting to begin, he asked him what he thought of the boarders, who were from all parts of the Union, and whether he would like to know any particulars concerning them.

‘Pray,’ said Martin, ‘who is that sickly little girl opposite, with the tight round eyes? I don’t see anybody here, who looks like her mother, or who seems to have charge of her.’

‘Do you mean the matron in blue, sir?’ asked the colonel, with emphasis. ‘That is Mrs Jefferson Brick, sir.’

‘No, no,’ said Martin, ‘I mean the little girl, like a doll; directly opposite.’

‘Well, sir!’ cried the colonel. ‘THAT is Mrs Jefferson Brick.’

Martin glanced at the colonel’s face, but he was quite serious.

‘Bless my soul! I suppose there will be a young Brick then, one of these days?’ said Martin.

‘There are two young Bricks already, sir,’ returned the colonel.

The matron looked so uncommonly like a child herself, that Martin could not help saying as much. ‘Yes, sir,’ returned the colonel, ‘but some institutions develop human natur; others re—tard it.’

‘Jefferson Brick,’ he observed after a short silence, in commendation of his correspondent, ‘is one of the most remarkable men in our country, sir!’

This had passed almost in a whisper, for the distinguished gentleman alluded to sat on Martin’s other hand.

‘Pray, Mr Brick,’ said Martin, turning to him, and asking a question more for conversation’s sake than from any feeling of interest in its subject, ‘who is that;’ he was going to say ‘young’ but thought it prudent to eschew the word—‘that very short gentleman yonder, with the red nose?’

‘That is Pro—fessor Mullit, sir,’ replied Jefferson.

‘May I ask what he is professor of?’ asked Martin.

‘Of education, sir,’ said Jefferson Brick.

‘A sort of schoolmaster, possibly?’ Martin ventured to observe.

‘He is a man of fine moral elements, sir, and not commonly endowed,’ said the war correspondent. ‘He felt it necessary, at the last election for President, to repudiate and denounce his father, who voted on the wrong interest. He has since written some powerful pamphlets, under the signature of “Suturb,” or Brutus reversed. He is one of the most remarkable men in our country, sir.’

‘There seem to be plenty of ‘em,’ thought Martin, ‘at any rate.’

Pursuing his inquiries Martin found that there were no fewer than four majors present, two colonels, one general, and a captain, so that he could not help thinking how strongly officered the American militia must be; and wondering very much whether the officers commanded each other; or if they did not, where on earth the privates came from. There seemed to be no man there without a title; for those who had not attained to military honours were either doctors, professors, or reverends. Three very hard and disagreeable gentlemen were on missions from neighbouring States; one on monetary affairs, one on political, one on sectarian. Among the ladies, there were Mrs Pawkins, who was very straight, bony, and silent; and a wiry-faced old damsel, who held strong sentiments touching the rights of women, and had diffused the same in lectures; but the rest were strangely devoid of individual traits of character, insomuch that any one of them might have changed minds with the other, and nobody would have found it out. These, by the way, were the only members of the party who did not appear to be among the most remarkable people in the country.

Several of the gentlemen got up, one by one, and walked off as they swallowed their last morsel; pausing generally by the stove for a minute or so to refresh themselves at the brass spittoons. A few sedentary characters, however, remained at table full a quarter of an hour, and did not rise until the ladies rose, when all stood up.

‘Where are they going?’ asked Martin, in the ear of Mr Jefferson Brick.

‘To their bedrooms, sir.’

‘Is there no dessert, or other interval of conversation?’ asked Martin, who was disposed to enjoy himself after his long voyage.

‘We are a busy people here, sir, and have no time for that,’ was the reply.

So the ladies passed out in single file; Mr Jefferson Brick and such other married gentlemen as were left, acknowledging the departure of their other halves by a nod; and there was an end of THEM. Martin thought this an uncomfortable custom, but he kept his opinion to himself for the present, being anxious to hear, and inform himself by, the conversation of the busy gentlemen, who now lounged about the stove as if a great weight had been taken off their minds by the withdrawal of the other sex; and who made a plentiful use of the spittoons and their toothpicks.

It was rather barren of interest, to say the truth; and the greater part of it may be summed up in one word. Dollars. All their cares, hopes, joys, affections, virtues, and associations, seemed to be melted down into dollars. Whatever the chance contributions that fell into the slow cauldron of their talk, they made the gruel thick and slab with dollars. Men were weighed by their dollars, measures gauged by their dollars; life was auctioneered, appraised, put up, and knocked down for its dollars. The next respectable thing to dollars was any venture having their attainment for its end. The more of that worthless ballast, honour and fair-dealing, which any man cast overboard from the ship of his Good Name and Good Intent, the more ample stowage-room he had for dollars. Make commerce one huge lie and mighty theft. Deface the banner of the nation for an idle rag; pollute it star by star; and cut out stripe by stripe as from the arm of a degraded soldier. Do anything for dollars! What is a flag to THEM!

One who rides at all hazards of limb and life in the chase of a fox, will prefer to ride recklessly at most times. So it was with these gentlemen. He was the greatest patriot, in their eyes, who brawled the loudest, and who cared the least for decency. He was their champion who, in the brutal fury of his own pursuit, could cast no stigma upon them for the hot knavery of theirs. Thus, Martin learned in the five minutes’ straggling talk about the stove, that to carry pistols into legislative assemblies, and swords in sticks, and other such peaceful toys; to seize opponents by the throat, as dogs or rats might do; to bluster, bully, and overbear by personal assailment; were glowing deeds. Not thrusts and stabs at Freedom, striking far deeper into her House of Life than any sultan’s scimitar could reach; but rare incense on her altars, having a grateful scent in patriotic nostrils, and curling upward to the seventh heaven of Fame.

Once or twice, when there was a pause, Martin asked such questions as naturally occurred to him, being a stranger, about the national poets, the theatre, literature, and the arts. But the information which these gentlemen were in a condition to give him on such topics, did not extend beyond the effusions of such master-spirits of the time as Colonel Diver, Mr Jefferson Brick, and others; renowned, as it appeared, for excellence in the achievement of a peculiar style of broadside essay called ‘a screamer.’

‘We are a busy people, sir,’ said one of the captains, who was from the West, ‘and have no time for reading mere notions. We don’t mind ‘em if they come to us in newspapers along with almighty strong stuff of another sort, but darn your books.’

Here the general, who appeared to grow quite faint at the bare thought of reading anything which was neither mercantile nor political, and was not in a newspaper, inquired ‘if any gentleman would drink some?’ Most of the company, considering this a very choice and seasonable idea, lounged out, one by one, to the bar-room in the next block. Thence they probably went to their stores and counting-houses; thence to the bar-room again, to talk once more of dollars, and enlarge their minds with the perusal and discussion of screamers; and thence each man to snore in the bosom of his own family.

‘Which would seem,’ said Martin, pursuing the current of his own thoughts, ‘to be the principal recreation they enjoy in common.’ With that, he fell a-musing again on dollars, demagogues, and bar-rooms; debating within himself whether busy people of this class were really as busy as they claimed to be, or only had an inaptitude for social and domestic pleasure.

It was a difficult question to solve; and the mere fact of its being strongly presented to his mind by all that he had seen and heard, was not encouraging. He sat down at the deserted board, and becoming more and more despondent, as he thought of all the uncertainties and difficulties of his precarious situation, sighed heavily.

Now, there had been at the dinner-table a middle-aged man with a dark eye and a sunburnt face, who had attracted Martin’s attention by having something very engaging and honest in the expression of his features; but of whom he could learn nothing from either of his neighbours, who seemed to consider him quite beneath their notice. He had taken no part in the conversation round the stove, nor had he gone forth with the rest; and now, when he heard Martin sigh for the third or fourth time, he interposed with some casual remark, as if he desired, without obtruding himself upon a stranger’s notice, to engage him in cheerful conversation if he could. His motive was so obvious, and yet so delicately expressed, that Martin felt really grateful to him, and showed him so in the manner of his reply.

‘I will not ask you,’ said this gentleman with a smile, as he rose and moved towards him, ‘how you like my country, for I can quite anticipate your feeling on that point. But, as I am an American, and consequently bound to begin with a question, I’ll ask you how you like the colonel?’

‘You are so very frank,’ returned Martin, ‘that I have no hesitation in saying I don’t like him at all. Though I must add that I am beholden to him for his civility in bringing me here—and arranging for my stay, on pretty reasonable terms, by the way,’ he added, remembering that the colonel had whispered him to that effect, before going out.

‘Not much beholden,’ said the stranger drily. ‘The colonel occasionally boards packet-ships, I have heard, to glean the latest information for his journal; and he occasionally brings strangers to board here, I believe, with a view to the little percentage which attaches to those good offices; and which the hostess deducts from his weekly bill. I don’t offend you, I hope?’ he added, seeing that Martin reddened.

‘My dear sir,’ returned Martin, as they shook hands, ‘how is that possible! to tell you the truth, I—am—’

‘Yes?’ said the gentleman, sitting down beside him.

‘I am rather at a loss, since I must speak plainly,’ said Martin, getting the better of his hesitation, ‘to know how this colonel escapes being beaten.’

‘Well! He has been beaten once or twice,’ remarked the gentleman quietly. ‘He is one of a class of men, in whom our own Franklin, so long ago as ten years before the close of the last century, foresaw our danger and disgrace. Perhaps you don’t know that Franklin, in very severe terms, published his opinion that those who were slandered by such fellows as this colonel, having no sufficient remedy in the administration of this country’s laws or in the decent and right-minded feeling of its people, were justified in retorting on such public nuisances by means of a stout cudgel?’

‘I was not aware of that,’ said Martin, ‘but I am very glad to know it, and I think it worthy of his memory; especially’—here he hesitated again.

‘Go on,’ said the other, smiling as if he knew what stuck in Martin’s throat.

‘Especially,’ pursued Martin, ‘as I can already understand that it may have required great courage, even in his time, to write freely on any question which was not a party one in this very free country.’

‘Some courage, no doubt,’ returned his new friend. ‘Do you think it would require any to do so, now?’

‘Indeed I think it would; and not a little,’ said Martin.

‘You are right. So very right, that I believe no satirist could breathe this air. If another Juvenal or Swift could rise up among us to-morrow, he would be hunted down. If you have any knowledge of our literature, and can give me the name of any man, American born and bred, who has anatomized our follies as a people, and not as this or that party; and who has escaped the foulest and most brutal slander, the most inveterate hatred and intolerant pursuit; it will be a strange name in my ears, believe me. In some cases I could name to you, where a native writer has ventured on the most harmless and good-humoured illustrations of our vices or defects, it has been found necessary to announce, that in a second edition the passage has been expunged, or altered, or explained away, or patched into praise.’

‘And how has this been brought about?’ asked Martin, in dismay.

‘Think of what you have seen and heard to-day, beginning with the colonel,’ said his friend, ‘and ask yourself. How THEY came about, is another question. Heaven forbid that they should be samples of the intelligence and virtue of America, but they come uppermost, and in great numbers, and too often represent it. Will you walk?’

There was a cordial candour in his manner, and an engaging confidence that it would not be abused; a manly bearing on his own part, and a simple reliance on the manly faith of a stranger; which Martin had never seen before. He linked his arm readily in that of the American gentleman, and they walked out together.

It was perhaps to men like this, his new companion, that a traveller of honoured name, who trod those shores now nearly forty years ago, and woke upon that soil, as many have done since, to blots and stains upon its high pretensions, which in the brightness of his distant dreams were lost to view, appealed in these words—

‘Oh, but for such, Columbia’s days were done; Rank without ripeness, quickened without sun, Crude at the surface, rotten at the core, Her fruits would fall before her spring were o’er!’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

MARTIN ENLARGES HIS CIRCLE OF AQUAINTANCE; INCREASES HIS STOCK OF WISDOM; AND HAS AN EXCELLENT OPPORTUNITY OF COMPARING HIS OWN EXPERIENCES WITH THOSE OF LUMMY NED OF THE LIGHT SALISBURY, AS RELATED BY HIS FRIEND MR WILLIAM SIMMONS

It was characteristic of Martin, that all this while he had either forgotten Mark Tapley as completely as if there had been no such person in existence, or, if for a moment the figure of that gentleman rose before his mental vision, had dismissed it as something by no means of a pressing nature, which might be attended to by-and-bye, and could wait his perfect leisure. But, being now in the streets again, it occurred to him as just coming within the bare limits of possibility that Mr Tapley might, in course of time, grow tired of waiting on the threshold of the Rowdy Journal Office, so he intimated to his new friend, that if they could conveniently walk in that direction, he would be glad to get this piece of business off his mind.

‘And speaking of business,’ said Martin, ‘may I ask, in order that I may not be behind-hand with questions either, whether your occupation holds you to this city, or like myself, you are a visitor here?’

‘A visitor,’ replied his friend. ‘I was “raised” in the State of Massachusetts, and reside there still. My home is in a quiet country town. I am not often in these busy places; and my inclination to visit them does not increase with our better acquaintance, I assure you.’

‘You have been abroad?’ asked Martin.

‘Oh yes.’

‘And, like most people who travel, have become more than ever attached to your home and native country,’ said Martin, eyeing him curiously.

‘To my home—yes,’ rejoined his friend. ‘To my native country AS my home—yes, also.’

‘You imply some reservation,’ said Martin.

‘Well,’ returned his new friend, ‘if you ask me whether I came back here with a greater relish for my country’s faults; with a greater fondness for those who claim (at the rate of so many dollars a day) to be her friends; with a cooler indifference to the growth of principles among us in respect of public matters and of private dealings between man and man, the advocacy of which, beyond the foul atmosphere of a criminal trial, would disgrace your own old Bailey lawyers; why, then I answer plainly, No.’

‘Oh!’ said Martin; in so exactly the same key as his friend’s No, that it sounded like an echo.

‘If you ask me,’ his companion pursued, ‘whether I came back here better satisfied with a state of things which broadly divides society into two classes—whereof one, the great mass, asserts a spurious independence, most miserably dependent for its mean existence on the disregard of humanizing conventionalities of manner and social custom, so that the coarser a man is, the more distinctly it shall appeal to his taste; while the other, disgusted with the low standard thus set up and made adaptable to everything, takes refuge among the graces and refinements it can bring to bear on private life, and leaves the public weal to such fortune as may betide it in the press and uproar of a general scramble—then again I answer, No.’

And again Martin said ‘Oh!’ in the same odd way as before, being anxious and disconcerted; not so much, to say the truth, on public grounds, as with reference to the fading prospects of domestic architecture.

‘In a word,’ resumed the other, ‘I do not find and cannot believe and therefore will not allow, that we are a model of wisdom, and an example to the world, and the perfection of human reason, and a great deal more to the same purpose, which you may hear any hour in the day; simply because we began our political life with two inestimable advantages.’

‘What were they?’ asked Martin.

‘One, that our history commenced at so late a period as to escape the ages of bloodshed and cruelty through which other nations have passed; and so had all the light of their probation, and none of its darkness. The other, that we have a vast territory, and not—as yet—too many people on it. These facts considered, we have done little enough, I think.’

‘Education?’ suggested Martin, faintly.

‘Pretty well on that head,’ said the other, shrugging his shoulders, ‘still no mighty matter to boast of; for old countries, and despotic countries too, have done as much, if not more, and made less noise about it. We shine out brightly in comparison with England, certainly; but hers is a very extreme case. You complimented me on my frankness, you know,’ he added, laughing.

‘Oh! I am not at all astonished at your speaking thus openly when my country is in question,’ returned Martin. ‘It is your plain-speaking in reference to your own that surprises me.’

‘You will not find it a scarce quality here, I assure you, saving among the Colonel Divers, and Jefferson Bricks, and Major Pawkinses; though the best of us are something like the man in Goldsmith’s comedy, who wouldn’t suffer anybody but himself to abuse his master. Come!’ he added. ‘Let us talk of something else. You have come here on some design of improving your fortune, I dare say; and I should grieve to put you out of heart. I am some years older than you, besides; and may, on a few trivial points, advise you, perhaps.’

There was not the least curiosity or impertinence in the manner of this offer, which was open-hearted, unaffected, and good-natured. As it was next to impossible that he should not have his confidence awakened by a deportment so prepossessing and kind, Martin plainly stated what had brought him into those parts, and even made the very difficult avowal that he was poor. He did not say how poor, it must be admitted, rather throwing off the declaration with an air which might have implied that he had money enough for six months, instead of as many weeks; but poor he said he was, and grateful he said he would be, for any counsel that his friend would give him.

It would not have been very difficult for any one to see; but it was particularly easy for Martin, whose perceptions were sharpened by his circumstances, to discern; that the stranger’s face grew infinitely longer as the domestic-architecture project was developed. Nor, although he made a great effort to be as encouraging as possible, could he prevent his head from shaking once involuntarily, as if it said in the vulgar tongue, upon its own account, ‘No go!’ But he spoke in a cheerful tone, and said, that although there was no such opening as Martin wished, in that city, he would make it matter of immediate consideration and inquiry where one was most likely to exist; and then he made Martin acquainted with his name, which was Bevan; and with his profession, which was physic, though he seldom or never practiced; and with other circumstances connected with himself and family, which fully occupied the time, until they reached the Rowdy Journal Office.

Mr Tapley appeared to be taking his ease on the landing of the first floor; for sounds as of some gentleman established in that region whistling ‘Rule Britannia’ with all his might and main, greeted their ears before they reached the house. On ascending to the spot from whence this music proceeded, they found him recumbent in the midst of a fortification of luggage, apparently performing his national anthem for the gratification of a grey-haired black man, who sat on one of the outworks (a portmanteau), staring intently at Mark, while Mark, with his head reclining on his hand, returned the compliment in a thoughtful manner, and whistled all the time. He seemed to have recently dined, for his knife, a casebottle, and certain broken meats in a handkerchief, lay near at hand. He had employed a portion of his leisure in the decoration of the Rowdy Journal door, whereon his own initials now appeared in letters nearly half a foot long, together with the day of the month in smaller type; the whole surrounded by an ornamental border, and looking very fresh and bold.

‘I was a’most afraid you was lost, sir!’ cried Mark, rising, and stopping the tune at that point where Britons generally are supposed to declare (when it is whistled) that they never, never, never—

‘Nothing gone wrong, I hope, sir?’

‘No, Mark. Where’s your friend?’

‘The mad woman, sir?’ said Mr Tapley. ‘Oh! she’s all right, sir.’

‘Did she find her husband?’

‘Yes, sir. Leastways she’s found his remains,’ said Mark, correcting himself.

‘The man’s not dead, I hope?’

‘Not altogether dead, sir,’ returned Mark; ‘but he’s had more fevers and agues than is quite reconcilable with being alive. When she didn’t see him a-waiting for her, I thought she’d have died herself, I did!’

‘Was he not here, then?’

‘HE wasn’t here. There was a feeble old shadow come a-creeping down at last, as much like his substance when she know’d him, as your shadow when it’s drawn out to its very finest and longest by the sun, is like you. But it was his remains, there’s no doubt about that. She took on with joy, poor thing, as much as if it had been all of him!’

‘Had he bought land?’ asked Mr Bevan.

‘Ah! He’d bought land,’ said Mark, shaking his head, ‘and paid for it too. Every sort of nateral advantage was connected with it, the agents said; and there certainly was ONE, quite unlimited. No end to the water!’

‘It’s a thing he couldn’t have done without, I suppose,’ observed Martin, peevishly.

‘Certainly not, sir. There it was, any way; always turned on, and no water-rate. Independent of three or four slimy old rivers close by, it varied on the farm from four to six foot deep in the dry season. He couldn’t say how deep it was in the rainy time, for he never had anything long enough to sound it with.’

‘Is this true?’ asked Martin of his companion.

‘Extremely probable,’ he answered. ‘Some Mississippi or Missouri lot, I dare say.’

‘However,’ pursued Mark, ‘he came from I-don’t-know-where-and-all, down to New York here, to meet his wife and children; and they started off again in a steamboat this blessed afternoon, as happy to be along with each other as if they were going to Heaven. I should think they was, pretty straight, if I may judge from the poor man’s looks.’

‘And may I ask,’ said Martin, glancing, but not with any displeasure, from Mark to the negro, ‘who this gentleman is? Another friend of yours?’

‘Why sir,’ returned Mark, taking him aside, and speaking confidentially in his ear, ‘he’s a man of colour, sir!’

‘Do you take me for a blind man,’ asked Martin, somewhat impatiently, ‘that you think it necessary to tell me that, when his face is the blackest that ever was seen?’

‘No, no; when I say a man of colour,’ returned Mark, ‘I mean that he’s been one of them as there’s picters of in the shops. A man and a brother, you know, sir,’ said Mr Tapley, favouring his master with a significant indication of the figure so often represented in tracts and cheap prints.

‘A slave!’ cried Martin, in a whisper.

‘Ah!’ said Mark in the same tone. ‘Nothing else. A slave. Why, when that there man was young—don’t look at him while I’m a-telling it—he was shot in the leg; gashed in the arm; scored in his live limbs, like crimped fish; beaten out of shape; had his neck galled with an iron collar, and wore iron rings upon his wrists and ankles. The marks are on him to this day. When I was having my dinner just now, he stripped off his coat, and took away my appetite.’

‘Is THIS true?’ asked Martin of his friend, who stood beside them.

‘I have no reason to doubt it,’ he answered, shaking his head ‘It very often is.’

‘Bless you,’ said Mark, ‘I know it is, from hearing his whole story. That master died; so did his second master from having his head cut open with a hatchet by another slave, who, when he’d done it, went and drowned himself; then he got a better one; in years and years he saved up a little money, and bought his freedom, which he got pretty cheap at last, on account of his strength being nearly gone, and he being ill. Then he come here. And now he’s a-saving up to treat himself, afore he dies, to one small purchase—it’s nothing to speak of. Only his own daughter; that’s all!’ cried Mr Tapley, becoming excited. ‘Liberty for ever! Hurrah! Hail, Columbia!’

‘Hush!’ cried Martin, clapping his hand upon his mouth; ‘and don’t be an idiot. What is he doing here?’

‘Waiting to take our luggage off upon a truck,’ said Mark. ‘He’d have come for it by-and-bye, but I engaged him for a very reasonable charge (out of my own pocket) to sit along with me and make me jolly; and I am jolly; and if I was rich enough to contract with him to wait upon me once a day, to be looked at, I’d never be anything else.’

The fact may cause a solemn impeachment of Mark’s veracity, but it must be admitted nevertheless, that there was that in his face and manner at the moment, which militated strongly against this emphatic declaration of his state of mind.

‘Lord love you, sir,’ he added, ‘they’re so fond of Liberty in this part of the globe, that they buy her and sell her and carry her to market with ‘em. They’ve such a passion for Liberty, that they can’t help taking liberties with her. That’s what it’s owing to.’

‘Very well,’ said Martin, wishing to change the theme. ‘Having come to that conclusion, Mark, perhaps you’ll attend to me. The place to which the luggage is to go is printed on this card. Mrs Pawkins’s Boarding House.’

‘Mrs Pawkins’s boarding-house,’ repeated Mark. ‘Now, Cicero.’

‘Is that his name?’ asked Martin

‘That’s his name, sir,’ rejoined Mark. And the negro grinning assent from under a leathern portmanteau, than which his own face was many shades deeper, hobbled downstairs with his portion of their worldly goods; Mark Tapley having already gone before with his share.

Martin and his friend followed them to the door below, and were about to pursue their walk, when the latter stopped, and asked, with some hesitation, whether that young man was to be trusted?

‘Mark! oh certainly! with anything.’

‘You don’t understand me—I think he had better go with us. He is an honest fellow, and speaks his mind so very plainly.’

‘Why, the fact is,’ said Martin, smiling, ‘that being unaccustomed to a free republic, he is used to do so.’

‘I think he had better go with us,’ returned the other. ‘He may get into some trouble otherwise. This is not a slave State; but I am ashamed to say that a spirit of Tolerance is not so common anywhere in these latitudes as the form. We are not remarkable for behaving very temperately to each other when we differ; but to strangers! no, I really think he had better go with us.’

Martin called to him immediately to be of their party; so Cicero and the truck went one way, and they three went another.

They walked about the city for two or three hours; seeing it from the best points of view, and pausing in the principal streets, and before such public buildings as Mr Bevan pointed out. Night then coming on apace, Martin proposed that they should adjourn to Mrs Pawkins’s establishment for coffee; but in this he was overruled by his new acquaintance, who seemed to have set his heart on carrying him, though it were only for an hour, to the house of a friend of his who lived hard by. Feeling (however disinclined he was, being weary) that it would be in bad taste, and not very gracious, to object that he was unintroduced, when this open-hearted gentleman was so ready to be his sponsor, Martin—for once in his life, at all events—sacrificed his own will and pleasure to the wishes of another, and consented with a fair grace. So travelling had done him that much good, already.

Mr Bevan knocked at the door of a very neat house of moderate size, from the parlour windows of which, lights were shining brightly into the now dark street. It was quickly opened by a man with such a thoroughly Irish face, that it seemed as if he ought, as a matter of right and principle, to be in rags, and could have no sort of business to be looking cheerfully at anybody out of a whole suit of clothes.

Commending Mark to the care of this phenomenon—for such he may be said to have been in Martin’s eyes—Mr Bevan led the way into the room which had shed its cheerfulness upon the street, to whose occupants he introduced Mr Chuzzlewit as a gentleman from England, whose acquaintance he had recently had the pleasure to make. They gave him welcome in all courtesy and politeness; and in less than five minutes’ time he found himself sitting very much at his ease by the fireside, and becoming vastly well acquainted with the whole family.

There were two young ladies—one eighteen; the other twenty—both very slender, but very pretty; their mother, who looked, as Martin thought much older and more faded than she ought to have looked; and their grandmother, a little sharp-eyed, quick old woman, who seemed to have got past that stage, and to have come all right again. Besides these, there were the young ladies’ father, and the young ladies’ brother; the first engaged in mercantile affairs; the second, a student at college; both, in a certain cordiality of manner, like his own friend, and not unlike him in face. Which was no great wonder, for it soon appeared that he was their near relation. Martin could not help tracing the family pedigree from the two young ladies, because they were foremost in his thoughts; not only from being, as aforesaid, very pretty, but by reason of their wearing miraculously small shoes, and the thinnest possible silk stockings; the which their rocking-chairs developed to a distracting extent.

There is no doubt that it was a monstrous comfortable circumstance to be sitting in a snug, well-furnished room, warmed by a cheerful fire, and full of various pleasant decorations, including four small shoes, and the like amount of silk stockings, and—yes, why not?—the feet and legs therein enshrined. And there is no doubt that Martin was monstrous well-disposed to regard his position in that light, after his recent experience of the Screw, and of Mrs Pawkins’s boarding-house. The consequence was that he made himself very agreeable indeed; and by the time the tea and coffee arrived (with sweet preserves, and cunning tea-cakes in its train), was in a highly genial state, and much esteemed by the whole family.

Another delightful circumstance turned up before the first cup of tea was drunk. The whole family had been in England. There was a pleasant thing! But Martin was not quite so glad of this, when he found that they knew all the great dukes, lords, viscounts, marquesses, duchesses, knights, and baronets, quite affectionately, and were beyond everything interested in the least particular concerning them. However, when they asked, after the wearer of this or that coronet, and said, ‘Was he quite well?’ Martin answered, ‘Yes, oh yes. Never better;’ and when they said, ‘his lordship’s mother, the duchess, was she much changed?’ Martin said, ‘Oh dear no, they would know her anywhere, if they saw her to-morrow;’ and so got on pretty well. In like manner when the young ladies questioned him touching the Gold Fish in that Grecian fountain in such and such a nobleman’s conservatory, and whether there were as many as there used to be, he gravely reported, after mature consideration, that there must be at least twice as many; and as to the exotics, ‘Oh! well! it was of no use talking about THEM; they must be seen to be believed;’ which improved state of circumstances reminded the family of the splendour of that brilliant festival (comprehending the whole British Peerage and Court Calendar) to which they were specially invited, and which indeed had been partly given in their honour; and recollections of what Mr Norris the father had said to the marquess, and of what Mrs Norris the mother had said to the marchioness, and of what the marquess and marchioness had both said, when they said that upon their words and honours they wished Mr Norris the father and Mrs Norris the mother, and the Misses Norris the daughters, and Mr Norris Junior, the son, would only take up their permanent residence in England, and give them the pleasure of their everlasting friendship, occupied a very considerable time.

Martin thought it rather stange, and in some sort inconsistent, that during the whole of these narrations, and in the very meridian of their enjoyment thereof, both Mr Norris the father, and Mr Norris Junior, the son (who corresponded, every post, with four members of the English Peerage), enlarged upon the inestimable advantage of having no such arbitrary distinctions in that enlightened land, where there were no noblemen but nature’s noblemen, and where all society was based on one broad level of brotherly love and natural equality. Indeed, Mr Norris the father gradually expanding into an oration on this swelling theme, was becoming tedious, when Mr Bevan diverted his thoughts by happening to make some causal inquiry relative to the occupier of the next house; in reply to which, this same Mr Norris the father observed, that ‘that person entertained religious opinions of which he couldn’t approve; and therefore he hadn’t the honour of knowing the gentleman.’ Mrs Norris the mother added another reason of her own, the same in effect, but varying in words; to wit, that she believed the people were well enough in their way, but they were not genteel.

Another little trait came out, which impressed itself on Martin forcibly. Mr Bevan told them about Mark and the negro, and then it appeared that all the Norrises were abolitionists. It was a great relief to hear this, and Martin was so much encouraged on finding himself in such company, that he expressed his sympathy with the oppressed and wretched blacks. Now, one of the young ladies—the prettiest and most delicate—was mightily amused at the earnestness with which he spoke; and on his craving leave to ask her why, was quite unable for a time to speak for laughing. As soon however as she could, she told him that the negroes were such a funny people, so excessively ludicrous in their manners and appearance, that it was wholly impossible for those who knew them well, to associate any serious ideas with such a very absurd part of the creation. Mr Norris the father, and Mrs Norris the mother, and Miss Norris the sister, and Mr Norris Junior the brother, and even Mrs Norris Senior the grandmother, were all of this opinion, and laid it down as an absolute matter of fact—as if there were nothing in suffering and slavery, grim enough to cast a solemn air on any human animal; though it were as ridiculous, physically, as the most grotesque of apes, or morally, as the mildest Nimrod among tuft-hunting republicans!

‘In short,’ said Mr Norris the father, settling the question comfortably, ‘there is a natural antipathy between the races.’

‘Extending,’ said Martin’s friend, in a low voice, ‘to the cruellest of tortures, and the bargain and sale of unborn generations.’

Mr Norris the son said nothing, but he made a wry face, and dusted his fingers as Hamlet might after getting rid of Yorick’s skull; just as though he had that moment touched a negro, and some of the black had come off upon his hands.

In order that their talk might fall again into its former pleasant channel, Martin dropped the subject, with a shrewd suspicion that it would be a dangerous theme to revive under the best of circumstances; and again addressed himself to the young ladies, who were very gorgeously attired in very beautiful colours, and had every article of dress on the same extensive scale as the little shoes and the thin silk stockings. This suggested to him that they were great proficients in the French fashions, which soon turned out to be the case, for though their information appeared to be none of the newest, it was very extensive; and the eldest sister in particular, who was distinguished by a talent for metaphysics, the laws of hydraulic pressure, and the rights of human kind, had a novel way of combining these acquirements and bringing them to bear on any subject from Millinery to the Millennium, both inclusive, which was at once improving and remarkable; so much so, in short, that it was usually observed to reduce foreigners to a state of temporary insanity in five minutes.

Martin felt his reason going; and as a means of saving himself, besought the other sister (seeing a piano in the room) to sing. With this request she willingly complied; and a bravura concert, solely sustained by the Misses Noriss, presently began. They sang in all languages—except their own. German, French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, Swiss; but nothing native; nothing so low as native. For, in this respect, languages are like many other travellers—ordinary and commonplace enough at home, but ‘specially genteel abroad.

There is little doubt that in course of time the Misses Norris would have come to Hebrew, if they had not been interrupted by an announcement from the Irishman, who, flinging open the door, cried in a loud voice—

‘Jiniral Fladdock!’

‘My!’ cried the sisters, desisting suddenly. ‘The general come back!’

As they made the exclamation, the general, attired in full uniform for a ball, came darting in with such precipitancy that, hitching his boot in the carpet, and getting his sword between his legs, he came down headlong, and presented a curious little bald place on the crown of his head to the eyes of the astonished company. Nor was this the worst of it; for being rather corpulent and very tight, the general being down, could not get up again, but lay there writhing and doing such things with his boots, as there is no other instance of in military history.

Of course there was an immediate rush to his assistance; and the general was promptly raised. But his uniform was so fearfully and wonderfully made, that he came up stiff and without a bend in him like a dead Clown, and had no command whatever of himself until he was put quite flat upon the soles of his feet, when he became animated as by a miracle, and moving edgewise that he might go in a narrower compass and be in less danger of fraying the gold lace on his epaulettes by brushing them against anything, advanced with a smiling visage to salute the lady of the house.

To be sure, it would have been impossible for the family to testify purer delight and joy than at this unlooked-for appearance of General Fladdock! The general was as warmly received as if New York had been in a state of siege and no other general was to be got for love or money. He shook hands with the Norrises three times all round, and then reviewed them from a little distance as a brave commander might, with his ample cloak drawn forward over the right shoulder and thrown back upon the left side to reveal his manly breast.

‘And do I then,’ cried the general, ‘once again behold the choicest spirits of my country!’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Norris the father. ‘Here we are, general.’

Then all the Norrises pressed round the general, inquiring how and where he had been since the date of his letter, and how he had enjoyed himself in foreign parts, and particularly and above all, to what extent he had become acquainted with the great dukes, lords, viscounts, marquesses, duchesses, knights, and baronets, in whom the people of those benighted countries had delight.

‘Well, then, don’t ask me,’ said the general, holding up his hand. ‘I was among ‘em all the time, and have got public journals in my trunk with my name printed’—he lowered his voice and was very impressive here—‘among the fashionable news. But, oh, the conventionalities of that a-mazing Europe!’

‘Ah!’ cried Mr Norris the father, giving his head a melancholy shake, and looking towards Martin as though he would say, ‘I can’t deny it, sir. I would if I could.’

‘The limited diffusion of a moral sense in that country!’ exclaimed the general. ‘The absence of a moral dignity in man!’

‘Ah!’ sighed all the Norrises, quite overwhelmed with despondency.

‘I couldn’t have realised it,’ pursued the general, ‘without being located on the spot. Norris, your imagination is the imagination of a strong man, but YOU couldn’t have realised it, without being located on the spot!’

‘Never,’ said Mr Norris.

‘The ex-clusiveness, the pride, the form, the ceremony,’ exclaimed the general, emphasizing the article more vigorously at every repetition. ‘The artificial barriers set up between man and man; the division of the human race into court cards and plain cards, of every denomination—into clubs, diamonds, spades—anything but heart!’

‘Ah!’ cried the whole family. ‘Too true, general!’

‘But stay!’ cried Mr Norris the father, taking him by the arm. ‘Surely you crossed in the Screw, general?’

‘Well! so I did,’ was the reply.

‘Possible!’ cried the young ladies. ‘Only think!’

The general seemed at a loss to understand why his having come home in the Screw should occasion such a sensation, nor did he seem at all clearer on the subject when Mr Norris, introducing him to Martin, said:

‘A fellow-passenger of yours, I think?’

‘Of mine?’ exclaimed the general; ‘No!’

He had never seen Martin, but Martin had seen him, and recognized him, now that they stood face to face, as the gentleman who had stuck his hands in his pockets towards the end of the voyage, and walked the deck with his nostrils dilated.

Everybody looked at Martin. There was no help for it. The truth must out.

‘I came over in the same ship as the general,’ said Martin, ‘but not in the same cabin. It being necessary for me to observe strict economy, I took my passage in the steerage.’

If the general had been carried up bodily to a loaded cannon, and required to let it off that moment, he could not have been in a state of greater consternation than when he heard these words. He, Fladdock—Fladdock in full militia uniform, Fladdock the General, Fladdock, the caressed of foreign noblemen—expected to know a fellow who had come over in the steerage of line-of-packet ship, at the cost of four pound ten! And meeting that fellow in the very sanctuary of New York fashion, and nestling in the bosom of the New York aristocracy! He almost laid his hand upon his sword.

A death-like stillness fell upon the Norisses. If this story should get wind, their country relation had, by his imprudence, for ever disgraced them. They were the bright particular stars of an exalted New York sphere. There were other fashionable spheres above them, and other fashionable spheres below, and none of the stars in any one of these spheres had anything to say to the stars in any other of these spheres. But, through all the spheres it would go forth that the Norrises, deceived by gentlemanly manners and appearances, had, falling from their high estate, ‘received’ a dollarless and unknown man. O guardian eagle of the pure Republic, had they lived for this!

‘You will allow me,’ said Martin, after a terrible silence, ‘to take my leave. I feel that I am the cause of at least as much embarrassment here, as I have brought upon myself. But I am bound, before I go, to exonerate this gentleman, who, in introducing me to such society, was quite ignorant of my unworthiness, I assure you.’

With that he made his bow to the Norrises, and walked out like a man of snow; very cool externally, but pretty hot within.

‘Come, come,’ said Mr Norris the father, looking with a pale face on the assembled circle as Martin closed the door, ‘the young man has this night beheld a refinement of social manner, and an easy magnificence of social decoration, to which he is a stranger in his own country. Let us hope it may awake a moral sense within him.’

If that peculiarly transatlantic article, a moral sense—for, if native statesmen, orators, and pamphleteers, are to be believed, America quite monopolises the commodity—if that peculiarly transatlantic article be supposed to include a benevolent love of all mankind, certainly Martin’s would have borne, just then, a deal of waking. As he strode along the street, with Mark at his heels, his immoral sense was in active operation; prompting him to the utterance of some rather sanguinary remarks, which it was well for his own credit that nobody overheard. He had so far cooled down, however, that he had begun to laugh at the recollection of these incidents, when he heard another step behind him, and turning round encountered his friend Bevan, quite out of breath.

He drew his arm through Martin’s, and entreating him to walk slowly, was silent for some minutes. At length he said:

‘I hope you exonerate me in another sense?’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Martin.

‘I hope you acquit me of intending or foreseeing the termination of our visit. But I scarcely need ask you that.’

‘Scarcely indeed,’ said Martin. ‘I am the more beholden to you for your kindness, when I find what kind of stuff the good citizens here are made of.’

‘I reckon,’ his friend returned, ‘that they are made of pretty much the same stuff as other folks, if they would but own it, and not set up on false pretences.’

‘In good faith, that’s true,’ said Martin.

‘I dare say,’ resumed his friend, ‘you might have such a scene as that in an English comedy, and not detect any gross improbability or anomaly in the matter of it?’

‘Yes, indeed!’

‘Doubtless it is more ridiculous here than anywhere else,’ said his companion; ‘but our professions are to blame for that. So far as I myself am concerned, I may add that I was perfectly aware from the first that you came over in the steerage, for I had seen the list of passengers, and knew it did not comprise your name.’

‘I feel more obliged to you than before,’ said Martin.

‘Norris is a very good fellow in his way,’ observed Mr Bevan.

‘Is he?’ said Martin drily.

‘Oh yes! there are a hundred good points about him. If you or anybody else addressed him as another order of being, and sued to him IN FORMA PAUPERIS, he would be all kindness and consideration.’

‘I needn’t have travelled three thousand miles from home to find such a character as THAT,’ said Martin. Neither he nor his friend said anything more on the way back; each appearing to find sufficient occupation in his own thoughts.

The tea, or the supper, or whatever else they called the evening meal, was over when they reached the Major’s; but the cloth, ornamented with a few additional smears and stains, was still upon the table. At one end of the board Mrs Jefferson Brick and two other ladies were drinking tea; out of the ordinary course, evidently, for they were bonneted and shawled, and seemed to have just come home. By the light of three flaring candles of different lengths, in as many candlesticks of different patterns, the room showed to almost as little advantage as in broad day.

These ladies were all three talking together in a very loud tone when Martin and his friend entered; but seeing those gentlemen, they stopped directly, and became excessively genteel, not to say frosty. As they went on to exchange some few remarks in whispers, the very water in the teapot might have fallen twenty degrees in temperature beneath their chilling coldness.

‘Have you been to meeting, Mrs Brick?’ asked Martin’s friend, with something of a roguish twinkle in his eye.

‘To lecture, sir.’

‘I beg your pardon. I forgot. You don’t go to meeting, I think?’

Here the lady on the right of Mrs Brick gave a pious cough as much as to say ‘I do!’—as, indeed, she did nearly every night in the week.

‘A good discourse, ma’am?’ asked Mr Bevan, addressing this lady.

The lady raised her eyes in a pious manner, and answered ‘Yes.’ She had been much comforted by some good, strong, peppery doctrine, which satisfactorily disposed of all her friends and acquaintances, and quite settled their business. Her bonnet, too, had far outshone every bonnet in the congregation; so she was tranquil on all accounts.

‘What course of lectures are you attending now, ma’am?’ said Martin’s friend, turning again to Mrs Brick.

‘The Philosophy of the Soul, on Wednesdays.’

‘On Mondays?’

‘The Philosophy of Crime.’

‘On Fridays?’

‘The Philosophy of Vegetables.’

‘You have forgotten Thursdays; the Philosophy of Government, my dear,’ observed the third lady.

‘No,’ said Mrs Brick. ‘That’s Tuesdays.’

‘So it is!’ cried the lady. ‘The Philosophy of Matter on Thursdays, of course.’

‘You see, Mr Chuzzlewit, our ladies are fully employed,’ said Bevan.

‘Indeed you have reason to say so,’ answered Martin. ‘Between these very grave pursuits abroad, and family duties at home, their time must be pretty well engrossed.’

Martin stopped here, for he saw that the ladies regarded him with no very great favour, though what he had done to deserve the disdainful expression which appeared in their faces he was at a loss to divine. But on their going upstairs to their bedrooms—which they very soon did—Mr Bevan informed him that domestic drudgery was far beneath the exalted range of these Philosophers, and that the chances were a hundred to one that not one of the three could perform the easiest woman’s work for herself, or make the simplest article of dress for any of her children.

‘Though whether they might not be better employed with such blunt instruments as knitting-needles than with these edge-tools,’ he said, ‘is another question; but I can answer for one thing—they don’t often cut themselves. Devotions and lectures are our balls and concerts. They go to these places of resort, as an escape from monotony; look at each other’s clothes; and come home again.’

‘When you say “home,” do you mean a house like this?’

‘Very often. But I see you are tired to death, and will wish you good night. We will discuss your projects in the morning. You cannot but feel already that it is useless staying here, with any hope of advancing them. You will have to go further.’

‘And to fare worse?’ said Martin, pursuing the old adage.

‘Well, I hope not. But sufficient for the day, you know—good night’

They shook hands heartily and separated. As soon as Martin was left alone, the excitement of novelty and change which had sustained him through all the fatigues of the day, departed; and he felt so thoroughly dejected and worn out, that he even lacked the energy to crawl upstairs to bed.

In twelve or fifteen hours, how great a change had fallen on his hopes and sanguine plans! New and strange as he was to the ground on which he stood, and to the air he breathed, he could not—recalling all that he had crowded into that one day—but entertain a strong misgiving that his enterprise was doomed. Rash and ill-considered as it had often looked on shipboard, but had never seemed on shore, it wore a dismal aspect, now, that frightened him. Whatever thoughts he called up to his aid, they came upon him in depressing and discouraging shapes, and gave him no relief. Even the diamonds on his finger sparkled with the brightness of tears, and had no ray of hope in all their brilliant lustre.

He continued to sit in gloomy rumination by the stove, unmindful of the boarders who dropped in one by one from their stores and counting-houses, or the neighbouring bar-rooms, and, after taking long pulls from a great white waterjug upon the sideboard, and lingering with a kind of hideous fascination near the brass spittoons, lounged heavily to bed; until at length Mark Tapley came and shook him by the arm, supposing him asleep.

‘Mark!’ he cried, starting.

‘All right, sir,’ said that cheerful follower, snuffing with his fingers the candle he bore. ‘It ain’t a very large bed, your’n, sir; and a man as wasn’t thirsty might drink, afore breakfast, all the water you’ve got to wash in, and afterwards eat the towel. But you’ll sleep without rocking to-night, sir.’

‘I feel as if the house were on the sea’ said Martin, staggering when he rose; ‘and am utterly wretched.’

‘I’m as jolly as a sandboy, myself, sir,’ said Mark. ‘But, Lord, I have reason to be! I ought to have been born here; that’s my opinion. Take care how you go’—for they were now ascending the stairs. ‘You recollect the gentleman aboard the Screw as had the very small trunk, sir?’

‘The valise? Yes.’

‘Well, sir, there’s been a delivery of clean clothes from the wash to-night, and they’re put outside the bedroom doors here. If you take notice as we go up, what a very few shirts there are, and what a many fronts, you’ll penetrate the mystery of his packing.’

But Martin was too weary and despondent to take heed of anything, so had no interest in this discovery. Mr Tapley, nothing dashed by his indifference, conducted him to the top of the house, and into the bed-chamber prepared for his reception; which was a very little narrow room, with half a window in it; a bedstead like a chest without a lid; two chairs; a piece of carpet, such as shoes are commonly tried upon at a ready-made establishment in England; a little looking-glass nailed against the wall; and a washing-table, with a jug and ewer, that might have been mistaken for a milk-pot and slop-basin.

‘I suppose they polish themselves with a dry cloth in this country,’ said Mark. ‘They’ve certainly got a touch of the ‘phoby, sir.’

‘I wish you would pull off my boots for me,’ said Martin, dropping into one of the chairs ‘I am quite knocked up—dead beat, Mark.’

‘You won’t say that to-morrow morning, sir,’ returned Mr Tapley; ‘nor even to-night, sir, when you’ve made a trial of this.’ With which he produced a very large tumbler, piled up to the brim with little blocks of clear transparent ice, through which one or two thin slices of lemon, and a golden liquid of delicious appearance, appealed from the still depths below, to the loving eye of the spectator.

‘What do you call this?’ said Martin.

But Mr Tapley made no answer; merely plunging a reed into the mixture—which caused a pleasant commotion among the pieces of ice—and signifying by an expressive gesture that it was to be pumped up through that agency by the enraptured drinker.

Martin took the glass with an astonished look; applied his lips to the reed; and cast up his eyes once in ecstasy. He paused no more until the goblet was drained to the last drop.

‘There, sir!’ said Mark, taking it from him with a triumphant face; ‘if ever you should happen to be dead beat again, when I ain’t in the way, all you’ve got to do is to ask the nearest man to go and fetch a cobbler.’

‘To go and fetch a cobbler?’ repeated Martin.

‘This wonderful invention, sir,’ said Mark, tenderly patting the empty glass, ‘is called a cobbler. Sherry cobbler when you name it long; cobbler, when you name it short. Now you’re equal to having your boots took off, and are, in every particular worth mentioning, another man.’

Having delivered himself of this solemn preface, he brought the bootjack.

‘Mind! I am not going to relapse, Mark,’ said Martin; ‘but, good Heaven, if we should be left in some wild part of this country without goods or money!’

‘Well, sir!’ replied the imperturbable Tapley; ‘from what we’ve seen already, I don’t know whether, under those circumstances, we shouldn’t do better in the wild parts than in the tame ones.’

‘Oh, Tom Pinch, Tom Pinch!’ said Martin, in a thoughtful tone; ‘what would I give to be again beside you, and able to hear your voice, though it were even in the old bedroom at Pecksniff’s!’

‘Oh, Dragon, Dragon!’ echoed Mark, cheerfully, ‘if there warn’t any water between you and me, and nothing faint-hearted-like in going back, I don’t know that I mightn’t say the same. But here am I, Dragon, in New York, America; and there are you in Wiltshire, Europe; and there’s a fortune to make, Dragon, and a beautiful young lady to make it for; and whenever you go to see the Monument, Dragon, you mustn’t give in on the doorsteps, or you’ll never get up to the top!’

‘Wisely said, Mark,’ cried Martin. ‘We must look forward.’

‘In all the story-books as ever I read, sir, the people as looked backward was turned into stones,’ replied Mark; ‘and my opinion always was, that they brought it on themselves, and it served ‘em right. I wish you good night, sir, and pleasant dreams!’

‘They must be of home, then,’ said Martin, as he lay down in bed.

‘So I say, too,’ whispered Mark Tapley, when he was out of hearing and in his own room; ‘for if there don’t come a time afore we’re well out of this, when there’ll be a little more credit in keeping up one’s jollity, I’m a United Statesman!’

Leaving them to blend and mingle in their sleep the shadows of objects afar off, as they take fantastic shapes upon the wall in the dim light of thought without control, be it the part of this slight chronicle—a dream within a dream—as rapidly to change the scene, and cross the ocean to the English shore.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

DOES BUSINESS WITH THE HOUSE OF ANTHONY CHUZZLEWIT AND SON, FROM WHICH ONE OF THE PARTNERS RETIRES UNEXPECTEDLY

Change begets change. Nothing propagates so fast. If a man habituated to a narrow circle of cares and pleasures, out of which he seldom travels, step beyond it, though for never so brief a space, his departure from the monotonous scene on which he has been an actor of importance, would seem to be the signal for instant confusion. As if, in the gap he had left, the wedge of change were driven to the head, rending what was a solid mass to fragments, things cemented and held together by the usages of years, burst asunder in as many weeks. The mine which Time has slowly dug beneath familiar objects is sprung in an instant; and what was rock before, becomes but sand and dust.

Most men, at one time or other, have proved this in some degree. The extent to which the natural laws of change asserted their supremacy in that limited sphere of action which Martin had deserted, shall be faithfully set down in these pages.

‘What a cold spring it is!’ whimpered old Anthony, drawing near the evening fire, ‘It was a warmer season, sure, when I was young!’

‘You needn’t go scorching your clothes into holes, whether it was or not,’ observed the amiable Jonas, raising his eyes from yesterday’s newspaper, ‘Broadcloth ain’t so cheap as that comes to.’

‘A good lad!’ cried the father, breathing on his cold hands, and feebly chafing them against each other. ‘A prudent lad! He never delivered himself up to the vanities of dress. No, no!’

‘I don’t know but I would, though, mind you, if I could do it for nothing,’ said his son, as he resumed the paper.

‘Ah!’ chuckled the old man. ‘IF, indeed!—But it’s very cold.’

‘Let the fire be!’ cried Mr Jonas, stopping his honoured parent’s hand in the use of the poker. ‘Do you mean to come to want in your old age, that you take to wasting now?’

‘There’s not time for that, Jonas,’ said the old man.

‘Not time for what?’ bawled his heir.

‘For me to come to want. I wish there was!’

‘You always were as selfish an old blade as need be,’ said Jonas in a voice too low for him to hear, and looking at him with an angry frown. ‘You act up to your character. You wouldn’t mind coming to want, wouldn’t you! I dare say you wouldn’t. And your own flesh and blood might come to want too, might they, for anything you cared? Oh you precious old flint!’

After this dutiful address he took his tea-cup in his hand—for that meal was in progress, and the father and son and Chuffey were partakers of it. Then, looking steadfastly at his father, and stopping now and then to carry a spoonful of tea to his lips, he proceeded in the same tone, thus:

‘Want, indeed! You’re a nice old man to be talking of want at this time of day. Beginning to talk of want, are you? Well, I declare! There isn’t time? No, I should hope not. But you’d live to be a couple of hundred if you could; and after all be discontented. I know you!’

The old man sighed, and still sat cowering before the fire. Mr Jonas shook his Britannia-metal teaspoon at him, and taking a loftier position, went on to argue the point on high moral grounds.

‘If you’re in such a state of mind as that,’ he grumbled, but in the same subdued key, ‘why don’t you make over your property? Buy an annuity cheap, and make your life interesting to yourself and everybody else that watches the speculation. But no, that wouldn’t suit YOU. That would be natural conduct to your own son, and you like to be unnatural, and to keep him out of his rights. Why, I should be ashamed of myself if I was you, and glad to hide my head in the what you may call it.’

Possibly this general phrase supplied the place of grave, or tomb, or sepulchre, or cemetery, or mausoleum, or other such word which the filial tenderness of Mr Jonas made him delicate of pronouncing. He pursued the theme no further; for Chuffey, somehow discovering, from his old corner by the fireside, that Anthony was in the attitude of a listener, and that Jonas appeared to be speaking, suddenly cried out, like one inspired:

‘He is your own son, Mr Chuzzlewit. Your own son, sir!’

Old Chuffey little suspected what depth of application these words had, or that, in the bitter satire which they bore, they might have sunk into the old man’s very soul, could he have known what words here hanging on his own son’s lips, or what was passing in his thoughts. But the voice diverted the current of Anthony’s reflections, and roused him.

‘Yes, yes, Chuffey, Jonas is a chip of the old block. It is a very old block, now, Chuffey,’ said the old man, with a strange look of discomposure.

‘Precious old,’ assented Jonas

‘No, no, no,’ said Chuffey. ‘No, Mr Chuzzlewit. Not old at all, sir.’

‘Oh! He’s worse than ever, you know!’ cried Jonas, quite disgusted. ‘Upon my soul, father, he’s getting too bad. Hold your tongue, will you?’

‘He says you’re wrong!’ cried Anthony to the old clerk.

‘Tut, tut!’ was Chuffey’s answer. ‘I know better. I say HE’S wrong. I say HE’S wrong. He’s a boy. That’s what he is. So are you, Mr Chuzzlewit—a kind of boy. Ha! ha! ha! You’re quite a boy to many I have known; you’re a boy to me; you’re a boy to hundreds of us. Don’t mind him!’

With which extraordinary speech—for in the case of Chuffey this was a burst of eloquence without a parallel—the poor old shadow drew through his palsied arm his master’s hand, and held it there, with his own folded upon it, as if he would defend him.

‘I grow deafer every day, Chuff,’ said Anthony, with as much softness of manner, or, to describe it more correctly, with as little hardness as he was capable of expressing.

‘No, no,’ cried Chuffey. ‘No, you don’t. What if you did? I’ve been deaf this twenty year.’

‘I grow blinder, too,’ said the old man, shaking his head.

‘That’s a good sign!’ cried Chuffey. ‘Ha! ha! The best sign in the world! You saw too well before.’

He patted Anthony upon the hand as one might comfort a child, and drawing the old man’s arm still further through his own, shook his trembling fingers towards the spot where Jonas sat, as though he would wave him off. But, Anthony remaining quite still and silent, he relaxed his hold by slow degrees and lapsed into his usual niche in the corner; merely putting forth his hand at intervals and touching his old employer gently on the coat, as with the design of assuring himself that he was yet beside him.

Mr Jonas was so very much amazed by these proceedings that he could do nothing but stare at the two old men, until Chuffey had fallen into his usual state, and Anthony had sunk into a doze; when he gave some vent to his emotions by going close up to the former personage, and making as though he would, in vulgar parlance, ‘punch his head.’

‘They’ve been carrying on this game,’ thought Jonas in a brown study, ‘for the last two or three weeks. I never saw my father take so much notice of him as he has in that time. What! You’re legacy hunting, are you, Mister Chuff? Eh?’

But Chuffey was as little conscious of the thought as of the bodily advance of Mr Jonas’s clenched fist, which hovered fondly about his ear. When he had scowled at him to his heart’s content, Jonas took the candle from the table, and walking into the glass office, produced a bunch of keys from his pocket. With one of these he opened a secret drawer in the desk; peeping stealthily out, as he did so, to be certain that the two old men were still before the fire.

‘All as right as ever,’ said Jonas, propping the lid of the desk open with his forehead, and unfolding a paper. ‘Here’s the will, Mister Chuff. Thirty pound a year for your maintenance, old boy, and all the rest to his only son, Jonas. You needn’t trouble yourself to be too affectionate. You won’t get anything by it. What’s that?’

It WAS startling, certainly. A face on the other side of the glass partition looking curiously in; and not at him but at the paper in his hand. For the eyes were attentively cast down upon the writing, and were swiftly raised when he cried out. Then they met his own, and were as the eyes of Mr Pecksniff.

Suffering the lid of the desk to fall with a loud noise, but not forgetting even then to lock it, Jonas, pale and breathless, gazed upon this phantom. It moved, opened the door, and walked in.

‘What’s the matter?’ cried Jonas, falling back. ‘Who is it? Where do you come from? What do you want?’

‘Matter!’ cried the voice of Mr Pecksniff, as Pecksniff in the flesh smiled amiably upon him. ‘The matter, Mr Jonas!’

‘What are you prying and peering about here for?’ said Jonas, angrily. ‘What do you mean by coming up to town in this way, and taking one unawares? It’s precious odd a man can’t read the—the newspaper—in his own office without being startled out of his wits by people coming in without notice. Why didn’t you knock at the door?’

‘So I did, Mr Jonas,’ answered Pecksniff, ‘but no one heard me. I was curious,’ he added in his gentle way as he laid his hand upon the young man’s shoulder, ‘to find out what part of the newspaper interested you so much; but the glass was too dim and dirty.’

Jonas glanced in haste at the partition. Well. It wasn’t very clean. So far he spoke the truth.

‘Was it poetry now?’ said Mr Pecksniff, shaking the forefinger of his right hand with an air of cheerful banter. ‘Or was it politics? Or was it the price of stock? The main chance, Mr Jonas, the main chance, I suspect.’

‘You ain’t far from the truth,’ answered Jonas, recovering himself and snuffing the candle; ‘but how the deuce do you come to be in London again? Ecod! it’s enough to make a man stare, to see a fellow looking at him all of a sudden, who he thought was sixty or seventy mile away.’

‘So it is,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘No doubt of it, my dear Mr Jonas. For while the human mind is constituted as it is—’

‘Oh, bother the human mind,’ interrupted Jonas with impatience ‘what have you come up for?’

‘A little matter of business,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘which has arisen quite unexpectedly.’

‘Oh!’ cried Jonas, ‘is that all? Well. Here’s father in the next room. Hallo father, here’s Pecksniff! He gets more addle-pated every day he lives, I do believe,’ muttered Jonas, shaking his honoured parent roundly. ‘Don’t I tell you Pecksniff’s here, stupid-head?’

The combined effects of the shaking and this loving remonstrance soon awoke the old man, who gave Mr Pecksniff a chuckling welcome which was attributable in part to his being glad to see that gentleman, and in part to his unfading delight in the recollection of having called him a hypocrite. As Mr Pecksniff had not yet taken tea (indeed he had, but an hour before, arrived in London) the remains of the late collation, with a rasher of bacon, were served up for his entertainment; and as Mr Jonas had a business appointment in the next street, he stepped out to keep it; promising to return before Mr Pecksniff could finish his repast.

‘And now, my good sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff to Anthony; ‘now that we are alone, pray tell me what I can do for you. I say alone, because I believe that our dear friend Mr Chuffey is, metaphysically speaking, a—shall I say a dummy?’ asked Mr Pecksniff with his sweetest smile, and his head very much on one side.

‘He neither hears us,’ replied Anthony, ‘nor sees us.’

‘Why, then,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘I will be bold to say, with the utmost sympathy for his afflictions, and the greatest admiration of those excellent qualities which do equal honour to his head and to his heart, that he is what is playfully termed a dummy. You were going to observe, my dear sir—?’

‘I was not going to make any observation that I know of,’ replied the old man.

‘I was,’ said Mr Pecksniff, mildly.

‘Oh! YOU were? What was it?’

‘That I never,’ said Mr Pecksniff, previously rising to see that the door was shut, and arranging his chair when he came back, so that it could not be opened in the least without his immediately becoming aware of the circumstance; ‘that I never in my life was so astonished as by the receipt of your letter yesterday. That you should do me the honour to wish to take counsel with me on any matter, amazed me; but that you should desire to do so, to the exclusion even of Mr Jonas, showed an amount of confidence in one to whom you had done a verbal injury—merely a verbal injury, you were anxious to repair—which gratified, which moved, which overcame me.’

He was always a glib speaker, but he delivered this short address very glibly; having been at some pains to compose it outside the coach.

Although he paused for a reply, and truly said that he was there at Anthony’s request, the old man sat gazing at him in profound silence and with a perfectly blank face. Nor did he seem to have the least desire or impulse to pursue the conversation, though Mr Pecksniff looked towards the door, and pulled out his watch, and gave him many other hints that their time was short, and Jonas, if he kept his word, would soon return. But the strangest incident in all this strange behaviour was, that of a sudden, in a moment, so swiftly that it was impossible to trace how, or to observe any process of change, his features fell into their old expression, and he cried, striking his hand passionately upon the table as if no interval at all had taken place:

‘Will you hold your tongue, sir, and let me speak?’

Mr Pecksniff deferred to him with a submissive bow; and said within himself, ‘I knew his hand was changed, and that his writing staggered. I said so yesterday. Ahem! Dear me!’

‘Jonas is sweet upon your daughter, Pecksniff,’ said the old man, in his usual tone.

‘We spoke of that, if you remember, sir, at Mrs Todgers’s,’ replied the courteous architect.

‘You needn’t speak so loud,’ retorted Anthony. ‘I’m not so deaf as that.’

Mr Pecksniff had certainly raised his voice pretty high; not so much because he thought Anthony was deaf, as because he felt convinced that his perceptive faculties were waxing dim; but this quick resentment of his considerate behaviour greatly disconcerted him, and, not knowing what tack to shape his course upon, he made another inclination of the head, yet more submissive that the last.

‘I have said,’ repeated the old man, ‘that Jonas is sweet upon your daughter.’

‘A charming girl, sir,’ murmured Mr Pecksniff, seeing that he waited for an answer. ‘A dear girl, Mr Chuzzlewit, though I say it, who should not.’

‘You know better,’ cried the old man, advancing his weazen face at least a yard, and starting forward in his chair to do it. ‘You lie! What, you WILL be a hypocrite, will you?’

‘My good sir,’ Mr Pecksniff began.

‘Don’t call me a good sir,’ retorted Anthony, ‘and don’t claim to be one yourself. If your daughter was what you would have me believe, she wouldn’t do for Jonas. Being what she is, I think she will. He might be deceived in a wife. She might run riot, contract debts, and waste his substance. Now when I am dead—’

His face altered so horribly as he said the word, that Mr Pecksniff really was fain to look another way.

‘—It will be worse for me to know of such doings, than if I was alive; for to be tormented for getting that together, which even while I suffer for its acquisition, is flung into the very kennels of the streets, would be insupportable torture. No,’ said the old man, hoarsely, ‘let that be saved at least; let there be something gained, and kept fast hold of, when so much is lost.’

‘My dear Mr Chuzzlewit,’ said Pecksniff, ‘these are unwholesome fancies; quite unnecessary, sir, quite uncalled for, I am sure. The truth is, my dear sir, that you are not well!’

‘Not dying though!’ cried Anthony, with something like the snarl of a wild animal. ‘Not yet! There are years of life in me. Why, look at him,’ pointing to his feeble clerk. ‘Death has no right to leave him standing, and to mow me down!’

Mr Pecksniff was so much afraid of the old man, and so completely taken aback by the state in which he found him, that he had not even presence of mind enough to call up a scrap of morality from the great storehouse within his own breast. Therefore he stammered out that no doubt it was, in fairness and decency, Mr Chuffey’s turn to expire; and that from all he had heard of Mr Chuffey, and the little he had the pleasure of knowing of that gentleman, personally, he felt convinced in his own mind that he would see the propriety of expiring with as little delay as possible.

‘Come here!’ said the old man, beckoning him to draw nearer. ‘Jonas will be my heir, Jonas will be rich, and a great catch for you. You know that. Jonas is sweet upon your daughter.’

‘I know that too,’ thought Mr Pecksniff, ‘for you have said it often enough.’

‘He might get more money than with her,’ said the old man, ‘but she will help him to take care of what they have. She is not too young or heedless, and comes of a good hard griping stock. But don’t you play too fine a game. She only holds him by a thread; and if you draw it too tight (I know his temper) it’ll snap. Bind him when he’s in the mood, Pecksniff; bind him. You’re too deep. In your way of leading him on, you’ll leave him miles behind. Bah, you man of oil, have I no eyes to see how you have angled with him from the first?’

‘Now I wonder,’ thought Mr Pecksniff, looking at him with a wistful face, ‘whether this is all he has to say?’

Old Anthony rubbed his hands and muttered to himself; complained again that he was cold; drew his chair before the fire; and, sitting with his back to Mr Pecksniff, and his chin sunk down upon his breast, was, in another minute, quite regardless or forgetful of his presence.

Uncouth and unsatisfactory as this short interview had been, it had furnished Mr Pecksniff with a hint which, supposing nothing further were imparted to him, repaid the journey up and home again. For the good gentleman had never (for want of an opportunity) dived into the depths of Mr Jonas’s nature; and any recipe for catching such a son-in-law (much more one written on a leaf out of his own father’s book) was worth the having. In order that he might lose no chance of improving so fair an opportunity by allowing Anthony to fall asleep before he had finished all he had to say, Mr Pecksniff, in the disposal of the refreshments on the table, a work to which he now applied himself in earnest, resorted to many ingenious contrivances for attracting his attention; such as coughing, sneezing, clattering the teacups, sharpening the knives, dropping the loaf, and so forth. But all in vain, for Mr Jonas returned, and Anthony had said no more.

‘What! My father asleep again?’ he cried, as he hung up his hat, and cast a look at him. ‘Ah! and snoring. Only hear!’

‘He snores very deep,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘Snores deep?’ repeated Jonas. ‘Yes; let him alone for that. He’ll snore for six, at any time.’

‘Do you know, Mr Jonas,’ said Pecksniff, ‘that I think your father is—don’t let me alarm you—breaking?’

‘Oh, is he though?’ replied Jonas, with a shake of the head which expressed the closeness of his dutiful observation. ‘Ecod, you don’t know how tough he is. He ain’t upon the move yet.’

‘It struck me that he was changed, both in his appearance and manner,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘That’s all you know about it,’ returned Jonas, seating himself with a melancholy air. ‘He never was better than he is now. How are they all at home? How’s Charity?’

‘Blooming, Mr Jonas, blooming.’

‘And the other one; how’s she?’

‘Volatile trifler!’ said Mr Pecksniff, fondly musing. ‘She is well, she is well. Roving from parlour to bedroom, Mr Jonas, like a bee, skimming from post to pillar, like the butterfly; dipping her young beak into our currant wine, like the humming-bird! Ah! were she a little less giddy than she is; and had she but the sterling qualities of Cherry, my young friend!’

‘Is she so very giddy, then?’ asked Jonas.

‘Well, well!’ said Mr Pecksniff, with great feeling; ‘let me not be hard upon my child. Beside her sister Cherry she appears so. A strange noise that, Mr Jonas!’

‘Something wrong in the clock, I suppose,’ said Jonas, glancing towards it. ‘So the other one ain’t your favourite, ain’t she?’

The fond father was about to reply, and had already summoned into his face a look of most intense sensibility, when the sound he had already noticed was repeated.

‘Upon my word, Mr Jonas, that is a very extraordinary clock,’ said Pecksniff.

It would have been, if it had made the noise which startled them; but another kind of time-piece was fast running down, and from that the sound proceeded. A scream from Chuffey, rendered a hundred times more loud and formidable by his silent habits, made the house ring from roof to cellar; and, looking round, they saw Anthony Chuzzlewit extended on the floor, with the old clerk upon his knees beside him.

He had fallen from his chair in a fit, and lay there, battling for each gasp of breath, with every shrivelled vein and sinew starting in its place, as if it were bent on bearing witness to his age, and sternly pleading with Nature against his recovery. It was frightful to see how the principle of life, shut up within his withered frame, fought like a strong devil, mad to be released, and rent its ancient prison-house. A young man in the fullness of his vigour, struggling with so much strength of desperation, would have been a dismal sight; but an old, old, shrunken body, endowed with preternatural might, and giving the lie in every motion of its every limb and joint to its enfeebled aspect, was a hideous spectacle indeed.

They raised him up, and fetched a surgeon with all haste, who bled the patient and applied some remedies; but the fits held him so long that it was past midnight when they got him—quiet now, but quite unconscious and exhausted—into bed.

‘Don’t go,’ said Jonas, putting his ashy lips to Mr Pecksniff’s ear and whispered across the bed. ‘It was a mercy you were present when he was taken ill. Some one might have said it was my doing.’

‘YOUR doing!’ cried Mr Pecksniff.

‘I don’t know but they might,’ he replied, wiping the moisture from his white face. ‘People say such things. How does he look now?’

Mr Pecksniff shook his head.

‘I used to joke, you know,’ said. Jonas: ‘but I—I never wished him dead. Do you think he’s very bad?’

‘The doctor said he was. You heard,’ was Mr Pecksniff’s answer.

‘Ah! but he might say that to charge us more, in case of his getting well’ said Jonas. ‘You mustn’t go away, Pecksniff. Now it’s come to this, I wouldn’t be without a witness for a thousand pound.’

Chuffey said not a word, and heard not a word. He had sat himself down in a chair at the bedside, and there he remained, motionless; except that he sometimes bent his head over the pillow, and seemed to listen. He never changed in this. Though once in the dreary night Mr Pecksniff, having dozed, awoke with a confused impression that he had heard him praying, and strangely mingling figures—not of speech, but arithmetic—with his broken prayers.

Jonas sat there, too, all night; not where his father could have seen him, had his consciousness returned, but hiding, as it were, behind him, and only reading how he looked, in Mr Pecksniff’s eyes. HE, the coarse upstart, who had ruled the house so long—that craven cur, who was afraid to move, and shook so, that his very shadow fluttered on the wall!

It was broad, bright, stirring day when, leaving the old clerk to watch him, they went down to breakfast. People hurried up and down the street; windows and doors were opened; thieves and beggars took their usual posts; workmen bestirred themselves; tradesmen set forth their shops; bailiffs and constables were on the watch; all kinds of human creatures strove, in their several ways, as hard to live, as the one sick old man who combated for every grain of sand in his fast-emptying glass, as eagerly as if it were an empire.

‘If anything happens Pecksniff,’ said Jonas, ‘you must promise me to stop here till it’s all over. You shall see that I do what’s right.’

‘I know that you will do what’s right, Mr Jonas,’ said Pecksniff.

‘Yes, yes, but I won’t be doubted. No one shall have it in his power to say a syllable against me,’ he returned. ‘I know how people will talk. Just as if he wasn’t old, or I had the secret of keeping him alive!’

Mr Pecksniff promised that he would remain, if circumstances should render it, in his esteemed friend’s opinion, desirable; they were finishing their meal in silence, when suddenly an apparition stood before them, so ghastly to the view that Jonas shrieked aloud, and both recoiled in horror.

Old Anthony, dressed in his usual clothes, was in the room—beside the table. He leaned upon the shoulder of his solitary friend; and on his livid face, and on his horny hands, and in his glassy eyes, and traced by an eternal finger in the very drops of sweat upon his brow, was one word—Death.

He spoke to them—in something of his own voice too, but sharpened and made hollow, like a dead man’s face. What he would have said, God knows. He seemed to utter words, but they were such as man had never heard. And this was the most fearful circumstance of all, to see him standing there, gabbling in an unearthly tongue.

‘He’s better now,’ said Chuffey. ‘Better now. Let him sit in his old chair, and he’ll be well again. I told him not to mind. I said so, yesterday.’

They put him in his easy-chair, and wheeled it near the window; then, swinging open the door, exposed him to the free current of morning air. But not all the air that is, nor all the winds that ever blew ‘twixt Heaven and Earth, could have brought new life to him.

Plunge him to the throat in golden pieces now, and his heavy fingers shall not close on one!

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE READER IS BROUGHT INTO COMMUNICATION WITH SOME PROFESSIONAL PERSONS, AND SHEDS A TEAR OVER THE FILIAL PIETY OF GOOD MR JONAS

Mr Pecksniff was in a hackney cabriolet, for Jonas Chuzzlewit had said ‘Spare no expense.’ Mankind is evil in its thoughts and in its base constructions, and Jonas was resolved it should not have an inch to stretch into an ell against him. It never should be charged upon his father’s son that he had grudged the money for his father’s funeral. Hence, until the obsequies should be concluded, Jonas had taken for his motto ‘Spend, and spare not!’

Mr Pecksniff had been to the undertaker, and was now upon his way to another officer in the train of mourning—a female functionary, a nurse, and watcher, and performer of nameless offices about the persons of the dead—whom he had recommended. Her name, as Mr Pecksniff gathered from a scrap of writing in his hand, was Gamp; her residence in Kingsgate Street, High Holborn. So Mr Pecksniff, in a hackney cab, was rattling over Holborn stones, in quest of Mrs Gamp.

This lady lodged at a bird-fancier’s, next door but one to the celebrated mutton-pie shop, and directly opposite to the original cat’s-meat warehouse; the renown of which establishments was duly heralded on their respective fronts. It was a little house, and this was the more convenient; for Mrs Gamp being, in her highest walk of art, a monthly nurse, or, as her sign-board boldly had it, ‘Midwife,’ and lodging in the first-floor front, was easily assailable at night by pebbles, walking-sticks, and fragments of tobacco-pipe; all much more efficacious than the street-door knocker, which was so constructed as to wake the street with ease, and even spread alarms of fire in Holborn, without making the smallest impression on the premises to which it was addressed.

It chanced on this particular occasion, that Mrs Gamp had been up all the previous night, in attendance upon a ceremony to which the usage of gossips has given that name which expresses, in two syllables, the curse pronounced on Adam. It chanced that Mrs Gamp had not been regularly engaged, but had been called in at a crisis, in consequence of her great repute, to assist another professional lady with her advice; and thus it happened that, all points of interest in the case being over, Mrs Gamp had come home again to the bird-fancier’s and gone to bed. So when Mr Pecksniff drove up in the hackney cab, Mrs Gamp’s curtains were drawn close, and Mrs Gamp was fast asleep behind them.

If the bird-fancier had been at home, as he ought to have been, there would have been no great harm in this; but he was out, and his shop was closed. The shutters were down certainly; and in every pane of glass there was at least one tiny bird in a tiny bird-cage, twittering and hopping his little ballet of despair, and knocking his head against the roof; while one unhappy goldfinch who lived outside a red villa with his name on the door, drew the water for his own drinking, and mutely appealed to some good man to drop a farthing’s-worth of poison in it. Still, the door was shut. Mr Pecksniff tried the latch, and shook it, causing a cracked bell inside to ring most mournfully; but no one came. The bird-fancier was an easy shaver also, and a fashionable hair-dresser also, and perhaps he had been sent for, express, from the court end of the town, to trim a lord, or cut and curl a lady; but however that might be, there, upon his own ground, he was not; nor was there any more distinct trace of him to assist the imagination of an inquirer, than a professional print or emblem of his calling (much favoured in the trade), representing a hair-dresser of easy manners curling a lady of distinguished fashion, in the presence of a patent upright grand pianoforte.

Noting these circumstances, Mr Pecksniff, in the innocence of his heart, applied himself to the knocker; but at the first double knock every window in the street became alive with female heads; and before he could repeat the performance whole troops of married ladies (some about to trouble Mrs Gamp themselves very shortly) came flocking round the steps, all crying out with one accord, and with uncommon interest, ‘Knock at the winder, sir, knock at the winder. Lord bless you, don’t lose no more time than you can help—knock at the winder!’

Acting upon this suggestion, and borrowing the driver’s whip for the purpose, Mr Pecksniff soon made a commotion among the first floor flower-pots, and roused Mrs Gamp, whose voice—to the great satisfaction of the matrons—was heard to say, ‘I’m coming.’

‘He’s as pale as a muffin,’ said one lady, in allusion to Mr Pecksniff.

‘So he ought to be, if he’s the feelings of a man,’ observed another.

A third lady (with her arms folded) said she wished he had chosen any other time for fetching Mrs Gamp, but it always happened so with HER.

It gave Mr Pecksniff much uneasiness to find, from these remarks, that he was supposed to have come to Mrs Gamp upon an errand touching—not the close of life, but the other end. Mrs Gamp herself was under the same impression, for, throwing open the window, she cried behind the curtains, as she hastily attired herself—

‘Is it Mrs Perkins?’

‘No!’ returned Mr Pecksniff, sharply. ‘Nothing of the sort.’

‘What, Mr Whilks!’ cried Mrs Gamp. ‘Don’t say it’s you, Mr Whilks, and that poor creetur Mrs Whilks with not even a pincushion ready. Don’t say it’s you, Mr Whilks!’

‘It isn’t Mr Whilks,’ said Pecksniff. ‘I don’t know the man. Nothing of the kind. A gentleman is dead; and some person being wanted in the house, you have been recommended by Mr Mould the undertaker.’

As she was by this time in a condition to appear, Mrs Gamp, who had a face for all occasions, looked out of the window with her mourning countenance, and said she would be down directly. But the matrons took it very ill that Mr Pecksniff’s mission was of so unimportant a kind; and the lady with her arms folded rated him in good round terms, signifying that she would be glad to know what he meant by terrifying delicate females ‘with his corpses;’ and giving it as her opinion that he was quite ugly enough to know better. The other ladies were not at all behind-hand in expressing similar sentiments; and the children, of whom some scores had now collected, hooted and defied Mr Pecksniff quite savagely. So when Mrs Gamp appeared, the unoffending gentleman was glad to hustle her with very little ceremony into the cabriolet, and drive off, overwhelmed with popular execration.

Mrs Gamp had a large bundle with her, a pair of pattens, and a species of gig umbrella; the latter article in colour like a faded leaf, except where a circular patch of a lively blue had been dexterously let in at the top. She was much flurried by the haste she had made, and laboured under the most erroneous views of cabriolets, which she appeared to confound with mail-coaches or stage-wagons, inasmuch as she was constantly endeavouring for the first half mile to force her luggage through the little front window, and clamouring to the driver to ‘put it in the boot.’ When she was disabused of this idea, her whole being resolved itself into an absorbing anxiety about her pattens, with which she played innumerable games at quoits on Mr Pecksniff’s legs. It was not until they were close upon the house of mourning that she had enough composure to observe—

‘And so the gentleman’s dead, sir! Ah! The more’s the pity.’ She didn’t even know his name. ‘But it’s what we must all come to. It’s as certain as being born, except that we can’t make our calculations as exact. Ah! Poor dear!’

She was a fat old woman, this Mrs Gamp, with a husky voice and a moist eye, which she had a remarkable power of turning up, and only showing the white of it. Having very little neck, it cost her some trouble to look over herself, if one may say so, at those to whom she talked. She wore a very rusty black gown, rather the worse for snuff, and a shawl and bonnet to correspond. In these dilapidated articles of dress she had, on principle, arrayed herself, time out of mind, on such occasions as the present; for this at once expressed a decent amount of veneration for the deceased, and invited the next of kin to present her with a fresher suit of weeds; an appeal so frequently successful, that the very fetch and ghost of Mrs Gamp, bonnet and all, might be seen hanging up, any hour in the day, in at least a dozen of the second-hand clothes shops about Holborn. The face of Mrs Gamp—the nose in particular—was somewhat red and swollen, and it was difficult to enjoy her society without becoming conscious of a smell of spirits. Like most persons who have attained to great eminence in their profession, she took to hers very kindly; insomuch that, setting aside her natural predilections as a woman, she went to a lying-in or a laying-out with equal zest and relish.

‘Ah!’ repeated Mrs Gamp; for it was always a safe sentiment in cases of mourning. ‘Ah dear! When Gamp was summoned to his long home, and I see him a-lying in Guy’s Hospital with a penny-piece on each eye, and his wooden leg under his left arm, I thought I should have fainted away. But I bore up.’

If certain whispers current in the Kingsgate Street circles had any truth in them, she had indeed borne up surprisingly; and had exerted such uncommon fortitude as to dispose of Mr Gamp’s remains for the benefit of science. But it should be added, in fairness, that this had happened twenty years before; and that Mr and Mrs Gamp had long been separated on the ground of incompatibility of temper in their drink.

‘You have become indifferent since then, I suppose?’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Use is second nature, Mrs Gamp.’

‘You may well say second nater, sir,’ returned that lady. ‘One’s first ways is to find sich things a trial to the feelings, and so is one’s lasting custom. If it wasn’t for the nerve a little sip of liquor gives me (I never was able to do more than taste it), I never could go through with what I sometimes has to do. “Mrs Harris,” I says, at the very last case as ever I acted in, which it was but a young person, “Mrs Harris,” I says, “leave the bottle on the chimley-piece, and don’t ask me to take none, but let me put my lips to it when I am so dispoged, and then I will do what I’m engaged to do, according to the best of my ability.” “Mrs Gamp,” she says, in answer, “if ever there was a sober creetur to be got at eighteen pence a day for working people, and three and six for gentlefolks—night watching,”’ said Mrs Gamp with emphasis, ‘“being a extra charge—you are that inwallable person.” “Mrs Harris,” I says to her, “don’t name the charge, for if I could afford to lay all my feller creeturs out for nothink, I would gladly do it, sich is the love I bears ‘em. But what I always says to them as has the management of matters, Mrs Harris”’—here she kept her eye on Mr Pecksniff—‘“be they gents or be they ladies, is, don’t ask me whether I won’t take none, or whether I will, but leave the bottle on the chimley-piece, and let me put my lips to it when I am so dispoged.”’

The conclusion of this affecting narrative brought them to the house. In the passage they encountered Mr Mould the undertaker; a little elderly gentleman, bald, and in a suit of black; with a notebook in his hand, a massive gold watch-chain dangling from his fob, and a face in which a queer attempt at melancholy was at odds with a smirk of satisfaction; so that he looked as a man might, who, in the very act of smacking his lips over choice old wine, tried to make believe it was physic.

‘Well, Mrs Gamp, and how are YOU, Mrs Gamp?’ said this gentleman, in a voice as soft as his step.

‘Pretty well, I thank you, sir,’ dropping a curtsey.

‘You’ll be very particular here, Mrs Gamp. This is not a common case, Mrs Gamp. Let everything be very nice and comfortable, Mrs Gamp, if you please,’ said the undertaker, shaking his head with a solemn air.

‘It shall be, sir,’ she replied, curtseying again. ‘You knows me of old, sir, I hope.’

‘I hope so, too, Mrs Gamp,’ said the undertaker, ‘and I think so also.’ Mrs Gamp curtseyed again. ‘This is one of the most impressive cases, sir,’ he continued, addressing Mr Pecksniff, ‘that I have seen in the whole course of my professional experience.’

‘Indeed, Mr Mould!’ cried that gentleman.

‘Such affectionate regret, sir, I never saw. There is no limitation, there is positively NO limitation’—opening his eyes wide, and standing on tiptoe—‘in point of expense! I have orders, sir, to put on my whole establishment of mutes; and mutes come very dear, Mr Pecksniff; not to mention their drink. To provide silver-plated handles of the very best description, ornamented with angels’ heads from the most expensive dies. To be perfectly profuse in feathers. In short, sir, to turn out something absolutely gorgeous.’

‘My friend Mr Jonas is an excellent man,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘I have seen a good deal of what is filial in my time, sir,’ retorted Mould, ‘and what is unfilial too. It is our lot. We come into the knowledge of those secrets. But anything so filial as this; anything so honourable to human nature; so calculated to reconcile all of us to the world we live in; never yet came under my observation. It only proves, sir, what was so forcibly observed by the lamented theatrical poet—buried at Stratford—that there is good in everything.’

‘It is very pleasant to hear you say so, Mr Mould,’ observed Pecksniff.

‘You are very kind, sir. And what a man Mr Chuzzlewit was, sir! Ah! what a man he was. You may talk of your lord mayors,’ said Mould, waving his hand at the public in general, ‘your sheriffs, your common councilmen, your trumpery; but show me a man in this city who is worthy to walk in the shoes of the departed Mr Chuzzlewit. No, no,’ cried Mould, with bitter sarcasm. ‘Hang ‘em up, hang ‘em up; sole ‘em and heel ‘em, and have ‘em ready for his son against he’s old enough to wear ‘em; but don’t try ‘em on yourselves, for they won’t fit you. We knew him,’ said Mould, in the same biting vein, as he pocketed his note-book; ‘we knew him, and are not to be caught with chaff. Mr Pecksniff, sir, good morning.’

Mr Pecksniff returned the compliment; and Mould, sensible of having distinguished himself, was going away with a brisk smile, when he fortunately remembered the occasion. Quickly becoming depressed again, he sighed; looked into the crown of his hat, as if for comfort; put it on without finding any; and slowly departed.

Mrs Gamp and Mr Pecksniff then ascended the staircase; and the former, having been shown to the chamber in which all that remained of Anthony Chuzzlewit lay covered up, with but one loving heart, and that a halting one, to mourn it, left the latter free to enter the darkened room below, and rejoin Mr Jonas, from whom he had now been absent nearly two hours.

He found that example to bereaved sons, and pattern in the eyes of all performers of funerals, musing over a fragment of writing-paper on the desk, and scratching figures on it with a pen. The old man’s chair, and hat, and walking-stick, were removed from their accustomed places, and put out of sight; the window-blinds as yellow as November fogs, were drawn down close; Jonas himself was so subdued, that he could scarcely be heard to speak, and only seen to walk across the room.

‘Pecksniff,’ he said, in a whisper, ‘you shall have the regulation of it all, mind! You shall be able to tell anybody who talks about it that everything was correctly and nicely done. There isn’t any one you’d like to ask to the funeral, is there?’

‘No, Mr Jonas, I think not.’

‘Because if there is, you know,’ said Jonas, ‘ask him. We don’t want to make a secret of it.’

‘No,’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, after a little reflection. ‘I am not the less obliged to you on that account, Mr Jonas, for your liberal hospitality; but there really is no one.’

‘Very well,’ said Jonas; ‘then you, and I, and Chuffey, and the doctor, will be just a coachful. We’ll have the doctor, Pecksniff, because he knows what was the matter with him, and that it couldn’t be helped.’

‘Where is our dear friend, Mr Chuffey?’ asked Pecksniff, looking round the chamber, and winking both his eyes at once—for he was overcome by his feelings.

But here he was interrupted by Mrs Gamp, who, divested of her bonnet and shawl, came sidling and bridling into the room; and with some sharpness demanded a conference outside the door with Mr Pecksniff.

‘You may say whatever you wish to say here, Mrs Gamp,’ said that gentleman, shaking his head with a melancholy expression.

‘It is not much as I have to say when people is a-mourning for the dead and gone,’ said Mrs Gamp; ‘but what I have to say is TO the pint and purpose, and no offence intended, must be so considered. I have been at a many places in my time, gentlemen, and I hope I knows what my duties is, and how the same should be performed; in course, if I did not, it would be very strange, and very wrong in sich a gentleman as Mr Mould, which has undertook the highest families in this land, and given every satisfaction, so to recommend me as he does. I have seen a deal of trouble my own self,’ said Mrs Gamp, laying greater and greater stress upon her words, ‘and I can feel for them as has their feelings tried, but I am not a Rooshan or a Prooshan, and consequently cannot suffer Spies to be set over me.’

Before it was possible that an answer could be returned, Mrs Gamp, growing redder in the face, went on to say:

‘It is not a easy matter, gentlemen, to live when you are left a widder woman; particular when your feelings works upon you to that extent that you often find yourself a-going out on terms which is a certain loss, and never can repay. But in whatever way you earns your bread, you may have rules and regulations of your own which cannot be broke through. Some people,’ said Mrs Gamp, again entrenching herself behind her strong point, as if it were not assailable by human ingenuity, ‘may be Rooshans, and others may be Prooshans; they are born so, and will please themselves. Them which is of other naturs thinks different.’

‘If I understand this good lady,’ said Mr Pecksniff, turning to Jonas, ‘Mr Chuffey is troublesome to her. Shall I fetch him down?’

‘Do,’ said Jonas. ‘I was going to tell you he was up there, when she came in. I’d go myself and bring him down, only—only I’d rather you went, if you don’t mind.’

Mr Pecksniff promptly departed, followed by Mrs Gamp, who, seeing that he took a bottle and glass from the cupboard, and carried it in his hand, was much softened.

‘I am sure,’ she said, ‘that if it wasn’t for his own happiness, I should no more mind him being there, poor dear, than if he was a fly. But them as isn’t used to these things, thinks so much of ‘em afterwards, that it’s a kindness to ‘em not to let ‘em have their wish. And even,’ said Mrs Gamp, probably in reference to some flowers of speech she had already strewn on Mr Chuffey, ‘even if one calls ‘em names, it’s only done to rouse ‘em.’

Whatever epithets she had bestowed on the old clerk, they had not roused HIM. He sat beside the bed, in the chair he had occupied all the previous night, with his hands folded before him, and his head bowed down; and neither looked up, on their entrance, nor gave any sign of consciousness, until Mr Pecksniff took him by the arm, when he meekly rose.

‘Three score and ten,’ said Chuffey, ‘ought and carry seven. Some men are so strong that they live to four score—four times ought’s an ought, four times two’s an eight—eighty. Oh! why—why—why didn’t he live to four times ought’s an ought, and four times two’s an eight, eighty?’

‘Ah! what a wale of grief!’ cried Mrs Gamp, possessing herself of the bottle and glass.

‘Why did he die before his poor old crazy servant?’ said Chuffey, clasping his hands and looking up in anguish. ‘Take him from me, and what remains?’

‘Mr Jonas,’ returned Pecksniff, ‘Mr Jonas, my good friend.’

‘I loved him,’ cried the old man, weeping. ‘He was good to me. We learnt Tare and Tret together at school. I took him down once, six boys in the arithmetic class. God forgive me! Had I the heart to take him down!’

‘Come, Mr Chuffey,’ said Pecksniff. ‘Come with me. Summon up your fortitude, Mr Chuffey.’

‘Yes, I will,’ returned the old clerk. ‘Yes. I’ll sum up my forty—How many times forty—Oh, Chuzzlewit and Son—Your own son Mr Chuzzlewit; your own son, sir!’

He yielded to the hand that guided him, as he lapsed into this familiar expression, and submitted to be led away. Mrs Gamp, with the bottle on one knee, and the glass on the other, sat upon a stool, shaking her head for a long time, until, in a moment of abstraction, she poured out a dram of spirits, and raised it to her lips. It was succeeded by a second, and by a third, and then her eyes—either in the sadness of her reflections upon life and death, or in her admiration of the liquor—were so turned up, as to be quite invisible. But she shook her head still.

Poor Chuffey was conducted to his accustomed corner, and there he remained, silent and quiet, save at long intervals, when he would rise, and walk about the room, and wring his hands, or raise some strange and sudden cry. For a whole week they all three sat about the hearth and never stirred abroad. Mr Pecksniff would have walked out in the evening time, but Mr Jonas was so averse to his being absent for a minute, that he abandoned the idea, and so, from morning until night, they brooded together in the dark room, without relief or occupation.

The weight of that which was stretched out, stiff and stark, in the awful chamber above-stairs, so crushed and bore down Jonas, that he bent beneath the load. During the whole long seven days and nights, he was always oppressed and haunted by a dreadful sense of its presence in the house. Did the door move, he looked towards it with a livid face and starting eye, as if he fully believed that ghostly fingers clutched the handle. Did the fire flicker in a draught of air, he glanced over his shoulder, as almost dreading to behold some shrouded figure fanning and flapping at it with its fearful dress. The lightest noise disturbed him; and once, in the night, at the sound of a footstep overhead, he cried out that the dead man was walking—tramp, tramp, tramp—about his coffin.

He lay at night upon a mattress on the floor of the sitting-room; his own chamber having been assigned to Mrs Gamp; and Mr Pecksniff was similarly accommodated. The howling of a dog before the house, filled him with a terror he could not disguise. He avoided the reflection in the opposite windows of the light that burned above, as though it had been an angry eye. He often, in every night, rose up from his fitful sleep, and looked and longed for dawn; all directions and arrangements, even to the ordering of their daily meals, he abandoned to Mr Pecksniff. That excellent gentleman, deeming that the mourner wanted comfort, and that high feeding was likely to do him infinite service, availed himself of these opportunities to such good purpose, that they kept quite a dainty table during this melancholy season; with sweetbreads, stewed kidneys, oysters, and other such light viands for supper every night; over which, and sundry jorums of hot punch, Mr Pecksniff delivered such moral reflections and spiritual consolation as might have converted a Heathen—especially if he had had but an imperfect acquaintance with the English tongue.

Nor did Mr Pecksniff alone indulge in the creature comforts during this sad time. Mrs Gamp proved to be very choice in her eating, and repudiated hashed mutton with scorn. In her drinking too, she was very punctual and particular, requiring a pint of mild porter at lunch, a pint at dinner, half-a-pint as a species of stay or holdfast between dinner and tea, and a pint of the celebrated staggering ale, or Real Old Brighton Tipper, at supper; besides the bottle on the chimney-piece, and such casual invitations to refresh herself with wine as the good breeding of her employers might prompt them to offer. In like manner, Mr Mould’s men found it necessary to drown their grief, like a young kitten in the morning of its existence, for which reason they generally fuddled themselves before they began to do anything, lest it should make head and get the better of them. In short, the whole of that strange week was a round of dismal joviality and grim enjoyment; and every one, except poor Chuffey, who came within the shadow of Anthony Chuzzlewit’s grave, feasted like a Ghoul.

At length the day of the funeral, pious and truthful ceremony that it was, arrived. Mr Mould, with a glass of generous port between his eye and the light, leaned against the desk in the little glass office with his gold watch in his unoccupied hand, and conversed with Mrs Gamp; two mutes were at the house-door, looking as mournful as could be reasonably expected of men with such a thriving job in hand; the whole of Mr Mould’s establishment were on duty within the house or without; feathers waved, horses snorted, silk and velvets fluttered; in a word, as Mr Mould emphatically said, ‘Everything that money could do was done.’

‘And what can do more, Mrs Gamp?’ exclaimed the undertaker as he emptied his glass and smacked his lips.

‘Nothing in the world, sir.’

‘Nothing in the world,’ repeated Mr Mould. ‘You are right, Mrs Gamp. Why do people spend more money’—here he filled his glass again—‘upon a death, Mrs Gamp, than upon a birth? Come, that’s in your way; you ought to know. How do you account for that now?’

‘Perhaps it is because an undertaker’s charges comes dearer than a nurse’s charges, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp, tittering, and smoothing down her new black dress with her hands.

‘Ha, ha!’ laughed Mr Mould. ‘You have been breakfasting at somebody’s expense this morning, Mrs Gamp.’ But seeing, by the aid of a little shaving-glass which hung opposite, that he looked merry, he composed his features and became sorrowful.

‘Many’s the time that I’ve not breakfasted at my own expense along of your recommending, sir; and many’s the time I hope to do the same in time to come,’ said Mrs Gamp, with an apologetic curtsey.

‘So be it,’ replied Mr Mould, ‘please Providence. No, Mrs Gamp; I’ll tell you why it is. It’s because the laying out of money with a well-conducted establishment, where the thing is performed upon the very best scale, binds the broken heart, and sheds balm upon the wounded spirit. Hearts want binding, and spirits want balming when people die; not when people are born. Look at this gentleman to-day; look at him.’

‘An open-handed gentleman?’ cried Mrs Gamp, with enthusiasm.

‘No, no,’ said the undertaker; ‘not an open-handed gentleman in general, by any means. There you mistake him; but an afflicted gentleman, an affectionate gentleman, who knows what it is in the power of money to do, in giving him relief, and in testifying his love and veneration for the departed. It can give him,’ said Mr Mould, waving his watch-chain slowly round and round, so that he described one circle after every item; ‘it can give him four horses to each vehicle; it can give him velvet trappings; it can give him drivers in cloth cloaks and top-boots; it can give him the plumage of the ostrich, dyed black; it can give him any number of walking attendants, dressed in the first style of funeral fashion, and carrying batons tipped with brass; it can give him a handsome tomb; it can give him a place in Westminster Abbey itself, if he choose to invest it in such a purchase. Oh! do not let us say that gold is dross, when it can buy such things as these, Mrs Gamp.’

‘But what a blessing, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘that there are such as you, to sell or let ‘em out on hire!’

‘Aye, Mrs Gamp, you are right,’ rejoined the undertaker. ‘We should be an honoured calling. We do good by stealth, and blush to have it mentioned in our little bills. How much consolation may I—even I,’ cried Mr Mould, ‘have diffused among my fellow-creatures by means of my four long-tailed prancers, never harnessed under ten pund ten!’

Mrs Gamp had begun to make a suitable reply, when she was interrupted by the appearance of one of Mr Mould’s assistants—his chief mourner in fact—an obese person, with his waistcoat in closer connection with his legs than is quite reconcilable with the established ideas of grace; with that cast of feature which is figuratively called a bottle nose; and with a face covered all over with pimples. He had been a tender plant once upon a time, but from constant blowing in the fat atmosphere of funerals, had run to seed.

‘Well, Tacker,’ said Mr Mould, ‘is all ready below?’

‘A beautiful show, sir,’ rejoined Tacker. ‘The horses are prouder and fresher than ever I see ‘em; and toss their heads, they do, as if they knowed how much their plumes cost. One, two, three, four,’ said Mr Tacker, heaping that number of black cloaks upon his left arm.

‘Is Tom there, with the cake and wine?’ asked Mr Mould.

‘Ready to come in at a moment’s notice, sir,’ said Tacker.

‘Then,’ rejoined Mr Mould, putting up his watch, and glancing at himself in the little shaving-glass, that he might be sure his face had the right expression on it; ‘then I think we may proceed to business. Give me the paper of gloves, Tacker. Ah, what a man he was! Ah, Tacker, Tacker, what a man he was!’

Mr Tacker, who from his great experience in the performance of funerals, would have made an excellent pantomime actor, winked at Mrs Gamp without at all disturbing the gravity of his countenance, and followed his master into the next room.

It was a great point with Mr Mould, and a part of his professional tact, not to seem to know the doctor; though in reality they were near neighbours, and very often, as in the present instance, worked together. So he advanced to fit on his black kid gloves as if he had never seen him in all his life; while the doctor, on his part, looked as distant and unconscious as if he had heard and read of undertakers, and had passed their shops, but had never before been brought into communication with one.

‘Gloves, eh?’ said the doctor. ‘Mr Pecksniff after you.’

‘I couldn’t think of it,’ returned Mr Pecksniff.

‘You are very good,’ said the doctor, taking a pair. ‘Well, sir, as I was saying—I was called up to attend that case at about half-past one o’clock. Cake and wine, eh? Which is port? Thank you.’

Mr Pecksniff took some also.

‘At about half-past one o’clock in the morning, sir,’ resumed the doctor, ‘I was called up to attend that case. At the first pull of the night-bell I turned out, threw up the window, and put out my head. Cloak, eh? Don’t tie it too tight. That’ll do.’

Mr Pecksniff having been likewise inducted into a similar garment, the doctor resumed.

‘And put out my head—hat, eh? My good friend, that is not mine. Mr Pecksniff, I beg your pardon, but I think we have unintentionally made an exchange. Thank you. Well, sir, I was going to tell you—’

‘We are quite ready,’ interrupted Mould in a low voice.

‘Ready, eh?’ said the doctor. ‘Very good, Mr Pecksniff, I’ll take an opportunity of relating the rest in the coach. It’s rather curious. Ready, eh? No rain, I hope?’

‘Quite fair, sir,’ returned Mould.

‘I was afraid the ground would have been wet,’ said the doctor, ‘for my glass fell yesterday. We may congratulate ourselves upon our good fortune.’ But seeing by this time that Mr Jonas and Chuffey were going out at the door, he put a white pocket-handkerchief to his face as if a violent burst of grief had suddenly come upon him, and walked down side by side with Mr Pecksniff.

Mr Mould and his men had not exaggerated the grandeur of the arrangements. They were splendid. The four hearse-horses, especially, reared and pranced, and showed their highest action, as if they knew a man was dead, and triumphed in it. ‘They break us, drive us, ride us; ill-treat, abuse, and maim us for their pleasure—But they die; Hurrah, they die!’

So through the narrow streets and winding city ways, went Anthony Chuzzlewit’s funeral; Mr Jonas glancing stealthily out of the coach-window now and then, to observe its effect upon the crowd; Mr Mould as he walked along, listening with a sober pride to the exclamations of the bystanders; the doctor whispering his story to Mr Pecksniff, without appearing to come any nearer the end of it; and poor old Chuffey sobbing unregarded in a corner. But he had greatly scandalized Mr Mould at an early stage of the ceremony by carrying his handkerchief in his hat in a perfectly informal manner, and wiping his eyes with his knuckles. And as Mr Mould himself had said already, his behaviour was indecent, and quite unworthy of such an occasion; and he never ought to have been there.

There he was, however; and in the churchyard there he was, also, conducting himself in a no less unbecoming manner, and leaning for support on Tacker, who plainly told him that he was fit for nothing better than a walking funeral. But Chuffey, Heaven help him! heard no sound but the echoes, lingering in his own heart, of a voice for ever silent.

‘I loved him,’ cried the old man, sinking down upon the grave when all was done. ‘He was very good to me. Oh, my dear old friend and master!’

‘Come, come, Mr Chuffey,’ said the doctor, ‘this won’t do; it’s a clayey soil, Mr Chuffey. You mustn’t, really.’

‘If it had been the commonest thing we do, and Mr Chuffey had been a Bearer, gentlemen,’ said Mould, casting an imploring glance upon them, as he helped to raise him, ‘he couldn’t have gone on worse than this.’

‘Be a man, Mr Chuffey,’ said Pecksniff.

‘Be a gentleman, Mr Chuffey,’ said Mould.

‘Upon my word, my good friend,’ murmured the doctor, in a tone of stately reproof, as he stepped up to the old man’s side, ‘this is worse than weakness. This is bad, selfish, very wrong, Mr Chuffey. You should take example from others, my good sir. You forget that you were not connected by ties of blood with our deceased friend; and that he had a very near and very dear relation, Mr Chuffey.’

‘Aye, his own son!’ cried the old man, clasping his hands with remarkable passion. ‘His own, own, only son!’

‘He’s not right in his head, you know,’ said Jonas, turning pale. ‘You’re not to mind anything he says. I shouldn’t wonder if he was to talk some precious nonsense. But don’t you mind him, any of you. I don’t. My father left him to my charge; and whatever he says or does, that’s enough. I’ll take care of him.’

A hum of admiration rose from the mourners (including Mr Mould and his merry men) at this new instance of magnanimity and kind feeling on the part of Jonas. But Chuffey put it to the test no farther. He said not a word more, and being left to himself for a little while, crept back again to the coach.

It has been said that Mr Jonas turned pale when the behaviour of the old clerk attracted general attention; his discomposure, however, was but momentary, and he soon recovered. But these were not the only changes he had exhibited that day. The curious eyes of Mr Pecksniff had observed that as soon as they left the house upon their mournful errand, he began to mend; that as the ceremonies proceeded he gradually, by little and little, recovered his old condition, his old looks, his old bearing, his old agreeable characteristics of speech and manner, and became, in all respects, his old pleasant self. And now that they were seated in the coach on their return home; and more when they got there, and found the windows open, the light and air admitted, and all traces of the late event removed; he felt so well convinced that Jonas was again the Jonas he had known a week ago, and not the Jonas of the intervening time, that he voluntarily gave up his recently-acquired power without one faint attempt to exercise it, and at once fell back into his former position of mild and deferential guest.

Mrs Gamp went home to the bird-fancier’s, and was knocked up again that very night for a birth of twins; Mr Mould dined gayly in the bosom of his family, and passed the evening facetiously at his club; the hearse, after standing for a long time at the door of a roistering public-house, repaired to its stables with the feathers inside and twelve red-nosed undertakers on the roof, each holding on by a dingy peg, to which, in times of state, a waving plume was fitted; the various trappings of sorrow were carefully laid by in presses for the next hirer; the fiery steeds were quenched and quiet in their stalls; the doctor got merry with wine at a wedding-dinner, and forgot the middle of the story which had no end to it; the pageant of a few short hours ago was written nowhere half so legibly as in the undertaker’s books.

Not in the churchyard? Not even there. The gates were closed; the night was dark and wet; the rain fell silently, among the stagnant weeds and nettles. One new mound was there which had not been there last night. Time, burrowing like a mole below the ground, had marked his track by throwing up another heap of earth. And that was all.

CHAPTER TWENTY

IS A CHAPTER OF LOVE

‘Pecksniff,’ said Jonas, taking off his hat, to see that the black crape band was all right; and finding that it was, putting it on again, complacently; ‘what do you mean to give your daughters when they marry?’

‘My dear Mr Jonas,’ cried the affectionate parent, with an ingenuous smile, ‘what a very singular inquiry!’

‘Now, don’t you mind whether it’s a singular inquiry or a plural one,’ retorted Jonas, eyeing Mr Pecksniff with no great favour, ‘but answer it, or let it alone. One or the other.’

‘Hum! The question, my dear friend,’ said Mr Pecksniff, laying his hand tenderly upon his kinsman’s knee, ‘is involved with many considerations. What would I give them? Eh?’

‘Ah! what would you give ‘em?’ repeated Jonas.

‘Why, that, ‘said Mr Pecksniff, ‘would naturally depend in a great measure upon the kind of husbands they might choose, my dear young friend.’

Mr Jonas was evidently disconcerted, and at a loss how to proceed. It was a good answer. It seemed a deep one, but such is the wisdom of simplicity!’

‘My standard for the merits I would require in a son-in-law,’ said Mr Pecksniff, after a short silence, ‘is a high one. Forgive me, my dear Mr Jonas,’ he added, greatly moved, ‘if I say that you have spoiled me, and made it a fanciful one; an imaginative one; a prismatically tinged one, if I may be permitted to call it so.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ growled Jonas, looking at him with increased disfavour.

‘Indeed, my dear friend,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘you may well inquire. The heart is not always a royal mint, with patent machinery to work its metal into current coin. Sometimes it throws it out in strange forms, not easily recognized as coin at all. But it is sterling gold. It has at least that merit. It is sterling gold.’

‘Is it?’ grumbled Jonas, with a doubtful shake of the head.

‘Aye!’ said Mr Pecksniff, warming with his subject ‘it is. To be plain with you, Mr Jonas, if I could find two such sons-in-law as you will one day make to some deserving man, capable of appreciating a nature such as yours, I would—forgetful of myself—bestow upon my daughters portions reaching to the very utmost limit of my means.’

This was strong language, and it was earnestly delivered. But who can wonder that such a man as Mr Pecksniff, after all he had seen and heard of Mr Jonas, should be strong and earnest upon such a theme; a theme that touched even the worldly lips of undertakers with the honey of eloquence!

Mr Jonas was silent, and looked thoughtfully at the landscape. For they were seated on the outside of the coach, at the back, and were travelling down into the country. He accompanied Mr Pecksniff home for a few days’ change of air and scene after his recent trials.

‘Well,’ he said, at last, with captivating bluntness, ‘suppose you got one such son-in-law as me, what then?’

Mr Pecksniff regarded him at first with inexpressible surprise; then gradually breaking into a sort of dejected vivacity, said:

‘Then well I know whose husband he would be!’

‘Whose?’ asked Jonas, drily.

‘My eldest girl’s, Mr Jonas,’ replied Pecksniff, with moistening eyes. ‘My dear Cherry’s; my staff, my scrip, my treasure, Mr Jonas. A hard struggle, but it is in the nature of things! I must one day part with her to a husband. I know it, my dear friend. I am prepared for it.’

‘Ecod! you’ve been prepared for that a pretty long time, I should think,’ said Jonas.

‘Many have sought to bear her from me,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘All have failed. “I never will give my hand, papa”—those were her words—“unless my heart is won.” She has not been quite so happy as she used to be, of late. I don’t know why.’

Again Mr Jonas looked at the landscape; then at the coachman; then at the luggage on the roof; finally at Mr Pecksniff.

‘I suppose you’ll have to part with the other one, some of these days?’ he observed, as he caught that gentleman’s eye.

‘Probably,’ said the parent. ‘Years will tame down the wildness of my foolish bird, and then it will be caged. But Cherry, Mr Jonas, Cherry—’

‘Oh, ah!’ interrupted Jonas. ‘Years have made her all right enough. Nobody doubts that. But you haven’t answered what I asked you. Of course, you’re not obliged to do it, you know, if you don’t like. You’re the best judge.’

There was a warning sulkiness in the manner of this speech, which admonished Mr Pecksniff that his dear friend was not to be trifled with or fenced off, and that he must either return a straight-forward reply to his question, or plainly give him to understand that he declined to enlighten him upon the subject to which it referred. Mindful in this dilemma of the caution old Anthony had given him almost with his latest breath, he resolved to speak to the point, and so told Mr Jonas (enlarging upon the communication as a proof of his great attachment and confidence), that in the case he had put; to wit, in the event of such a man as he proposing for his daughter’s hand, he would endow her with a fortune of four thousand pounds.

‘I should sadly pinch and cramp myself to do so,’ was his fatherly remark; ‘but that would be my duty, and my conscience would reward me. For myself, my conscience is my bank. I have a trifle invested there—a mere trifle, Mr Jonas—but I prize it as a store of value, I assure you.’

The good man’s enemies would have divided upon this question into two parties. One would have asserted without scruple that if Mr Pecksniff’s conscience were his bank, and he kept a running account there, he must have overdrawn it beyond all mortal means of computation. The other would have contended that it was a mere fictitious form; a perfectly blank book; or one in which entries were only made with a peculiar kind of invisible ink to become legible at some indefinite time; and that he never troubled it at all.

‘It would sadly pinch and cramp me, my dear friend,’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, ‘but Providence—perhaps I may be permitted to say a special Providence—has blessed my endeavours, and I could guarantee to make the sacrifice.’

A question of philosophy arises here, whether Mr Pecksniff had or had not good reason to say that he was specially patronized and encouraged in his undertakings. All his life long he had been walking up and down the narrow ways and by-places, with a hook in one hand and a crook in the other, scraping all sorts of valuable odds and ends into his pouch. Now, there being a special Providence in the fall of a sparrow, it follows (so Mr Pecksniff, and only such admirable men, would have reasoned), that there must also be a special Providence in the alighting of the stone or stick, or other substance which is aimed at the sparrow. And Mr Pecksniff’s hook, or crook, having invariably knocked the sparrow on the head and brought him down, that gentleman may have been led to consider himself as specially licensed to bag sparrows, and as being specially seized and possessed of all the birds he had got together. That many undertakings, national as well as individual—but especially the former—are held to be specially brought to a glorious and successful issue, which never could be so regarded on any other process of reasoning, must be clear to all men. Therefore the precedents would seem to show that Mr Pecksniff had (as things go) good argument for what he said and might be permitted to say it, and did not say it presumptuously, vainly, or arrogantly, but in a spirit of high faith and great wisdom.

Mr Jonas, not being much accustomed to perplex his mind with theories of this nature, expressed no opinion on the subject. Nor did he receive his companion’s announcement with one solitary syllable, good, bad, or indifferent. He preserved this taciturnity for a quarter of an hour at least, and during the whole of that time appeared to be steadily engaged in subjecting some given amount to the operation of every known rule in figures; adding to it, taking from it, multiplying it, reducing it by long and short division; working it by the rule-of-three direct and inversed; exchange or barter; practice; simple interest; compound interest; and other means of arithmetical calculation. The result of these labours appeared to be satisfactory, for when he did break silence, it was as one who had arrived at some specific result, and freed himself from a state of distressing uncertainty.

‘Come, old Pecksniff!’—Such was his jocose address, as he slapped that gentleman on the back, at the end of the stage—‘let’s have something!’

‘With all my heart,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘Let’s treat the driver,’ cried Jonas.

‘If you think it won’t hurt the man, or render him discontented with his station—certainly,’ faltered Mr Pecksniff.

Jonas only laughed at this, and getting down from the coach-top with great alacrity, cut a cumbersome kind of caper in the road. After which, he went into the public-house, and there ordered spirituous drink to such an extent, that Mr Pecksniff had some doubts of his perfect sanity, until Jonas set them quite at rest by saying, when the coach could wait no longer:

‘I’ve been standing treat for a whole week and more, and letting you have all the delicacies of the season. YOU shall pay for this Pecksniff.’ It was not a joke either, as Mr Pecksniff at first supposed; for he went off to the coach without further ceremony, and left his respected victim to settle the bill.

But Mr Pecksniff was a man of meek endurance, and Mr Jonas was his friend. Moreover, his regard for that gentleman was founded, as we know, on pure esteem, and a knowledge of the excellence of his character. He came out from the tavern with a smiling face, and even went so far as to repeat the performance, on a less expensive scale, at the next ale-house. There was a certain wildness in the spirits of Mr Jonas (not usually a part of his character) which was far from being subdued by these means, and, for the rest of the journey, he was so very buoyant—it may be said, boisterous—that Mr Pecksniff had some difficulty in keeping pace with him.

They were not expected—oh dear, no! Mr Pecksniff had proposed in London to give the girls a surprise, and had said he wouldn’t write a word to prepare them on any account, in order that he and Mr Jonas might take them unawares, and just see what they were doing, when they thought their dear papa was miles and miles away. As a consequence of this playful device, there was nobody to meet them at the finger-post, but that was of small consequence, for they had come down by the day coach, and Mr Pecksniff had only a carpetbag, while Mr Jonas had only a portmanteau. They took the portmanteau between them, put the bag upon it, and walked off up the lane without delay; Mr Pecksniff already going on tiptoe as if, without this precaution, his fond children, being then at a distance of a couple of miles or so, would have some filial sense of his approach.

It was a lovely evening in the spring-time of the year; and in the soft stillness of the twilight, all nature was very calm and beautiful. The day had been fine and warm; but at the coming on of night, the air grew cool, and in the mellowing distance smoke was rising gently from the cottage chimneys. There were a thousand pleasant scents diffused around, from young leaves and fresh buds; the cuckoo had been singing all day long, and was but just now hushed; the smell of earth newly-upturned, first breath of hope to the first labourer after his garden withered, was fragrant in the evening breeze. It was a time when most men cherish good resolves, and sorrow for the wasted past; when most men, looking on the shadows as they gather, think of that evening which must close on all, and that to-morrow which has none beyond.

‘Precious dull,’ said Mr Jonas, looking about. ‘It’s enough to make a man go melancholy mad.’

‘We shall have lights and a fire soon,’ observed Mr Pecksniff.

‘We shall need ‘em by the time we get there,’ said Jonas. ‘Why the devil don’t you talk? What are you thinking of?’

‘To tell you the truth, Mr Jonas,’ said Pecksniff with great solemnity, ‘my mind was running at that moment on our late dear friend, your departed father.’

Mr Jonas immediately let his burden fall, and said, threatening him with his hand:

‘Drop that, Pecksniff!’

Mr Pecksniff not exactly knowing whether allusion was made to the subject or the portmanteau, stared at his friend in unaffected surprise.

‘Drop it, I say!’ cried Jonas, fiercely. ‘Do you hear? Drop it, now and for ever. You had better, I give you notice!’

‘It was quite a mistake,’ urged Mr Pecksniff, very much dismayed; ‘though I admit it was foolish. I might have known it was a tender string.’

‘Don’t talk to me about tender strings,’ said Jonas, wiping his forehead with the cuff of his coat. ‘I’m not going to be crowed over by you, because I don’t like dead company.’

Mr Pecksniff had got out the words ‘Crowed over, Mr Jonas!’ when that young man, with a dark expression in his countenance, cut him short once more:

‘Mind!’ he said. ‘I won’t have it. I advise you not to revive the subject, neither to me nor anybody else. You can take a hint, if you choose as well as another man. There’s enough said about it. Come along!’

Taking up his part of the load again, when he had said these words, he hurried on so fast that Mr Pecksniff, at the other end of the portmanteau, found himself dragged forward, in a very inconvenient and ungraceful manner, to the great detriment of what is called by fancy gentlemen ‘the bark’ upon his shins, which were most unmercifully bumped against the hard leather and the iron buckles. In the course of a few minutes, however, Mr Jonas relaxed his speed, and suffered his companion to come up with him, and to bring the portmanteau into a tolerably straight position.

It was pretty clear that he regretted his late outbreak, and that he mistrusted its effect on Mr Pecksniff; for as often as that gentleman glanced towards Mr Jonas, he found Mr Jonas glancing at him, which was a new source of embarrassment. It was but a short-lived one, though, for Mr Jonas soon began to whistle, whereupon Mr Pecksniff, taking his cue from his friend, began to hum a tune melodiously.

‘Pretty nearly there, ain’t we?’ said Jonas, when this had lasted some time.

‘Close, my dear friend,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘What’ll they be doing, do you suppose?’ asked Jonas.

‘Impossible to say,’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘Giddy truants! They may be away from home, perhaps. I was going to—he! he! he!—I was going to propose,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘that we should enter by the back way, and come upon them like a clap of thunder, Mr Jonas.’

It might not have been easy to decide in respect of which of their manifold properties, Jonas, Mr Pecksniff, the carpet-bag, and the portmanteau, could be likened to a clap of thunder. But Mr Jonas giving his assent to this proposal, they stole round into the back yard, and softly advanced towards the kitchen window, through which the mingled light of fire and candle shone upon the darkening night.

Truly Mr Pecksniff is blessed in his children—in one of them, at any rate. The prudent Cherry—staff and scrip, and treasure of her doting father—there she sits, at a little table white as driven snow, before the kitchen fire, making up accounts! See the neat maiden, as with pen in hand, and calculating look addressed towards the ceiling and bunch of keys within a little basket at her side, she checks the housekeeping expenditure! From flat-iron, dish-cover, and warming-pan; from pot and kettle, face of brass footman, and black-leaded stove; bright glances of approbation wink and glow upon her. The very onions dangling from the beam, mantle and shine like cherubs’ cheeks. Something of the influence of those vegetables sinks into Mr Pecksniff’s nature. He weeps.

It is but for a moment, and he hides it from the observation of his friend—very carefully—by a somewhat elaborate use of his pocket-handkerchief, in fact; for he would not have his weakness known.

‘Pleasant,’ he murmured, ‘pleasant to a father’s feelings! My dear girl! Shall we let her know we are here, Mr Jonas?’

‘Why, I suppose you don’t mean to spend the evening in the stable, or the coach-house,’ he returned.

‘That, indeed, is not such hospitality as I would show to YOU, my friend,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, pressing his hand. And then he took a long breath, and tapping at the window, shouted with stentorian blandness:

‘Boh!’

Cherry dropped her pen and screamed. But innocence is ever bold, or should be. As they opened the door, the valiant girl exclaimed in a firm voice, and with a presence of mind which even in that trying moment did not desert her, ‘Who are you? What do you want? Speak! or I will call my Pa.’

Mr Pecksniff held out his arms. She knew him instantly, and rushed into his fond embrace.

‘It was thoughtless of us, Mr Jonas, it was very thoughtless,’ said Pecksniff, smoothing his daugther’s hair. ‘My darling, do you see that I am not alone!’

Not she. She had seen nothing but her father until now. She saw Mr Jonas now, though; and blushed, and hung her head down, as she gave him welcome.

But where was Merry? Mr Pecksniff didn’t ask the question in reproach, but in a vein of mildness touched with a gentle sorrow. She was upstairs, reading on the parlour couch. Ah! Domestic details had no charms for HER. ‘But call her down,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a placid resignation. ‘Call her down, my love.’

She was called and came, all flushed and tumbled from reposing on the sofa; but none the worse for that. No, not at all. Rather the better, if anything.

‘Oh my goodness me!’ cried the arch girl, turning to her cousin when she had kissed her father on both cheeks, and in her frolicsome nature had bestowed a supernumerary salute upon the tip of his nose, ‘YOU here, fright! Well, I’m very thankful that you won’t trouble ME much!’

‘What! you’re as lively as ever, are you?’ said Jonas. ‘Oh! You’re a wicked one!’

‘There, go along!’ retorted Merry, pushing him away. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what I shall ever do, if I have to see much of you. Go along, for gracious’ sake!’

Mr Pecksniff striking in here, with a request that Mr Jonas would immediately walk upstairs, he so far complied with the young lady’s adjuration as to go at once. But though he had the fair Cherry on his arm, he could not help looking back at her sister, and exchanging some further dialogue of the same bantering description, as they all four ascended to the parlour; where—for the young ladies happened, by good fortune, to be a little later than usual that night—the tea-board was at that moment being set out.

Mr Pinch was not at home, so they had it all to themselves, and were very snug and talkative, Jonas sitting between the two sisters, and displaying his gallantry in that engaging manner which was peculiar to him. It was a hard thing, Mr Pecksniff said, when tea was done, and cleared away, to leave so pleasant a little party, but having some important papers to examine in his own apartment, he must beg them to excuse him for half an hour. With this apology he withdrew, singing a careless strain as he went. He had not been gone five minutes, when Merry, who had been sitting in the window, apart from Jonas and her sister, burst into a half-smothered laugh, and skipped towards the door.

‘Hallo!’ cried Jonas. ‘Don’t go.’

‘Oh, I dare say!’ rejoined Merry, looking back. ‘You’re very anxious I should stay, fright, ain’t you?’

‘Yes, I am,’ said Jonas. ‘Upon my word I am. I want to speak to you.’ But as she left the room notwithstanding, he ran out after her, and brought her back, after a short struggle in the passage which scandalized Miss Cherry very much.

‘Upon my word, Merry,’ urged that young lady, ‘I wonder at you! There are bounds even to absurdity, my dear.’

‘Thank you, my sweet,’ said Merry, pursing up her rosy Lips. ‘Much obliged to it for its advice. Oh! do leave me alone, you monster, do!’ This entreaty was wrung from her by a new proceeding on the part of Mr Jonas, who pulled her down, all breathless as she was, into a seat beside him on the sofa, having at the same time Miss Cherry upon the other side.

‘Now,’ said Jonas, clasping the waist of each; ‘I have got both arms full, haven’t I?’

‘One of them will be black and blue to-morrow, if you don’t let me go,’ cried the playful Merry.

‘Ah! I don’t mind YOUR pinching,’ grinned Jonas, ‘a bit.’

‘Pinch him for me, Cherry, pray,’ said Mercy. ‘I never did hate anybody so much as I hate this creature, I declare!’

‘No, no, don’t say that,’ urged Jonas, ‘and don’t pinch either, because I want to be serious. I say—Cousin Charity—’

‘Well! what?’ she answered sharply.

‘I want to have some sober talk,’ said Jonas; ‘I want to prevent any mistakes, you know, and to put everything upon a pleasant understanding. That’s desirable and proper, ain’t it?’

Neither of the sisters spoke a word. Mr Jonas paused and cleared his throat, which was very dry.

‘She’ll not believe what I am going to say, will she, cousin?’ said Jonas, timidly squeezing Miss Charity.

‘Really, Mr Jonas, I don’t know, until I hear what it is. It’s quite impossible!’

‘Why, you see,’ said Jonas, ‘her way always being to make game of people, I know she’ll laugh, or pretend to—I know that, beforehand. But you can tell her I’m in earnest, cousin; can’t you? You’ll confess you know, won’t you? You’ll be honourable, I’m sure,’ he added persuasively.

No answer. His throat seemed to grow hotter and hotter, and to be more and more difficult of control.

‘You see, Cousin Charity,’ said Jonas, ‘nobody but you can tell her what pains I took to get into her company when you were both at the boarding-house in the city, because nobody’s so well aware of it, you know. Nobody else can tell her how hard I tried to get to know you better, in order that I might get to know her without seeming to wish it; can they? I always asked you about her, and said where had she gone, and when would she come, and how lively she was, and all that; didn’t I, cousin? I know you’ll tell her so, if you haven’t told her so already, and—and—I dare say you have, because I’m sure you’re honourable, ain’t you?’

Still not a word. The right arm of Mr Jonas—the elder sister sat upon his right—may have been sensible of some tumultuous throbbing which was not within itself; but nothing else apprised him that his words had had the least effect.

‘Even if you kept it to yourself, and haven’t told her,’ resumed Jonas, ‘it don’t much matter, because you’ll bear honest witness now; won’t you? We’ve been very good friends from the first; haven’t we? and of course we shall be quite friends in future, and so I don’t mind speaking before you a bit. Cousin Mercy, you’ve heard what I’ve been saying. She’ll confirm it, every word; she must. Will you have me for your husband? Eh?’

As he released his hold of Charity, to put this question with better effect, she started up and hurried away to her own room, marking her progress as she went by such a train of passionate and incoherent sound, as nothing but a slighted woman in her anger could produce.

‘Let me go away. Let me go after her,’ said Merry, pushing him off, and giving him—to tell the truth—more than one sounding slap upon his outstretched face.

‘Not till you say yes. You haven’t told me. Will you have me for your husband?’

‘No, I won’t. I can’t bear the sight of you. I have told you so a hundred times. You are a fright. Besides, I always thought you liked my sister best. We all thought so.’

‘But that wasn’t my fault,’ said Jonas.

‘Yes it was; you know it was.’

‘Any trick is fair in love,’ said Jonas. ‘She may have thought I liked her best, but you didn’t.’

‘I did!’

‘No, you didn’t. You never could have thought I liked her best, when you were by.’

‘There’s no accounting for tastes,’ said Merry; ‘at least I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t know what I mean. Let me go to her.’

‘Say “Yes,” and then I will.’

‘If I ever brought myself to say so, it should only be that I might hate and tease you all my life.’

‘That’s as good,’ cried Jonas, ‘as saying it right out. It’s a bargain, cousin. We’re a pair, if ever there was one.’

This gallant speech was succeeded by a confused noise of kissing and slapping; and then the fair but much dishevelled Merry broke away, and followed in the footsteps of her sister.

Now whether Mr Pecksniff had been listening—which in one of his character appears impossible; or divined almost by inspiration what the matter was—which, in a man of his sagacity is far more probable; or happened by sheer good fortune to find himself in exactly the right place, at precisely the right time—which, under the special guardianship in which he lived might very reasonably happen; it is quite certain that at the moment when the sisters came together in their own room, he appeared at the chamber door. And a marvellous contrast it was—they so heated, noisy, and vehement; he so calm, so self-possessed, so cool and full of peace, that not a hair upon his head was stirred.

‘Children!’ said Mr Pecksniff, spreading out his hands in wonder, but not before he had shut the door, and set his back against it. ‘Girls! Daughters! What is this?’

‘The wretch; the apostate; the false, mean, odious villain; has before my very face proposed to Mercy!’ was his eldest daughter’s answer.

‘Who has proposed to Mercy!’ asked Mr Pecksniff.

‘HE has. That thing, Jonas, downstairs.’

‘Jonas proposed to Mercy?’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Aye, aye! Indeed!’

‘Have you nothing else to say?’ cried Charity. ‘Am I to be driven mad, papa? He has proposed to Mercy, not to me.’

‘Oh, fie! For shame!’ said Mr Pecksniff, gravely. ‘Oh, for shame! Can the triumph of a sister move you to this terrible display, my child? Oh, really this is very sad! I am sorry; I am surprised and hurt to see you so. Mercy, my girl, bless you! See to her. Ah, envy, envy, what a passion you are!’

Uttering this apostrophe in a tone full of grief and lamentation, Mr Pecksniff left the room (taking care to shut the door behind him), and walked downstairs into the parlour. There he found his intended son-in-law, whom he seized by both hands.

‘Jonas!’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘Jonas! the dearest wish of my heart is now fulfilled!’

‘Very well; I’m glad to hear it,’ said Jonas. ‘That’ll do. I say! As it ain’t the one you’re so fond of, you must come down with another thousand, Pecksniff. You must make it up five. It’s worth that, to keep your treasure to yourself, you know. You get off very cheap that way, and haven’t a sacrifice to make.’

The grin with which he accompanied this, set off his other attractions to such unspeakable advantage, that even Mr Pecksniff lost his presence of mind for a moment, and looked at the young man as if he were quite stupefied with wonder and admiration. But he quickly regained his composure, and was in the very act of changing the subject, when a hasty step was heard without, and Tom Pinch, in a state of great excitement, came darting into the room.

On seeing a stranger there, apparently engaged with Mr Pecksniff in private conversation, Tom was very much abashed, though he still looked as if he had something of great importance to communicate, which would be a sufficient apology for his intrusion.

‘Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff, ‘this is hardly decent. You will excuse my saying that I think your conduct scarcely decent, Mr Pinch.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ replied Tom, ‘for not knocking at the door.’

‘Rather beg this gentleman’s pardon, Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff. ‘I know you; he does not.—My young man, Mr Jonas.’

The son-in-law that was to be gave him a slight nod—not actively disdainful or contemptuous, only passively; for he was in a good humour.

‘Could I speak a word with you, sir, if you please?’ said Tom. ‘It’s rather pressing.’

‘It should be very pressing to justify this strange behaviour, Mr Pinch,’ returned his master. ‘Excuse me for one moment, my dear friend. Now, sir, what is the reason of this rough intrusion?’

‘I am very sorry, sir, I am sure,’ said Tom, standing, cap in hand, before his patron in the passage; ‘and I know it must have a very rude appearance—’

‘It HAS a very rude appearance, Mr Pinch.’

‘Yes, I feel that, sir; but the truth is, I was so surprised to see them, and knew you would be too, that I ran home very fast indeed, and really hadn’t enough command over myself to know what I was doing very well. I was in the church just now, sir, touching the organ for my own amusement, when I happened to look round, and saw a gentleman and lady standing in the aisle listening. They seemed to be strangers, sir, as well as I could make out in the dusk; and I thought I didn’t know them; so presently I left off, and said, would they walk up into the organ-loft, or take a seat? No, they said, they wouldn’t do that; but they thanked me for the music they had heard. In fact,’ observed Tom, blushing, ‘they said, “Delicious music!” at least, SHE did; and I am sure that was a greater pleasure and honour to me than any compliment I could have had. I—I—beg your pardon sir;’ he was all in a tremble, and dropped his hat for the second time ‘but I—I’m rather flurried, and I fear I’ve wandered from the point.’

‘If you will come back to it, Thomas,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with an icy look, ‘I shall feel obliged.’

‘Yes, sir,’ returned Tom, ‘certainly. They had a posting carriage at the porch, sir, and had stopped to hear the organ, they said. And then they said—SHE said, I mean, “I believe you live with Mr Pecksniff, sir?” I said I had that honour, and I took the liberty, sir,’ added Tom, raising his eyes to his benefactor’s face, ‘of saying, as I always will and must, with your permission, that I was under great obligations to you, and never could express my sense of them sufficiently.’

‘That,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘was very, very wrong. Take your time, Mr Pinch.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ cried Tom. ‘On that they asked me—she asked, I mean—“Wasn’t there a bridle road to Mr Pecksniff’s house?”’

Mr Pecksniff suddenly became full of interest.

‘“Without going by the Dragon?” When I said there was, and said how happy I should be to show it ‘em, they sent the carriage on by the road, and came with me across the meadows. I left ‘em at the turnstile to run forward and tell you they were coming, and they’ll be here, sir, in—in less than a minute’s time, I should say,’ added Tom, fetching his breath with difficulty.

‘Now, who,’ said Mr Pecksniff, pondering, ‘who may these people be?’

‘Bless my soul, sir!’ cried Tom, ‘I meant to mention that at first, I thought I had. I knew them—her, I mean—directly. The gentleman who was ill at the Dragon, sir, last winter; and the young lady who attended him.’

Tom’s teeth chattered in his head, and he positively staggered with amazement, at witnessing the extraordinary effect produced on Mr Pecksniff by these simple words. The dread of losing the old man’s favour almost as soon as they were reconciled, through the mere fact of having Jonas in the house; the impossibility of dismissing Jonas, or shutting him up, or tying him hand and foot and putting him in the coal-cellar, without offending him beyond recall; the horrible discordance prevailing in the establishment, and the impossibility of reducing it to decent harmony with Charity in loud hysterics, Mercy in the utmost disorder, Jonas in the parlour, and Martin Chuzzlewit and his young charge upon the very doorsteps; the total hopelessness of being able to disguise or feasibly explain this state of rampant confusion; the sudden accumulation over his devoted head of every complicated perplexity and entanglement for his extrication from which he had trusted to time, good fortune, chance, and his own plotting, so filled the entrapped architect with dismay, that if Tom could have been a Gorgon staring at Mr Pecksniff, and Mr Pecksniff could have been a Gorgon staring at Tom, they could not have horrified each other half so much as in their own bewildered persons.

‘Dear, dear!’ cried Tom, ‘what have I done? I hoped it would be a pleasant surprise, sir. I thought you would like to know.’

But at that moment a loud knocking was heard at the hall door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

MORE AMERICAN EXPERIENCES, MARTIN TAKES A PARTNER, AND MAKES A PURCHASE. SOME ACCOUNT OF EDEN, AS IT APPEARED ON PAPER. ALSO OF THE BRITISH LION. ALSO OF THE KIND OF SYMPATHY PROFESSED AND ENTERTAINED BY THE WATERTOAST ASSOCIATION OF UNITED SYMPATHISERS

The knocking at Mr Pecksniff’s door, though loud enough, bore no resemblance whatever to the noise of an American railway train at full speed. It may be well to begin the present chapter with this frank admission, lest the reader should imagine that the sounds now deafening this history’s ears have any connection with the knocker on Mr Pecksniff’s door, or with the great amount of agitation pretty equally divided between that worthy man and Mr Pinch, of which its strong performance was the cause.

Mr Pecksniff’s house is more than a thousand leagues away; and again this happy chronicle has Liberty and Moral Sensibility for its high companions. Again it breathes the blessed air of Independence; again it contemplates with pious awe that moral sense which renders unto Ceasar nothing that is his; again inhales that sacred atmosphere which was the life of him—oh noble patriot, with many followers!—who dreamed of Freedom in a slave’s embrace, and waking sold her offspring and his own in public markets.

How the wheels clank and rattle, and the tram-road shakes, as the train rushes on! And now the engine yells, as it were lashed and tortured like a living labourer, and writhed in agony. A poor fancy; for steel and iron are of infinitely greater account, in this commonwealth, than flesh and blood. If the cunning work of man be urged beyond its power of endurance, it has within it the elements of its own revenge; whereas the wretched mechanism of the Divine Hand is dangerous with no such property, but may be tampered with, and crushed, and broken, at the driver’s pleasure. Look at that engine! It shall cost a man more dollars in the way of penalty and fine, and satisfaction of the outraged law, to deface in wantonness that senseless mass of metal, than to take the lives of twenty human creatures! Thus the stars wink upon the bloody stripes; and Liberty pulls down her cap upon her eyes, and owns Oppression in its vilest aspect, for her sister.

The engine-driver of the train whose noise awoke us to the present chapter was certainly troubled with no such reflections as these; nor is it very probable that his mind was disturbed by any reflections at all. He leaned with folded arms and crossed legs against the side of the carriage, smoking; and, except when he expressed, by a grunt as short as his pipe, his approval of some particularly dexterous aim on the part of his colleague, the fireman, who beguiled his leisure by throwing logs of wood from the tender at the numerous stray cattle on the line, he preserved a composure so immovable, and an indifference so complete, that if the locomotive had been a sucking-pig, he could not have been more perfectly indifferent to its doings. Notwithstanding the tranquil state of this officer, and his unbroken peace of mind, the train was proceeding with tolerable rapidity; and the rails being but poorly laid, the jolts and bumps it met with in its progress were neither slight nor few.

There were three great caravans or cars attached. The ladies’ car, the gentlemen’s car, and the car for negroes; the latter painted black, as an appropriate compliment to its company. Martin and Mark Tapley were in the first, as it was the most comfortable; and, being far from full, received other gentlemen who, like them, were unblessed by the society of ladies of their own. They were seated side by side, and were engaged in earnest conversation.

‘And so, Mark,’ said Martin, looking at him with an anxious expression, ‘and so you are glad we have left New York far behind us, are you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Mark. ‘I am. Precious glad.’

‘Were you not “jolly” there?’ asked Martin.

‘On the contrairy, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘The jolliest week as ever I spent in my life, was that there week at Pawkins’s.’

‘What do you think of our prospects?’ inquired Martin, with an air that plainly said he had avoided the question for some time.

‘Uncommon bright, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘Impossible for a place to have a better name, sir, than the Walley of Eden. No man couldn’t think of settling in a better place than the Walley of Eden. And I’m told,’ added Mark, after a pause, ‘as there’s lots of serpents there, so we shall come out, quite complete and reg’lar.’

So far from dwelling upon this agreeable piece of information with the least dismay, Mark’s face grew radiant as he called it to mind; so very radiant, that a stranger might have supposed he had all his life been yearning for the society of serpents, and now hailed with delight the approaching consummation of his fondest wishes.

‘Who told you that?’ asked Martin, sternly.

‘A military officer,’ said Mark.

‘Confound you for a ridiculous fellow!’ cried Martin, laughing heartily in spite of himself. ‘What military officer? You know they spring up in every field.’

‘As thick as scarecrows in England, sir,’ interposed Mark, ‘which is a sort of milita themselves, being entirely coat and wescoat, with a stick inside. Ha, ha!—Don’t mind me, sir; it’s my way sometimes. I can’t help being jolly. Why it was one of them inwading conquerors at Pawkins’s, as told me. “Am I rightly informed,” he says—not exactly through his nose, but as if he’d got a stoppage in it, very high up—“that you’re a-going to the Walley of Eden?” “I heard some talk on it,” I told him. “Oh!” says he, “if you should ever happen to go to bed there—you MAY, you know,” he says, “in course of time as civilisation progresses—don’t forget to take a axe with you.” I looks at him tolerable hard. “Fleas?” says I. “And more,” says he. “Wampires?” says I. “And more,” says he. “Musquitoes, perhaps?” says I. “And more,” says he. “What more?” says I. “Snakes more,” says he; “rattle-snakes. You’re right to a certain extent, stranger. There air some catawampous chawers in the small way too, as graze upon a human pretty strong; but don’t mind THEM—they’re company. It’s snakes,” he says, “as you’ll object to; and whenever you wake and see one in a upright poster on your bed,” he says, “like a corkscrew with the handle off a-sittin’ on its bottom ring, cut him down, for he means wenom.”’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before!’ cried Martin, with an expression of face which set off the cheerfulness of Mark’s visage to great advantage.

‘I never thought on it, sir,’ said Mark. ‘It come in at one ear, and went out at the other. But Lord love us, he was one of another Company, I dare say, and only made up the story that we might go to his Eden, and not the opposition one.’

‘There’s some probability in that,’ observed Martin. ‘I can honestly say that I hope so, with all my heart.’

‘I’ve not a doubt about it, sir,’ returned Mark, who, full of the inspiriting influence of the anecodote upon himself, had for the moment forgotten its probable effect upon his master; ‘anyhow, we must live, you know, sir.’

‘Live!’ cried Martin. ‘Yes, it’s easy to say live; but if we should happen not to wake when rattlesnakes are making corkscrews of themselves upon our beds, it may be not so easy to do it.’

‘And that’s a fact,’ said a voice so close in his ear that it tickled him. ‘That’s dreadful true.’

Martin looked round, and found that a gentleman, on the seat behind, had thrust his head between himself and Mark, and sat with his chin resting on the back rail of their little bench, entertaining himself with their conversation. He was as languid and listless in his looks as most of the gentlemen they had seen; his cheeks were so hollow that he seemed to be always sucking them in; and the sun had burnt him, not a wholesome red or brown, but dirty yellow. He had bright dark eyes, which he kept half closed; only peeping out of the corners, and even then with a glance that seemed to say, ‘Now you won’t overreach me; you want to, but you won’t.’ His arms rested carelessly on his knees as he leant forward; in the palm of his left hand, as English rustics have their slice of cheese, he had a cake of tobacco; in his right a penknife. He struck into the dialogue with as little reserve as if he had been specially called in, days before, to hear the arguments on both sides, and favour them with his opinion; and he no more contemplated or cared for the possibility of their not desiring the honour of his acquaintance or interference in their private affairs than if he had been a bear or a buffalo.

‘That,’ he repeated, nodding condescendingly to Martin, as to an outer barbarian and foreigner, ‘is dreadful true. Darn all manner of vermin.’

Martin could not help frowning for a moment, as if he were disposed to insinuate that the gentleman had unconsciously ‘darned’ himself. But remembering the wisdom of doing at Rome as Romans do, he smiled with the pleasantest expression he could assume upon so short a notice.

Their new friend said no more just then, being busily employed in cutting a quid or plug from his cake of tobacco, and whistling softly to himself the while. When he had shaped it to his liking, he took out his old plug, and deposited the same on the back of the seat between Mark and Martin, while he thrust the new one into the hollow of his cheek, where it looked like a large walnut, or tolerable pippin. Finding it quite satisfactory, he stuck the point of his knife into the old plug, and holding it out for their inspection, remarked with the air of a man who had not lived in vain, that it was ‘used up considerable.’ Then he tossed it away; put his knife into one pocket and his tobacco into another; rested his chin upon the rail as before; and approving of the pattern on Martin’s waistcoat, reached out his hand to feel the texture of that garment.

‘What do you call this now?’ he asked.

‘Upon my word’ said Martin, ‘I don’t know what it’s called.’

‘It’ll cost a dollar or more a yard, I reckon?’

‘I really don’t know.’

‘In my country,’ said the gentleman, ‘we know the cost of our own pro-duce.’

Martin not discussing the question, there was a pause.

‘Well!’ resumed their new friend, after staring at them intently during the whole interval of silence; ‘how’s the unnat’ral old parent by this time?’

Mr Tapley regarding this inquiry as only another version of the impertinent English question, ‘How’s your mother?’ would have resented it instantly, but for Martin’s prompt interposition.

‘You mean the old country?’ he said.

‘Ah!’ was the reply. ‘How’s she? Progressing back’ards, I expect, as usual? Well! How’s Queen Victoria?’

‘In good health, I believe,’ said Martin.

‘Queen Victoria won’t shake in her royal shoes at all, when she hears to-morrow named,’ observed the stranger, ‘No.’

‘Not that I am aware of. Why should she?’

‘She won’t be taken with a cold chill, when she realises what is being done in these diggings,’ said the stranger. ‘No.’

‘No,’ said Martin. ‘I think I could take my oath of that.’

The strange gentleman looked at him as if in pity for his ignorance or prejudice, and said:

‘Well, sir, I tell you this—there ain’t a engine with its biler bust, in God A’mighty’s free U-nited States, so fixed, and nipped, and frizzled to a most e-tarnal smash, as that young critter, in her luxurious location in the Tower of London will be, when she reads the next double-extra Watertoast Gazette.’

Several other gentlemen had left their seats and gathered round during the foregoing dialogue. They were highly delighted with this speech. One very lank gentleman, in a loose limp white cravat, long white waistcoat, and a black great-coat, who seemed to be in authority among them, felt called upon to acknowledge it.

‘Hem! Mr La Fayette Kettle,’ he said, taking off his hat.

There was a grave murmur of ‘Hush!’

‘Mr La Fayette Kettle! Sir!’

Mr Kettle bowed.

‘In the name of this company, sir, and in the name of our common country, and in the name of that righteous cause of holy sympathy in which we are engaged, I thank you. I thank you, sir, in the name of the Watertoast Sympathisers; and I thank you, sir, in the name of the Watertoast Gazette; and I thank you, sir, in the name of the star-spangled banner of the Great United States, for your eloquent and categorical exposition. And if, sir,’ said the speaker, poking Martin with the handle of his umbrella to bespeak his attention, for he was listening to a whisper from Mark; ‘if, sir, in such a place, and at such a time, I might venture to con-clude with a sentiment, glancing—however slantin’dicularly—at the subject in hand, I would say, sir, may the British Lion have his talons eradicated by the noble bill of the American Eagle, and be taught to play upon the Irish Harp and the Scotch Fiddle that music which is breathed in every empty shell that lies upon the shores of green Co-lumbia!’

Here the lank gentleman sat down again, amidst a great sensation; and every one looked very grave.

‘General Choke,’ said Mr La Fayette Kettle, ‘you warm my heart; sir, you warm my heart. But the British Lion is not unrepresented here, sir; and I should be glad to hear his answer to those remarks.’

‘Upon my word,’ cried Martin, laughing, ‘since you do me the honour to consider me his representative, I have only to say that I never heard of Queen Victoria reading the What’s-his-name Gazette and that I should scarcely think it probable.’

General Choke smiled upon the rest, and said, in patient and benignant explanation:

‘It is sent to her, sir. It is sent to her. Her mail.’

‘But if it is addressed to the Tower of London, it would hardly come to hand, I fear,’ returned Martin; ‘for she don’t live there.’

‘The Queen of England, gentlemen,’ observed Mr Tapley, affecting the greatest politeness, and regarding them with an immovable face, ‘usually lives in the Mint to take care of the money. She HAS lodgings, in virtue of her office, with the Lord Mayor at the Mansion House; but don’t often occupy them, in consequence of the parlour chimney smoking.’

‘Mark,’ said Martin, ‘I shall be very much obliged to you if you’ll have the goodness not to interfere with preposterous statements, however jocose they may appear to you. I was merely remarking gentlemen—though it’s a point of very little import—that the Queen of England does not happen to live in the Tower of London.’

‘General!’ cried Mr La Fayette Kettle. ‘You hear?’

‘General!’ echoed several others. ‘General!’

‘Hush! Pray, silence!’ said General Choke, holding up his hand, and speaking with a patient and complacent benevolence that was quite touching. ‘I have always remarked it as a very extraordinary circumstance, which I impute to the natur’ of British Institutions and their tendency to suppress that popular inquiry and information which air so widely diffused even in the trackless forests of this vast Continent of the Western Ocean; that the knowledge of Britishers themselves on such points is not to be compared with that possessed by our intelligent and locomotive citizens. This is interesting, and confirms my observation. When you say, sir,’ he continued, addressing Martin, ‘that your Queen does not reside in the Tower of London, you fall into an error, not uncommon to your countrymen, even when their abilities and moral elements air such as to command respect. But, sir, you air wrong. She DOES live there—’

‘When she is at the Court of Saint James’s,’ interposed Kettle.

‘When she is at the Court of Saint James’s, of course,’ returned the General, in the same benignant way; ‘for if her location was in Windsor Pavilion it couldn’t be in London at the same time. Your Tower of London, sir,’ pursued the General, smiling with a mild consciousness of his knowledge, ‘is nat’rally your royal residence. Being located in the immediate neighbourhood of your Parks, your Drives, your Triumphant Arches, your Opera, and your Royal Almacks, it nat’rally suggests itself as the place for holding a luxurious and thoughtless court. And, consequently,’ said the General, ‘consequently, the court is held there.’

‘Have you been in England?’ asked Martin.

‘In print I have, sir,’ said the General, ‘not otherwise. We air a reading people here, sir. You will meet with much information among us that will surprise you, sir.’

‘I have not the least doubt of it,’ returned Martin. But here he was interrupted by Mr La Fayette Kettle, who whispered in his ear:

‘You know General Choke?’

‘No,’ returned Martin, in the same tone.

‘You know what he is considered?’

‘One of the most remarkable men in the country?’ said Martin, at a venture.

‘That’s a fact,’ rejoined Kettle. ‘I was sure you must have heard of him!’

‘I think,’ said Martin, addressing himself to the General again, ‘that I have the pleasure of being the bearer of a letter of introduction to you, sir. From Mr Bevan, of Massachusetts,’ he added, giving it to him.

The General took it and read it attentively; now and then stopping to glance at the two strangers. When he had finished the note, he came over to Martin, sat down by him, and shook hands.

‘Well!’ he said, ‘and you think of settling in Eden?’

‘Subject to your opinion, and the agent’s advice,’ replied Martin. ‘I am told there is nothing to be done in the old towns.’

‘I can introduce you to the agent, sir,’ said the General. ‘I know him. In fact, I am a member of the Eden Land Corporation myself.’

This was serious news to Martin, for his friend had laid great stress upon the General’s having no connection, as he thought, with any land company, and therefore being likely to give him disinterested advice. The General explained that he had joined the Corporation only a few weeks ago, and that no communication had passed between himself and Mr Bevan since.

‘We have very little to venture,’ said Martin anxiously—‘only a few pounds—but it is our all. Now, do you think that for one of my profession, this would be a speculation with any hope or chance in it?’

‘Well,’ observed the General, gravely, ‘if there wasn’t any hope or chance in the speculation, it wouldn’t have engaged my dollars, I opinionate.’

‘I don’t mean for the sellers,’ said Martin. ‘For the buyers—for the buyers!’

‘For the buyers, sir?’ observed the General, in a most impressive manner. ‘Well! you come from an old country; from a country, sir, that has piled up golden calves as high as Babel, and worshipped ‘em for ages. We are a new country, sir; man is in a more primeval state here, sir; we have not the excuse of having lapsed in the slow course of time into degenerate practices; we have no false gods; man, sir, here, is man in all his dignity. We fought for that or nothing. Here am I, sir,’ said the General, setting up his umbrella to represent himself, and a villanous-looking umbrella it was; a very bad counter to stand for the sterling coin of his benevolence, ‘here am I with grey hairs sir, and a moral sense. Would I, with my principles, invest capital in this speculation if I didn’t think it full of hopes and chances for my brother man?’

Martin tried to look convinced, but he thought of New York, and found it difficult.

‘What are the Great United States for, sir,’ pursued the General ‘if not for the regeneration of man? But it is nat’ral in you to make such an enquerry, for you come from England, and you do not know my country.’

‘Then you think,’ said Martin, ‘that allowing for the hardships we are prepared to undergo, there is a reasonable—Heaven knows we don’t expect much—a reasonable opening in this place?’

‘A reasonable opening in Eden, sir! But see the agent, see the agent; see the maps and plans, sir; and conclude to go or stay, according to the natur’ of the settlement. Eden hadn’t need to go a-begging yet, sir,’ remarked the General.

‘It is an awful lovely place, sure-ly. And frightful wholesome, likewise!’ said Mr Kettle, who had made himself a party to this conversation as a matter of course.

Martin felt that to dispute such testimony, for no better reason than because he had his secret misgivings on the subject, would be ungentlemanly and indecent. So he thanked the General for his promise to put him in personal communication with the agent; and ‘concluded’ to see that officer next morning. He then begged the General to inform him who the Watertoast Sympathisers were, of whom he had spoken in addressing Mr La Fayette Kettle, and on what grievances they bestowed their Sympathy. To which the General, looking very serious, made answer, that he might fully enlighten himself on those points to-morrow by attending a Great Meeting of the Body, which would then be held at the town to which they were travelling; ‘over which, sir,’ said the General, ‘my fellow-citizens have called on me to preside.’

They came to their journey’s end late in the evening. Close to the railway was an immense white edifice, like an ugly hospital, on which was painted ‘NATIONAL HOTEL.’ There was a wooden gallery or verandah in front, in which it was rather startling, when the train stopped, to behold a great many pairs of boots and shoes, and the smoke of a great many cigars, but no other evidences of human habitation. By slow degrees, however, some heads and shoulders appeared, and connecting themselves with the boots and shoes, led to the discovery that certain gentlemen boarders, who had a fancy for putting their heels where the gentlemen boarders in other countries usually put their heads, were enjoying themselves after their own manner in the cool of the evening.

There was a great bar-room in this hotel, and a great public room in which the general table was being set out for supper. There were interminable whitewashed staircases, long whitewashed galleries upstairs and downstairs, scores of little whitewashed bedrooms, and a four-sided verandah to every story in the house, which formed a large brick square with an uncomfortable courtyard in the centre, where some clothes were drying. Here and there, some yawning gentlemen lounged up and down with their hands in their pockets; but within the house and without, wherever half a dozen people were collected together, there, in their looks, dress, morals, manners, habits, intellect, and conversation, were Mr Jefferson Brick, Colonel Diver, Major Pawkins, General Choke, and Mr La Fayette Kettle, over, and over, and over again. They did the same things; said the same things; judged all subjects by, and reduced all subjects to, the same standard. Observing how they lived, and how they were always in the enchanting company of each other, Martin even began to comprehend their being the social, cheerful, winning, airy men they were.

At the sounding of a dismal gong, this pleasant company went trooping down from all parts of the house to the public room; while from the neighbouring stores other guests came flocking in, in shoals; for half the town, married folks as well as single, resided at the National Hotel. Tea, coffee, dried meats, tongue, ham, pickles, cake, toast, preserves, and bread and butter, were swallowed with the usual ravaging speed; and then, as before, the company dropped off by degrees, and lounged away to the desk, the counter, or the bar-room. The ladies had a smaller ordinary of their own, to which their husbands and brothers were admitted if they chose; and in all other respects they enjoyed themselves as at Pawkins’s.

‘Now, Mark, my good fellow, said Martin, closing the door of his little chamber, ‘we must hold a solemn council, for our fate is decided to-morrow morning. You are determined to invest these savings of yours in the common stock, are you?’

‘If I hadn’t been determined to make that wentur, sir,’ answered Mr Tapley, ‘I shouldn’t have come.’

‘How much is there here, did you say’ asked Martin, holding up a little bag.

‘Thirty-seven pound ten and sixpence. The Savings’ Bank said so at least. I never counted it. But THEY know, bless you!’ said Mark, with a shake of the head expressive of his unbounded confidence in the wisdom and arithmetic of those Institutions.

‘The money we brought with us,’ said Martin, ‘is reduced to a few shillings less than eight pounds.’

Mr Tapley smiled, and looked all manner of ways, that he might not be supposed to attach any importance to this fact.

‘Upon the ring—HER ring, Mark,’ said Martin, looking ruefully at his empty finger—

‘Ah!’ sighed Mr Tapley. ‘Beg your pardon, sir.’

‘—We raised, in English money, fourteen pounds. So, even with that, your share of the stock is still very much the larger of the two you see. Now, Mark,’ said Martin, in his old way, just as he might have spoken to Tom Pinch, ‘I have thought of a means of making this up to you—more than making it up to you, I hope—and very materially elevating your prospects in life.’

‘Oh! don’t talk of that, you know, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘I don’t want no elevating, sir. I’m all right enough, sir, I am.’

‘No, but hear me,’ said Martin, ‘because this is very important to you, and a great satisfaction to me. Mark, you shall be a partner in the business; an equal partner with myself. I will put in, as my additional capital, my professional knowledge and ability; and half the annual profits, as long as it is carried on, shall be yours.’

Poor Martin! For ever building castles in the air. For ever, in his very selfishness, forgetful of all but his own teeming hopes and sanguine plans. Swelling, at that instant, with the consciousness of patronizing and most munificently rewarding Mark!

‘I don’t know, sir,’ Mark rejoined, much more sadly than his custom was, though from a very different cause than Martin supposed, ‘what I can say to this, in the way of thanking you. I’ll stand by you, sir, to the best of my ability, and to the last. That’s all.’

‘We quite understand each other, my good fellow,’ said Martin rising in self-approval and condescension. ‘We are no longer master and servant, but friends and partners; and are mutually gratified. If we determine on Eden, the business shall be commenced as soon as we get there. Under the name,’ said Martin, who never hammered upon an idea that wasn’t red hot, ‘under the name of Chuzzlewit and Tapley.’

‘Lord love you, sir,’ cried Mark, ‘don’t have my name in it. I ain’t acquainted with the business, sir. I must be Co., I must. I’ve often thought,’ he added, in a low voice, ‘as I should like to know a Co.; but I little thought as ever I should live to be one.’

‘You shall have your own way, Mark.’

‘Thank’ee, sir. If any country gentleman thereabouts, in the public way, or otherwise, wanted such a thing as a skittle-ground made, I could take that part of the bis’ness, sir.’

‘Against any architect in the States,’ said Martin. ‘Get a couple of sherry-cobblers, Mark, and we’ll drink success to the firm.’

Either he forgot already (and often afterwards), that they were no longer master and servant, or considered this kind of duty to be among the legitimate functions of the Co. But Mark obeyed with his usual alacrity; and before they parted for the night, it was agreed between them that they should go together to the agent’s in the morning, but that Martin should decide the Eden question, on his own sound judgment. And Mark made no merit, even to himself in his jollity, of this concession; perfectly well knowing that the matter would come to that in the end, any way.

The General was one of the party at the public table next day, and after breakfast suggested that they should wait upon the agent without loss of time. They, desiring nothing more, agreed; so off they all four started for the office of the Eden Settlement, which was almost within rifle-shot of the National Hotel.

It was a small place—something like a turnpike. But a great deal of land may be got into a dice-box, and why may not a whole territory be bargained for in a shed? It was but a temporary office too; for the Edeners were ‘going’ to build a superb establishment for the transaction of their business, and had already got so far as to mark out the site. Which is a great way in America. The office-door was wide open, and in the doorway was the agent; no doubt a tremendous fellow to get through his work, for he seemed to have no arrears, but was swinging backwards and forwards in a rocking-chair, with one of his legs planted high up against the door-post, and the other doubled up under him, as if he were hatching his foot.

He was a gaunt man in a huge straw hat, and a coat of green stuff. The weather being hot, he had no cravat, and wore his shirt collar wide open; so that every time he spoke something was seen to twitch and jerk up in his throat, like the little hammers in a harpsichord when the notes are struck. Perhaps it was the Truth feebly endeavouring to leap to his lips. If so, it never reached them.

Two grey eyes lurked deep within this agent’s head, but one of them had no sight in it, and stood stock still. With that side of his face he seemed to listen to what the other side was doing. Thus each profile had a distinct expression; and when the movable side was most in action, the rigid one was in its coldest state of watchfulness. It was like turning the man inside out, to pass to that view of his features in his liveliest mood, and see how calculating and intent they were.

Each long black hair upon his head hung down as straight as any plummet line; but rumpled tufts were on the arches of his eyes, as if the crow whose foot was deeply printed in the corners had pecked and torn them in a savage recognition of his kindred nature as a bird of prey.

Such was the man whom they now approached, and whom the General saluted by the name of Scadder.

‘Well, Gen’ral,’ he returned, ‘and how are you?’

‘Ac-tive and spry, sir, in my country’s service and the sympathetic cause. Two gentlemen on business, Mr Scadder.’

He shook hands with each of them—nothing is done in America without shaking hands—then went on rocking.

‘I think I know what bis’ness you have brought these strangers here upon, then, Gen’ral?’

‘Well, sir. I expect you may.’

‘You air a tongue-y person, Gen’ral. For you talk too much, and that’s fact,’ said Scadder. ‘You speak a-larming well in public, but you didn’t ought to go ahead so fast in private. Now!’

‘If I can realise your meaning, ride me on a rail!’ returned the General, after pausing for consideration.

‘You know we didn’t wish to sell the lots off right away to any loafer as might bid,’ said Scadder; ‘but had con-cluded to reserve ‘em for Aristocrats of Natur’. Yes!’

‘And they are here, sir!’ cried the General with warmth. ‘They are here, sir!’

‘If they air here,’ returned the agent, in reproachful accents, ‘that’s enough. But you didn’t ought to have your dander ris with ME, Gen’ral.’

The General whispered Martin that Scadder was the honestest fellow in the world, and that he wouldn’t have given him offence designedly, for ten thousand dollars.

‘I do my duty; and I raise the dander of my feller critters, as I wish to serve,’ said Scadder in a low voice, looking down the road and rocking still. ‘They rile up rough, along of my objecting to their selling Eden off too cheap. That’s human natur’! Well!’

‘Mr Scadder,’ said the General, assuming his oratorical deportment. ‘Sir! Here is my hand, and here my heart. I esteem you, sir, and ask your pardon. These gentlemen air friends of mine, or I would not have brought ‘em here, sir, being well aware, sir, that the lots at present go entirely too cheap. But these air friends, sir; these air partick’ler friends.’

Mr Scadder was so satisfied by this explanation, that he shook the General warmly by the hand, and got out of the rocking-chair to do it. He then invited the General’s particular friends to accompany him into the office. As to the General, he observed, with his usual benevolence, that being one of the company, he wouldn’t interfere in the transaction on any account; so he appropriated the rocking-chair to himself, and looked at the prospect, like a good Samaritan waiting for a traveller.

‘Heyday!’ cried Martin, as his eye rested on a great plan which occupied one whole side of the office. Indeed, the office had little else in it, but some geological and botanical specimens, one or two rusty ledgers, a homely desk, and a stool. ‘Heyday! what’s that?’

‘That’s Eden,’ said Scadder, picking his teeth with a sort of young bayonet that flew out of his knife when he touched a spring.

‘Why, I had no idea it was a city.’

‘Hadn’t you? Oh, it’s a city.’

A flourishing city, too! An architectural city! There were banks, churches, cathedrals, market-places, factories, hotels, stores, mansions, wharves; an exchange, a theatre; public buildings of all kinds, down to the office of the Eden Stinger, a daily journal; all faithfully depicted in the view before them.

‘Dear me! It’s really a most important place!’ cried Martin turning round.

‘Oh! it’s very important,’ observed the agent.

‘But, I am afraid,’ said Martin, glancing again at the Public Buildings, ‘that there’s nothing left for me to do.’

‘Well! it ain’t all built,’ replied the agent. ‘Not quite.’

This was a great relief.

‘The market-place, now,’ said Martin. ‘Is that built?’

‘That?’ said the agent, sticking his toothpick into the weathercock on the top. ‘Let me see. No; that ain’t built.’

‘Rather a good job to begin with—eh, Mark?’ whispered Martin nudging him with his elbow.

Mark, who, with a very stolid countenance had been eyeing the plan and the agent by turns, merely rejoined ‘Uncommon!’

A dead silence ensued, Mr Scadder in some short recesses or vacations of his toothpick, whistled a few bars of Yankee Doodle, and blew the dust off the roof of the Theatre.

‘I suppose,’ said Martin, feigning to look more narrowly at the plan, but showing by his tremulous voice how much depended, in his mind, upon the answer; ‘I suppose there are—several architects there?’

‘There ain’t a single one,’ said Scadder.

‘Mark,’ whispered Martin, pulling him by the sleeve, ‘do you hear that? But whose work is all this before us, then?’ he asked aloud.

‘The soil being very fruitful, public buildings grows spontaneous, perhaps,’ said Mark.

He was on the agent’s dark side as he said it; but Scadder instantly changed his place, and brought his active eye to bear upon him.

‘Feel of my hands, young man,’ he said.

‘What for?’ asked Mark, declining.

‘Air they dirty, or air they clean, sir?’ said Scadder, holding them out.

In a physical point of view they were decidedly dirty. But it being obvious that Mr Scadder offered them for examination in a figurative sense, as emblems of his moral character, Martin hastened to pronounce them pure as the driven snow.

‘I entreat, Mark,’ he said, with some irritation, ‘that you will not obtrude remarks of that nature, which, however harmless and well-intentioned, are quite out of place, and cannot be expected to be very agreeable to strangers. I am quite surprised.’

‘The Co.’s a-putting his foot in it already,’ thought Mark. ‘He must be a sleeping partner—fast asleep and snoring—Co. must; I see.’

Mr Scadder said nothing, but he set his back against the plan, and thrust his toothpick into the desk some twenty times; looking at Mark all the while as if he were stabbing him in effigy.

‘You haven’t said whose work it is,’ Martin ventured to observe at length, in a tone of mild propitiation.

‘Well, never mind whose work it is, or isn’t,’ said the agent sulkily. ‘No matter how it did eventuate. P’raps he cleared off, handsome, with a heap of dollars; p’raps he wasn’t worth a cent. P’raps he was a loafin’ rowdy; p’raps a ring-tailed roarer. Now!’

‘All your doing, Mark!’ said Martin.

‘P’raps,’ pursued the agent, ‘them ain’t plants of Eden’s raising. No! P’raps that desk and stool ain’t made from Eden lumber. No! P’raps no end of squatters ain’t gone out there. No! P’raps there ain’t no such location in the territoary of the Great U-nited States. Oh, no!’

‘I hope you’re satisfied with the success of your joke, Mark,’ said Martin.

But here, at a most opportune and happy time, the General interposed, and called out to Scadder from the doorway to give his friends the particulars of that little lot of fifty acres with the house upon it; which, having belonged to the company formerly, had lately lapsed again into their hands.

‘You air a deal too open-handed, Gen’ral,’ was the answer. ‘It is a lot as should be rose in price. It is.’

He grumblingly opened his books notwithstanding, and always keeping his bright side towards Mark, no matter at what amount of inconvenience to himself, displayed a certain leaf for their perusal. Martin read it greedily, and then inquired:

‘Now where upon the plan may this place be?’

‘Upon the plan?’ said Scadder.

‘Yes.’

He turned towards it, and reflected for a short time, as if, having been put upon his mettle, he was resolved to be particular to the very minutest hair’s breadth of a shade. At length, after wheeling his toothpick slowly round and round in the air, as if it were a carrier pigeon just thrown up, he suddenly made a dart at the drawing, and pierced the very centre of the main wharf, through and through.

‘There!’ he said, leaving his knife quivering in the wall; ‘that’s where it is!’

Martin glanced with sparkling eyes upon his Co., and his Co. saw that the thing was done.

The bargain was not concluded as easily as might have been expected though, for Scadder was caustic and ill-humoured, and cast much unnecessary opposition in the way; at one time requesting them to think of it, and call again in a week or a fortnight; at another, predicting that they wouldn’t like it; at another, offering to retract and let them off, and muttering strong imprecations upon the folly of the General. But the whole of the astoundingly small sum total of purchase-money—it was only one hundred and fifty dollars, or something more than thirty pounds of the capital brought by Co. into the architectural concern—was ultimately paid down; and Martin’s head was two inches nearer the roof of the little wooden office, with the consciousness of being a landed proprietor in the thriving city of Eden.

‘If it shouldn’t happen to fit,’ said Scadder, as he gave Martin the necessary credentials on recepit of his money, ‘don’t blame me.’

‘No, no,’ he replied merrily. ‘We’ll not blame you. General, are you going?’

‘I am at your service, sir; and I wish you,’ said the General, giving him his hand with grave cordiality, ‘joy of your po-ssession. You air now, sir, a denizen of the most powerful and highly-civilised dominion that has ever graced the world; a do-minion, sir, where man is bound to man in one vast bond of equal love and truth. May you, sir, be worthy of your a-dopted country!’

Martin thanked him, and took leave of Mr Scadder; who had resumed his post in the rocking-chair, immediately on the General’s rising from it, and was once more swinging away as if he had never been disturbed. Mark looked back several times as they went down the road towards the National Hotel, but now his blighted profile was towards them, and nothing but attentive thoughtfulness was written on it. Strangely different to the other side! He was not a man much given to laughing, and never laughed outright; but every line in the print of the crow’s foot, and every little wiry vein in that division of his head, was wrinkled up into a grin! The compound figure of Death and the Lady at the top of the old ballad was not divided with a greater nicety, and hadn’t halves more monstrously unlike each other, than the two profiles of Zephaniah Scadder.

The General posted along at a great rate, for the clock was on the stroke of twelve; and at that hour precisely, the Great Meeting of the Watertoast Sympathisers was to be holden in the public room of the National Hotel. Being very curious to witness the demonstration, and know what it was all about, Martin kept close to the General; and, keeping closer than ever when they entered the Hall, got by that means upon a little platform of tables at the upper end; where an armchair was set for the General, and Mr La Fayette Kettle, as secretary, was making a great display of some foolscap documents. Screamers, no doubt.

‘Well, sir!’ he said, as he shook hands with Martin, ‘here is a spectacle calc’lated to make the British Lion put his tail between his legs, and howl with anguish, I expect!’

Martin certainly thought it possible that the British Lion might have been rather out of his element in that Ark; but he kept the idea to himself. The General was then voted to the chair, on the motion of a pallid lad of the Jefferson Brick school; who forthwith set in for a high-spiced speech, with a good deal about hearths and homes in it, and unriveting the chains of Tyranny.

Oh but it was a clincher for the British Lion, it was! The indignation of the glowing young Columbian knew no bounds. If he could only have been one of his own forefathers, he said, wouldn’t he have peppered that same Lion, and been to him as another Brute Tamer with a wire whip, teaching him lessons not easily forgotten. ‘Lion! (cried that young Columbian) where is he? Who is he? What is he? Show him to me. Let me have him here. Here!’ said the young Columbian, in a wrestling attitude, ‘upon this sacred altar. Here!’ cried the young Columbian, idealising the dining-table, ‘upon ancestral ashes, cemented with the glorious blood poured out like water on our native plains of Chickabiddy Lick! Bring forth that Lion!’ said the young Columbian. ‘Alone, I dare him! I taunt that Lion. I tell that Lion, that Freedom’s hand once twisted in his mane, he rolls a corse before me, and the Eagles of the Great Republic laugh ha, ha!’

When it was found that the Lion didn’t come, but kept out of the way; that the young Columbian stood there, with folded arms, alone in his glory; and consequently that the Eagles were no doubt laughing wildly on the mountain tops; such cheers arose as might have shaken the hands upon the Horse-Guards’ clock, and changed the very mean time of the day in England’s capital.

‘Who is this?’ Martin telegraphed to La Fayette.

The Secretary wrote something, very gravely, on a piece of paper, twisted it up, and had it passed to him from hand to hand. It was an improvement on the old sentiment: ‘Perhaps as remarkable a man as any in our country.’

This young Columbian was succeeded by another, to the full as eloquent as he, who drew down storms of cheers. But both remarkable youths, in their great excitement (for your true poetry can never stoop to details), forgot to say with whom or what the Watertoasters sympathized, and likewise why or wherefore they were sympathetic. Thus Martin remained for a long time as completely in the dark as ever; until at length a ray of light broke in upon him through the medium of the Secretary, who, by reading the minutes of their past proceedings, made the matter somewhat clearer. He then learned that the Watertoast Association sympathized with a certain Public Man in Ireland, who held a contest upon certain points with England; and that they did so, because they didn’t love England at all—not by any means because they loved Ireland much; being indeed horribly jealous and distrustful of its people always, and only tolerating them because of their working hard, which made them very useful; labour being held in greater indignity in the simple republic than in any other country upon earth. This rendered Martin curious to see what grounds of sympathy the Watertoast Association put forth; nor was he long in suspense, for the General rose to read a letter to the Public Man, which with his own hands he had written.

‘Thus,’ said the General, ‘thus, my friends and fellow-citizens, it runs:

‘“SIR—I address you on behalf of the Watertoast Association of United Sympathisers. It is founded, sir, in the great republic of America! and now holds its breath, and swells the blue veins in its forehead nigh to bursting, as it watches, sir, with feverish intensity and sympathetic ardour, your noble efforts in the cause of Freedom.”’

At the name of Freedom, and at every repetition of that name, all the Sympathisers roared aloud; cheering with nine times nine, and nine times over.

‘“In Freedom’s name, sir—holy Freedom—I address you. In Freedom’s name, I send herewith a contribution to the funds of your society. In Freedom’s name, sir, I advert with indignation and disgust to that accursed animal, with gore-stained whiskers, whose rampant cruelty and fiery lust have ever been a scourge, a torment to the world. The naked visitors to Crusoe’s Island, sir; the flying wives of Peter Wilkins; the fruit-smeared children of the tangled bush; nay, even the men of large stature, anciently bred in the mining districts of Cornwall; alike bear witness to its savage nature. Where, sir, are the Cormorans, the Blunderbores, the Great Feefofums, named in History? All, all, exterminated by its destroying hand.

‘“I allude, sir, to the British Lion.

‘“Devoted, mind and body, heart and soul, to Freedom, sir—to Freedom, blessed solace to the snail upon the cellar-door, the oyster in his pearly bed, the still mite in his home of cheese, the very winkle of your country in his shelly lair—in her unsullied name, we offer you our sympathy. Oh, sir, in this our cherished and our happy land, her fires burn bright and clear and smokeless; once lighted up in yours, the lion shall be roasted whole.

‘“I am, sir, in Freedom’s name,

‘“Your affectionate friend and faithful Sympathiser,

‘“CYRUS CHOKE,

‘“General, U.S.M.”’

It happened that just as the General began to read this letter, the railroad train arrived, bringing a new mail from England; and a packet had been handed in to the Secretary, which during its perusal and the frequent cheerings in homage to freedom, he had opened. Now, its contents disturbed him very much, and the moment the General sat down, he hurried to his side, and placed in his hand a letter and several printed extracts from English newspapers; to which, in a state of infinite excitement, he called his immediate attention.

The General, being greatly heated by his own composition, was in a fit state to receive any inflammable influence; but he had no sooner possessed himself of the contents of these documents, than a change came over his face, involving such a huge amount of choler and passion, that the noisy concourse were silent in a moment, in very wonder at the sight of him.

‘My friends!’ cried the General, rising; ‘my friends and fellow citizens, we have been mistaken in this man.’

‘In what man?’ was the cry.

‘In this,’ panted the General, holding up the letter he had read aloud a few minutes before. ‘I find that he has been, and is, the advocate—consistent in it always too—of Nigger emancipation!’

If anything beneath the sky be real, those Sons of Freedom would have pistolled, stabbed—in some way slain—that man by coward hands and murderous violence, if he had stood among them at that time. The most confiding of their own countrymen would not have wagered then—no, nor would they ever peril—one dunghill straw, upon the life of any man in such a strait. They tore the letter, cast the fragments in the air, trod down the pieces as they fell; and yelled, and groaned, and hissed, till they could cry no longer.

‘I shall move,’ said the General, when he could make himself heard, ‘that the Watertoast Association of United Sympathisers be immediately dissolved!’

Down with it! Away with it! Don’t hear of it! Burn its records! Pull the room down! Blot it out of human memory!

‘But, my fellow-countrymen!’ said the General, ‘the contributions. We have funds. What is to be done with the funds?’

It was hastily resolved that a piece of plate should be presented to a certain constitutional Judge, who had laid down from the Bench the noble principle that it was lawful for any white mob to murder any black man; and that another piece of plate, of similar value should be presented to a certain Patriot, who had declared from his high place in the Legislature, that he and his friends would hang without trial, any Abolitionist who might pay them a visit. For the surplus, it was agreed that it should be devoted to aiding the enforcement of those free and equal laws, which render it incalculably more criminal and dangerous to teach a negro to read and write than to roast him alive in a public city. These points adjusted, the meeting broke up in great disorder, and there was an end of the Watertoast Sympathy.

As Martin ascended to his bedroom, his eye was attracted by the Republican banner, which had been hoisted from the house-top in honour of the occasion, and was fluttering before a window which he passed.

‘Tut!’ said Martin. ‘You’re a gay flag in the distance. But let a man be near enough to get the light upon the other side and see through you; and you are but sorry fustian!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

FROM WHICH IT WILL BE SEEN THAT MARTIN BECAME A LION OF HIS OWN ACCOUNT. TOGETHER WITH THE REASON WHY

As soon as it was generally known in the National Hotel, that the young Englishman, Mr Chuzzlewit, had purchased a ‘lo-cation’ in the Valley of Eden, and intended to betake himself to that earthly Paradise by the next steamboat, he became a popular character. Why this should be, or how it had come to pass, Martin no more knew than Mrs Gamp, of Kingsgate Street, High Holborn, did; but that he was for the time being the lion, by popular election, of the Watertoast community, and that his society was in rather inconvenient request there could be no kind of doubt.

The first notification he received of this change in his position, was the following epistle, written in a thin running hand—with here and there a fat letter or two, to make the general effect more striking—on a sheet of paper, ruled with blue lines.

‘NATIONAL HOTEL,

‘MONDAY MORNING.

‘Dear Sir—‘When I had the privillidge of being your fellow-traveller in the cars, the day before yesterday, you offered some remarks upon the subject of the tower of London, which (in common with my fellow-citizens generally) I could wish to hear repeated to a public audience.

‘As secretary to the Young Men’s Watertoast Association of this town, I am requested to inform you that the Society will be proud to hear you deliver a lecture upon the Tower of London, at their Hall to-morrow evening, at seven o’clock; and as a large issue of quarter-dollar tickets may be expected, your answer and consent by bearer will be considered obliging.

‘Dear Sir,

‘Yours truly,

‘LA FAYETTE KETTLE.

‘The Honourable M. Chuzzlewit.

‘P.S.—The Society would not be particular in limiting you to the Tower of London. Permit me to suggest that any remarks upon the Elements of Geology, or (if more convenient) upon the Writings of your talented and witty countryman, the honourable Mr Miller, would be well received.’

Very much aghast at this invitation, Martin wrote back, civilly declining it; and had scarcely done so, when he received another letter.

‘No. 47, Bunker Hill Street,

‘Monday Morning.

‘(Private).

‘Sir—I was raised in those interminable solitudes where our mighty Mississippi (or Father of Waters) rolls his turbid flood.

‘I am young, and ardent. For there is a poetry in wildness, and every alligator basking in the slime is in himself an Epic, self-contained. I aspirate for fame. It is my yearning and my thirst.

‘Are you, sir, aware of any member of Congress in England, who would undertake to pay my expenses to that country, and for six months after my arrival?

‘There is something within me which gives me the assurance that this enlightened patronage would not be thrown away. In literature or art; the bar, the pulpit, or the stage; in one or other, if not all, I feel that I am certain to succeed.

‘If too much engaged to write to any such yourself, please let me have a list of three or four of those most likely to respond, and I will address them through the Post Office. May I also ask you to favour me with any critical observations that have ever presented themselves to your reflective faculties, on “Cain, a Mystery,” by the Right Honourable Lord Byron?

‘I am, Sir,

‘Yours (forgive me if I add, soaringly),

‘PUTNAM SMIF

‘P.S.—Address your answer to America Junior, Messrs. Hancock & Floby, Dry Goods Store, as above.’

Both of which letters, together with Martin’s reply to each, were, according to a laudable custom, much tending to the promotion of gentlemanly feeling and social confidence, published in the next number of the Watertoast Gazette.

He had scarcely got through this correspondence when Captain Kedgick, the landlord, kindly came upstairs to see how he was getting on. The Captain sat down upon the bed before he spoke; and finding it rather hard, moved to the pillow.

‘Well, sir!’ said the Captain, putting his hat a little more on one side, for it was rather tight in the crown: ‘You’re quite a public man I calc’late.’

‘So it seems,’ retorted Martin, who was very tired.

‘Our citizens, sir,’ pursued the Captain, ‘intend to pay their respects to you. You will have to hold a sort of le-vee, sir, while you’re here.’

‘Powers above!’ cried Martin, ‘I couldn’t do that, my good fellow!’

‘I reckon you MUST then,’ said the Captain.

‘Must is not a pleasant word, Captain,’ urged Martin.

‘Well! I didn’t fix the mother language, and I can’t unfix it,’ said the Captain coolly; ‘else I’d make it pleasant. You must re-ceive. That’s all.’

‘But why should I receive people who care as much for me as I care for them?’ asked Martin.

‘Well! because I have had a muniment put up in the bar,’ returned the Captain.

‘A what?’ cried Martin.

‘A muniment,’ rejoined the Captain.

Martin looked despairingly at Mark, who informed him that the Captain meant a written notice that Mr Chuzzlewit would receive the Watertoasters that day, at and after two o’clock which was in effect then hanging in the bar, as Mark, from ocular inspection of the same, could testify.

‘You wouldn’t be unpop’lar, I know,’ said the Captain, paring his nails. ‘Our citizens an’t long of riling up, I tell you; and our Gazette could flay you like a wild cat.’

Martin was going to be very wroth, but he thought better of it, and said:

‘In Heaven’s name let them come, then.’

‘Oh, THEY’ll come,’ returned the Captain. ‘I have seen the big room fixed a’purpose, with my eyes.’

‘But will you,’ said Martin, seeing that the Captain was about to go; ‘will you at least tell me this? What do they want to see me for? what have I done? and how do they happen to have such a sudden interest in me?’

Captain Kedgick put a thumb and three fingers to each side of the brim of his hat; lifted it a little way off his head; put it on again carefully; passed one hand all down his face, beginning at the forehead and ending at the chin; looked at Martin; then at Mark; then at Martin again; winked, and walked out.

‘Upon my life, now!’ said Martin, bringing his hand heavily upon the table; ‘such a perfectly unaccountable fellow as that, I never saw. Mark, what do you say to this?’

‘Why, sir,’ returned his partner, ‘my opinion is that we must have got to the MOST remarkable man in the country at last. So I hope there’s an end to the breed, sir.’

Although this made Martin laugh, it couldn’t keep off two o’clock. Punctually, as the hour struck, Captain Kedgick returned to hand him to the room of state; and he had no sooner got him safe there, than he bawled down the staircase to his fellow-citizens below, that Mr Chuzzlewit was ‘receiving.’

Up they came with a rush. Up they came until the room was full, and, through the open door, a dismal perspective of more to come, was shown upon the stairs. One after another, one after another, dozen after dozen, score after score, more, more, more, up they came; all shaking hands with Martin. Such varieties of hands, the thick, the thin, the short, the long, the fat, the lean, the coarse, the fine; such differences of temperature, the hot, the cold, the dry, the moist, the flabby; such diversities of grasp, the tight, the loose, the short-lived, and the lingering! Still up, up, up, more, more, more; and ever and anon the Captain’s voice was heard above the crowd—‘There’s more below! there’s more below. Now, gentlemen you that have been introduced to Mr Chuzzlewit, will you clear gentlemen? Will you clear? Will you be so good as clear, gentlemen, and make a little room for more?’

Regardless of the Captain’s cries, they didn’t clear at all, but stood there, bolt upright and staring. Two gentlemen connected with the Watertoast Gazette had come express to get the matter for an article on Martin. They had agreed to divide the labour. One of them took him below the waistcoat. One above. Each stood directly in front of his subject with his head a little on one side, intent on his department. If Martin put one boot before the other, the lower gentleman was down upon him; he rubbed a pimple on his nose, and the upper gentleman booked it. He opened his mouth to speak, and the same gentleman was on one knee before him, looking in at his teeth, with the nice scrutiny of a dentist. Amateurs in the physiognomical and phrenological sciences roved about him with watchful eyes and itching fingers, and sometimes one, more daring than the rest, made a mad grasp at the back of his head, and vanished in the crowd. They had him in all points of view: in front, in profile, three-quarter face, and behind. Those who were not professional or scientific, audibly exchanged opinions on his looks. New lights shone in upon him, in respect of his nose. Contradictory rumours were abroad on the subject of his hair. And still the Captain’s voice was heard—so stifled by the concourse, that he seemed to speak from underneath a feather-bed—exclaiming—‘Gentlemen, you that have been introduced to Mr Chuzzlewit, WILL you clear?’

Even when they began to clear it was no better; for then a stream of gentlemen, every one with a lady on each arm (exactly like the chorus to the National Anthem when Royalty goes in state to the play), came gliding in—every new group fresher than the last, and bent on staying to the latest moment. If they spoke to him, which was not often, they invariably asked the same questions, in the same tone; with no more remorse, or delicacy, or consideration, than if he had been a figure of stone, purchased, and paid for, and set up there for their delight. Even when, in the slow course of time, these died off, it was as bad as ever, if not worse; for then the boys grew bold, and came in as a class of themselves, and did everything that the grown-up people had done. Uncouth stragglers, too, appeared; men of a ghostly kind, who being in, didn’t know how to get out again; insomuch that one silent gentleman with glazed and fishy eyes and only one button on his waistcoat (which was a very large metal one, and shone prodigiously), got behind the door, and stood there, like a clock, long after everybody else was gone.

Martin felt, from pure fatigue, and heat, and worry, as if he could have fallen on the ground and willingly remained there, if they would but have had the mercy to leave him alone. But as letters and messages, threatening his public denouncement if he didn’t see the senders, poured in like hail; and as more visitors came while he took his coffee by himself; and as Mark, with all his vigilance, was unable to keep them from the door; he resolved to go to bed—not that he felt at all sure of bed being any protection, but that he might not leave a forlorn hope untried.

He had communicated this design to Mark, and was on the eve of escaping, when the door was thrown open in a great hurry, and an elderly gentleman entered; bringing with him a lady who certainly could not be considered young—that was matter of fact; and probably could not be considered handsome—but that was matter of opinion. She was very straight, very tall, and not at all flexible in face or figure. On her head she wore a great straw bonnet, with trimmings of the same, in which she looked as if she had been thatched by an unskillful labourer; and in her hand she held a most enormous fan.

‘Mr Chuzzlewit, I believe?’ said the gentleman.

‘That is my name.’

‘Sir,’ said the gentleman, ‘I am pressed for time.’

‘Thank God!’ thought Martin.

‘I go back Toe my home, sir,’ pursued the gentleman, ‘by the return train, which starts immediate. Start is not a word you use in your country, sir.’

‘Oh yes, it is,’ said Martin.

‘You air mistaken, sir,’ returned the gentleman, with great decision: ‘but we will not pursue the subject, lest it should awake your preju—dice. Sir, Mrs Hominy.’

Martin bowed.

‘Mrs Hominy, sir, is the lady of Major Hominy, one of our chicest spirits; and belongs Toe one of our most aristocratic families. You air, p’raps, acquainted, sir, with Mrs Hominy’s writings.’

Martin couldn’t say he was.

‘You have much Toe learn, and Toe enjoy, sir,’ said the gentleman. ‘Mrs Hominy is going Toe stay until the end of the Fall, sir, with her married daughter at the settlement of New Thermopylae, three days this side of Eden. Any attention, sir, that you can show Toe Mrs Hominy upon the journey, will be very grateful Toe the Major and our fellow-citizens. Mrs Hominy, I wish you good night, ma’am, and a pleasant pro-gress on your route!’

Martin could scarcely believe it; but he had gone, and Mrs Hominy was drinking the milk.

‘A’most used-up I am, I do declare!’ she observed. ‘The jolting in the cars is pretty nigh as bad as if the rail was full of snags and sawyers.’

‘Snags and sawyers, ma’am?’ said Martin.

‘Well, then, I do suppose you’ll hardly realise my meaning, sir,’ said Mrs Hominy. ‘My! Only think! DO tell!’

It did not appear that these expressions, although they seemed to conclude with an urgent entreaty, stood in need of any answer; for Mrs Hominy, untying her bonnet-strings, observed that she would withdraw to lay that article of dress aside, and would return immediately.

‘Mark!’ said Martin. ‘Touch me, will you. Am I awake?’

‘Hominy is, sir,’ returned his partner—‘Broad awake! Just the sort of woman, sir, as would be discovered with her eyes wide open, and her mind a-working for her country’s good, at any hour of the day or night.’

They had no opportunity of saying more, for Mrs Hominy stalked in again—very erect, in proof of her aristocratic blood; and holding in her clasped hands a red cotton pocket-handkerchief, perhaps a parting gift from that choice spirit, the Major. She had laid aside her bonnet, and now appeared in a highly aristocratic and classical cap, meeting beneath her chin: a style of headdress so admirably adapted to her countenance, that if the late Mr Grimaldi had appeared in the lappets of Mrs Siddons, a more complete effect could not have been produced.

Martin handed her to a chair. Her first words arrested him before he could get back to his own seat.

‘Pray, sir!’ said Mrs Hominy, ‘where do you hail from?’

‘I am afraid I am dull of comprehension,’ answered Martin, ‘being extremely tired; but upon my word I don’t understand you.’

Mrs Hominy shook her head with a melancholy smile that said, not inexpressively, ‘They corrupt even the language in that old country!’ and added then, as coming down a step or two to meet his low capacity, ‘Where was you rose?’

‘Oh!’ said Martin ‘I was born in Kent.’

‘And how do you like our country, sir?’ asked Mrs Hominy.

‘Very much indeed,’ said Martin, half asleep. ‘At least—that is—pretty well, ma’am.’

‘Most strangers—and partick’larly Britishers—are much surprised by what they see in the U-nited States,’ remarked Mrs Hominy.

‘They have excellent reason to be so, ma’am,’ said Martin. ‘I never was so much surprised in all my life.’

‘Our institutions make our people smart much, sir,’ Mrs Hominy remarked.

‘The most short-sighted man could see that at a glance, with his naked eye,’ said Martin.

Mrs Hominy was a philosopher and an authoress, and consequently had a pretty strong digestion; but this coarse, this indecorous phrase, was almost too much for her. For a gentleman sitting alone with a lady—although the door WAS open—to talk about a naked eye!

A long interval elapsed before even she—woman of masculine and towering intellect though she was—could call up fortitude enough to resume the conversation. But Mrs Hominy was a traveller. Mrs Hominy was a writer of reviews and analytical disquisitions. Mrs Hominy had had her letters from abroad, beginning ‘My ever dearest blank,’ and signed ‘The Mother of the Modern Gracchi’ (meaning the married Miss Hominy), regularly printed in a public journal, with all the indignation in capitals, and all the sarcasm in italics. Mrs Hominy had looked on foreign countries with the eye of a perfect republican hot from the model oven; and Mrs Hominy could talk (or write) about them by the hour together. So Mrs Hominy at last came down on Martin heavily, and as he was fast asleep, she had it all her own way, and bruised him to her heart’s content.

It is no great matter what Mrs Hominy said, save that she had learnt it from the cant of a class, and a large class, of her fellow countrymen, who in their every word, avow themselves to be as senseless to the high principles on which America sprang, a nation, into life, as any Orson in her legislative halls. Who are no more capable of feeling, or of caring if they did feel, that by reducing their own country to the ebb of honest men’s contempt, they put in hazard the rights of nations yet unborn, and very progress of the human race, than are the swine who wallow in their streets. Who think that crying out to other nations, old in their iniquity, ‘We are no worse than you!’ (No worse!) is high defence and ‘vantage-ground enough for that Republic, but yesterday let loose upon her noble course, and but to-day so maimed and lame, so full of sores and ulcers, foul to the eye and almost hopeless to the sense, that her best friends turn from the loathsome creature with disgust. Who, having by their ancestors declared and won their Independence, because they would not bend the knee to certain Public vices and corruptions, and would not abrogate the truth, run riot in the Bad, and turn their backs upon the Good; and lying down contented with the wretched boast that other Temples also are of glass, and stones which batter theirs may be flung back; show themselves, in that alone, as immeasurably behind the import of the trust they hold, and as unworthy to possess it as if the sordid hucksterings of all their little governments—each one a kingdom in its small depravity—were brought into a heap for evidence against them.

Martin by degrees became so far awake, that he had a sense of a terrible oppression on his mind; an imperfect dream that he had murdered a particular friend, and couldn’t get rid of the body. When his eyes opened it was staring him full in the face. There was the horrible Hominy talking deep truths in a melodious snuffle, and pouring forth her mental endowments to such an extent that the Major’s bitterest enemy, hearing her, would have forgiven him from the bottom of his heart. Martin might have done something desperate if the gong had not sounded for supper; but sound it did most opportunely; and having stationed Mrs Hominy at the upper end of the table he took refuge at the lower end himself; whence, after a hasty meal he stole away, while the lady was yet busied with dried beef and a saucer-full of pickled fixings.

It would be difficult to give an adequate idea of Mrs Hominy’s freshness next day, or of the avidity with which she went headlong into moral philosophy at breakfast. Some little additional degree of asperity, perhaps, was visible in her features, but not more than the pickles would have naturally produced. All that day she clung to Martin. She sat beside him while he received his friends (for there was another Reception, yet more numerous than the former), propounded theories, and answered imaginary objections, so that Martin really began to think he must be dreaming, and speaking for two; she quoted interminable passages from certain essays on government, written by herself; used the Major’s pocket-handkerchief as if the snuffle were a temporary malady, of which she was determined to rid herself by some means or other; and, in short, was such a remarkable companion, that Martin quite settled it between himself and his conscience, that in any new settlement it would be absolutely necessary to have such a person knocked on the head for the general peace of society.

In the meantime Mark was busy, from early in the morning until late at night, in getting on board the steamboat such provisions, tools and other necessaries, as they had been forewarned it would be wise to take. The purchase of these things, and the settlement of their bill at the National, reduced their finances to so low an ebb, that if the captain had delayed his departure any longer, they would have been in almost as bad a plight as the unfortunate poorer emigrants, who (seduced on board by solemn advertisement) had been living on the lower deck a whole week, and exhausting their miserable stock of provisions before the voyage commenced. There they were, all huddled together with the engine and the fires. Farmers who had never seen a plough; woodmen who had never used an axe; builders who couldn’t make a box; cast out of their own land, with not a hand to aid them: newly come into an unknown world, children in helplessness, but men in wants—with younger children at their backs, to live or die as it might happen!

The morning came, and they would start at noon. Noon came, and they would start at night. But nothing is eternal in this world; not even the procrastination of an American skipper; and at night all was ready.

Dispirited and weary to the last degree, but a greater lion than ever (he had done nothing all the afternoon but answer letters from strangers; half of them about nothing; half about borrowing money, and all requiring an instantaneous reply), Martin walked down to the wharf, through a concourse of people, with Mrs Hominy upon his arm; and went on board. But Mark was bent on solving the riddle of this lionship, if he could; and so, not without the risk of being left behind, ran back to the hotel.

Captain Kedgick was sitting in the colonnade, with a julep on his knee, and a cigar in his mouth. He caught Mark’s eye, and said:

‘Why, what the ‘Tarnal brings you here?’

‘I’ll tell you plainly what it is, Captain,’ said Mark. ‘I want to ask you a question.’

‘A man may ASK a question, so he may,’ returned Kedgick; strongly implying that another man might not answer a question, so he mightn’t.

‘What have they been making so much of him for, now?’ said Mark, slyly. ‘Come!’

‘Our people like ex-citement,’ answered Kedgick, sucking his cigar.

‘But how has he excited ‘em?’ asked Mark.

The Captain looked at him as if he were half inclined to unburden his mind of a capital joke.

‘You air a-going?’ he said.

‘Going!’ cried Mark. ‘Ain’t every moment precious?’

‘Our people like ex-citement,’ said the Captain, whispering. ‘He ain’t like emigrants in gin’ral; and he excited ‘em along of this;’ he winked and burst into a smothered laugh; ‘along of this. Scadder is a smart man, and—and—nobody as goes to Eden ever comes back alive!’

The wharf was close at hand, and at that instant Mark could hear them shouting out his name; could even hear Martin calling to him to make haste, or they would be separated. It was too late to mend the matter, or put any face upon it but the best. He gave the Captain a parting benediction, and ran off like a race-horse.

‘Mark! Mark!’ cried Martin.

‘Here am I, sir!’ shouted Mark, suddenly replying from the edge of the quay, and leaping at a bound on board. ‘Never was half so jolly, sir. All right. Haul in! Go ahead!’

The sparks from the wood fire streamed upward from the two chimneys, as if the vessel were a great firework just lighted; and they roared away upon the dark water.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

MARTIN AND HIS PARTNER TAKE POSSESSION OF THEIR ESTATE. THE JOYFUL OCCASION INVOLVES SOME FURTHER ACCOUNT OF EDEN

There happened to be on board the steamboat several gentlemen passengers, of the same stamp as Martin’s New York friend Mr Bevan; and in their society he was cheerful and happy. They released him as well as they could from the intellectual entanglements of Mrs Hominy; and exhibited, in all they said and did, so much good sense and high feeling, that he could not like them too well. ‘If this were a republic of Intellect and Worth,’ he said, ‘instead of vapouring and jobbing, they would not want the levers to keep it in motion.’

‘Having good tools, and using bad ones,’ returned Mr Tapley, ‘would look as if they was rather a poor sort of carpenters, sir, wouldn’t it?’

Martin nodded. ‘As if their work were infinitely above their powers and purpose, Mark; and they botched it in consequence.’

‘The best on it is,’ said Mark, ‘that when they do happen to make a decent stroke; such as better workmen, with no such opportunities, make every day of their lives and think nothing of—they begin to sing out so surprising loud. Take notice of my words, sir. If ever the defaulting part of this here country pays its debts—along of finding that not paying ‘em won’t do in a commercial point of view, you see, and is inconvenient in its consequences—they’ll take such a shine out of it, and make such bragging speeches, that a man might suppose no borrowed money had ever been paid afore, since the world was first begun. That’s the way they gammon each other, sir. Bless you, I know ‘em. Take notice of my words, now!’

‘You seem to be growing profoundly sagacious!’ cried Martin, laughing.

‘Whether that is,’ thought Mark, ‘because I’m a day’s journey nearer Eden, and am brightening up afore I die, I can’t say. P’rhaps by the time I get there I shall have growed into a prophet.’

He gave no utterance to these sentiments; but the excessive joviality they inspired within him, and the merriment they brought upon his shining face, were quite enough for Martin. Although he might sometimes profess to make light of his partner’s inexhaustible cheerfulness, and might sometimes, as in the case of Zephaniah Scadder, find him too jocose a commentator, he was always sensible of the effect of his example in rousing him to hopefulness and courage. Whether he were in the humour to profit by it, mattered not a jot. It was contagious, and he could not choose but be affected.

At first they parted with some of their passengers once or twice a day, and took in others to replace them. But by degrees, the towns upon their route became more thinly scattered; and for many hours together they would see no other habitations than the huts of the wood-cutters, where the vessel stopped for fuel. Sky, wood, and water all the livelong day; and heat that blistered everything it touched.

On they toiled through great solitudes, where the trees upon the banks grew thick and close; and floated in the stream; and held up shrivelled arms from out the river’s depths; and slid down from the margin of the land, half growing, half decaying, in the miry water. On through the weary day and melancholy night; beneath the burning sun, and in the mist and vapour of the evening; on, until return appeared impossible, and restoration to their home a miserable dream.

They had now but few people on board, and these few were as flat, as dull, and stagnant, as the vegetation that oppressed their eyes. No sound of cheerfulness or hope was heard; no pleasant talk beguiled the tardy time; no little group made common cause against the full depression of the scene. But that, at certain periods, they swallowed food together from a common trough, it might have been old Charon’s boat, conveying melancholy shades to judgment.

At length they drew near New Thermopylae; where, that same evening, Mrs Hominy would disembark. A gleam of comfort sunk into Martin’s bosom when she told him this. Mark needed none; but he was not displeased.

It was almost night when they came alongside the landing-place. A steep bank with an hotel like a barn on the top of it; a wooden store or two; and a few scattered sheds.

‘You sleep here to-night, and go on in the morning, I suppose, ma’am?’ said Martin.

‘Where should I go on to?’ cried the mother of the modern Gracchi.

‘To New Thermopylae.’

‘My! ain’t I there?’ said Mrs Hominy.

Martin looked for it all round the darkening panorama; but he couldn’t see it, and was obliged to say so.

‘Why that’s it!’ cried Mrs Hominy, pointing to the sheds just mentioned.

‘THAT!’ exclaimed Martin.

‘Ah! that; and work it which way you will, it whips Eden,’ said Mrs Hominy, nodding her head with great expression.

The married Miss Hominy, who had come on board with her husband, gave to this statement her most unqualified support, as did that gentleman also. Martin gratefully declined their invitation to regale himself at their house during the half hour of the vessel’s stay; and having escorted Mrs Hominy and the red pocket-handkerchief (which was still on active service) safely across the gangway, returned in a thoughtful mood to watch the emigrants as they removed their goods ashore.

Mark, as he stood beside him, glanced in his face from time to time; anxious to discover what effect this dialogue had had upon him, and not unwilling that his hopes should be dashed before they reached their destination, so that the blow he feared might be broken in its fall. But saving that he sometimes looked up quickly at the poor erections on the hill, he gave him no clue to what was passing in his mind, until they were again upon their way.

‘Mark,’ he said then, ‘are there really none but ourselves on board this boat who are bound for Eden?’

‘None at all, sir. Most of ‘em, as you know, have stopped short; and the few that are left are going further on. What matters that! More room there for us, sir.’

‘Oh, to be sure!’ said Martin. ‘But I was thinking—’ and there he paused.

‘Yes, sir?’ observed Mark.

‘How odd it was that the people should have arranged to try their fortune at a wretched hole like that, for instance, when there is such a much better, and such a very different kind of place, near at hand, as one may say.’

He spoke in a tone so very different from his usual confidence, and with such an obvious dread of Mark’s reply, that the good-natured fellow was full of pity.

‘Why, you know, sir,’ said Mark, as gently as he could by any means insinuate the observation, ‘we must guard against being too sanguine. There’s no occasion for it, either, because we’re determined to make the best of everything, after we know the worst of it. Ain’t we, sir?’

Martin looked at him, but answered not a word.

‘Even Eden, you know, ain’t all built,’ said Mark.

‘In the name of Heaven, man,’ cried Martin angrily, ‘don’t talk of Eden in the same breath with that place. Are you mad? There—God forgive me!—don’t think harshly of me for my temper!’

After that, he turned away, and walked to and fro upon the deck full two hours. Nor did he speak again, except to say ‘Good night,’ until next day; nor even then upon this subject, but on other topics quite foreign to the purpose.

As they proceeded further on their track, and came more and more towards their journey’s end, the monotonous desolation of the scene increased to that degree, that for any redeeming feature it presented to their eyes, they might have entered, in the body, on the grim domains of Giant Despair. A flat morass, bestrewn with fallen timber; a marsh on which the good growth of the earth seemed to have been wrecked and cast away, that from its decomposing ashes vile and ugly things might rise; where the very trees took the aspect of huge weeds, begotten of the slime from which they sprung, by the hot sun that burnt them up; where fatal maladies, seeking whom they might infect, came forth at night in misty shapes, and creeping out upon the water, hunted them like spectres until day; where even the blessed sun, shining down on festering elements of corruption and disease, became a horror; this was the realm of Hope through which they moved.

At last they stopped. At Eden too. The waters of the Deluge might have left it but a week before; so choked with slime and matted growth was the hideous swamp which bore that name.

There being no depth of water close in shore, they landed from the vessel’s boat, with all their goods beside them. There were a few log-houses visible among the dark trees; the best, a cow-shed or a rude stable; but for the wharves, the market-place, the public buildings—

‘Here comes an Edener,’ said Mark. ‘He’ll get us help to carry these things up. Keep a good heart, sir. Hallo there!’

The man advanced toward them through the thickening gloom, very slowly; leaning on a stick. As he drew nearer, they observed that he was pale and worn, and that his anxious eyes were deeply sunken in his head. His dress of homespun blue hung about him in rags; his feet and head were bare. He sat down on a stump half-way, and beckoned them to come to him. When they complied, he put his hand upon his side as if in pain, and while he fetched his breath stared at them, wondering.

‘Strangers!’ he exclaimed, as soon as he could speak.

‘The very same,’ said Mark. ‘How are you, sir?’

‘I’ve had the fever very bad,’ he answered faintly. ‘I haven’t stood upright these many weeks. Those are your notions I see,’ pointing to their property.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Mark, ‘they are. You couldn’t recommend us some one as would lend a hand to help carry ‘em up to the—to the town, could you, sir?’

‘My eldest son would do it if he could,’ replied the man; ‘but today he has his chill upon him, and is lying wrapped up in the blankets. My youngest died last week.’

‘I’m sorry for it, governor, with all my heart,’ said Mark, shaking him by the hand. ‘Don’t mind us. Come along with me, and I’ll give you an arm back. The goods is safe enough, sir’—to Martin—‘there ain’t many people about, to make away with ‘em. What a comfort that is!’

‘No,’ cried the man. ‘You must look for such folk here,’ knocking his stick upon the ground, ‘or yonder in the bush, towards the north. We’ve buried most of ‘em. The rest have gone away. Them that we have here, don’t come out at night.’

‘The night air ain’t quite wholesome, I suppose?’ said Mark.

‘It’s deadly poison,’ was the settler’s answer.

Mark showed no more uneasiness than if it had been commended to him as ambrosia; but he gave the man his arm, and as they went along explained to him the nature of their purchase, and inquired where it lay. Close to his own log-house, he said; so close that he had used their dwelling as a store-house for some corn; they must excuse it that night, but he would endeavour to get it taken out upon the morrow. He then gave them to understand, as an additional scrap of local chit-chat, that he had buried the last proprietor with his own hands; a piece of information which Mark also received without the least abatement of his equanimity.

In a word, he conducted them to a miserable cabin, rudely constructed of the trunks of trees; the door of which had either fallen down or been carried away long ago; and which was consequently open to the wild landscape and the dark night. Saving for the little store he had mentioned, it was perfectly bare of all furniture; but they had left a chest upon the landing-place, and he gave them a rude torch in lieu of candle. This latter acquisition Mark planted in the earth, and then declaring that the mansion ‘looked quite comfortable,’ hurried Martin off again to help bring up the chest. And all the way to the landing-place and back, Mark talked incessantly; as if he would infuse into his partner’s breast some faint belief that they had arrived under the most auspicious and cheerful of all imaginable circumstances.

But many a man who would have stood within a home dismantled, strong in his passion and design of vengeance, has had the firmness of his nature conquered by the razing of an air-built castle. When the log-hut received them for the second time, Martin laid down upon the ground, and wept aloud.

‘Lord love you, sir!’ cried Mr Tapley, in great terror; ‘Don’t do that! Don’t do that, sir! Anything but that! It never helped man, woman, or child, over the lowest fence yet, sir, and it never will. Besides its being of no use to you, it’s worse than of no use to me, for the least sound of it will knock me flat down. I can’t stand up agin it, sir. Anything but that!’

There is no doubt he spoke the truth, for the extraordinary alarm with which he looked at Martin as he paused upon his knees before the chest, in the act of unlocking it, to say these words, sufficiently confirmed him.

‘I ask your forgiveness a thousand times, my dear fellow,’ said Martin. ‘I couldn’t have helped it, if death had been the penalty.’

‘Ask my forgiveness!’ said Mark, with his accustomed cheerfulness, as he proceeded to unpack the chest. ‘The head partner a-asking forgiveness of Co., eh? There must be something wrong in the firm when that happens. I must have the books inspected and the accounts gone over immediate. Here we are. Everything in its proper place. Here’s the salt pork. Here’s the biscuit. Here’s the whiskey. Uncommon good it smells too. Here’s the tin pot. This tin pot’s a small fortun’ in itself! Here’s the blankets. Here’s the axe. Who says we ain’t got a first-rate fit out? I feel as if I was a cadet gone out to Indy, and my noble father was chairman of the Board of Directors. Now, when I’ve got some water from the stream afore the door and mixed the grog,’ cried Mark, running out to suit the action to the word, ‘there’s a supper ready, comprising every delicacy of the season. Here we are, sir, all complete. For what we are going to receive, et cetrer. Lord bless you, sir, it’s very like a gipsy party!’

It was impossible not to take heart, in the company of such a man as this. Martin sat upon the ground beside the box; took out his knife; and ate and drank sturdily.

‘Now you see,’ said Mark, when they had made a hearty meal; ‘with your knife and mine, I sticks this blanket right afore the door. Or where, in a state of high civilization, the door would be. And very neat it looks. Then I stops the aperture below, by putting the chest agin it. And very neat THAT looks. Then there’s your blanket, sir. Then here’s mine. And what’s to hinder our passing a good night?’

For all his light-hearted speaking, it was long before he slept himself. He wrapped his blanket round him, put the axe ready to his hand, and lay across the threshold of the door; too anxious and too watchful to close his eyes. The novelty of their dreary situation, the dread of some rapacious animal or human enemy, the terrible uncertainty of their means of subsistence, the apprehension of death, the immense distance and the hosts of obstacles between themselves and England, were fruitful sources of disquiet in the deep silence of the night. Though Martin would have had him think otherwise, Mark felt that he was waking also, and a prey to the same reflections. This was almost worse than all, for if he began to brood over their miseries instead of trying to make head against them there could be little doubt that such a state of mind would powerfully assist the influence of the pestilent climate. Never had the light of day been half so welcome to his eyes, as when awaking from a fitful doze, Mark saw it shining through the blanket in the doorway.

He stole out gently, for his companion was sleeping now; and having refreshed himself by washing in the river, where it snowed before the door, took a rough survey of the settlement. There were not above a score of cabins in the whole; half of these appeared untenanted; all were rotten and decayed. The most tottering, abject, and forlorn among them was called, with great propriety, the Bank, and National Credit Office. It had some feeble props about it, but was settling deep down in the mud, past all recovery.

Here and there an effort had been made to clear the land, and something like a field had been marked out, where, among the stumps and ashes of burnt trees, a scanty crop of Indian corn was growing. In some quarters, a snake or zigzag fence had been begun, but in no instance had it been completed; and the felled logs, half hidden in the soil, lay mouldering away. Three or four meagre dogs, wasted and vexed with hunger; some long-legged pigs, wandering away into the woods in search of food; some children, nearly naked, gazing at him from the huts; were all the living things he saw. A fetid vapour, hot and sickening as the breath of an oven, rose up from the earth, and hung on everything around; and as his foot-prints sunk into the marshy ground, a black ooze started forth to blot them out.

Their own land was mere forest. The trees had grown so think and close that they shouldered one another out of their places, and the weakest, forced into shapes of strange distortion, languished like cripples. The best were stunted, from the pressure and the want of room; and high about the stems of all grew long rank grass, dank weeds, and frowsy underwood; not divisible into their separate kinds, but tangled all together in a heap; a jungle deep and dark, with neither earth nor water at its roots, but putrid matter, formed of the pulpy offal of the two, and of their own corruption.

He went down to the landing-place where they had left their goods last night; and there he found some half-dozen men—wan and forlorn to look at, but ready enough to assist—who helped him to carry them to the log-house. They shook their heads in speaking of the settlement, and had no comfort to give him. Those who had the means of going away had all deserted it. They who were left had lost their wives, their children, friends, or brothers there, and suffered much themselves. Most of them were ill then; none were the men they had been once. They frankly offered their assistance and advice, and, leaving him for that time, went sadly off upon their several tasks.

Martin was by this time stirring; but he had greatly changed, even in one night. He was very pale and languid; he spoke of pains and weakness in his limbs, and complained that his sight was dim, and his voice feeble. Increasing in his own briskness as the prospect grew more and more dismal, Mark brought away a door from one of the deserted houses, and fitted it to their own habitation; then went back again for a rude bench he had observed, with which he presently returned in triumph; and having put this piece of furniture outside the house, arranged the notable tin pot and other such movables upon it, that it might represent a dresser or a sideboard. Greatly satisfied with this arrangement, he next rolled their cask of flour into the house and set it up on end in one corner, where it served for a side-table. No better dining-table could be required than the chest, which he solemnly devoted to that useful service thenceforth. Their blankets, clothes, and the like, he hung on pegs and nails. And lastly, he brought forth a great placard (which Martin in the exultation of his heart had prepared with his own hands at the National Hotel) bearing the inscription, CHUZZLEWIT & CO., ARCHITECTS AND SURVEYORS, which he displayed upon the most conspicuous part of the premises, with as much gravity as if the thriving city of Eden had a real existence, and they expected to be overwhelmed with business.

‘These here tools,’ said Mark, bringing forward Martin’s case of instruments and sticking the compasses upright in a stump before the door, ‘shall be set out in the open air to show that we come provided. And now, if any gentleman wants a house built, he’d better give his orders, afore we’re other ways bespoke.’

Considering the intense heat of the weather, this was not a bad morning’s work; but without pausing for a moment, though he was streaming at every pore, Mark vanished into the house again, and presently reappeared with a hatchet; intent on performing some impossibilities with that implement.

‘Here’s ugly old tree in the way, sir,’ he observed, ‘which’ll be all the better down. We can build the oven in the afternoon. There never was such a handy spot for clay as Eden is. That’s convenient, anyhow.’

But Martin gave him no answer. He had sat the whole time with his head upon his hands, gazing at the current as it rolled swiftly by; thinking, perhaps, how fast it moved towards the open sea, the high road to the home he never would behold again.

Not even the vigorous strokes which Mark dealt at the tree awoke him from his mournful meditation. Finding all his endeavours to rouse him of no use, Mark stopped in his work and came towards him.

‘Don’t give in, sir,’ said Mr Tapley.

‘Oh, Mark,’ returned his friend, ‘what have I done in all my life that has deserved this heavy fate?’

‘Why, sir,’ returned Mark, ‘for the matter of that, everybody as is here might say the same thing; many of ‘em with better reason p’raps than you or me. Hold up, sir. Do something. Couldn’t you ease your mind, now, don’t you think, by making some personal obserwations in a letter to Scadder?’

‘No,’ said Martin, shaking his head sorrowfully: ‘I am past that.’

‘But if you’re past that already,’ returned Mark, ‘you must be ill, and ought to be attended to.’

‘Don’t mind me,’ said Martin. ‘Do the best you can for yourself. You’ll soon have only yourself to consider. And then God speed you home, and forgive me for bringing you here! I am destined to die in this place. I felt it the instant I set foot upon the shore. Sleeping or waking, Mark, I dreamed it all last night.’

‘I said you must be ill,’ returned Mark, tenderly, ‘and now I’m sure of it. A touch of fever and ague caught on these rivers, I dare say; but bless you, THAT’S nothing. It’s only a seasoning, and we must all be seasoned, one way or another. That’s religion that is, you know,’ said Mark.

He only sighed and shook his head.

‘Wait half a minute,’ said Mark cheerily, ‘till I run up to one of our neighbours and ask what’s best to be took, and borrow a little of it to give you; and to-morrow you’ll find yourself as strong as ever again. I won’t be gone a minute. Don’t give in while I’m away, whatever you do!’

Throwing down his hatchet, he sped away immediately, but stopped when he had got a little distance, and looked back; then hurried on again.

‘Now, Mr Tapley,’ said Mark, giving himself a tremendous blow in the chest by way of reviver, ‘just you attend to what I’ve got to say. Things is looking about as bad as they CAN look, young man. You’ll not have such another opportunity for showing your jolly disposition, my fine fellow, as long as you live. And therefore, Tapley, Now’s your time to come out strong; or Never!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

REPORTS PROGRESS IN CERTAIN HOMELY MATTERS OF LOVE, HATRED, JEALOUSY, AND REVENGE

‘Hallo, Pecksniff!’ cried Mr Jonas from the parlour. ‘Isn’t somebody a-going to open that precious old door of yours?’

‘Immediately, Mr Jonas. Immediately.’

‘Ecod,’ muttered the orphan, ‘not before it’s time neither. Whoever it is, has knocked three times, and each one loud enough to wake the—’ he had such a repugnance to the idea of waking the Dead, that he stopped even then with the words upon his tongue, and said, instead, ‘the Seven Sleepers.’

‘Immediately, Mr Jonas; immediately,’ repeated Pecksniff. ‘Thomas Pinch’—he couldn’t make up his mind, in his great agitation, whether to call Tom his dear friend or a villain, so he shook his fist at him PRO TEM—‘go up to my daughters’ room, and tell them who is here. Say, Silence. Silence! Do you hear me, sir?

‘Directly, sir!’ cried Tom, departing, in a state of much amazement, on his errand.

‘You’ll—ha, ha, ha!—you’ll excuse me, Mr Jonas, if I close this door a moment, will you?’ said Pecksniff. ‘This may be a professional call. Indeed I am pretty sure it is. Thank you.’ Then Mr Pecksniff, gently warbling a rustic stave, put on his garden hat, seized a spade, and opened the street door; calmly appearing on the threshold, as if he thought he had, from his vineyard, heard a modest rap, but was not quite certain.

Seeing a gentleman and lady before him, he started back in as much confusion as a good man with a crystal conscience might betray in mere surprise. Recognition came upon him the next moment, and he cried:

‘Mr Chuzzlewit! Can I believe my eyes! My dear sir; my good sir! A joyful hour, a happy hour indeed. Pray, my dear sir, walk in. You find me in my garden-dress. You will excuse it, I know. It is an ancient pursuit, gardening. Primitive, my dear sir. Or, if I am not mistaken, Adam was the first of our calling. MY Eve, I grieve to say is no more, sir; but’—here he pointed to his spade, and shook his head as if he were not cheerful without an effort—‘but I do a little bit of Adam still.’

He had by this time got them into the best parlour, where the portrait by Spiller, and the bust by Spoker, were.

‘My daughters,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘will be overjoyed. If I could feel weary upon such a theme, I should have been worn out long ago, my dear sir, by their constant anticipation of this happiness and their repeated allusions to our meeting at Mrs Todgers’s. Their fair young friend, too,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘whom they so desire to know and love—indeed to know her, is to love—I hope I see her well. I hope in saying, “Welcome to my humble roof!” I find some echo in her own sentiments. If features are an index to the heart, I have no fears of that. An extremely engaging expression of countenance, Mr Chuzzlewit, my dear sir—very much so!’

‘Mary,’ said the old man, ‘Mr Pecksniff flatters you. But flattery from him is worth the having. He is not a dealer in it, and it comes from his heart. We thought Mr—’

‘Pinch,’ said Mary.

‘Mr Pinch would have arrived before us, Pecksniff.’

‘He did arrive before you, my dear sir,’ retorted Pecksniff, raising his voice for the edification of Tom upon the stairs, ‘and was about, I dare say, to tell me of your coming, when I begged him first to knock at my daughters’ chamber, and inquire after Charity, my dear child, who is not so well as I could wish. No,’ said Mr Pecksniff, answering their looks, ‘I am sorry to say, she is not. It is merely an hysterical affection; nothing more, I am not uneasy. Mr Pinch! Thomas!’ exclaimed Pecksniff, in his kindest accents. ‘Pray come in. I shall make no stranger of you. Thomas is a friend of mine, of rather long-standing, Mr Chuzzlewit, you must know.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Tom. ‘You introduce me very kindly, and speak of me in terms of which I am very proud.’

‘Old Thomas!’ cried his master, pleasantly ‘God bless you!’

Tom reported that the young ladies would appear directly, and that the best refreshments which the house afforded were even then in preparation, under their joint superintendence. While he was speaking, the old man looked at him intently, though with less harshness than was common to him; nor did the mutual embarrassment of Tom and the young lady, to whatever cause he attributed it, seem to escape his observation.

‘Pecksniff,’ he said after a pause, rising and taking him aside towards the window, ‘I was much shocked on hearing of my brother’s death. We had been strangers for many years. My only comfort is that he must have lived the happier and better man for having associated no hopes or schemes with me. Peace to his memory! We were play-fellows once; and it would have been better for us both if we had died then.’

Finding him in this gentle mood, Mr Pecksniff began to see another way out of his difficulties, besides the casting overboard of Jonas.

‘That any man, my dear sir, could possibly be the happier for not knowing you,’ he returned, ‘you will excuse my doubting. But that Mr Anthony, in the evening of his life, was happier in the affection of his excellent son—a pattern, my dear sir, a pattern to all sons—and in the care of a distant relation who, however lowly in his means of serving him, had no bounds to his inclination; I can inform you.’

‘How’s this?’ said the old man. ‘You are not a legatee?’

‘You don’t,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a melancholy pressure of his hand, ‘quite understand my nature yet, I find. No, sir, I am not a legatee. I am proud to say I am not a legatee. I am proud to say that neither of my children is a legatee. And yet, sir, I was with him at his own request. HE understood me somewhat better, sir. He wrote and said, “I am sick. I am sinking. Come to me!” I went to him. I sat beside his bed, sir, and I stood beside his grave. Yes, at the risk of offending even you, I did it, sir. Though the avowal should lead to our instant separation, and to the severing of those tender ties between us which have recently been formed, I make it. But I am not a legatee,’ said Mr Pecksniff, smiling dispassionately; ‘and I never expected to be a legatee. I knew better!’

‘His son a pattern!’ cried old Martin. ‘How can you tell me that? My brother had in his wealth the usual doom of wealth, and root of misery. He carried his corrupting influence with him, go where he would; and shed it round him, even on his hearth. It made of his own child a greedy expectant, who measured every day and hour the lessening distance between his father and the grave, and cursed his tardy progress on that dismal road.’

‘No!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, boldly. ‘Not at all, sir!’

‘But I saw that shadow in his house,’ said Martin Chuzzlewit, ‘the last time we met, and warned him of its presence. I know it when I see it, do I not? I, who have lived within it all these years!’

‘I deny it,’ Mr Pecksniff answered, warmly. ‘I deny it altogether. That bereaved young man is now in this house, sir, seeking in change of scene the peace of mind he has lost. Shall I be backward in doing justice to that young man, when even undertakers and coffin-makers have been moved by the conduct he has exhibited; when even mutes have spoken in his praise, and the medical man hasn’t known what to do with himself in the excitement of his feelings! There is a person of the name of Gamp, sir—Mrs Gamp—ask her. She saw Mr Jonas in a trying time. Ask HER, sir. She is respectable, but not sentimental, and will state the fact. A line addressed to Mrs Gamp, at the Bird Shop, Kingsgate Street, High Holborn, London, will meet with every attention, I have no doubt. Let her be examined, my good sir. Strike, but hear! Leap, Mr Chuzzlewit, but look! Forgive me, my dear sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, taking both his hands, ‘if I am warm; but I am honest, and must state the truth.’

In proof of the character he gave himself, Mr Pecksniff suffered tears of honesty to ooze out of his eyes.

The old man gazed at him for a moment with a look of wonder, repeating to himself, ‘Here now! In this house!’ But he mastered his surprise, and said, after a pause:

‘Let me see him.’

‘In a friendly spirit, I hope?’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Forgive me, sir but he is in the receipt of my humble hospitality.’

‘I said,’ replied the old man, ‘let me see him. If I were disposed to regard him in any other than a friendly spirit, I should have said keep us apart.’

‘Certainly, my dear sir. So you would. You are frankness itself, I know. I will break this happiness to him,’ said Mr Pecksniff, as he left the room, ‘if you will excuse me for a minute—gently.’

He paved the way to the disclosure so very gently, that a quarter of an hour elapsed before he returned with Mr Jonas. In the meantime the young ladies had made their appearance, and the table had been set out for the refreshment of the travellers.

Now, however well Mr Pecksniff, in his morality, had taught Jonas the lesson of dutiful behaviour to his uncle, and however perfectly Jonas, in the cunning of his nature, had learnt it, that young man’s bearing, when presented to his father’s brother, was anything but manly or engaging. Perhaps, indeed, so singular a mixture of defiance and obsequiousness, of fear and hardihood, of dogged sullenness and an attempt at enraging and propitiation, never was expressed in any one human figure as in that of Jonas, when, having raised his downcast eyes to Martin’s face, he let them fall again, and uneasily closing and unclosing his hands without a moment’s intermission, stood swinging himself from side to side, waiting to be addressed.

‘Nephew,’ said the old man. ‘You have been a dutiful son, I hear.’

‘As dutiful as sons in general, I suppose,’ returned Jonas, looking up and down once more. ‘I don’t brag to have been any better than other sons; but I haven’t been any worse, I dare say.’

‘A pattern to all sons, I am told,’ said the old man, glancing towards Mr Pecksniff.

‘Ecod!’ said Jonas, looking up again for a moment, and shaking his head, ‘I’ve been as good a son as ever you were a brother. It’s the pot and the kettle, if you come to that.’

‘You speak bitterly, in the violence of your regret,’ said Martin, after a pause. ‘Give me your hand.’

Jonas did so, and was almost at his ease. ‘Pecksniff,’ he whispered, as they drew their chairs about the table; ‘I gave him as good as he brought, eh? He had better look at home, before he looks out of window, I think?’

Mr Pecksniff only answered by a nudge of the elbow, which might either be construed into an indignant remonstrance or a cordial assent; but which, in any case, was an emphatic admonition to his chosen son-in-law to be silent. He then proceeded to do the honours of the house with his accustomed ease and amiability.

But not even Mr Pecksniff’s guileless merriment could set such a party at their ease, or reconcile materials so utterly discordant and conflicting as those with which he had to deal. The unspeakable jealously and hatred which that night’s explanation had sown in Charity’s breast, was not to be so easily kept down; and more than once it showed itself in such intensity, as seemed to render a full disclosure of all the circumstances then and there, impossible to be avoided. The beauteous Merry, too, with all the glory of her conquest fresh upon her, so probed and lanced the rankling disappointment of her sister by her capricious airs and thousand little trials of Mr Jonas’s obedience, that she almost goaded her into a fit of madness, and obliged her to retire from table in a burst of passion, hardly less vehement than that to which she had abandoned herself in the first tumult of her wrath. The constraint imposed upon the family by the presence among them for the first time of Mary Graham (for by that name old Martin Chuzzlewit had introduced her) did not at all improve this state of things; gentle and quiet though her manner was. Mr Pecksniff’s situation was peculiarly trying; for, what with having constantly to keep the peace between his daughters; to maintain a reasonable show of affection and unity in his household; to curb the growing ease and gaiety of Jonas, which vented itself in sundry insolences towards Mr Pinch, and an indefinable coarseness of manner in reference to Mary (they being the two dependants); to make no mention at all of his having perpetually to conciliate his rich old relative, and to smooth down, or explain away, some of the ten thousand bad appearances and combinations of bad appearances, by which they were surrounded on that unlucky evening—what with having to do this, and it would be difficult to sum up how much more, without the least relief or assistance from anybody, it may be easily imagined that Mr Pecksniff had in his enjoyment something more than that usual portion of alloy which is mixed up with the best of men’s delights. Perhaps he had never in his life felt such relief as when old Martin, looking at his watch, announced that it was time to go.

‘We have rooms,’ he said, ‘at the Dragon, for the present. I have a fancy for the evening walk. The nights are dark just now; perhaps Mr Pinch would not object to light us home?’

‘My dear sir!’ cried Pecksniff, ‘I shall be delighted. Merry, my child, the lantern.’

‘The lantern, if you please, my dear,’ said Martin; ‘but I couldn’t think of taking your father out of doors to-night; and, to be brief, I won’t.’

Mr Pecksniff already had his hat in his hand, but it was so emphatically said that he paused.

‘I take Mr Pinch, or go alone,’ said Martin. ‘Which shall it be?’

‘It shall be Thomas, sir,’ cried Pecksniff, ‘since you are so resolute upon it. Thomas, my friend, be very careful, if you please.’

Tom was in some need of this injunction, for he felt so nervous, and trembled to such a degree, that he found it difficult to hold the lantern. How much more difficult when, at the old man’s bidding she drew her hand through his—Tom Pinch’s—arm!

‘And so, Mr Pinch,’ said Martin, on the way, ‘you are very comfortably situated here; are you?’

Tom answered, with even more than his usual enthusiasm, that he was under obligations to Mr Pecksniff which the devotion of a lifetime would but imperfectly repay.

‘How long have you known my nephew?’ asked Martin.

‘Your nephew, sir?’ faltered Tom.

‘Mr Jonas Chuzzlewit,’ said Mary.

‘Oh dear, yes,’ cried Tom, greatly relieved, for his mind was running upon Martin. ‘Certainly. I never spoke to him before to-night, sir!’

‘Perhaps half a lifetime will suffice for the acknowledgment of HIS kindness,’ observed the old man.

Tom felt that this was a rebuff for him, and could not but understand it as a left-handed hit at his employer. So he was silent. Mary felt that Mr Pinch was not remarkable for presence of mind, and that he could not say too little under existing circumstances. So SHE was silent. The old man, disgusted by what in his suspicious nature he considered a shameless and fulsome puff of Mr Pecksniff, which was a part of Tom’s hired service and in which he was determined to persevere, set him down at once for a deceitful, servile, miserable fawner. So HE was silent. And though they were all sufficiently uncomfortable, it is fair to say that Martin was perhaps the most so; for he had felt kindly towards Tom at first, and had been interested by his seeming simplicity.

‘You’re like the rest,’ he thought, glancing at the face of the unconscious Tom. ‘You had nearly imposed upon me, but you have lost your labour. You are too zealous a toad-eater, and betray yourself, Mr Pinch.’

During the whole remainder of the walk, not another word was spoken. First among the meetings to which Tom had long looked forward with a beating heart, it was memorable for nothing but embarrassment and confusion. They parted at the Dragon door; and sighing as he extinguished the candle in the lantern, Tom turned back again over the gloomy fields.

As he approached the first stile, which was in a lonely part, made very dark by a plantation of young firs, a man slipped past him and went on before. Coming to the stile he stopped, and took his seat upon it. Tom was rather startled, and for a moment stood still, but he stepped forward again immediately, and went close up to him.

It was Jonas; swinging his legs to and fro, sucking the head of a stick, and looking with a sneer at Tom.

‘Good gracious me!’ cried Tom, ‘who would have thought of its being you! You followed us, then?’

‘What’s that to you?’ said Jonas. ‘Go to the devil!’

‘You are not very civil, I think,’ remarked Tom.

‘Civil enough for YOU,’ retorted Jonas. ‘Who are you?’

‘One who has as good a right to common consideration as another,’ said Tom mildly.

‘You’re a liar,’ said Jonas. ‘You haven’t a right to any consideration. You haven’t a right to anything. You’re a pretty sort of fellow to talk about your rights, upon my soul! Ha, ha!—Rights, too!’

‘If you proceed in this way,’ returned Tom, reddening, ‘you will oblige me to talk about my wrongs. But I hope your joke is over.’

‘It’s the way with you curs,’ said Mr Jonas, ‘that when you know a man’s in real earnest, you pretend to think he’s joking, so that you may turn it off. But that won’t do with me. It’s too stale. Now just attend to me for a bit, Mr Pitch, or Witch, or Stitch, or whatever your name is.’

‘My name is Pinch,’ observed Tom. ‘Have the goodness to call me by it.’

‘What! You mustn’t even be called out of your name, mustn’t you!’ cried Jonas. ‘Pauper’ prentices are looking up, I think. Ecod, we manage ‘em a little better in the city!’

‘Never mind what you do in the city,’ said Tom. ‘What have you got to say to me?’

‘Just this, Mister Pinch,’ retorted Jonas, thrusting his face so close to Tom’s that Tom was obliged to retreat a step. ‘I advise you to keep your own counsel, and to avoid title-tattle, and not to cut in where you’re not wanted. I’ve heard something of you, my friend, and your meek ways; and I recommend you to forget ‘em till I am married to one of Pecksniff’s gals, and not to curry favour among my relations, but to leave the course clear. You know, when curs won’t leave the course clear, they’re whipped off; so this is kind advice. Do you understand? Eh? Damme, who are you,’ cried Jonas, with increased contempt, ‘that you should walk home with THEM, unless it was behind ‘em, like any other servant out of livery?’

‘Come!’ cried Tom, ‘I see that you had better get off the stile, and let me pursue my way home. Make room for me, if you please.’

‘Don’t think it!’ said Jonas, spreading out his legs. ‘Not till I choose. And I don’t choose now. What! You’re afraid of my making you split upon some of your babbling just now, are you, Sneak?’

‘I am not afraid of many things, I hope,’ said Tom; ‘and certainly not of anything that you will do. I am not a tale-bearer, and I despise all meanness. You quite mistake me. Ah!’ cried Tom, indignantly. ‘Is this manly from one in your position to one in mine? Please to make room for me to pass. The less I say, the better.’

‘The less you say!’ retorted Jonas, dangling his legs the more, and taking no heed of this request. ‘You say very little, don’t you? Ecod, I should like to know what goes on between you and a vagabond member of my family. There’s very little in that too, I dare say!’

‘I know no vagabond member of your family,’ cried Tom, stoutly.

‘You do!’ said Jonas.

‘I don’t,’ said Tom. ‘Your uncle’s namesake, if you mean him, is no vagabond. Any comparison between you and him’—Tom snapped his fingers at him, for he was rising fast in wrath—‘is immeasurably to your disadvantage.’

‘Oh indeed!’ sneered Jonas. ‘And what do you think of his deary—his beggarly leavings, eh, Mister Pinch?’

‘I don’t mean to say another word, or stay here another instant,’ replied Tom.

‘As I told you before, you’re a liar,’ said Jonas, coolly. ‘You’ll stay here till I give you leave to go. Now, keep where you are, will you?’

He flourished his stick over Tom’s head; but in a moment it was spinning harmlessly in the air, and Jonas himself lay sprawling in the ditch. In the momentary struggle for the stick, Tom had brought it into violent contact with his opponent’s forehead; and the blood welled out profusely from a deep cut on the temple. Tom was first apprised of this by seeing that he pressed his handkerchief to the wounded part, and staggered as he rose, being stunned.

‘Are you hurt?’ said Tom. ‘I am very sorry. Lean on me for a moment. You can do that without forgiving me, if you still bear me malice. But I don’t know why; for I never offended you before we met on this spot.’

He made him no answer; not appearing at first to understand him, or even to know that he was hurt, though he several times took his handkerchief from the cut to look vacantly at the blood upon it. After one of these examinations, he looked at Tom, and then there was an expression in his features, which showed that he understood what had taken place, and would remember it.

Nothing more passed between them as they went home. Jonas kept a little in advance, and Tom Pinch sadly followed, thinking of the grief which the knowledge of this quarrel must occasion his excellent benefactor. When Jonas knocked at the door, Tom’s heart beat high; higher when Miss Mercy answered it, and seeing her wounded lover, shireked aloud; higher, when he followed them into the family parlour; higher than at any other time, when Jonas spoke.

‘Don’t make a noise about it,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing worth mentioning. I didn’t know the road; the night’s very dark; and just as I came up with Mr Pinch’—he turned his face towards Tom, but not his eyes—‘I ran against a tree. It’s only skin deep.’

‘Cold water, Merry, my child!’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘Brown paper! Scissors! A piece of old linen! Charity, my dear, make a bandage. Bless me, Mr Jonas!’

‘Oh, bother YOUR nonsense,’ returned the gracious son-in-law elect. ‘Be of some use if you can. If you can’t, get out!’

Miss Charity, though called upon to lend her aid, sat upright in one corner, with a smile upon her face, and didn’t move a finger. Though Mercy laved the wound herself; and Mr Pecksniff held the patient’s head between his two hands, as if without that assistance it must inevitably come in half; and Tom Pinch, in his guilty agitation, shook a bottle of Dutch Drops until they were nothing but English Froth, and in his other hand sustained a formidable carving-knife, really intended to reduce the swelling, but apparently designed for the ruthless infliction of another wound as soon as that was dressed; Charity rendered not the least assistance, nor uttered a word. But when Mr Jonas’s head was bound up, and he had gone to bed, and everybody else had retired, and the house was quiet, Mr Pinch, as he sat mournfully on his bedstead, ruminating, heard a gentle tap at his door; and opening it, saw her, to his great astonishment, standing before him with her finger on her lip.

‘Mr Pinch,’ she whispered. ‘Dear Mr Pinch! Tell me the truth! You did that? There was some quarrel between you, and you struck him? I am sure of it!’

It was the first time she had ever spoken kindly to Tom, in all the many years they had passed together. He was stupefied with amazement.

‘Was it so, or not?’ she eagerly demanded.

‘I was very much provoked,’ said Tom.

‘Then it was?’ cried Charity, with sparkling eyes.

‘Ye-yes. We had a struggle for the path,’ said Tom. ‘But I didn’t mean to hurt him so much.’

‘Not so much!’ she repeated, clenching her hand and stamping her foot, to Tom’s great wonder. ‘Don’t say that. It was brave of you. I honour you for it. If you should ever quarrel again, don’t spare him for the world, but beat him down and set your shoe upon him. Not a word of this to anybody. Dear Mr Pinch, I am your friend from tonight. I am always your friend from this time.’

She turned her flushed face upon Tom to confirm her words by its kindling expression; and seizing his right hand, pressed it to her breast, and kissed it. And there was nothing personal in this to render it at all embarrassing, for even Tom, whose power of observation was by no means remarkable, knew from the energy with which she did it that she would have fondled any hand, no matter how bedaubed or dyed, that had broken the head of Jonas Chuzzlewit.

Tom went into his room, and went to bed, full of uncomfortable thoughts. That there should be any such tremendous division in the family as he knew must have taken place to convert Charity Pecksniff into his friend, for any reason, but, above all, for that which was clearly the real one; that Jonas, who had assailed him with such exceeding coarseness, should have been sufficiently magnanimous to keep the secret of their quarrel; and that any train of circumstances should have led to the commission of an assault and battery by Thomas Pinch upon any man calling himself the friend of Seth Pecksniff; were matters of such deep and painful cogitation that he could not close his eyes. His own violence, in particular, so preyed upon the generous mind of Tom, that coupling it with the many former occasions on which he had given Mr Pecksniff pain and anxiety (occasions of which that gentleman often reminded him), he really began to regard himself as destined by a mysterious fate to be the evil genius and bad angel of his patron. But he fell asleep at last, and dreamed—new source of waking uneasiness—that he had betrayed his trust, and run away with Mary Graham.

It must be acknowledged that, asleep or awake, Tom’s position in reference to this young lady was full of uneasiness. The more he saw of her, the more he admired her beauty, her intelligence, the amiable qualities that even won on the divided house of Pecksniff, and in a few days restored, at all events, the semblance of harmony and kindness between the angry sisters. When she spoke, Tom held his breath, so eagerly he listened; when she sang, he sat like one entranced. She touched his organ, and from that bright epoch even it, the old companion of his happiest hours, incapable as he had thought of elevation, began a new and deified existence.

God’s love upon thy patience, Tom! Who, that had beheld thee, for three summer weeks, poring through half the deadlong night over the jingling anatomy of that inscrutable old harpsichord in the back parlour, could have missed the entrance to thy secret heart: albeit it was dimly known to thee? Who that had seen the glow upon thy cheek when leaning down to listen, after hours of labour, for the sound of one incorrigible note, thou foundest that it had a voice at last, and wheezed out a flat something, distantly akin to what it ought to be, would not have known that it was destined for no common touch, but one that smote, though gently as an angel’s hand, upon the deepest chord within thee! And if a friendly glance—aye, even though it were as guileless as thine own, Dear Tom—could have but pierced the twilight of that evening, when, in a voice well tempered to the time, sad, sweet, and low, yet hopeful, she first sang to the altered instrument, and wondered at the change; and thou, sitting apart at the open window, kept a glad silence and a swelling heart—must not that glance have read perforce the dawning of a story, Tom, that it were well for thee had never been begun!

Tom Pinch’s situation was not made the less dangerous or difficult by the fact of no one word passing between them in reference to Martin. Honourably mindful of his promise, Tom gave her opportunities of all kinds. Early and late he was in the church; in her favourite walks; in the village, in the garden, in the meadows; and in any or all of these places he might have spoken freely. But no; at all such times she carefully avoided him, or never came in his way unaccompanied. It could not be that she disliked or distrusted him, for by a thousand little delicate means, too slight for any notice but his own, she singled him out when others were present, and showed herself the very soul of kindness. Could it be that she had broken with Martin, or had never returned his affection, save in his own bold and heightened fancy? Tom’s cheek grew red with self-reproach as he dismissed the thought.

All this time old Martin came and went in his own strange manner, or sat among the rest absorbed within himself, and holding little intercourse with any one. Although he was unsocial, he was not willful in other things, or troublesome, or morose; being never better pleased than when they left him quite unnoticed at his book, and pursued their own amusements in his presence, unreserved. It was impossible to discern in whom he took an interest, or whether he had an interest in any of them. Unless they spoke to him directly, he never showed that he had ears or eyes for anything that passed.

One day the lively Merry, sitting with downcast eyes under a shady tree in the churchyard, whither she had retired after fatiguing herself by the imposition of sundry trials on the temper of Mr Jonas, felt that a new shadow came between her and the sun. Raising her eyes in the expectation of seeing her betrothed, she was not a little surprised to see old Martin instead. Her surprise was not diminished when he took his seat upon the turf beside her, and opened a conversation thus:

‘When are you to be married?’

‘Oh! dear Mr Chuzzlewit, my goodness me! I’m sure I don’t know. Not yet awhile, I hope.’

‘You hope?’ said the old man.

It was very gravely said, but she took it for banter, and giggled excessively.

‘Come!’ said the old man, with unusual kindness, ‘you are young, good-looking, and I think good-natured! Frivolous you are, and love to be, undoubtedly; but you must have some heart.’

‘I have not given it all away, I can tell you,’ said Merry, nodding her head shrewdly, and plucking up the grass.

‘Have you parted with any of it?’

She threw the grass about, and looked another way, but said nothing.

Martin repeated his question.

‘Lor, my dear Mr Chuzzlewit! really you must excuse me! How very odd you are.’

‘If it be odd in me to desire to know whether you love the young man whom I understand you are to marry, I AM very odd,’ said Martin. ‘For that is certainly my wish.’

‘He’s such a monster, you know,’ said Merry, pouting.

‘Then you don’t love him?’ returned the old man. ‘Is that your meaning?’

‘Why, my dear Mr Chuzzlewit, I’m sure I tell him a hundred times a day that I hate him. You must have heard me tell him that.’

‘Often,’ said Martin.

‘And so I do,’ cried Merry. ‘I do positively.’

‘Being at the same time engaged to marry him,’ observed the old man.

‘Oh yes,’ said Merry. ‘But I told the wretch—my dear Mr Chuzzlewit, I told him when he asked me—that if I ever did marry him, it should only be that I might hate and tease him all my life.’

She had a suspicion that the old man regarded Jonas with anything but favour, and intended these remarks to be extremely captivating. He did not appear, however, to regard them in that light by any means; for when he spoke again, it was in a tone of severity.

‘Look about you,’ he said, pointing to the graves; ‘and remember that from your bridal hour to the day which sees you brought as low as these, and laid in such a bed, there will be no appeal against him. Think, and speak, and act, for once, like an accountable creature. Is any control put upon your inclinations? Are you forced into this match? Are you insidiously advised or tempted to contract it, by any one? I will not ask by whom; by any one?’

‘No,’ said Merry, shrugging her shoulders. ‘I don’t know that I am.’

‘Don’t know that you are! Are you?’

‘No,’ replied Merry. ‘Nobody ever said anything to me about it. If any one had tried to make me have him, I wouldn’t have had him at all.’

‘I am told that he was at first supposed to be your sister’s admirer,’ said Martin.

‘Oh, good gracious! My dear Mr Chuzzlewit, it would be very hard to make him, though he IS a monster, accountable for other people’s vanity,’ said Merry. ‘And poor dear Cherry is the vainest darling!’

‘It was her mistake, then?’

‘I hope it was,’ cried Merry; ‘but, all along, the dear child has been so dreadfully jealous, and SO cross, that, upon my word and honour, it’s impossible to please her, and it’s of no use trying.’

‘Not forced, persuaded, or controlled,’ said Martin, thoughtfully. ‘And that’s true, I see. There is one chance yet. You may have lapsed into this engagement in very giddiness. It may have been the wanton act of a light head. Is that so?’

‘My dear Mr Chuzzlewit,’ simpered Merry, ‘as to light-headedness, there never was such a feather of a head as mine. It’s perfect balloon, I declare! You never DID, you know!’

He waited quietly till she had finished, and then said, steadily and slowly, and in a softened voice, as if he would still invite her confidence:

‘Have you any wish—or is there anything within your breast that whispers you may form the wish, if you have time to think—to be released from this engagement?’

Again Miss Merry pouted, and looked down, and plucked the grass, and shrugged her shoulders. No. She didn’t know that she had. She was pretty sure she hadn’t. Quite sure, she might say. She ‘didn’t mind it.’

‘Has it ever occurred to you,’ said Martin, ‘that your married life may perhaps be miserable, full of bitterness, and most unhappy?’

Merry looked down again; and now she tore the grass up by the roots.

‘My dear Mr Chuzzlewit, what shocking words! Of course, I shall quarrel with him. I should quarrel with any husband. Married people always quarrel, I believe. But as to being miserable, and bitter, and all those dreadful things, you know, why I couldn’t be absolutely that, unless he always had the best of it; and I mean to have the best of it myself. I always do now,’ cried Merry, nodding her head and giggling very much; ‘for I make a perfect slave of the creature.’

‘Let it go on,’ said Martin, rising. ‘Let it go on! I sought to know your mind, my dear, and you have shown it me. I wish you joy. Joy!’ he repeated, looking full upon her, and pointing to the wicket-gate where Jonas entered at the moment. And then, without waiting for his nephew, he passed out at another gate, and went away.

‘Oh, you terrible old man!’ cried the facetious Merry to herself. ‘What a perfectly hideous monster to be wandering about churchyards in the broad daylight, frightening people out of their wits! Don’t come here, Griffin, or I’ll go away directly.’

Mr Jonas was the Griffin. He sat down upon the grass at her side, in spite of this warning, and sulkily inquired:

‘What’s my uncle been a-talking about?’

‘About you,’ rejoined Merry. ‘He says you’re not half good enough for me.’

‘Oh, yes, I dare say! We all know that. He means to give you some present worth having, I hope. Did he say anything that looked like it?’

‘THAT he didn’t!’ cried Merry, most decisively.

‘A stingy old dog he is,’ said Jonas. ‘Well?’

‘Griffin!’ cried Miss Mercy, in counterfeit amazement; ‘what are you doing, Griffin?’

‘Only giving you a squeeze,’ said the discomfited Jonas. ‘There’s no harm in that, I suppose?’

‘But there is great deal of harm in it, if I don’t consider it agreeable,’ returned his cousin. ‘Do go along, will you? You make me so hot!’

Mr Jonas withdrew his arm, and for a moment looked at her more like a murderer than a lover. But he cleared his brow by degrees, and broke silence with:

‘I say, Mel!’

‘What do you say, you vulgar thing—you low savage?’ cried his fair betrothed.

‘When is it to be? I can’t afford to go on dawdling about here half my life, I needn’t tell you, and Pecksniff says that father’s being so lately dead makes very little odds; for we can be married as quiet as we please down here, and my being lonely is a good reason to the neighbours for taking a wife home so soon, especially one that he knew. As to crossbones (my uncle, I mean), he’s sure not to put a spoke in the wheel, whatever we settle on, for he told Pecksniff only this morning, that if YOU liked it he’d nothing at all to say. So, Mel,’ said Jonas, venturing on another squeeze; ‘when shall it be?’

‘Upon my word!’ cried Merry.

‘Upon my soul, if you like,’ said Jonas. ‘What do you say to next week, now?’

‘To next week! If you had said next quarter, I should have wondered at your impudence.’

‘But I didn’t say next quarter,’ retorted Jonas. ‘I said next week.’

‘Then, Griffin,’ cried Miss Merry, pushing him off, and rising. ‘I say no! not next week. It shan’t be till I choose, and I may not choose it to be for months. There!’

He glanced up at her from the ground, almost as darkly as he had looked at Tom Pinch; but held his peace.

‘No fright of a Griffin with a patch over his eye shall dictate to me or have a voice in the matter,’ said Merry. ‘There!’

Still Mr Jonas held his peace.

‘If it’s next month, that shall be the very earliest; but I won’t say when it shall be till to-morrow; and if you don’t like that, it shall never be at all,’ said Merry; ‘and if you follow me about and won’t leave me alone, it shall never be at all. There! And if you don’t do everything I order you to do, it shall never be at all. So don’t follow me. There, Griffin!’

And with that, she skipped away, among the trees.

‘Ecod, my lady!’ said Jonas, looking after her, and biting a piece of straw, almost to powder; ‘you’ll catch it for this, when you ARE married. It’s all very well now—it keeps one on, somehow, and you know it—but I’ll pay you off scot and lot by-and-bye. This is a plaguey dull sort of a place for a man to be sitting by himself in. I never could abide a mouldy old churchyard.’

As he turned into the avenue himself, Miss Merry, who was far ahead, happened to look back.

‘Ah!’ said Jonas, with a sullen smile, and a nod that was not addressed to her. ‘Make the most of it while it lasts. Get in your hay while the sun shines. Take your own way as long as it’s in your power, my lady!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

IS IN PART PROFESSIONAL, AND FURNISHES THE READER WITH SOME VALUABLE HINTS IN RELATION TO THE MANAGEMENT OF A SICK CHAMBER

Mr Mould was surrounded by his household gods. He was enjoying the sweets of domestic repose, and gazing on them with a calm delight. The day being sultry, and the window open, the legs of Mr Mould were on the window-seat, and his back reclined against the shutter. Over his shining head a handkerchief was drawn, to guard his baldness from the flies. The room was fragrant with the smell of punch, a tumbler of which grateful compound stood upon a small round table, convenient to the hand of Mr Mould; so deftly mixed that as his eye looked down into the cool transparent drink, another eye, peering brightly from behind the crisp lemon-peel, looked up at him, and twinkled like a star.

Deep in the City, and within the ward of Cheap, stood Mr Mould’s establishment. His Harem, or, in other words, the common sitting room of Mrs Mould and family, was at the back, over the little counting-house behind the shop; abutting on a churchyard small and shady. In this domestic chamber Mr Mould now sat; gazing, a placid man, upon his punch and home. If, for a moment at a time, he sought a wider prospect, whence he might return with freshened zest to these enjoyments, his moist glance wandered like a sunbeam through a rural screen of scarlet runners, trained on strings before the window, and he looked down, with an artist’s eye, upon the graves.

The partner of his life, and daughters twain, were Mr Mould’s companions. Plump as any partridge was each Miss Mould, and Mrs M. was plumper than the two together. So round and chubby were their fair proportions, that they might have been the bodies once belonging to the angels’ faces in the shop below, grown up, with other heads attached to make them mortal. Even their peachy cheeks were puffed out and distended, as though they ought of right to be performing on celestial trumpets. The bodiless cherubs in the shop, who were depicted as constantly blowing those instruments for ever and ever without any lungs, played, it is to be presumed, entirely by ear.

Mr Mould looked lovingly at Mrs Mould, who sat hard by, and was a helpmate to him in his punch as in all other things. Each seraph daughter, too, enjoyed her share of his regards, and smiled upon him in return. So bountiful were Mr Mould’s possessions, and so large his stock in trade, that even there, within his household sanctuary, stood a cumbrous press, whose mahogany maw was filled with shrouds, and winding-sheets, and other furniture of funerals. But, though the Misses Mould had been brought up, as one may say, beneath his eye, it had cast no shadow on their timid infancy or blooming youth. Sporting behind the scenes of death and burial from cradlehood, the Misses Mould knew better. Hat-bands, to them, were but so many yards of silk or crape; the final robe but such a quantity of linen. The Misses Mould could idealise a player’s habit, or a court-lady’s petticoat, or even an act of parliament. But they were not to be taken in by palls. They made them sometimes.

The premises of Mr Mould were hard of hearing to the boisterous noises in the great main streets, and nestled in a quiet corner, where the City strife became a drowsy hum, that sometimes rose and sometimes fell and sometimes altogether ceased; suggesting to a thoughtful mind a stoppage in Cheapside. The light came sparkling in among the scarlet runners, as if the churchyard winked at Mr Mould, and said, ‘We understand each other;’ and from the distant shop a pleasant sound arose of coffin-making with a low melodious hammer, rat, tat, tat, tat, alike promoting slumber and digestion.

‘Quite the buzz of insects,’ said Mr Mould, closing his eyes in a perfect luxury. ‘It puts one in mind of the sound of animated nature in the agricultural districts. It’s exactly like the woodpecker tapping.’

‘The woodpecker tapping the hollow ELM tree,’ observed Mrs Mould, adapting the words of the popular melody to the description of wood commonly used in the trade.

‘Ha, ha!’ laughed Mr Mould. ‘Not at all bad, my dear. We shall be glad to hear from you again, Mrs M. Hollow elm tree, eh! Ha, ha! Very good indeed. I’ve seen worse than that in the Sunday papers, my love.’

Mrs Mould, thus encouraged, took a little more of the punch, and handed it to her daughters, who dutifully followed the example of their mother.

‘Hollow ELM tree, eh?’ said Mr Mould, making a slight motion with his legs in his enjoyment of the joke. ‘It’s beech in the song. Elm, eh? Yes, to be sure. Ha, ha, ha! Upon my soul, that’s one of the best things I know?’ He was so excessively tickled by the jest that he couldn’t forget it, but repeated twenty times, ‘Elm, eh? Yes, to be sure. Elm, of course. Ha, ha, ha! Upon my life, you know, that ought to be sent to somebody who could make use of it. It’s one of the smartest things that ever was said. Hollow ELM tree, eh? of course. Very hollow. Ha, ha, ha!’

Here a knock was heard at the room door.

‘That’s Tacker, I know,’ said Mrs Mould, ‘by the wheezing he makes. Who that hears him now, would suppose he’d ever had wind enough to carry the feathers on his head! Come in, Tacker.’

‘Beg your pardon, ma’am,’ said Tacker, looking in a little way. ‘I thought our Governor was here.’

‘Well! so he is,’ cried Mould.

‘Oh! I didn’t see you, I’m sure,’ said Tacker, looking in a little farther. ‘You wouldn’t be inclined to take a walking one of two, with the plain wood and a tin plate, I suppose?’

‘Certainly not,’ replied Mr Mould, ‘much too common. Nothing to say to it.’

‘I told ‘em it was precious low,’ observed Mr Tacker.

‘Tell ‘em to go somewhere else. We don’t do that style of business here,’ said Mr Mould. ‘Like their impudence to propose it. Who is it?’

‘Why,’ returned Tacker, pausing, ‘that’s where it is, you see. It’s the beadle’s son-in-law.’

‘The beadle’s son-in-law, eh?’ said Mould. ‘Well! I’ll do it if the beadle follows in his cocked hat; not else. We carry it off that way, by looking official, but it’ll be low enough, then. His cocked hat, mind!’

‘I’ll take care, sir,’ rejoined Tacker. ‘Oh! Mrs Gamp’s below, and wants to speak to you.’

‘Tell Mrs Gamp to come upstairs,’ said Mould. ‘Now Mrs Gamp, what’s YOUR news?’

The lady in question was by this time in the doorway, curtseying to Mrs Mould. At the same moment a peculiar fragrance was borne upon the breeze, as if a passing fairy had hiccoughed, and had previously been to a wine-vaults.

Mrs Gamp made no response to Mr Mould, but curtseyed to Mrs Mould again, and held up her hands and eyes, as in a devout thanksgiving that she looked so well. She was neatly, but not gaudily attired, in the weeds she had worn when Mr Pecksniff had the pleasure of making her acquaintance; and was perhaps the turning of a scale more snuffy.

‘There are some happy creeturs,’ Mrs Gamp observed, ‘as time runs back’ards with, and you are one, Mrs Mould; not that he need do nothing except use you in his most owldacious way for years to come, I’m sure; for young you are and will be. I says to Mrs Harris,’ Mrs Gamp continued, ‘only t’other day; the last Monday evening fortnight as ever dawned upon this Piljian’s Projiss of a mortal wale; I says to Mrs Harris when she says to me, “Years and our trials, Mrs Gamp, sets marks upon us all.”—“Say not the words, Mrs Harris, if you and me is to be continual friends, for sech is not the case. Mrs Mould,” I says, making so free, I will confess, as use the name,’ (she curtseyed here), ‘“is one of them that goes agen the obserwation straight; and never, Mrs Harris, whilst I’ve a drop of breath to draw, will I set by, and not stand up, don’t think it.”—“I ast your pardon, ma’am,” says Mrs Harris, “and I humbly grant your grace; for if ever a woman lived as would see her feller creeturs into fits to serve her friends, well do I know that woman’s name is Sairey Gamp.”’

At this point she was fain to stop for breath; and advantage may be taken of the circumstance, to state that a fearful mystery surrounded this lady of the name of Harris, whom no one in the circle of Mrs Gamp’s acquaintance had ever seen; neither did any human being know her place of residence, though Mrs Gamp appeared on her own showing to be in constant communication with her. There were conflicting rumours on the subject; but the prevalent opinion was that she was a phantom of Mrs Gamp’s brain—as Messrs. Doe and Roe are fictions of the law—created for the express purpose of holding visionary dialogues with her on all manner of subjects, and invariably winding up with a compliment to the excellence of her nature.

‘And likeways what a pleasure,’ said Mrs Gamp, turning with a tearful smile towards the daughters, ‘to see them two young ladies as I know’d afore a tooth in their pretty heads was cut, and have many a day seen—ah, the sweet creeturs!—playing at berryins down in the shop, and follerin’ the order-book to its long home in the iron safe! But that’s all past and over, Mr Mould;’ as she thus got in a carefully regulated routine to that gentleman, she shook her head waggishly; ‘That’s all past and over now, sir, an’t it?’

‘Changes, Mrs Gamp, changes!’ returned the undertaker.

‘More changes too, to come, afore we’ve done with changes, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp, nodding yet more waggishly than before. ‘Young ladies with such faces thinks of something else besides berryins, don’t they, sir?’

‘I am sure I don’t know, Mrs Gamp,’ said Mould, with a chuckle—‘Not bad in Mrs Gamp, my dear?’

‘Oh yes, you do know, sir!’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘and so does Mrs Mould, your ‘ansome pardner too, sir; and so do I, although the blessing of a daughter was deniged me; which, if we had had one, Gamp would certainly have drunk its little shoes right off its feet, as with our precious boy he did, and arterward send the child a errand to sell his wooden leg for any money it would fetch as matches in the rough, and bring it home in liquor; which was truly done beyond his years, for ev’ry individgle penny that child lost at toss or buy for kidney ones; and come home arterwards quite bold, to break the news, and offering to drown himself if sech would be a satisfaction to his parents.—Oh yes, you do know, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp, wiping her eye with her shawl, and resuming the thread of her discourse. ‘There’s something besides births and berryins in the newspapers, an’t there, Mr Mould?’

Mr Mould winked at Mrs Mould, whom he had by this time taken on his knee, and said: ‘No doubt. A good deal more, Mrs Gamp. Upon my life, Mrs Gamp is very far from bad, my dear!’

‘There’s marryings, an’t there, sir?’ said Mrs Gamp, while both the daughters blushed and tittered. ‘Bless their precious hearts, and well they knows it! Well you know’d it too, and well did Mrs Mould, when you was at their time of life! But my opinion is, you’re all of one age now. For as to you and Mrs Mould, sir, ever having grandchildren—’

‘Oh! Fie, fie! Nonsense, Mrs Gamp,’ replied the undertaker. ‘Devilish smart, though. Ca-pi-tal!’—this was in a whisper. ‘My dear’—aloud again—‘Mrs Gamp can drink a glass of rum, I dare say. Sit down, Mrs Gamp, sit down.’

Mrs Gamp took the chair that was nearest the door, and casting up her eyes towards the ceiling, feigned to be wholly insensible to the fact of a glass of rum being in preparation, until it was placed in her hand by one of the young ladies, when she exhibited the greatest surprise.

‘A thing,’ she said, ‘as hardly ever, Mrs Mould, occurs with me unless it is when I am indispoged, and find my half a pint of porter settling heavy on the chest. Mrs Harris often and often says to me, “Sairey Gamp,” she says, “you raly do amaze me!” “Mrs Harris,” I says to her, “why so? Give it a name, I beg.” “Telling the truth then, ma’am,” says Mrs Harris, “and shaming him as shall be nameless betwixt you and me, never did I think till I know’d you, as any woman could sick-nurse and monthly likeways, on the little that you takes to drink.” “Mrs Harris,” I says to her, “none on us knows what we can do till we tries; and wunst, when me and Gamp kept ‘ouse, I thought so too. But now,” I says, “my half a pint of porter fully satisfies; perwisin’, Mrs Harris, that it is brought reg’lar, and draw’d mild. Whether I sicks or monthlies, ma’am, I hope I does my duty, but I am but a poor woman, and I earns my living hard; therefore I DO require it, which I makes confession, to be brought reg’lar and draw’d mild.”’

The precise connection between these observations and the glass of rum, did not appear; for Mrs Gamp proposing as a toast ‘The best of lucks to all!’ took off the dram in quite a scientific manner, without any further remarks.

‘And what’s your news, Mrs Gamp?’ asked Mould again, as that lady wiped her lips upon her shawl, and nibbled a corner off a soft biscuit, which she appeared to carry in her pocket as a provision against contingent drams. ‘How’s Mr Chuffey?’

‘Mr Chuffey, sir,’ she replied, ‘is jest as usual; he an’t no better and he an’t no worse. I take it very kind in the gentleman to have wrote up to you and said, “let Mrs Gamp take care of him till I come home;” but ev’rythink he does is kind. There an’t a many like him. If there was, we shouldn’t want no churches.’

‘What do you want to speak to me about, Mrs Gamp?’ said Mould, coming to the point.

‘Jest this, sir,’ Mrs Gamp returned, ‘with thanks to you for asking. There IS a gent, sir, at the Bull in Holborn, as has been took ill there, and is bad abed. They have a day nurse as was recommended from Bartholomew’s; and well I knows her, Mr Mould, her name bein’ Mrs Prig, the best of creeturs. But she is otherways engaged at night, and they are in wants of night-watching; consequent she says to them, having reposed the greatest friendliness in me for twenty year, “The soberest person going, and the best of blessings in a sick room, is Mrs Gamp. Send a boy to Kingsgate Street,” she says, “and snap her up at any price, for Mrs Gamp is worth her weight and more in goldian guineas.” My landlord brings the message down to me, and says, “bein’ in a light place where you are, and this job promising so well, why not unite the two?” “No, sir,” I says, “not unbeknown to Mr Mould, and therefore do not think it. But I will go to Mr Mould,” I says, “and ast him, if you like.”’ Here she looked sideways at the undertaker, and came to a stop.

‘Night-watching, eh?’ said Mould, rubbing his chin.

‘From eight o’clock till eight, sir. I will not deceive you,’ Mrs Gamp rejoined.

‘And then go back, eh?’ said would.

‘Quite free, then, sir, to attend to Mr Chuffey. His ways bein’ quiet, and his hours early, he’d be abed, sir, nearly all the time. I will not deny,’ said Mrs Gamp with meekness, ‘that I am but a poor woman, and that the money is a object; but do not let that act upon you, Mr Mould. Rich folks may ride on camels, but it an’t so easy for ‘em to see out of a needle’s eye. That is my comfort, and I hope I knows it.’

‘Well, Mrs Gamp,’ observed Mould, ‘I don’t see any particular objection to your earning an honest penny under such circumstances. I should keep it quiet, I think, Mrs Gamp. I wouldn’t mention it to Mr Chuzzlewit on his return, for instance, unless it were necessary, or he asked you pointblank.’

‘The very words was on my lips, sir,’ Mrs Gamp rejoined. ‘Suppoging that the gent should die, I hope I might take the liberty of saying as I know’d some one in the undertaking line, and yet give no offence to you, sir?’

‘Certainly, Mrs Gamp,’ said Mould, with much condescension. ‘You may casually remark, in such a case, that we do the thing pleasantly and in a great variety of styles, and are generally considered to make it as agreeable as possible to the feelings of the survivors. But don’t obtrude it, don’t obtrude it. Easy, easy! My dear, you may as well give Mrs Gamp a card or two, if you please.’

Mrs Gamp received them, and scenting no more rum in the wind (for the bottle was locked up again) rose to take her departure.

‘Wishing ev’ry happiness to this happy family,’ said Mrs Gamp ‘with all my heart. Good arternoon, Mrs Mould! If I was Mr would I should be jealous of you, ma’am; and I’m sure, if I was you, I should be jealous of Mr Mould.’

‘Tut, tut! Bah, bah! Go along, Mrs Gamp!’ cried the delighted undertaker.

‘As to the young ladies,’ said Mrs Gamp, dropping a curtsey, ‘bless their sweet looks—how they can ever reconsize it with their duties to be so grown up with such young parents, it an’t for sech as me to give a guess at.’

‘Nonsense, nonsense. Be off, Mrs Gamp!’ cried Mould. But in the height of his gratification he actually pinched Mrs Mould as he said it.

‘I’ll tell you what, my dear,’ he observed, when Mrs Gamp had at last withdrawn and shut the door, ‘that’s a ve-ry shrewd woman. That’s a woman whose intellect is immensely superior to her station in life. That’s a woman who observes and reflects in an uncommon manner. She’s the sort of woman now,’ said Mould, drawing his silk handkerchief over his head again, and composing himself for a nap ‘one would almost feel disposed to bury for nothing; and do it neatly, too!’

Mrs Mould and her daughters fully concurred in these remarks; the subject of which had by this time reached the street, where she experienced so much inconvenience from the air, that she was obliged to stand under an archway for a short time, to recover herself. Even after this precaution, she walked so unsteadily as to attract the compassionate regards of divers kind-hearted boys, who took the liveliest interest in her disorder; and in their simple language bade her be of good cheer, for she was ‘only a little screwed.’

Whatever she was, or whatever name the vocabulary of medical science would have bestowed upon her malady, Mrs Gamp was perfectly acquainted with the way home again; and arriving at the house of Anthony Chuzzlewit & Son, lay down to rest. Remaining there until seven o’clock in the evening, and then persuading poor old Chuffey to betake himself to bed, she sallied forth upon her new engagement. First, she went to her private lodgings in Kingsgate Street, for a bundle of robes and wrappings comfortable in the night season; and then repaired to the Bull in Holborn, which she reached as the clocks were striking eight.

As she turned into the yard, she stopped; for the landlord, landlady, and head chambermaid, were all on the threshold together talking earnestly with a young gentleman who seemed to have just come or to be just going away. The first words that struck upon Mrs Gamp’s ear obviously bore reference to the patient; and it being expedient that all good attendants should know as much as possible about the case on which their skill is brought to bear, Mrs Gamp listened as a matter of duty.

‘No better, then?’ observed the gentleman.

‘Worse!’ said the landlord.

‘Much worse,’ added the landlady.

‘Oh! a deal badder,’ cried the chambermaid from the background, opening her eyes very wide, and shaking her head.

‘Poor fellow!’ said the gentleman, ‘I am sorry to hear it. The worst of it is, that I have no idea what friends or relations he has, or where they live, except that it certainly is not in London.’

The landlord looked at the landlady; the landlady looked at the landlord; and the chambermaid remarked, hysterically, ‘that of all the many wague directions she had ever seen or heerd of (and they wasn’t few in an hotel), THAT was the waguest.’

‘The fact is, you see,’ pursued the gentleman, ‘as I told you yesterday when you sent to me, I really know very little about him. We were school-fellows together; but since that time I have only met him twice. On both occasions I was in London for a boy’s holiday (having come up for a week or so from Wiltshire), and lost sight of him again directly. The letter bearing my name and address which you found upon his table, and which led to your applying to me, is in answer, you will observe, to one he wrote from this house the very day he was taken ill, making an appointment with him at his own request. Here is his letter, if you wish to see it.’

The landlord read it; the landlady looked over him. The chambermaid, in the background, made out as much of it as she could, and invented the rest; believing it all from that time forth as a positive piece of evidence.

‘He has very little luggage, you say?’ observed the gentleman, who was no other than our old friend, John Westlock.

‘Nothing but a portmanteau,’ said the landlord; ‘and very little in it.’

‘A few pounds in his purse, though?’

‘Yes. It’s sealed up, and in the cash-box. I made a memorandum of the amount, which you’re welcome to see.’

‘Well!’ said John, ‘as the medical gentleman says the fever must take its course, and nothing can be done just now beyond giving him his drinks regularly and having him carefully attended to, nothing more can be said that I know of, until he is in a condition to give us some information. Can you suggest anything else?’

‘N-no,’ replied the landlord, ‘except—’

‘Except, who’s to pay, I suppose?’ said John.

‘Why,’ hesitated the landlord, ‘it would be as well.’

‘Quite as well,’ said the landlady.

‘Not forgetting to remember the servants,’ said the chambermaid in a bland whisper.

‘It is but reasonable, I fully admit,’ said John Westlock. ‘At all events, you have the stock in hand to go upon for the present; and I will readily undertake to pay the doctor and the nurses.’

‘Ah!’ cried Mrs Gamp. ‘A rayal gentleman!’

She groaned her admiration so audibly, that they all turned round. Mrs Gamp felt the necessity of advancing, bundle in hand, and introducing herself.

‘The night-nurse,’ she observed, ‘from Kingsgate Street, well beknown to Mrs Prig the day-nurse, and the best of creeturs. How is the poor dear gentleman to-night? If he an’t no better yet, still that is what must be expected and prepared for. It an’t the fust time by a many score, ma’am,’ dropping a curtsey to the landlady, ‘that Mrs Prig and me has nussed together, turn and turn about, one off, one on. We knows each other’s ways, and often gives relief when others fail. Our charges is but low, sir’—Mrs Gamp addressed herself to John on this head—‘considerin’ the nater of our painful dooty. If they wos made accordin’ to our wishes, they would be easy paid.’

Regarding herself as having now delivered her inauguration address, Mrs Gamp curtseyed all round, and signified her wish to be conducted to the scene of her official duties. The chambermaid led her, through a variety of intricate passages, to the top of the house; and pointing at length to a solitary door at the end of a gallery, informed her that yonder was the chamber where the patient lay. That done, she hurried off with all the speed she could make.

Mrs Gamp traversed the gallery in a great heat from having carried her large bundle up so many stairs, and tapped at the door which was immediately opened by Mrs Prig, bonneted and shawled and all impatience to be gone. Mrs Prig was of the Gamp build, but not so fat; and her voice was deeper and more like a man’s. She had also a beard.

‘I began to think you warn’t a-coming!’ Mrs Prig observed, in some displeasure.

‘It shall be made good to-morrow night,’ said Mrs Gamp ‘Honorable. I had to go and fetch my things.’ She had begun to make signs of inquiry in reference to the position of the patient and his overhearing them—for there was a screen before the door—when Mrs Prig settled that point easily.

‘Oh!’ she said aloud, ‘he’s quiet, but his wits is gone. It an’t no matter wot you say.’

‘Anythin’ to tell afore you goes, my dear?’ asked Mrs Gamp, setting her bundle down inside the door, and looking affectionately at her partner.

‘The pickled salmon,’ Mrs Prig replied, ‘is quite delicious. I can partlck’ler recommend it. Don’t have nothink to say to the cold meat, for it tastes of the stable. The drinks is all good.’

Mrs Gamp expressed herself much gratified.

‘The physic and them things is on the drawers and mankleshelf,’ said Mrs Prig, cursorily. ‘He took his last slime draught at seven. The easy-chair an’t soft enough. You’ll want his piller.’

Mrs Gamp thanked her for these hints, and giving her a friendly good night, held the door open until she had disappeared at the other end of the gallery. Having thus performed the hospitable duty of seeing her safely off, she shut it, locked it on the inside, took up her bundle, walked round the screen, and entered on her occupation of the sick chamber.

‘A little dull, but not so bad as might be,’ Mrs Gamp remarked. ‘I’m glad to see a parapidge, in case of fire, and lots of roofs and chimley-pots to walk upon.’

It will be seen from these remarks that Mrs Gamp was looking out of window. When she had exhausted the prospect, she tried the easy-chair, which she indignantly declared was ‘harder than a brickbadge.’ Next she pursued her researches among the physic-bottles, glasses, jugs, and tea-cups; and when she had entirely satisfied her curiosity on all these subjects of investigation, she untied her bonnet-strings and strolled up to the bedside to take a look at the patient.

A young man—dark and not ill-looking—with long black hair, that seemed the blacker for the whiteness of the bed-clothes. His eyes were partly open, and he never ceased to roll his head from side to side upon the pillow, keeping his body almost quiet. He did not utter words; but every now and then gave vent to an expression of impatience or fatigue, sometimes of surprise; and still his restless head—oh, weary, weary hour!—went to and fro without a moment’s intermission.

Mrs Gamp solaced herself with a pinch of snuff, and stood looking at him with her head inclined a little sideways, as a connoisseur might gaze upon a doubtful work of art. By degrees, a horrible remembrance of one branch of her calling took possession of the woman; and stooping down, she pinned his wandering arms against his sides, to see how he would look if laid out as a dead man. Her fingers itched to compose his limbs in that last marble attitude.

‘Ah!’ said Mrs Gamp, walking away from the bed, ‘he’d make a lovely corpse.’

She now proceeded to unpack her bundle; lighted a candle with the aid of a fire-box on the drawers; filled a small kettle, as a preliminary to refreshing herself with a cup of tea in the course of the night; laid what she called ‘a little bit of fire,’ for the same philanthropic purpose; and also set forth a small tea-board, that nothing might be wanting for her comfortable enjoyment. These preparations occupied so long, that when they were brought to a conclusion it was high time to think about supper; so she rang the bell and ordered it.

‘I think, young woman,’ said Mrs Gamp to the assistant chambermaid, in a tone expressive of weakness, ‘that I could pick a little bit of pickled salmon, with a nice little sprig of fennel, and a sprinkling of white pepper. I takes new bread, my dear, with just a little pat of fresh butter, and a mossel of cheese. In case there should be such a thing as a cowcumber in the ‘ouse, will you be so kind as bring it, for I’m rather partial to ‘em, and they does a world of good in a sick room. If they draws the Brighton Old Tipper here, I takes THAT ale at night, my love, it bein’ considered wakeful by the doctors. And whatever you do, young woman, don’t bring more than a shilling’s-worth of gin and water-warm when I rings the bell a second time; for that is always my allowance, and I never takes a drop beyond!’

Having preferred these moderate requests, Mrs Gamp observed that she would stand at the door until the order was executed, to the end that the patient might not be disturbed by her opening it a second time; and therefore she would thank the young woman to ‘look sharp.’

A tray was brought with everything upon it, even to the cucumber and Mrs Gamp accordingly sat down to eat and drink in high good humour. The extent to which she availed herself of the vinegar, and supped up that refreshing fluid with the blade of her knife, can scarcely be expressed in narrative.

‘Ah!’ sighed Mrs Gamp, as she meditated over the warm shilling’s-worth, ‘what a blessed thing it is—living in a wale—to be contented! What a blessed thing it is to make sick people happy in their beds, and never mind one’s self as long as one can do a service! I don’t believe a finer cowcumber was ever grow’d. I’m sure I never see one!’

She moralised in the same vein until her glass was empty, and then administered the patient’s medicine, by the simple process of clutching his windpipe to make him gasp, and immediately pouring it down his throat.

‘I a’most forgot the piller, I declare!’ said Mrs Gamp, drawing it away. ‘There! Now he’s comfortable as he can be, I’m sure! I must try to make myself as much so as I can.’

With this view, she went about the construction of an extemporaneous bed in the easy-chair, with the addition of the next easy one for her feet. Having formed the best couch that the circumstances admitted of, she took out of her bundle a yellow night-cap, of prodigious size, in shape resembling a cabbage; which article of dress she fixed and tied on with the utmost care, previously divesting herself of a row of bald old curls that could scarcely be called false, they were so very innocent of anything approaching to deception. From the same repository she brought forth a night-jacket, in which she also attired herself. Finally, she produced a watchman’s coat which she tied round her neck by the sleeves, so that she become two people; and looked, behind, as if she were in the act of being embraced by one of the old patrol.

All these arrangements made, she lighted the rush-light, coiled herself up on her couch, and went to sleep. Ghostly and dark the room became, and full of lowering shadows. The distant noises in the streets were gradually hushed; the house was quiet as a sepulchre; the dead of night was coffined in the silent city.

Oh, weary, weary hour! Oh, haggard mind, groping darkly through the past; incapable of detaching itself from the miserable present; dragging its heavy chain of care through imaginary feasts and revels, and scenes of awful pomp; seeking but a moment’s rest among the long-forgotten haunts of childhood, and the resorts of yesterday; and dimly finding fear and horror everywhere! Oh, weary, weary hour! What were the wanderings of Cain, to these!

Still, without a moment’s interval, the burning head tossed to and fro. Still, from time to time, fatigue, impatience, suffering, and surprise, found utterance upon that rack, and plainly too, though never once in words. At length, in the solemn hour of midnight, he began to talk; waiting awfully for answers sometimes; as though invisible companions were about his bed; and so replying to their speech and questioning again.

Mrs Gamp awoke, and sat up in her bed; presenting on the wall the shadow of a gigantic night constable, struggling with a prisoner.

‘Come! Hold your tongue!’ she cried, in sharp reproof. ‘Don’t make none of that noise here.’

There was no alteration in the face, or in the incessant motion of the head, but he talked on wildly.

‘Ah!’ said Mrs Gamp, coming out of the chair with an impatient shiver; ‘I thought I was a-sleepin’ too pleasant to last! The devil’s in the night, I think, it’s turned so chilly!’

‘Don’t drink so much!’ cried the sick man. ‘You’ll ruin us all. Don’t you see how the fountain sinks? Look at the mark where the sparkling water was just now!’

‘Sparkling water, indeed!’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘I’ll have a sparkling cup o’ tea, I think. I wish you’d hold your noise!’

He burst into a laugh, which, being prolonged, fell off into a dismal wail. Checking himself, with fierce inconstancy he began to count—fast.

‘One—two—three—four—five—six.’

“One, two, buckle my shoe,”’ said Mrs Gamp, who was now on her knees, lighting the fire, “three, four, shut the door,”—I wish you’d shut your mouth, young man—“five, six, picking up sticks.” If I’d got a few handy, I should have the kettle boiling all the sooner.’

Awaiting this desirable consummation, she sat down so close to the fender (which was a high one) that her nose rested upon it; and for some time she drowsily amused herself by sliding that feature backwards and forwards along the brass top, as far as she could, without changing her position to do it. She maintained, all the while, a running commentary upon the wanderings of the man in bed.

‘That makes five hundred and twenty-one men, all dressed alike, and with the same distortion on their faces, that have passed in at the window, and out at the door,’ he cried, anxiously. ‘Look there! Five hundred and twenty-two—twenty-three—twenty-four. Do you see them?’

‘Ah! I see ‘em,’ said Mrs Gamp; ‘all the whole kit of ‘em numbered like hackney-coaches, an’t they?’

‘Touch me! Let me be sure of this. Touch me!’

‘You’ll take your next draught when I’ve made the kettle bile,’ retorted Mrs Gamp, composedly, ‘and you’ll be touched then. You’ll be touched up, too, if you don’t take it quiet.’

‘Five hundred and twenty-eight, five hundred and twenty-nine, five hundred and thirty.—Look here!’

‘What’s the matter now?’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘They’re coming four abreast, each man with his arm entwined in the next man’s, and his hand upon his shoulder. What’s that upon the arm of every man, and on the flag?’

‘Spiders, p’raps,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘Crape! Black crape! Good God! why do they wear it outside?’

‘Would you have ‘em carry black crape in their insides?’ Mrs Gamp retorted. ‘Hold your noise, hold your noise.’

The fire beginning by this time to impart a grateful warmth, Mrs Gamp became silent; gradually rubbed her nose more and more slowly along the top of the fender; and fell into a heavy doze. She was awakened by the room ringing (as she fancied) with a name she knew:

‘Chuzzlewit!’

The sound was so distinct and real, and so full of agonised entreaty, that Mrs Gamp jumped up in terror, and ran to the door. She expected to find the passage filled with people, come to tell her that the house in the city had taken fire. But the place was empty; not a soul was there. She opened the window, and looked out. Dark, dull, dingy, and desolate house-tops. As she passed to her seat again, she glanced at the patient. Just the same; but silent. Mrs Gamp was so warm now, that she threw off the watchman’s coat, and fanned herself.

‘It seemed to make the wery bottles ring,’ she said. ‘What could I have been a-dreaming of? That dratted Chuffey, I’ll be bound.’

The supposition was probable enough. At any rate, a pinch of snuff, and the song of the steaming kettle, quite restored the tone of Mrs Gamp’s nerves, which were none of the weakest. She brewed her tea; made some buttered toast; and sat down at the tea-board, with her face to the fire.

When once again, in a tone more terrible than that which had vibrated in her slumbering ear, these words were shrieked out:

‘Chuzzlewit! Jonas! No!’

Mrs Gamp dropped the cup she was in the act of raising to her lips, and turned round with a start that made the little tea-board leap. The cry had come from the bed.

It was bright morning the next time Mrs Gamp looked out of the window, and the sun was rising cheerfully. Lighter and lighter grew the sky, and noisier the streets; and high into the summer air uprose the smoke of newly kindled fires, until the busy day was broad awake.

Mrs Prig relieved punctually, having passed a good night at her other patient’s. Mr Westlock came at the same time, but he was not admitted, the disorder being infectious. The doctor came too. The doctor shook his head. It was all he could do, under the circumstances, and he did it well.

‘What sort of a night, nurse?’

‘Restless, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘Talk much?’

‘Middling, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘Nothing to the purpose, I suppose?’

‘Oh bless you, no, sir. Only jargon.’

‘Well!’ said the doctor, ‘we must keep him quiet; keep the room cool; give him his draughts regularly; and see that he’s carefully looked to. That’s all!’

‘And as long as Mrs Prig and me waits upon him, sir, no fear of that,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘I suppose,’ observed Mrs Prig, when they had curtseyed the doctor out; ‘there’s nothin’ new?’

‘Nothin’ at all, my dear,’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘He’s rather wearin’ in his talk from making up a lot of names; elseways you needn’t mind him.’

‘Oh, I shan’t mind him,’ Mrs Prig returned. ‘I have somethin’ else to think of.’

‘I pays my debts to-night, you know, my dear, and comes afore my time,’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘But, Betsy Prig’—speaking with great feeling, and laying her hand upon her arm—‘try the cowcumbers, God bless you!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING, AND A PROMISING PROSPECT

The laws of sympathy between beards and birds, and the secret source of that attraction which frequently impels a shaver of the one to be a dealer in the other, are questions for the subtle reasoning of scientific bodies; not the less so, because their investigation would seem calculated to lead to no particular result. It is enough to know that the artist who had the honour of entertaining Mrs Gamp as his first-floor lodger, united the two pursuits of barbering and bird-fancying; and that it was not an original idea of his, but one in which he had, dispersed about the by-streets and suburbs of the town, a host of rivals.

The name of the householder was Paul Sweedlepipe. But he was commonly called Poll Sweedlepipe; and was not uncommonly believed to have been so christened, among his friends and neighbours.

With the exception of the staircase, and his lodger’s private apartment, Poll Sweedlepipe’s house was one great bird’s nest. Gamecocks resided in the kitchen; pheasants wasted the brightness of their golden plumage on the garret; bantams roosted in the cellar; owls had possession of the bedroom; and specimens of all the smaller fry of birds chirrupped and twittered in the shop. The staircase was sacred to rabbits. There in hutches of all shapes and kinds, made from old packing-cases, boxes, drawers, and tea-chests, they increased in a prodigious degree, and contributed their share towards that complicated whiff which, quite impartially, and without distinction of persons, saluted every nose that was put into Sweedlepipe’s easy shaving-shop.

Many noses found their way there, for all that, especially on Sunday morning, before church-time. Even archbishops shave, or must be shaved, on a Sunday, and beards WILL grow after twelve o’clock on Saturday night, though it be upon the chins of base mechanics; who, not being able to engage their valets by the quarter, hire them by the job, and pay them—oh, the wickedness of copper coin!—in dirty pence. Poll Sweedlepipe, the sinner, shaved all comers at a penny each, and cut the hair of any customer for twopence; and being a lone unmarried man, and having some connection in the bird line, Poll got on tolerably well.

He was a little elderly man, with a clammy cold right hand, from which even rabbits and birds could not remove the smell of shaving-soap. Poll had something of the bird in his nature; not of the hawk or eagle, but of the sparrow, that builds in chimney-stacks and inclines to human company. He was not quarrelsome, though, like the sparrow; but peaceful, like the dove. In his walk he strutted; and, in this respect, he bore a faint resemblance to the pigeon, as well as in a certain prosiness of speech, which might, in its monotony, be likened to the cooing of that bird. He was very inquisitive; and when he stood at his shop-door in the evening-tide, watching the neighbours, with his head on one side, and his eye cocked knowingly, there was a dash of the raven in him. Yet there was no more wickedness in Poll than in a robin. Happily, too, when any of his ornithological properties were on the verge of going too far, they were quenched, dissolved, melted down, and neutralised in the barber; just as his bald head—otherwise, as the head of a shaved magpie—lost itself in a wig of curly black ringlets, parted on one side, and cut away almost to the crown, to indicate immense capacity of intellect.

Poll had a very small, shrill treble voice, which might have led the wags of Kingsgate Street to insist the more upon his feminine designation. He had a tender heart, too; for, when he had a good commission to provide three or four score sparrows for a shooting-match, he would observe, in a compassionate tone, how singular it was that sparrows should have been made expressly for such purposes. The question, whether men were made to shoot them, never entered into Poll’s philosophy.

Poll wore, in his sporting character, a velveteen coat, a great deal of blue stocking, ankle boots, a neckerchief of some bright colour, and a very tall hat. Pursuing his more quiet occupation of barber, he generally subsided into an apron not over-clean, a flannel jacket, and corduroy knee-shorts. It was in this latter costume, but with his apron girded round his waist, as a token of his having shut up shop for the night, that he closed the door one evening, some weeks after the occurrences detailed in the last chapter, and stood upon the steps in Kingsgate Street, listening until the little cracked bell within should leave off ringing. For until it did—this was Mr Sweedlepipe’s reflection—the place never seemed quiet enough to be left to itself.

‘It’s the greediest little bell to ring,’ said Poll, ‘that ever was. But it’s quiet at last.’

He rolled his apron up a little tighter as he said these words, and hastened down the street. Just as he was turning into Holborn, he ran against a young gentleman in a livery. This youth was bold, though small, and with several lively expressions of displeasure, turned upon him instantly.

‘Now, STOO-PID!’ cried the young gentleman. ‘Can’t you look where you’re a-going to—eh? Can’t you mind where you’re a-coming to—eh? What do you think your eyes was made for—eh? Ah! Yes. Oh! Now then!’

The young gentleman pronounced the two last words in a very loud tone and with frightful emphasis, as though they contained within themselves the essence of the direst aggravation. But he had scarcely done so, when his anger yielded to surprise, and he cried, in a milder tone:

‘What! Polly!’

‘Why, it an’t you, sure!’ cried Poll. ‘It can’t be you!’

‘No. It an’t me,’ returned the youth. ‘It’s my son, my oldest one. He’s a credit to his father, an’t he, Polly?’ With this delicate little piece of banter, he halted on the pavement, and went round and round in circles, for the better exhibition of his figure; rather to the inconvenience of the passengers generally, who were not in an equal state of spirits with himself.

‘I wouldn’t have believed it,’ said Poll. ‘What! You’ve left your old place, then? Have you?’

‘Have I!’ returned his young friend, who had by this time stuck his hands into the pockets of his white cord breeches, and was swaggering along at the barber’s side. ‘D’ye know a pair of top-boots when you see ‘em, Polly?—look here!’

‘Beau-ti-ful’ cried Mr Sweedlepipe.

‘D’ye know a slap-up sort of button, when you see it?’ said the youth. ‘Don’t look at mine, if you ain’t a judge, because these lions’ heads was made for men of taste; not snobs.’

‘Beau-ti-ful!’ cried the barber again. ‘A grass-green frock-coat, too, bound with gold; and a cockade in your hat!’

‘I should hope so,’ replied the youth. ‘Blow the cockade, though; for, except that it don’t turn round, it’s like the wentilator that used to be in the kitchen winder at Todgers’s. You ain’t seen the old lady’s name in the Gazette, have you?’

‘No,’ returned the barber. ‘Is she a bankrupt?’

‘If she ain’t, she will be,’ retorted Bailey. ‘That bis’ness never can be carried on without ME. Well! How are you?’

‘Oh! I’m pretty well,’ said Poll. ‘Are you living at this end of the town, or were you coming to see me? Was that the bis’ness that brought you to Holborn?’

‘I haven’t got no bis’ness in Holborn,’ returned Bailey, with some displeasure. ‘All my bis’ness lays at the West End. I’ve got the right sort of governor now. You can’t see his face for his whiskers, and can’t see his whiskers for the dye upon ‘em. That’s a gentleman ain’t it? You wouldn’t like a ride in a cab, would you? Why, it wouldn’t be safe to offer it. You’d faint away, only to see me a-comin’ at a mild trot round the corner.’

To convey a slight idea of the effect of this approach, Mr Bailey counterfeited in his own person the action of a high-trotting horse and threw up his head so high, in backing against a pump, that he shook his hat off.

‘Why, he’s own uncle to Capricorn,’ said Bailey, ‘and brother to Cauliflower. He’s been through the winders of two chaney shops since we’ve had him, and was sold for killin’ his missis. That’s a horse, I hope?’

‘Ah! you’ll never want to buy any more red polls, now,’ observed Poll, looking on his young friend with an air of melancholy. ‘You’ll never want to buy any more red polls now, to hang up over the sink, will you?’

‘I should think not,’ replied Bailey. ‘Reether so. I wouldn’t have nothin’ to say to any bird below a Peacock; and HE’d be wulgar. Well, how are you?’

‘Oh! I’m pretty well,’ said Poll. He answered the question again because Mr Bailey asked it again; Mr Bailey asked it again, because—accompanied with a straddling action of the white cords, a bend of the knees, and a striking forth of the top-boots—it was an easy horse-fleshy, turfy sort of thing to do.

‘Wot are you up to, old feller?’ added Mr Bailey, with the same graceful rakishness. He was quite the man-about-town of the conversation, while the easy-shaver was the child.

‘Why, I am going to fetch my lodger home,’ said Paul.

‘A woman!’ cried Mr Bailey, ‘for a twenty-pun’ note!’

The little barber hastened to explain that she was neither a young woman, nor a handsome woman, but a nurse, who had been acting as a kind of house-keeper to a gentleman for some weeks past, and left her place that night, in consequence of being superseded by another and a more legitimate house-keeper—to wit, the gentleman’s bride.

‘He’s newly married, and he brings his young wife home to-night,’ said the barber. ‘So I’m going to fetch my lodger away—Mr Chuzzlewit’s, close behind the Post Office—and carry her box for her.’

‘Jonas Chuzzlewit’s?’ said Bailey.

‘Ah!’ returned Paul: ‘that’s the name sure enough. Do you know him?’

‘Oh, no!’ cried Mr Bailey; ‘not at all. And I don’t know her! Not neither! Why, they first kept company through me, a’most.’

‘Ah?’ said Paul.

‘Ah!’ said Mr Bailey, with a wink; ‘and she ain’t bad looking mind you. But her sister was the best. SHE was the merry one. I often used to have a bit of fun with her, in the hold times!’

Mr Bailey spoke as if he already had a leg and three-quarters in the grave, and this had happened twenty or thirty years ago. Paul Sweedlepipe, the meek, was so perfectly confounded by his precocious self-possession, and his patronizing manner, as well as by his boots, cockade, and livery, that a mist swam before his eyes, and he saw—not the Bailey of acknowledged juvenility from Todgers’s Commercial Boarding House, who had made his acquaintance within a twelvemonth, by purchasing, at sundry times, small birds at twopence each—but a highly-condensed embodiment of all the sporting grooms in London; an abstract of all the stable-knowledge of the time; a something at a high-pressure that must have had existence many years, and was fraught with terrible experiences. And truly, though in the cloudy atmosphere of Todgers’s, Mr Bailey’s genius had ever shone out brightly in this particular respect, it now eclipsed both time and space, cheated beholders of their senses, and worked on their belief in defiance of all natural laws. He walked along the tangible and real stones of Holborn Hill, an undersized boy; and yet he winked the winks, and thought the thoughts, and did the deeds, and said the sayings of an ancient man. There was an old principle within him, and a young surface without. He became an inexplicable creature; a breeched and booted Sphinx. There was no course open to the barber, but to go distracted himself, or to take Bailey for granted; and he wisely chose the latter.

Mr Bailey was good enough to continue to bear him company, and to entertain him, as they went, with easy conversation on various sporting topics; especially on the comparative merits, as a general principle, of horses with white stockings, and horses without. In regard to the style of tail to be preferred, Mr Bailey had opinions of his own, which he explained, but begged they might by no means influence his friend’s, as here he knew he had the misfortune to differ from some excellent authorities. He treated Mr Sweedlepipe to a dram, compounded agreeably to his own directions, which he informed him had been invented by a member of the Jockey Club; and, as they were by this time near the barber’s destination, he observed that, as he had an hour to spare, and knew the parties, he would, if quite agreeable, be introduced to Mrs Gamp.

Paul knocked at Jonas Chuzzlewit’s; and, on the door being opened by that lady, made the two distinguished persons known to one another. It was a happy feature in Mrs Gamp’s twofold profession, that it gave her an interest in everything that was young as well as in everything that was old. She received Mr Bailey with much kindness.

‘It’s very good, I’m sure, of you to come,’ she said to her landlord, ‘as well as bring so nice a friend. But I’m afraid that I must trouble you so far as to step in, for the young couple has not yet made appearance.’

‘They’re late, ain’t they?’ inquired her landlord, when she had conducted them downstairs into the kitchen.

‘Well, sir, considern’ the Wings of Love, they are,’ said Mrs Gamp.

Mr Bailey inquired whether the Wings of Love had ever won a plate, or could be backed to do anything remarkable; and being informed that it was not a horse, but merely a poetical or figurative expression, evinced considerable disgust. Mrs Gamp was so very much astonished by his affable manners and great ease, that she was about to propound to her landlord in a whisper the staggering inquiry, whether he was a man or a boy, when Mr Sweedlepipe, anticipating her design, made a timely diversion.

‘He knows Mrs Chuzzlewit,’ said Paul aloud.

‘There’s nothin’ he don’t know; that’s my opinion,’ observed Mrs Gamp. ‘All the wickedness of the world is Print to him.’

Mr Bailey received this as a compliment, and said, adjusting his cravat, ‘reether so.’

‘As you knows Mrs Chuzzlewit, you knows, p’raps, what her chris’en name is?’ Mrs Gamp observed.

‘Charity,’ said Bailey.

‘That it ain’t!’ cried Mrs Gamp.

‘Cherry, then,’ said Bailey. ‘Cherry’s short for it. It’s all the same.’

‘It don’t begin with a C at all,’ retorted Mrs Gamp, shaking her head. ‘It begins with a M.’

‘Whew!’ cried Mr Bailey, slapping a little cloud of pipe-clay out of his left leg, ‘then he’s been and married the merry one!’

As these words were mysterious, Mrs Gamp called upon him to explain, which Mr Bailey proceeded to do; that lady listening greedily to everything he said. He was yet in the fullness of his narrative when the sound of wheels, and a double knock at the street door, announced the arrival of the newly married couple. Begging him to reserve what more he had to say for her hearing on the way home, Mrs Gamp took up the candle, and hurried away to receive and welcome the young mistress of the house.

‘Wishing you appiness and joy with all my art,’ said Mrs Gamp, dropping a curtsey as they entered the hall; ‘and you, too, sir. Your lady looks a little tired with the journey, Mr Chuzzlewit, a pretty dear!’

‘She has bothered enough about it,’ grumbled Mr Jonas. ‘Now, show a light, will you?’

‘This way, ma’am, if you please,’ said Mrs Gamp, going upstairs before them. ‘Things has been made as comfortable as they could be, but there’s many things you’ll have to alter your own self when you gets time to look about you! Ah! sweet thing! But you don’t,’ added Mrs Gamp, internally, ‘you don’t look much like a merry one, I must say!’

It was true; she did not. The death that had gone before the bridal seemed to have left its shade upon the house. The air was heavy and oppressive; the rooms were dark; a deep gloom filled up every chink and corner. Upon the hearthstone, like a creature of ill omen, sat the aged clerk, with his eyes fixed on some withered branches in the stove. He rose and looked at her.

‘So there you are, Mr Chuff,’ said Jonas carelessly, as he dusted his boots; ‘still in the land of the living, eh?’

‘Still in the land of the living, sir,’ retorted Mrs Gamp. ‘And Mr Chuffey may thank you for it, as many and many a time I’ve told him.’

Mr Jonas was not in the best of humours, for he merely said, as he looked round, ‘We don’t want you any more, you know, Mrs Gamp.’

‘I’m a-going immediate, sir,’ returned the nurse; ‘unless there’s nothink I can do for you, ma’am. Ain’t there,’ said Mrs Gamp, with a look of great sweetness, and rummaging all the time in her pocket; ‘ain’t there nothink I can do for you, my little bird?’

‘No,’ said Merry, almost crying. ‘You had better go away, please!’

With a leer of mingled sweetness and slyness; with one eye on the future, one on the bride, and an arch expression in her face, partly spiritual, partly spirituous, and wholly professional and peculiar to her art; Mrs Gamp rummaged in her pocket again, and took from it a printed card, whereon was an inscription copied from her signboard.

‘Would you be so good, my darling dovey of a dear young married lady,’ Mrs Gamp observed, in a low voice, ‘as put that somewheres where you can keep it in your mind? I’m well beknown to many ladies, and it’s my card. Gamp is my name, and Gamp my nater. Livin’ quite handy, I will make so bold as call in now and then, and make inquiry how your health and spirits is, my precious chick!’

And with innumerable leers, winks, coughs, nods, smiles, and curtseys, all leading to the establishment of a mysterious and confidential understanding between herself and the bride, Mrs Gamp, invoking a blessing upon the house, leered, winked, coughed, nodded, smiled, and curtseyed herself out of the room.

‘But I will say, and I would if I was led a Martha to the Stakes for it,’ Mrs Gamp remarked below stairs, in a whisper, ‘that she don’t look much like a merry one at this present moment of time.’

‘Ah! wait till you hear her laugh!’ said Bailey.

‘Hem!’ cried Mrs Gamp, in a kind of groan. ‘I will, child.’

They said no more in the house, for Mrs Gamp put on her bonnet, Mr Sweedlepipe took up her box; and Mr Bailey accompanied them towards Kingsgate Street; recounting to Mrs Gamp as they went along, the origin and progress of his acquaintance with Mrs Chuzzlewit and her sister. It was a pleasant instance of this youth’s precocity, that he fancied Mrs Gamp had conceived a tenderness for him, and was much tickled by her misplaced attachment.

As the door closed heavily behind them, Mrs Jonas sat down in a chair, and felt a strange chill creep upon her, whilst she looked about the room. It was pretty much as she had known it, but appeared more dreary. She had thought to see it brightened to receive her.

‘It ain’t good enough for you, I suppose?’ said Jonas, watching her looks.

‘Why, it IS dull,’ said Merry, trying to be more herself.

‘It’ll be duller before you’re done with it,’ retorted Jonas, ‘if you give me any of your airs. You’re a nice article, to turn sulky on first coming home! Ecod, you used to have life enough, when you could plague me with it. The gal’s downstairs. Ring the bell for supper, while I take my boots off!’

She roused herself from looking after him as he left the room, to do what he had desired; when the old man Chuffey laid his hand softly on her arm.

‘You are not married?’ he said eagerly. ‘Not married?’

‘Yes. A month ago. Good Heaven, what is the matter?’

He answered nothing was the matter; and turned from her. But in her fear and wonder, turning also, she saw him raise his trembling hands above his head, and heard him say:

‘Oh! woe, woe, woe, upon this wicked house!’

It was her welcome—HOME.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

SHOWING THAT OLD FRIENDS MAY NOT ONLY APPEAR WITH NEW FACES, BUT IN FALSE COLOURS. THAT PEOPLE ARE PRONE TO BITE, AND THAT BITERS MAY SOMETIMES BE BITTEN.

Mr Bailey, Junior—for the sporting character, whilom of general utility at Todgers’s, had now regularly set up in life under that name, without troubling himself to obtain from the legislature a direct licence in the form of a Private Bill, which of all kinds and classes of bills is without exception the most unreasonable in its charges—Mr Bailey, Junior, just tall enough to be seen by an inquiring eye, gazing indolently at society from beneath the apron of his master’s cab, drove slowly up and down Pall Mall, about the hour of noon, in waiting for his ‘Governor.’ The horse of distinguished family, who had Capricorn for his nephew, and Cauliflower for his brother, showed himself worthy of his high relations by champing at the bit until his chest was white with foam, and rearing like a horse in heraldry; the plated harness and the patent leather glittered in the sun; pedestrians admired; Mr Bailey was complacent, but unmoved. He seemed to say, ‘A barrow, good people, a mere barrow; nothing to what we could do, if we chose!’ and on he went, squaring his short green arms outside the apron, as if he were hooked on to it by his armpits.

Mr Bailey had a great opinion of Brother to Cauliflower, and estimated his powers highly. But he never told him so. On the contrary, it was his practice, in driving that animal, to assail him with disrespectful, if not injurious, expressions, as, ‘Ah! would you!’ ‘Did you think it, then?’ ‘Where are you going to now?’ ‘No, you won’t, my lad!’ and similar fragmentary remarks. These being usually accompanied by a jerk of the rein, or a crack of the whip, led to many trials of strength between them, and to many contentions for the upper-hand, terminating, now and then, in china-shops, and other unusual goals, as Mr Bailey had already hinted to his friend Poll Sweedlepipe.

On the present occasion Mr Bailey, being in spirits, was more than commonly hard upon his charge; in consequence of which that fiery animal confined himself almost entirely to his hind legs in displaying his paces, and constantly got himself into positions with reference to the cabriolet that very much amazed the passengers in the street. But Mr Bailey, not at all disturbed, had still a shower of pleasantries to bestow on any one who crossed his path; as, calling to a full-grown coal-heaver in a wagon, who for a moment blocked the way, ‘Now, young ‘un, who trusted YOU with a cart?’ inquiring of elderly ladies who wanted to cross, and ran back again, ‘Why they didn’t go to the workhouse and get an order to be buried?’ tempting boys, with friendly words, to get up behind, and immediately afterwards cutting them down; and the like flashes of a cheerful humour, which he would occasionally relieve by going round St. James’s Square at a hand gallop, and coming slowly into Pall Mall by another entry, as if, in the interval, his pace had been a perfect crawl.

It was not until these amusements had been very often repeated, and the apple-stall at the corner had sustained so many miraculous escapes as to appear impregnable, that Mr Bailey was summoned to the door of a certain house in Pall Mall, and turning short, obeyed the call and jumped out. It was not until he had held the bridle for some minutes longer, every jerk of Cauliflower’s brother’s head, and every twitch of Cauliflower’s brother’s nostril, taking him off his legs in the meanwhile, that two persons entered the vehicle, one of whom took the reins and drove rapidly off. Nor was it until Mr Bailey had run after it some hundreds of yards in vain, that he managed to lift his short leg into the iron step, and finally to get his boots upon the little footboard behind. Then, indeed, he became a sight to see; and—standing now on one foot and now upon the other, now trying to look round the cab on this side, now on that, and now endeavouring to peep over the top of it, as it went dashing in among the carts and coaches—was from head to heel Newmarket.

The appearance of Mr Bailey’s governor as he drove along fully justified that enthusiastic youth’s description of him to the wondering Poll. He had a world of jet-black shining hair upon his head, upon his cheeks, upon his chin, upon his upper lip. His clothes, symmetrically made, were of the newest fashion and the costliest kind. Flowers of gold and blue, and green and blushing red, were on his waistcoat; precious chains and jewels sparkled on his breast; his fingers, clogged with brilliant rings, were as unwieldly as summer flies but newly rescued from a honey-pot. The daylight mantled in his gleaming hat and boots as in a polished glass. And yet, though changed his name, and changed his outward surface, it was Tigg. Though turned and twisted upside down, and inside out, as great men have been sometimes known to be; though no longer Montague Tigg, but Tigg Montague; still it was Tigg; the same Satanic, gallant, military Tigg. The brass was burnished, lacquered, newly stamped; yet it was the true Tigg metal notwithstanding.

Beside him sat a smiling gentleman, of less pretensions and of business looks, whom he addressed as David. Surely not the David of the—how shall it be phrased?—the triumvirate of golden balls? Not David, tapster at the Lombards’ Arms? Yes. The very man.

‘The secretary’s salary, David,’ said Mr Montague, ‘the office being now established, is eight hundred pounds per annum, with his house-rent, coals, and candles free. His five-and-twenty shares he holds, of course. Is that enough?’

David smiled and nodded, and coughed behind a little locked portfolio which he carried; with an air that proclaimed him to be the secretary in question.

‘If that’s enough,’ said Montague, ‘I will propose it at the Board to-day, in my capacity as chairman.’

The secretary smiled again; laughed, indeed, this time; and said, rubbing his nose slily with one end of the portfolio:

‘It was a capital thought, wasn’t it?’

‘What was a capital thought, David?’ Mr Montague inquired.

‘The Anglo-Bengalee,’ tittered the secretary.

‘The Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company is rather a capital concern, I hope, David,’ said Montague.

‘Capital indeed!’ cried the secretary, with another laugh—’ in one sense.’

‘In the only important one,’ observed the chairman; ‘which is number one, David.’

‘What,’ asked the secretary, bursting into another laugh, ‘what will be the paid up capital, according to the next prospectus?’

‘A figure of two, and as many oughts after it as the printer can get into the same line,’ replied his friend. ‘Ha, ha!’

At this they both laughed; the secretary so vehemently, that in kicking up his feet, he kicked the apron open, and nearly started Cauliflower’s brother into an oyster shop; not to mention Mr Bailey’s receiving such a sudden swing, that he held on for a moment quite a young Fame, by one strap and no legs.

‘What a chap you are!’ exclaimed David admiringly, when this little alarm had subsided.

‘Say, genius, David, genius.’

‘Well, upon my soul, you ARE a genius then,’ said David. ‘I always knew you had the gift of the gab, of course; but I never believed you were half the man you are. How could I?’

‘I rise with circumstances, David. That’s a point of genius in itself,’ said Tigg. ‘If you were to lose a hundred pound wager to me at this minute David, and were to pay it (which is most confoundedly improbable), I should rise, in a mental point of view, directly.’

It is due to Mr Tigg to say that he had really risen with his opportunities; and, peculating on a grander scale, he had become a grander man altogether.

‘Ha, ha,’ cried the secretary, laying his hand, with growing familiarity, upon the chairman’s arm. ‘When I look at you, and think of your property in Bengal being—ha, ha, ha!—’

The half-expressed idea seemed no less ludicrous to Mr Tigg than to his friend, for he laughed too, heartily.

‘—Being,’ resumed David, ‘being amenable—your property in Bengal being amenable—to all claims upon the company; when I look at you and think of that, you might tickle me into fits by waving the feather of a pen at me. Upon my soul you might!’

‘It a devilish fine property,’ said Tigg Montague, ‘to be amenable to any claims. The preserve of tigers alone is worth a mint of money, David.’

David could only reply in the intervals of his laughter, ‘Oh, what a chap you are!’ and so continued to laugh, and hold his sides, and wipe his eyes, for some time, without offering any other observation.

‘A capital idea?’ said Tigg, returning after a time to his companion’s first remark; ‘no doubt it was a capital idea. It was my idea.’

‘No, no. It was my idea,’ said David. ‘Hang it, let a man have some credit. Didn’t I say to you that I’d saved a few pounds?—’

‘You said! Didn’t I say to you,’ interposed Tigg, ‘that I had come into a few pounds?’

‘Certainly you did,’ returned David, warmly, ‘but that’s not the idea. Who said, that if we put the money together we could furnish an office, and make a show?’

‘And who said,’ retorted Mr Tigg, ‘that, provided we did it on a sufficiently large scale, we could furnish an office and make a show, without any money at all? Be rational, and just, and calm, and tell me whose idea was that.’

‘Why, there,’ David was obliged to confess, ‘you had the advantage of me, I admit. But I don’t put myself on a level with you. I only want a little credit in the business.’

‘All the credit you deserve to have,’ said Tigg.

‘The plain work of the company, David—figures, books, circulars, advertisements, pen, ink, and paper, sealing-wax and wafers—is admirably done by you. You are a first-rate groveller. I don’t dispute it. But the ornamental department, David; the inventive and poetical department—’

‘Is entirely yours,’ said his friend. ‘No question of it. But with such a swell turnout as this, and all the handsome things you’ve got about you, and the life you lead, I mean to say it’s a precious comfortable department too.’

‘Does it gain the purpose? Is it Anglo-Bengalee?’ asked Tigg.

‘Yes,’ said David.

‘Could you undertake it yourself?’ demanded Tigg.

‘No,’ said David.

‘Ha, ha!’ laughed Tigg. ‘Then be contented with your station and your profits, David, my fine fellow, and bless the day that made us acquainted across the counter of our common uncle, for it was a golden day to you.’

It will have been already gathered from the conversation of these worthies, that they were embarked in an enterprise of some magnitude, in which they addressed the public in general from the strong position of having everything to gain and nothing at all to lose; and which, based upon this great principle, was thriving pretty comfortably.

The Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company started into existence one morning, not an Infant Institution, but a Grown-up Company running alone at a great pace, and doing business right and left: with a ‘branch’ in a first floor over a tailor’s at the west-end of the town, and main offices in a new street in the City, comprising the upper part of a spacious house resplendent in stucco and plate-glass, with wire-blinds in all the windows, and ‘Anglo-Bengalee’ worked into the pattern of every one of them. On the doorpost was painted again in large letters, ‘offices of the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company,’ and on the door was a large brass plate with the same inscription; always kept very bright, as courting inquiry; staring the City out of countenance after office hours on working days, and all day long on Sundays; and looking bolder than the Bank. Within, the offices were newly plastered, newly painted, newly papered, newly countered, newly floor-clothed, newly tabled, newly chaired, newly fitted up in every way, with goods that were substantial and expensive, and designed (like the company) to last. Business! Look at the green ledgers with red backs, like strong cricket-balls beaten flat; the court-guides directories, day-books, almanacks, letter-boxes, weighing-machines for letters, rows of fire-buckets for dashing out a conflagration in its first spark, and saving the immense wealth in notes and bonds belonging to the company; look at the iron safes, the clock, the office seal—in its capacious self, security for anything. Solidity! Look at the massive blocks of marble in the chimney-pieces, and the gorgeous parapet on the top of the house! Publicity! Why, Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance company is painted on the very coal-scuttles. It is repeated at every turn until the eyes are dazzled with it, and the head is giddy. It is engraved upon the top of all the letter paper, and it makes a scroll-work round the seal, and it shines out of the porter’s buttons, and it is repeated twenty times in every circular and public notice wherein one David Crimple, Esquire, Secretary and resident Director, takes the liberty of inviting your attention to the accompanying statement of the advantages offered by the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company; and fully proves to you that any connection on your part with that establishment must result in a perpetual Christmas Box and constantly increasing Bonus to yourself, and that nobody can run any risk by the transaction except the office, which, in its great liberality is pretty sure to lose. And this, David Crimple, Esquire, submits to you (and the odds are heavy you believe him), is the best guarantee that can reasonably be suggested by the Board of Management for its permanence and stability.

This gentleman’s name, by the way, had been originally Crimp; but as the word was susceptible of an awkward construction and might be misrepresented, he had altered it to Crimple.

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

Rival offices had endeavoured to lure him away; Lombard Street itself had beckoned to him; rich companies had whispered ‘Be a Beadle!’ but he still continued faithful to the Anglo-Bengalee. Whether he was a deep rogue, or a stately simpleton, it was impossible to make out, but he appeared to believe in the Anglo-Bengalee. He was grave with imaginary cares of office; and having nothing whatever to do, and something less to take care of, would look as if the pressure of his numerous duties, and a sense of the treasure in the company’s strong-room, made him a solemn and a thoughtful man.

As the cabriolet drove up to the door, this officer appeared bare-headed on the pavement, crying aloud ‘Room for the chairman, room for the chairman, if you please!’ much to the admiration of the bystanders, who, it is needless to say, had their attention directed to the Anglo-Bengalee Company thenceforth, by that means. Mr Tigg leaped gracefully out, followed by the Managing Director (who was by this time very distant and respectful), and ascended the stairs, still preceded by the porter, who cried as he went, ‘By your leave there! by your leave! The Chairman of the Board, Gentle—MEN! In like manner, but in a still more stentorian voice, he ushered the chairman through the public office, where some humble clients were transacting business, into an awful chamber, labelled Board-room; the door of which sanctuary immediately closed, and screened the great capitalist from vulgar eyes.

The board-room had a Turkey carpet in it, a sideboard, a portrait of Tigg Montague, Esquire, as chairman; a very imposing chair of office, garnished with an ivory hammer and a little hand-bell; and a long table, set out at intervals with sheets of blotting-paper, foolscap, clean pens, and inkstands. The chairman having taken his seat with great solemnity, the secretary supported him on his right hand, and the porter stood bolt upright behind them, forming a warm background of waistcoat. This was the board: everything else being a light-hearted little fiction.

‘Bullamy!’ said Mr Tigg.

‘Sir!’ replied the porter.

‘Let the Medical Officer know, with my compliments, that I wish to see him.’

Bullamy cleared his throat, and bustled out into the office, crying ‘The Chairman of the Board wishes to see the Medical Officer. By your leave there! By your leave!’ He soon returned with the gentleman in question; and at both openings of the board-room door—at his coming in and at his going out—simple clients were seen to stretch their necks and stand upon their toes, thirsting to catch the slightest glimpse of that mysterious chamber.

‘Jobling, my dear friend!’ said Mr Tigg, ‘how are you? Bullamy, wait outside. Crimple, don’t leave us. Jobling, my good fellow, I am glad to see you.’

‘And how are you, Mr Montague, eh?’ said the Medical Officer, throwing himself luxuriously into an easy-chair (they were all easy-chairs in the board-room), and taking a handsome gold snuff-box from the pocket of his black satin waistcoat. ‘How are you? A little worn with business, eh? If so, rest. A little feverish from wine, humph? If so, water. Nothing at all the matter, and quite comfortable? Then take some lunch. A very wholesome thing at this time of day to strengthen the gastric juices with lunch, Mr Montague.’

The Medical Officer (he was the same medical officer who had followed poor old Anthony Chuzzlewit to the grave, and who had attended Mrs Gamp’s patient at the Bull) smiled in saying these words; and casually added, as he brushed some grains of snuff from his shirt-frill, ‘I always take it myself about this time of day, do you know!’

‘Bullamy!’ said the Chairman, ringing the little bell.

‘Sir!’

‘Lunch.’

‘Not on my account, I hope?’ said the doctor. ‘You are very good. Thank you. I’m quite ashamed. Ha, ha! if I had been a sharp practitioner, Mr Montague, I shouldn’t have mentioned it without a fee; for you may depend upon it, my dear sir, that if you don’t make a point of taking lunch, you’ll very soon come under my hands. Allow me to illustrate this. In Mr Crimple’s leg—’

The resident Director gave an involuntary start, for the doctor, in the heat of his demonstration, caught it up and laid it across his own, as if he were going to take it off, then and there.

‘In Mr Crimple’s leg, you’ll observe,’ pursued the doctor, turning back his cuffs and spanning the limb with both hands, ‘where Mr Crimple’s knee fits into the socket, here, there is—that is to say, between the bone and the socket—a certain quantity of animal oil.’

‘What do you pick MY leg out for?’ said Mr Crimple, looking with something of an anxious expression at his limb. ‘It’s the same with other legs, ain’t it?’

‘Never you mind, my good sir,’ returned the doctor, shaking his head, ‘whether it is the same with other legs, or not the same.’

‘But I do mind,’ said David.

‘I take a particular case, Mr Montague,’ returned the doctor, ‘as illustrating my remark, you observe. In this portion of Mr Crimple’s leg, sir, there is a certain amount of animal oil. In every one of Mr Crimple’s joints, sir, there is more or less of the same deposit. Very good. If Mr Crimple neglects his meals, or fails to take his proper quantity of rest, that oil wanes, and becomes exhausted. What is the consequence? Mr Crimple’s bones sink down into their sockets, sir, and Mr Crimple becomes a weazen, puny, stunted, miserable man!’

The doctor let Mr Crimple’s leg fall suddenly, as if he were already in that agreeable condition; turned down his wristbands again, and looked triumphantly at the chairman.

‘We know a few secrets of nature in our profession, sir,’ said the doctor. ‘Of course we do. We study for that; we pass the Hall and the College for that; and we take our station in society BY that. It’s extraordinary how little is known on these subjects generally. Where do you suppose, now’—the doctor closed one eye, as he leaned back smilingly in his chair, and formed a triangle with his hands, of which his two thumbs composed the base—‘where do you suppose Mr Crimple’s stomach is?’

Mr Crimple, more agitated than before, clapped his hand immediately below his waistcoat.

‘Not at all,’ cried the doctor; ‘not at all. Quite a popular mistake! My good sir, you’re altogether deceived.’

‘I feel it there, when it’s out of order; that’s all I know,’ said Crimple.

‘You think you do,’ replied the doctor; ‘but science knows better. There was a patient of mine once,’ touching one of the many mourning rings upon his fingers, and slightly bowing his head, ‘a gentleman who did me the honour to make a very handsome mention of me in his will—“in testimony,” as he was pleased to say, “of the unremitting zeal, talent, and attention of my friend and medical attendant, John Jobling, Esquire, M.R.C.S.,”—who was so overcome by the idea of having all his life laboured under an erroneous view of the locality of this important organ, that when I assured him on my professional reputation, he was mistaken, he burst into tears, put out his hand, and said, “Jobling, God bless you!” Immediately afterwards he became speechless, and was ultimately buried at Brixton.’

‘By your leave there!’ cried Bullamy, without. ‘By your leave! Refreshment for the Board-room!’

‘Ha!’ said the doctor, jocularly, as he rubbed his hands, and drew his chair nearer to the table. ‘The true Life Assurance, Mr Montague. The best Policy in the world, my dear sir. We should be provident, and eat and drink whenever we can. Eh, Mr Crimple?’

The resident Director acquiesced rather sulkily, as if the gratification of replenishing his stomach had been impaired by the unsettlement of his preconceived opinions in reference to its situation. But the appearance of the porter and under-porter with a tray covered with a snow-white cloth, which, being thrown back, displayed a pair of cold roast fowls, flanked by some potted meats and a cool salad, quickly restored his good humour. It was enhanced still further by the arrival of a bottle of excellent madeira, and another of champagne; and he soon attacked the repast with an appetite scarcely inferior to that of the medical officer.

The lunch was handsomely served, with a profusion of rich glass plate, and china; which seemed to denote that eating and drinking on a showy scale formed no unimportant item in the business of the Anglo-Bengalee Directorship. As it proceeded, the Medical Officer grew more and more joyous and red-faced, insomuch that every mouthful he ate, and every drop of wine he swallowed, seemed to impart new lustre to his eyes, and to light up new sparks in his nose and forehead.

In certain quarters of the City and its neighbourhood, Mr Jobling was, as we have already seen in some measure, a very popular character. He had a portentously sagacious chin, and a pompous voice, with a rich huskiness in some of its tones that went directly to the heart, like a ray of light shining through the ruddy medium of choice old burgundy. His neckerchief and shirt-frill were ever of the whitest, his clothes of the blackest and sleekest, his gold watch-chain of the heaviest, and his seals of the largest. His boots, which were always of the brightest, creaked as he walked. Perhaps he could shake his head, rub his hands, or warm himself before a fire, better than any man alive; and he had a peculiar way of smacking his lips and saying, ‘Ah!’ at intervals while patients detailed their symptoms, which inspired great confidence. It seemed to express, ‘I know what you’re going to say better than you do; but go on, go on.’ As he talked on all occasions whether he had anything to say or not, it was unanimously observed of him that he was ‘full of anecdote;’ and his experience and profit from it were considered, for the same reason, to be something much too extensive for description. His female patients could never praise him too highly; and the coldest of his male admirers would always say this for him to their friends, ‘that whatever Jobling’s professional skill might be (and it could not be denied that he had a very high reputation), he was one of the most comfortable fellows you ever saw in your life!’

Jobling was for many reasons, and not last in the list because his connection lay principally among tradesmen and their families, exactly the sort of person whom the Anglo-Bengalee Company wanted for a medical officer. But Jobling was far too knowing to connect himself with the company in any closer ties than as a paid (and well paid) functionary, or to allow his connection to be misunderstood abroad, if he could help it. Hence he always stated the case to an inquiring patient, after this manner:

‘Why, my dear sir, with regard to the Anglo-Bengalee, my information, you see, is limited; very limited. I am the medical officer, in consideration of a certain monthly payment. The labourer is worthy of his hire; BIS DAT QUI CITO DAT’—[‘classical scholar, Jobling!’ thinks the patient, ‘well-read man!’)—‘and I receive it regularly. Therefore I am bound, so far as my own knowledge goes, to speak well of the establishment.’ [‘Nothing can be fairer than Jobling’s conduct,’ thinks the patient, who has just paid Jobling’s bill himself.) ‘If you put any question to me, my dear friend,’ says the doctor, ‘touching the responsibility or capital of the company, there I am at fault; for I have no head for figures, and not being a shareholder, am delicate of showing any curiosity whatever on the subject. Delicacy—your amiable lady will agree with me I am sure—should be one of the first characteristics of a medical man.’ [‘Nothing can be finer or more gentlemanly than Jobling’s feeling,’ thinks the patient.) ‘Very good, my dear sir, so the matter stands. You don’t know Mr Montague? I’m sorry for it. A remarkably handsome man, and quite the gentleman in every respect. Property, I am told, in India. House and everything belonging to him, beautiful. Costly furniture on the most elegant and lavish scale. And pictures, which, even in an anatomical point of view, are perfection. In case you should ever think of doing anything with the company, I’ll pass you, you may depend upon it. I can conscientiously report you a healthy subject. If I understand any man’s constitution, it is yours; and this little indisposition has done him more good, ma’am,’ says the doctor, turning to the patient’s wife, ‘than if he had swallowed the contents of half the nonsensical bottles in my surgery. For they ARE nonsense—to tell the honest truth, one half of them are nonsense—compared with such a constitution as his!’ [‘Jobling is the most friendly creature I ever met with in my life,’ thinks the patient; ‘and upon my word and honour, I’ll consider of it!’)

‘Commission to you, doctor, on four new policies, and a loan this morning, eh?’ said Crimple, looking, when they had finished lunch, over some papers brought in by the porter. ‘Well done!’

‘Jobling, my dear friend,’ said Tigg, ‘long life to you.’

‘No, no. Nonsense. Upon my word I’ve no right to draw the commission,’ said the doctor, ‘I haven’t really. It’s picking your pocket. I don’t recommend anybody here. I only say what I know. My patients ask me what I know, and I tell ‘em what I know. Nothing else. Caution is my weak side, that’s the truth; and always was from a boy. That is,’ said the doctor, filling his glass, ‘caution in behalf of other people. Whether I would repose confidence in this company myself, if I had not been paying money elsewhere for many years—that’s quite another question.’

He tried to look as if there were no doubt about it; but feeling that he did it but indifferently, changed the theme and praised the wine.

‘Talking of wine,’ said the doctor, ‘reminds me of one of the finest glasses of light old port I ever drank in my life; and that was at a funeral. You have not seen anything of—of THAT party, Mr Montague, have you?’ handing him a card.

‘He is not buried, I hope?’ said Tigg, as he took it. ‘The honour of his company is not requested if he is.’

‘Ha, ha!’ laughed the doctor. ‘No; not quite. He was honourably connected with that very occasion though.’

‘Oh!’ said Tigg, smoothing his moustache, as he cast his eyes upon the name. ‘I recollect. No. He has not been here.’

The words were on his lips, when Bullamy entered, and presented a card to the Medical Officer.

‘Talk of the what’s his name—’ observed the doctor rising.

‘And he’s sure to appear, eh?’ said Tigg.

‘Why, no, Mr Montague, no,’ returned the doctor. ‘We will not say that in the present case, for this gentleman is very far from it.’

‘So much the better,’ retorted Tigg. ‘So much the more adaptable to the Anglo-Bengalee. Bullamy, clear the table and take the things out by the other door. Mr Crimple, business.’

‘Shall I introduce him?’ asked Jobling.

‘I shall be eternally delighted,’ answered Tigg, kissing his hand and smiling sweetly.

The doctor disappeared into the outer office, and immediately returned with Jonas Chuzzlewit.

‘Mr Montague,’ said Jobling. ‘Allow me. My friend Mr Chuzzlewit. My dear friend—our chairman. Now do you know,’ he added checking himself with infinite policy, and looking round with a smile; ‘that’s a very singular instance of the force of example. It really is a very remarkable instance of the force of example. I say OUR chairman. Why do I say our chairman? Because he is not MY chairman, you know. I have no connection with the company, farther than giving them, for a certain fee and reward, my poor opinion as a medical man, precisely as I may give it any day to Jack Noakes or Tom Styles. Then why do I say our chairman? Simply because I hear the phrase constantly repeated about me. Such is the involuntary operation of the mental faculty in the imitative biped man. Mr Crimple, I believe you never take snuff? Injudicious. You should.’

Pending these remarks on the part of the doctor, and the lengthened and sonorous pinch with which he followed them up, Jonas took a seat at the board; as ungainly a man as ever he has been within the reader’s knowledge. It is too common with all of us, but it is especially in the nature of a mean mind, to be overawed by fine clothes and fine furniture. They had a very decided influence on Jonas.

‘Now you two gentlemen have business to discuss, I know,’ said the doctor, ‘and your time is precious. So is mine; for several lives are waiting for me in the next room, and I have a round of visits to make after—after I have taken ‘em. Having had the happiness to introduce you to each other, I may go about my business. Good-bye. But allow me, Mr Montague, before I go, to say this of my friend who sits beside you: That gentleman has done more, sir,’ rapping his snuff-box solemnly, ‘to reconcile me to human nature, than any man alive or dead. Good-bye!’

With these words Jobling bolted abruptly out of the room, and proceeded in his own official department, to impress the lives in waiting with a sense of his keen conscientiousness in the discharge of his duty, and the great difficulty of getting into the Anglo-Bengalee; by feeling their pulses, looking at their tongues, listening at their ribs, poking them in the chest, and so forth; though, if he didn’t well know beforehand that whatever kind of lives they were, the Anglo-Bengalee would accept them readily, he was far from being the Jobling that his friend considered him; and was not the original Jobling, but a spurious imitation.

Mr Crimple also departed on the business of the morning; and Jonas Chuzzlewit and Tigg were left alone.

‘I learn from our friend,’ said Tigg, drawing his chair towards Jonas with a winning ease of manner, ‘that you have been thinking—’

‘Oh! Ecod then he’d no right to say so,’ cried Jonas, interrupting. ‘I didn’t tell HIM my thoughts. If he took it into his head that I was coming here for such or such a purpose, why, that’s his lookout. I don’t stand committed by that.’

Jonas said this offensively enough; for over and above the habitual distrust of his character, it was in his nature to seek to revenge himself on the fine clothes and the fine furniture, in exact proportion as he had been unable to withstand their influence.

‘If I come here to ask a question or two, and get a document or two to consider of, I don’t bind myself to anything. Let’s understand that, you know,’ said Jonas.

‘My dear fellow!’ cried Tigg, clapping him on the shoulder, ‘I applaud your frankness. If men like you and I speak openly at first, all possible misunderstanding is avoided. Why should I disguise what you know so well, but what the crowd never dream of? We companies are all birds of prey; mere birds of prey. The only question is, whether in serving our own turn, we can serve yours too; whether in double-lining our own nest, we can put a single living into yours. Oh, you’re in our secret. You’re behind the scenes. We’ll make a merit of dealing plainly with you, when we know we can’t help it.’

It was remarked, on the first introduction of Mr Jonas into these pages, that there is a simplicity of cunning no less than a simplicity of innocence, and that in all matters involving a faith in knavery, he was the most credulous of men. If Mr Tigg had preferred any claim to high and honourable dealing, Jonas would have suspected him though he had been a very model of probity; but when he gave utterance to Jonas’s own thoughts of everything and everybody, Jonas began to feel that he was a pleasant fellow, and one to be talked to freely.

He changed his position in the chair, not for a less awkward, but for a more boastful attitude; and smiling in his miserable conceit rejoined:

‘You an’t a bad man of business, Mr Montague. You know how to set about it, I WILL say.’

‘Tut, tut,’ said Tigg, nodding confidentially, and showing his white teeth; ‘we are not children, Mr Chuzzlewit; we are grown men, I hope.’

Jonas assented, and said after a short silence, first spreading out his legs, and sticking one arm akimbo to show how perfectly at home he was,

‘The truth is—’

‘Don’t say, the truth,’ interposed Tigg, with another grin. ‘It’s so like humbug.’

Greatly charmed by this, Jonas began again.

‘The long and the short of it is—’

‘Better,’ muttered Tigg. ‘Much better!’

‘—That I didn’t consider myself very well used by one or two of the old companies in some negotiations I have had with ‘em—once had, I mean. They started objections they had no right to start, and put questions they had no right to put, and carried things much too high for my taste.’

As he made these observations he cast down his eyes, and looked curiously at the carpet. Mr Tigg looked curiously at him.

He made so long a pause, that Tigg came to the rescue, and said, in his pleasantest manner:

‘Take a glass of wine.’

‘No, no,’ returned Jonas, with a cunning shake of the head; ‘none of that, thankee. No wine over business. All very well for you, but it wouldn’t do for me.’

‘What an old hand you are, Mr Chuzzlewit!’ said Tigg, leaning back in his chair, and leering at him through his half-shut eyes.

Jonas shook his head again, as much as to say, ‘You’re right there;’ And then resumed, jocosely:

‘Not such an old hand, either, but that I’ve been and got married. That’s rather green, you’ll say. Perhaps it is, especially as she’s young. But one never knows what may happen to these women, so I’m thinking of insuring her life. It is but fair, you know, that a man should secure some consolation in case of meeting with such a loss.’

‘If anything can console him under such heart-breaking circumstances,’ murmured Tigg, with his eyes shut up as before.

‘Exactly,’ returned Jonas; ‘if anything can. Now, supposing I did it here, I should do it cheap, I know, and easy, without bothering her about it; which I’d much rather not do, for it’s just in a woman’s way to take it into her head, if you talk to her about such things, that she’s going to die directly.’

‘So it is,’ cried Tigg, kissing his hand in honour of the sex. ‘You’re quite right. Sweet, silly, fluttering little simpletons!’

‘Well,’ said Jonas, ‘on that account, you know, and because offence has been given me in other quarters, I wouldn’t mind patronizing this Company. But I want to know what sort of security there is for the Company’s going on. That’s the—’

‘Not the truth?’ cried Tigg, holding up his jewelled hand. ‘Don’t use that Sunday School expression, please!’

‘The long and the short of it,’ said Jonas. ‘The long and the short of it is, what’s the security?’

‘The paid-up capital, my dear sir,’ said Tigg, referring to some papers on the table, ‘is, at this present moment—’

‘Oh! I understand all about paid-up capitals, you know,’ said Jonas.

‘You do?’ cried Tigg, stopping short.

‘I should hope so.’

He turned the papers down again, and moving nearer to him, said in his ear:

‘I know you do. I know you do. Look at me!’

It was not much in Jonas’s way to look straight at anybody; but thus requested, he made shift to take a tolerable survey of the chairman’s features. The chairman fell back a little, to give him the better opportunity.

‘You know me?’ he inquired, elevating his eyebrows. ‘You recollect? You’ve seen me before?’

‘Why, I thought I remembered your face when I first came in,’ said Jonas, gazing at it; ‘but I couldn’t call to mind where I had seen it. No. I don’t remember, even now. Was it in the street?’

‘Was it in Pecksniff’s parlour?’ said Tigg

‘In Pecksniff’s parlour!’ echoed Jonas, fetching a long breath. ‘You don’t mean when—’

‘Yes,’ cried Tigg, ‘when there was a very charming and delightful little family party, at which yourself and your respected father assisted.’

‘Well, never mind HIM,’ said Jonas. ‘He’s dead, and there’s no help for it.’

‘Dead, is he!’ cried Tigg, ‘Venerable old gentleman, is he dead! You’re very like him.’

Jonas received this compliment with anything but a good grace, perhaps because of his own private sentiments in reference to the personal appearance of his deceased parent; perhaps because he was not best pleased to find that Montague and Tigg were one. That gentleman perceived it, and tapping him familiarly on the sleeve, beckoned him to the window. From this moment, Mr Montague’s jocularity and flow of spirits were remarkable.

‘Do you find me at all changed since that time?’ he asked. ‘Speak plainly.’

Jonas looked hard at his waistcoat and jewels; and said ‘Rather, ecod!’

‘Was I at all seedy in those days?’ asked Montague.

‘Precious seedy,’ said Jonas.

Mr Montague pointed down into the street, where Bailey and the cab were in attendance.

‘Neat; perhaps dashing. Do you know whose it is?’

‘No.’

‘Mine. Do you like this room?’

‘It must have cost a lot of money,’ said Jonas.

‘You’re right. Mine too. Why don’t you’—he whispered this, and nudged him in the side with his elbow—‘why don’t you take premiums, instead of paying ‘em? That’s what a man like you should do. Join us!’

Jonas stared at him in amazement.

‘Is that a crowded street?’ asked Montague, calling his attention to the multitude without.

‘Very,’ said Jonas, only glancing at it, and immediately afterwards looking at him again.

‘There are printed calculations,’ said his companion, ‘which will tell you pretty nearly how many people will pass up and down that thoroughfare in the course of a day. I can tell you how many of ‘em will come in here, merely because they find this office here; knowing no more about it than they do of the Pyramids. Ha, ha! Join us. You shall come in cheap.’

Jonas looked at him harder and harder.

‘I can tell you,’ said Tigg in his ear, ‘how many of ‘em will buy annuities, effect insurances, bring us their money in a hundred shapes and ways, force it upon us, trust us as if we were the Mint; yet know no more about us than you do of that crossing-sweeper at the corner. Not so much. Ha, ha!’

Jonas gradually broke into a smile.

‘Yah!’ said Montague, giving him a pleasant thrust in the breast; ‘you’re too deep for us, you dog, or I wouldn’t have told you. Dine with me to-morrow, in Pall Mall!’

‘I will’ said Jonas.

‘Done!’ cried Montague. ‘Wait a bit. Take these papers with you and look ‘em over. See,’ he said, snatching some printed forms from the table. ‘B is a little tradesman, clerk, parson, artist, author, any common thing you like.’

‘Yes,’ said Jonas, looking greedily over his shoulder. ‘Well!’

‘B wants a loan. Say fifty or a hundred pound; perhaps more; no matter. B proposes self and two securities. B is accepted. Two securities give a bond. B assures his own life for double the amount, and brings two friends’ lives also—just to patronize the office. Ha ha, ha! Is that a good notion?’

‘Ecod, that’s a capital notion!’ cried Jonas. ‘But does he really do it?’

‘Do it!’ repeated the chairman. ‘B’s hard up, my good fellow, and will do anything. Don’t you see? It’s my idea.’

‘It does you honour. I’m blest if it don’t,’ said Jonas.

‘I think it does,’ replied the chairman, ‘and I’m proud to hear you say so. B pays the highest lawful interest—’

‘That an’t much,’ interrupted Jonas.

‘Right! quite right!’ retorted Tigg. ‘And hard it is upon the part of the law that it should be so confoundedly down upon us unfortunate victims; when it takes such amazing good interest for itself from all its clients. But charity begins at home, and justice begins next door. Well! The law being hard upon us, we’re not exactly soft upon B; for besides charging B the regular interest, we get B’s premium, and B’s friends’ premiums, and we charge B for the bond, and, whether we accept him or not, we charge B for “inquiries” (we keep a man, at a pound a week, to make ‘em), and we charge B a trifle for the secretary; and in short, my good fellow, we stick it into B, up hill and down dale, and make a devilish comfortable little property out of him. Ha, ha, ha! I drive B, in point of fact,’ said Tigg, pointing to the cabriolet, ‘and a thoroughbred horse he is. Ha, ha, ha!’

Jonas enjoyed this joke very much indeed. It was quite in his peculiar vein of humour.

‘Then,’ said Tigg Montague, ‘we grant annuities on the very lowest and most advantageous terms known in the money market; and the old ladies and gentlemen down in the country buy ‘em. Ha, ha, ha! And we pay ‘em too—perhaps. Ha, ha, ha!’

‘But there’s responsibility in that,’ said Jonas, looking doubtful.

‘I take it all myself,’ said Tigg Montague. ‘Here I am responsible for everything. The only responsible person in the establishment! Ha, ha, ha! Then there are the Life Assurances without loans; the common policies. Very profitable, very comfortable. Money down, you know; repeated every year; capital fun!’

‘But when they begin to fall in,’ observed Jonas. ‘It’s all very well, while the office is young, but when the policies begin to die—that’s what I am thinking of.’

‘At the first start, my dear fellow,’ said Montague, ‘to show you how correct your judgment is, we had a couple of unlucky deaths that brought us down to a grand piano.’

‘Brought you down where?’ cried Jonas.

‘I give you my sacred word of honour,’ said Tigg Montague, ‘that I raised money on every other individual piece of property, and was left alone in the world with a grand piano. And it was an upright-grand too, so that I couldn’t even sit upon it. But, my dear fellow, we got over it. We granted a great many new policies that week (liberal allowance to solicitors, by the bye), and got over it in no time. Whenever they should chance to fall in heavily, as you very justly observe they may, one of these days; then—’ he finished the sentence in so low a whisper, that only one disconnected word was audible, and that imperfectly. But it sounded like ‘Bolt.’

‘Why, you’re as bold as brass!’ said Jonas, in the utmost admiration.

‘A man can well afford to be as bold as brass, my good fellow, when he gets gold in exchange!’ cried the chairman, with a laugh that shook him from head to foot. ‘You’ll dine with me to-morrow?’

‘At what time?’ asked Jonas.

‘Seven. Here’s my card. Take the documents. I see you’ll join us!’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Jonas. ‘There’s a good deal to be looked into first.’

‘You shall look,’ said Montague, slapping him on the back, ‘into anything and everything you please. But you’ll join us, I am convinced. You were made for it. Bullamy!’

Obedient to the summons and the little bell, the waistcoat appeared. Being charged to show Jonas out, it went before; and the voice within it cried, as usual, ‘By your leave there, by your leave! Gentleman from the board-room, by your leave!’

Mr Montague being left alone, pondered for some moments, and then said, raising his voice:

‘Is Nadgett in the office there?’

‘Here he is, sir.’ And he promptly entered; shutting the board-room door after him, as carefully as if he were about to plot a murder.

He was the man at a pound a week who made the inquiries. It was no virtue or merit in Nadgett that he transacted all his Anglo-Bengalee business secretly and in the closest confidence; for he was born to be a secret. He was a short, dried-up, withered old man, who seemed to have secreted his very blood; for nobody would have given him credit for the possession of six ounces of it in his whole body. How he lived was a secret; where he lived was a secret; and even what he was, was a secret. In his musty old pocket-book he carried contradictory cards, in some of which he called himself a coal-merchant, in others a wine-merchant, in others a commission-agent, in others a collector, in others an accountant; as if he really didn’t know the secret himself. He was always keeping appointments in the City, and the other man never seemed to come. He would sit on ‘Change for hours, looking at everybody who walked in and out, and would do the like at Garraway’s, and in other business coffee-rooms, in some of which he would be occasionally seen drying a very damp pocket-handkerchief before the fire, and still looking over his shoulder for the man who never appeared. He was mildewed, threadbare, shabby; always had flue upon his legs and back; and kept his linen so secretly buttoning up and wrapping over, that he might have had none—perhaps he hadn’t. He carried one stained beaver glove, which he dangled before him by the forefinger as he walked or sat; but even its fellow was a secret. Some people said he had been a bankrupt, others that he had gone an infant into an ancient Chancery suit which was still depending, but it was all a secret. He carried bits of sealing-wax and a hieroglyphical old copper seal in his pocket, and often secretly indited letters in corner boxes of the trysting-places before mentioned; but they never appeared to go to anybody, for he would put them into a secret place in his coat, and deliver them to himself weeks afterwards, very much to his own surprise, quite yellow. He was that sort of man that if he had died worth a million of money, or had died worth twopence halfpenny, everybody would have been perfectly satisfied, and would have said it was just as they expected. And yet he belonged to a class; a race peculiar to the City; who are secrets as profound to one another, as they are to the rest of mankind.

‘Mr Nadgett,’ said Montague, copying Jonas Chuzzlewit’s address upon a piece of paper, from the card which was still lying on the table, ‘any information about this name, I shall be glad to have myself. Don’t you mind what it is. Any you can scrape together, bring me. Bring it to me, Mr Nadgett.’

Nadgett put on his spectacles, and read the name attentively; then looked at the chairman over his glasses, and bowed; then took them off, and put them in their case; and then put the case in his pocket. When he had done so, he looked, without his spectacles, at the paper as it lay before him, and at the same time produced his pocket-book from somewhere about the middle of his spine. Large as it was, it was very full of documents, but he found a place for this one; and having clasped it carefully, passed it by a kind of solemn legerdemain into the same region as before.

He withdrew with another bow and without a word; opening the door no wider than was sufficient for his passage out; and shutting it as carefully as before. The chairman of the board employed the rest of the morning in affixing his sign-manual of gracious acceptance to various new proposals of annuity-purchase and assurance. The Company was looking up, for they flowed in gayly.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

MR MONTAGUE AT HOME. AND MR JONAS CHUZZLEWIT AT HOME

There were many powerful reasons for Jonas Chuzzlewit being strongly prepossessed in favour of the scheme which its great originator had so boldly laid open to him; but three among them stood prominently forward. Firstly, there was money to be made by it. Secondly, the money had the peculiar charm of being sagaciously obtained at other people’s cost. Thirdly, it involved much outward show of homage and distinction: a board being an awful institution in its own sphere, and a director a mighty man. ‘To make a swingeing profit, have a lot of chaps to order about, and get into regular good society by one and the same means, and them so easy to one’s hand, ain’t such a bad look-out,’ thought Jonas. The latter considerations were only second to his avarice; for, conscious that there was nothing in his person, conduct, character, or accomplishments, to command respect, he was greedy of power, and was, in his heart, as much a tyrant as any laureled conqueror on record.

But he determined to proceed with cunning and caution, and to be very keen on his observation of the gentility of Mr Montague’s private establishment. For it no more occurred to this shallow knave that Montague wanted him to be so, or he wouldn’t have invited him while his decision was yet in abeyance, than the possibility of that genius being able to overreach him in any way, pierced through his self-deceit by the inlet of a needle’s point. He had said, in the outset, that Jonas was too sharp for him; and Jonas, who would have been sharp enough to believe him in nothing else, though he had solemnly sworn it, believed him in that, instantly.

It was with a faltering hand, and yet with an imbecile attempt at a swagger, that he knocked at his new friend’s door in Pall Mall when the appointed hour arrived. Mr Bailey quickly answered to the summons. He was not proud and was kindly disposed to take notice of Jonas; but Jonas had forgotten him.

‘Mr Montague at home?’

‘I should hope he wos at home, and waiting dinner, too,’ said Bailey, with the ease of an old acquaintance. ‘Will you take your hat up along with you, or leave it here?’

Mr Jonas preferred leaving it there.

‘The hold name, I suppose?’ said Bailey, with a grin.

Mr Jonas stared at him in mute indignation.

‘What, don’t you remember hold mother Todgers’s?’ said Mr Bailey, with his favourite action of the knees and boots. ‘Don’t you remember my taking your name up to the young ladies, when you came a-courting there? A reg’lar scaly old shop, warn’t it? Times is changed ain’t they. I say how you’ve growed!’

Without pausing for any acknowledgement of this compliment, he ushered the visitor upstairs, and having announced him, retired with a private wink.

The lower story of the house was occupied by a wealthy tradesman, but Mr Montague had all the upper portion, and splendid lodging it was. The room in which he received Jonas was a spacious and elegant apartment, furnished with extreme magnificence; decorated with pictures, copies from the antique in alabaster and marble, china vases, lofty mirrors, crimson hangings of the richest silk, gilded carvings, luxurious couches, glistening cabinets inlaid with precious woods; costly toys of every sort in negligent abundance. The only guests besides Jonas were the doctor, the resident Director, and two other gentlemen, whom Montague presented in due form.

‘My dear friend, I am delighted to see you. Jobling you know, I believe?’

‘I think so,’ said the doctor pleasantly, as he stepped out of the circle to shake hands. ‘I trust I have the honour. I hope so. My dear sir, I see you well. Quite well? THAT’S well!’

‘Mr Wolf,’ said Montague, as soon as the doctor would allow him to introduce the two others, ‘Mr Chuzzlewit. Mr Pip, Mr Chuzzlewit.’

Both gentlemen were exceedingly happy to have the honour of making Mr Chuzzlewit’s acquaintance. The doctor drew Jonas a little apart, and whispered behind his hand:

‘Men of the world, my dear sir—men of the world. Hem! Mr Wolf—literary character—you needn’t mention it—remarkably clever weekly paper—oh, remarkably clever! Mr Pip—theatrical man—capital man to know—oh, capital man!’

‘Well!’ said Wolf, folding his arms and resuming a conversation which the arrival of Jonas had interrupted. ‘And what did Lord Nobley say to that?’

‘Why,’ returned Pip, with an oath. ‘He didn’t know what to say. Same, sir, if he wasn’t as mute as a poker. But you know what a good fellow Nobley is!’

‘The best fellow in the world!’ cried Wolf. ‘It as only last week that Nobley said to me, “By Gad, Wolf, I’ve got a living to bestow, and if you had but been brought up at the University, strike me blind if I wouldn’t have made a parson of you!”’

‘Just like him,’ said Pip with another oath. ‘And he’d have done it!’

‘Not a doubt of it,’ said Wolf. ‘But you were going to tell us—’

‘Oh, yes!’ cried Pip. ‘To be sure. So I was. At first he was dumb—sewn up, dead, sir—but after a minute he said to the Duke, “Here’s Pip. Ask Pip. Pip’s our mutual friend. Ask Pip. He knows.” “Damme!” said the Duke, “I appeal to Pip then. Come, Pip. Bandy or not bandy? Speak out!” “Bandy, your Grace, by the Lord Harry!” said I. “Ha, ha!” laughed the Duke. “To be sure she is. Bravo, Pip. Well said Pip. I wish I may die if you’re not a trump, Pip. Pop me down among your fashionable visitors whenever I’m in town, Pip.” And so I do, to this day.’

The conclusion of this story gave immense satisfaction, which was in no degree lessened by the announcement of dinner. Jonas repaired to the dining room, along with his distinguished host, and took his seat at the board between that individual and his friend the doctor. The rest fell into their places like men who were well accustomed to the house; and dinner was done full justice to, by all parties.

It was a good a one as money (or credit, no matter which) could produce. The dishes, wines, and fruits were of the choicest kind. Everything was elegantly served. The plate was gorgeous. Mr Jonas was in the midst of a calculation of the value of this item alone, when his host disturbed him.

‘A glass of wine?’

‘Oh!’ said Jonas, who had had several glasses already. ‘As much of that as you like! It’s too good to refuse.’

‘Well said, Mr Chuzzlewit!’ cried Wolf.

‘Tom Gag, upon my soul!’ said Pip.

‘Positively, you know, that’s—ha, ha, ha!’ observed the doctor, laying down his knife and fork for one instant, and then going to work again, pell-mell—‘that’s epigrammatic; quite!’

‘You’re tolerably comfortable, I hope?’ said Tigg, apart to Jonas.

‘Oh! You needn’t trouble your head about ME,’ he replied, ‘Famous!’

‘I thought it best not to have a party,’ said Tigg. ‘You feel that?’

‘Why, what do you call this?’ retorted Jonas. ‘You don’t mean to say you do this every day, do you?’

‘My dear fellow,’ said Montague, shrugging his shoulders, ‘every day of my life, when I dine at home. This is my common style. It was of no use having anything uncommon for you. You’d have seen through it. “You’ll have a party?” said Crimple. “No, I won’t,” I said, “he shall take us in the rough!”

‘And pretty smooth, too, ecod!’ said Jonas, glancing round the table. ‘This don’t cost a trifle.’

‘Why, to be candid with you, it does not,’ returned the other. ‘But I like this sort of thing. It’s the way I spend my money.’

Jonas thrust his tongue into his cheek, and said, ‘Was it?’

‘When you join us, you won’t get rid of your share of the profits in the same way?’ said Tigg.

‘Quite different,’ retorted Jonas.

‘Well, and you’re right,’ said Tigg, with friendly candour. ‘You needn’t. It’s not necessary. One of a Company must do it to hold the connection together; but, as I take a pleasure in it, that’s my department. You don’t mind dining expensively at another man’s expense, I hope?’

‘Not a bit,’ said Jonas.

‘Then I hope you’ll often dine with me?’

‘Ah!’ said Jonas, ‘I don’t mind. On the contrary.’

‘And I’ll never attempt to talk business to you over wine, I take my oath,’ said Tigg. ‘Oh deep, deep, deep of you this morning! I must tell ‘em that. They’re the very men to enjoy it. Pip, my good fellow, I’ve a splendid little trait to tell you of my friend Chuzzlewit who is the deepest dog I know; I give you my sacred word of honour he is the deepest dog I know, Pip!’

Pip swore a frightful oath that he was sure of it already; and the anecdote, being told, was received with loud applause, as an incontestable proof of Mr Jonas’s greatness. Pip, in a natural spirit of emulation, then related some instances of his own depth; and Wolf not to be left behind-hand, recited the leading points of one or two vastly humorous articles he was then preparing. These lucubrations being of what he called ‘a warm complexion,’ were highly approved; and all the company agreed that they were full of point.

‘Men of the world, my dear sir,’ Jobling whispered to Jonas; ‘thorough men of the world! To a professional person like myself it’s quite refreshing to come into this kind of society. It’s not only agreeable—and nothing CAN be more agreeable—but it’s philosophically improving. It’s character, my dear sir; character!’

It is so pleasant to find real merit appreciated, whatever its particular walk in life may be, that the general harmony of the company was doubtless much promoted by their knowing that the two men of the world were held in great esteem by the upper classes of society, and by the gallant defenders of their country in the army and navy, but particularly the former. The least of their stories had a colonel in it; lords were as plentiful as oaths; and even the Blood Royal ran in the muddy channel of their personal recollections.

‘Mr Chuzzlewit didn’t know him, I’m afraid,’ said Wolf, in reference to a certain personage of illustrious descent, who had previously figured in a reminiscence.

‘No,’ said Tigg. ‘But we must bring him into contact with this sort of fellows.’

‘He was very fond of literature,’ observed Wolf.

‘Was he?’ said Tigg.

‘Oh, yes; he took my paper regularly for many years. Do you know he said some good things now and then? He asked a certain Viscount, who’s a friend of mine—Pip knows him—“What’s the editor’s name, what’s the editor’s name?” “Wolf.” “Wolf, eh? Sharp biter, Wolf. We must keep the Wolf from the door, as the proverb says.” It was very well. And being complimentary, I printed it.’

‘But the Viscount’s the boy!’ cried Pip, who invented a new oath for the introduction of everything he said. ‘The Viscount’s the boy! He came into our place one night to take Her home; rather slued, but not much; and said, “Where’s Pip? I want to see Pip. Produce Pip!”—“What’s the row, my lord?”—“Shakspeare’s an infernal humbug, Pip! What’s the good of Shakspeare, Pip? I never read him. What the devil is it all about, Pip? There’s a lot of feet in Shakspeare’s verse, but there an’t any legs worth mentioning in Shakspeare’s plays, are there, Pip? Juliet, Desdemona, Lady Macbeth, and all the rest of ‘em, whatever their names are, might as well have no legs at all, for anything the audience know about it, Pip. Why, in that respect they’re all Miss Biffins to the audience, Pip. I’ll tell you what it is. What the people call dramatic poetry is a collection of sermons. Do I go to the theatre to be lectured? No, Pip. If I wanted that, I’d go to church. What’s the legitimate object of the drama, Pip? Human nature. What are legs? Human nature. Then let us have plenty of leg pieces, Pip, and I’ll stand by you, my buck!” and I am proud to say,’ added Pip, ‘that he DID stand by me, handsomely.’

The conversation now becoming general, Mr Jonas’s opinion was requested on this subject; and as it was in full accordance with the sentiments of Mr Pip, that gentleman was extremely gratified. Indeed, both himself and Wolf had so much in common with Jonas, that they became very amicable; and between their increasing friendship and the fumes of wine, Jonas grew talkative.

It does not follow in the case of such a person that the more talkative he becomes, the more agreeable he is; on the contrary, his merits show to most advantage, perhaps, in silence. Having no means, as he thought, of putting himself on an equality with the rest, but by the assertion of that depth and sharpness on which he had been complimented, Jonas exhibited that faculty to the utmost; and was so deep and sharp that he lost himself in his own profundity, and cut his fingers with his own edge-tools.

It was especially in his way and character to exhibit his quality at his entertainer’s expense; and while he drank of his sparkling wines, and partook of his monstrous profusion, to ridicule the extravagance which had set such costly fare before him. Even at such a wanton board, and in such more than doubtful company, this might have proved a disagreeable experiment, but that Tigg and Crimple, studying to understand their man thoroughly, gave him what license he chose: knowing that the more he took, the better for their purpose. And thus while the blundering cheat—gull that he was, for all his cunning—thought himself rolled up hedgehog fashion, with his sharpest points towards them, he was, in fact, betraying all his vulnerable parts to their unwinking watchfulness.

Whether the two gentlemen who contributed so much to the doctor’s philosophical knowledge (by the way, the doctor slipped off quietly, after swallowing his usual amount of wine) had had their cue distinctly from the host, or took it from what they saw and heard, they acted their parts very well. They solicited the honour of Jonas’s better acquaintance; trusted that they would have the pleasure of introducing him into that elevated society in which he was so well qualified to shine; and informed him, in the most friendly manner that the advantages of their respective establishments were entirely at his control. In a word, they said ‘Be one of us!’ And Jonas said he was infinitely obliged to them, and he would be; adding within himself, that so long as they ‘stood treat,’ there was nothing he would like better.

After coffee, which was served in the drawing-room, there was a short interval (mainly sustained by Pip and Wolf) of conversation; rather highly spiced and strongly seasoned. When it flagged, Jonas took it up and showed considerable humour in appraising the furniture; inquiring whether such an article was paid for; what it had originally cost, and the like. In all of this, he was, as he considered, desperately hard on Montague, and very demonstrative of his own brilliant parts.

Some Champagne Punch gave a new though temporary fillip to the entertainments of the evening. For after leading to some noisy proceedings, which were not intelligible, it ended in the unsteady departure of the two gentlemen of the world, and the slumber of Mr Jonas upon one of the sofas.

As he could not be made to understand where he was, Mr Bailey received orders to call a hackney-coach, and take him home; which that young gentleman roused himself from an uneasy sleep in the hall to do. It being now almost three o’clock in the morning.

‘Is he hooked, do you think?’ whispered Crimple, as himself and partner stood in a distant part of the room observing him as he lay.

‘Aye!’ said Tigg, in the same tone. ‘With a strong iron, perhaps. Has Nadgett been here to-night?’

‘Yes. I went out to him. Hearing you had company, he went away.’

‘Why did he do that?’

‘He said he would come back early in the morning, before you were out of bed.’

‘Tell them to be sure and send him up to my bedside. Hush! Here’s the boy! Now Mr Bailey, take this gentleman home, and see him safely in. Hallo, here! Why Chuzzlewit, halloa!’

They got him upright with some difficulty, and assisted him downstairs, where they put his hat upon his head, and tumbled him into the coach. Mr Bailey, having shut him in, mounted the box beside the coachman, and smoked his cigar with an air of particular satisfaction; the undertaking in which he was engaged having a free and sporting character about it, which was quite congenial to his taste.

Arriving in due time at the house in the City, Mr Bailey jumped down, and expressed the lively nature of his feelings in a knock the like of which had probably not been heard in that quarter since the great fire of London. Going out into the road to observe the effect of this feat, he saw that a dim light, previously visible at an upper window, had been already removed and was travelling downstairs. To obtain a foreknowledge of the bearer of this taper, Mr Bailey skipped back to the door again, and put his eye to the keyhole.

It was the merry one herself. But sadly, strangely altered! So careworn and dejected, so faltering and full of fear; so fallen, humbled, broken; that to have seen her quiet in her coffin would have been a less surprise.

She set the light upon a bracket in the hall, and laid her hand upon her heart; upon her eyes; upon her burning head. Then she came on towards the door with such a wild and hurried step that Mr Bailey lost his self-possession, and still had his eye where the keyhole had been, when she opened it.

‘Aha!’ said Mr Bailey, with an effort. ‘There you are, are you? What’s the matter? Ain’t you well, though?’

In the midst of her astonishment as she recognized him in his altered dress, so much of her old smile came back to her face that Bailey was glad. But next moment he was sorry again, for he saw tears standing in her poor dim eyes.

‘Don’t be frightened,’ said Bailey. ‘There ain’t nothing the matter. I’ve brought home Mr Chuzzlewit. He ain’t ill. He’s only a little swipey, you know.’ Mr Bailey reeled in his boots, to express intoxication.

‘Have you come from Mrs Todgers’s?’ asked Merry, trembling.

‘Todgers’s, bless you! No!’ cried Mr Bailey. ‘I haven’t got nothin, to do with Todgers’s. I cut that connection long ago. He’s been a-dining with my governor at the west-end. Didn’t you know he was a-coming to see us?’

‘No,’ she said, faintly.

‘Oh yes! We’re heavy swells too, and so I tell you. Don’t you come out, a-catching cold in your head. I’ll wake him!’ Mr Bailey expressing in his demeanour a perfect confidence that he could carry him in with ease, if necessary, opened the coach door, let down the steps, and giving Jonas a shake, cried ‘We’ve got home, my flower! Tumble up, then!’

He was so far recovered as to be able to respond to this appeal, and to come stumbling out of the coach in a heap, to the great hazard of Mr Bailey’s person. When he got upon the pavement, Mr Bailey first butted at him in front, and then dexterously propped him up behind; and having steadied him by these means, he assisted him into the house.

‘You go up first with the light,’ said Bailey to Mr Jonas, ‘and we’ll foller. Don’t tremble so. He won’t hurt you. When I’ve had a drop too much, I’m full of good natur myself.’

She went on before; and her husband and Bailey, by dint of tumbling over each other, and knocking themselves about, got at last into the sitting-room above stairs, where Jonas staggered into a seat.

‘There!’ said Mr Bailey. ‘He’s all right now. You ain’t got nothing to cry for, bless you! He’s righter than a trivet!’

The ill-favoured brute, with dress awry, and sodden face, and rumpled hair, sat blinking and drooping, and rolling his idiotic eyes about, until, becoming conscious by degrees, he recognized his wife, and shook his fist at her.

‘Ah!’ cried Mr Bailey, squaring his arms with a sudden emotion. ‘What, you’re wicious, are you? Would you though! You’d better not!’

‘Pray, go away!’ said Merry. ‘Bailey, my good boy, go home. Jonas!’ she said; timidly laying her hand upon his shoulder, and bending her head down over him. ‘Jonas!’

‘Look at her!’ cried Jonas, pushing her off with his extended arm. ‘Look here! Look at her! Here’s a bargain for a man!’

‘Dear Jonas!’

‘Dear Devil!’ he replied, with a fierce gesture. ‘You’re a pretty clog to be tied to a man for life, you mewling, white-faced cat! Get out of my sight!’

‘I know you don’t mean it, Jonas. You wouldn’t say it if you were sober.’

With affected gayety she gave Bailey a piece of money, and again implored him to be gone. Her entreaty was so earnest, that the boy had not the heart to stay there. But he stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and listened.

‘I wouldn’t say it if I was sober!’ retorted Jonas. ‘You know better. Have I never said it when I was sober?’

‘Often, indeed!’ she answered through her tears.

‘Hark ye!’ cried Jonas, stamping his foot upon the ground. ‘You made me bear your pretty humours once, and ecod I’ll make you bear mine now. I always promised myself I would. I married you that I might. I’ll know who’s master, and who’s slave!’

‘Heaven knows I am obedient!’ said the sobbing girl. ‘Much more so than I ever thought to be!’

Jonas laughed in his drunken exultation. ‘What! you’re finding it out, are you! Patience, and you will in time! Griffins have claws, my girl. There’s not a pretty slight you ever put upon me, nor a pretty trick you ever played me, nor a pretty insolence you ever showed me, that I won’t pay back a hundred-fold. What else did I marry you for? YOU, too!’ he said, with coarse contempt.

It might have softened him—indeed it might—to hear her turn a little fragment of a song he used to say he liked; trying, with a heart so full, to win him back.

‘Oho!’ he said, ‘you’re deaf, are you? You don’t hear me, eh? So much the better for you. I hate you. I hate myself, for having, been fool enough to strap a pack upon my back for the pleasure of treading on it whenever I choose. Why, things have opened to me, now, so that I might marry almost where I liked. But I wouldn’t; I’d keep single. I ought to be single, among the friends I know. Instead of that, here I am, tied like a log to you. Pah! Why do you show your pale face when I come home? Am I never to forget you?’

‘How late it is!’ she said cheerfully, opening the shutter after an interval of silence. ‘Broad day, Jonas!’

‘Broad day or black night, what do I care!’ was the kind rejoinder.

‘The night passed quickly, too. I don’t mind sitting up, at all.’

‘Sit up for me again, if you dare!’ growled Jonas.

‘I was reading,’ she proceeded, ‘all night long. I began when you went out, and read till you came home again. The strangest story, Jonas! And true, the book says. I’ll tell it you to-morrow.’

‘True, was it?’ said Jonas, doggedly.

‘So the book says.’

‘Was there anything in it, about a man’s being determined to conquer his wife, break her spirit, bend her temper, crush all her humours like so many nut-shells—kill her, for aught I know?’ said Jonas.

‘No. Not a word,’ she answered quickly.

‘Oh!’ he returned. ‘That’ll be a true story though, before long; for all the book says nothing about it. It’s a lying book, I see. A fit book for a lying reader. But you’re deaf. I forgot that.’

There was another interval of silence; and the boy was stealing away, when he heard her footstep on the floor, and stopped. She went up to him, as it seemed, and spoke lovingly; saying that she would defer to him in everything and would consult his wishes and obey them, and they might be very happy if he would be gentle with her. He answered with an imprecation, and—

Not with a blow? Yes. Stern truth against the base-souled villain; with a blow.

No angry cries; no loud reproaches. Even her weeping and her sobs were stifled by her clinging round him. She only said, repeating it in agony of heart, how could he, could he, could he—and lost utterance in tears.

Oh woman, God beloved in old Jerusalem! The best among us need deal lightly with thy faults, if only for the punishment thy nature will endure, in bearing heavy evidence against us, on the Day of Judgment!

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

IN WHICH SOME PEOPLE ARE PRECOCIOUS, OTHERS PROFESSIONAL, AND OTHERS MYSTERIOUS; ALL IN THEIR SEVERAL WAYS

It may have been the restless remembrance of what he had seen and heard overnight, or it may have been no deeper mental operation than the discovery that he had nothing to do, which caused Mr Bailey, on the following afternoon, to feel particularly disposed for agreeable society, and prompted him to pay a visit to his friend Poll Sweedlepipe.

On the little bell giving clamorous notice of a visitor’s approach (for Mr Bailey came in at the door with a lunge, to get as much sound out of the bell as possible), Poll Sweedlepipe desisted from the contemplation of a favourite owl, and gave his young friend hearty welcome.

‘Why, you look smarter by day,’ said Poll, ‘than you do by candle-light. I never see such a tight young dasher.’

‘Reether so, Polly. How’s our fair friend, Sairah?’

‘Oh, she’s pretty well,’ said Poll. ‘She’s at home.’

‘There’s the remains of a fine woman about Sairah, Poll,’ observed Mr Bailey, with genteel indifference.

‘Oh!’ thought Poll, ‘he’s old. He must be very old!’

‘Too much crumb, you know,’ said Mr Bailey; ‘too fat, Poll. But there’s many worse at her time of life.’

‘The very owl’s a-opening his eyes!’ thought Poll. ‘I don’t wonder at it in a bird of his opinions.’

He happened to have been sharpening his razors, which were lying open in a row, while a huge strop dangled from the wall. Glancing at these preparations, Mr Bailey stroked his chin, and a thought appeared to occur to him.

‘Poll,’ he said, ‘I ain’t as neat as I could wish about the gills. Being here, I may as well have a shave, and get trimmed close.’

The barber stood aghast; but Mr Bailey divested himself of his neck-cloth, and sat down in the easy shaving chair with all the dignity and confidence in life. There was no resisting his manner. The evidence of sight and touch became as nothing. His chin was as smooth as a new-laid egg or a scraped Dutch cheese; but Poll Sweedlepipe wouldn’t have ventured to deny, on affidavit, that he had the beard of a Jewish rabbi.

‘Go WITH the grain, Poll, all round, please,’ said Mr Bailey, screwing up his face for the reception of the lather. ‘You may do wot you like with the bits of whisker. I don’t care for ‘em.’

The meek little barber stood gazing at him with the brush and soap-dish in his hand, stirring them round and round in a ludicrous uncertainty, as if he were disabled by some fascination from beginning. At last he made a dash at Mr Bailey’s cheek. Then he stopped again, as if the ghost of a beard had suddenly receded from his touch; but receiving mild encouragement from Mr Bailey, in the form of an adjuration to ‘Go in and win,’ he lathered him bountifully. Mr Bailey smiled through the suds in his satisfaction. ‘Gently over the stones, Poll. Go a tip-toe over the pimples!’

Poll Sweedlepipe obeyed, and scraped the lather off again with particular care. Mr Bailey squinted at every successive dab, as it was deposited on a cloth on his left shoulder, and seemed, with a microscopic eye, to detect some bristles in it; for he murmured more than once ‘Reether redder than I could wish, Poll.’ The operation being concluded, Poll fell back and stared at him again, while Mr Bailey, wiping his face on the jack-towel, remarked, ‘that arter late hours nothing freshened up a man so much as a easy shave.’

He was in the act of tying his cravat at the glass, without his coat, and Poll had wiped his razor, ready for the next customer, when Mrs Gamp, coming downstairs, looked in at the shop-door to give the barber neighbourly good day. Feeling for her unfortunate situation, in having conceived a regard for himself which it was not in the nature of things that he could return, Mr Bailey hastened to soothe her with words of kindness.

‘Hallo!’ he said, ‘Sairah! I needn’t ask you how you’ve been this long time, for you’re in full bloom. All a-blowin and a-growin; ain’t she, Polly?’

‘Why, drat the Bragian boldness of that boy!’ cried Mrs Gamp, though not displeased. ‘What a imperent young sparrow it is! I wouldn’t be that creetur’s mother not for fifty pound!’

Mr Bailey regarded this as a delicate confession of her attachment, and a hint that no pecuniary gain could recompense her for its being rendered hopeless. He felt flattered. Disinterested affection is always flattering.

‘Ah, dear!’ moaned Mrs Gamp, sinking into the shaving chair, ‘that there blessed Bull, Mr Sweedlepipe, has done his wery best to conker me. Of all the trying inwalieges in this walley of the shadder, that one beats ‘em black and blue.’

It was the practice of Mrs Gamp and her friends in the profession, to say this of all the easy customers; as having at once the effect of discouraging competitors for office, and accounting for the necessity of high living on the part of the nurses.

‘Talk of constitooshun!’ Mrs Gamp observed. ‘A person’s constitooshun need be made of bricks to stand it. Mrs Harris jestly says to me, but t’other day, “Oh! Sairey Gamp,” she says, “how is it done?” “Mrs Harris, ma’am,” I says to her, “we gives no trust ourselves, and puts a deal o’trust elsevere; these is our religious feelins, and we finds ‘em answer.” “Sairey,” says Mrs Harris, “sech is life. Vich likeways is the hend of all things!”’

The barber gave a soft murmur, as much as to say that Mrs Harris’s remark, though perhaps not quite so intelligible as could be desired from such an authority, did equal honour to her head and to her heart.

‘And here,’ continued Mrs Gamp, ‘and here am I a-goin twenty mile in distant, on as wentersome a chance as ever any one as monthlied ever run, I do believe. Says Mrs Harris, with a woman’s and a mother’s art a-beatin in her human breast, she says to me, “You’re not a-goin, Sairey, Lord forgive you!” “Why am I not a-goin, Mrs Harris?” I replies. “Mrs Gill,” I says, “wos never wrong with six; and is it likely, ma’am—I ast you as a mother—that she will begin to be unreg’lar now? Often and often have I heerd him say,” I says to Mrs Harris, meaning Mr Gill, “that he would back his wife agen Moore’s almanack, to name the very day and hour, for ninepence farden. IS it likely, ma’am,” I says, “as she will fail this once?” Says Mrs Harris “No, ma’am, not in the course of natur. But,” she says, the tears a-fillin in her eyes, “you knows much betterer than me, with your experienge, how little puts us out. A Punch’s show,” she says, “a chimbley sweep, a newfundlan dog, or a drunkin man a-comin round the corner sharp may do it.” So it may, Mr Sweedlepipes,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘there’s no deniging of it; and though my books is clear for a full week, I takes a anxious art along with me, I do assure you, sir.’

‘You’re so full of zeal, you see!’ said Poll. ‘You worrit yourself so.’

‘Worrit myself!’ cried Mrs Gamp, raising her hands and turning up her eyes. ‘You speak truth in that, sir, if you never speaks no more ‘twixt this and when two Sundays jines together. I feels the sufferins of other people more than I feels my own, though no one mayn’t suppoge it. The families I’ve had,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘if all was knowd and credit done where credit’s doo, would take a week to chris’en at Saint Polge’s fontin!’

‘Where’s the patient goin?’ asked Sweedlepipe.

‘Into Har’fordshire, which is his native air. But native airs nor native graces neither,’ Mrs Gamp observed, ‘won’t bring HIM round.’

‘So bad as that?’ inquired the wistful barber. ‘Indeed!’

Mrs Gamp shook her head mysteriously, and pursed up her lips. ‘There’s fevers of the mind,’ she said, ‘as well as body. You may take your slime drafts till you flies into the air with efferwescence; but you won’t cure that.’

‘Ah!’ said the barber, opening his eyes, and putting on his raven aspect; ‘Lor!’

‘No. You may make yourself as light as any gash balloon,’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘But talk, when you’re wrong in your head and when you’re in your sleep, of certain things; and you’ll be heavy in your mind.’

‘Of what kind of things now?’ inquired Poll, greedily biting his nails in his great interest. ‘Ghosts?’

Mrs Gamp, who perhaps had been already tempted further than she had intended to go, by the barber’s stimulating curiosity, gave a sniff of uncommon significance, and said, it didn’t signify.

‘I’m a-goin down with my patient in the coach this arternoon,’ she proceeded. ‘I’m a-goin to stop with him a day or so, till he gets a country nuss (drat them country nusses, much the orkard hussies knows about their bis’ness); and then I’m a-comin back; and that’s my trouble, Mr Sweedlepipes. But I hope that everythink’ll only go on right and comfortable as long as I’m away; perwisin which, as Mrs Harris says, Mrs Gill is welcome to choose her own time; all times of the day and night bein’ equally the same to me.’

During the progress of the foregoing remarks, which Mrs Gamp had addressed exclusively to the barber, Mr Bailey had been tying his cravat, getting on his coat, and making hideous faces at himself in the glass. Being now personally addressed by Mrs Gamp, he turned round, and mingled in the conversation.

‘You ain’t been in the City, I suppose, sir, since we was all three there together,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘at Mr Chuzzlewit’s?’

‘Yes, I have, Sairah. I was there last night.’

‘Last night!’ cried the barber.

‘Yes, Poll, reether so. You can call it this morning, if you like to be particular. He dined with us.’

‘Who does that young Limb mean by “hus?”’ said Mrs Gamp, with most impatient emphasis.

‘Me and my Governor, Sairah. He dined at our house. We wos very merry, Sairah. So much so, that I was obliged to see him home in a hackney coach at three o’clock in the morning.’ It was on the tip of the boy’s tongue to relate what had followed; but remembering how easily it might be carried to his master’s ears, and the repeated cautions he had had from Mr Crimple ‘not to chatter,’ he checked himself; adding, only, ‘She was sitting up, expecting him.’

‘And all things considered,’ said Mrs Gamp sharply, ‘she might have know’d better than to go a-tirin herself out, by doin’ anythink of the sort. Did they seem pretty pleasant together, sir?’

‘Oh, yes,’ answered Bailey, ‘pleasant enough.’

‘I’m glad on it,’ said Mrs Gamp, with a second sniff of significance.

‘They haven’t been married so long,’ observed Poll, rubbing his hands, ‘that they need be anything but pleasant yet awhile.’

‘No,’ said Mrs Gamp, with a third significant signal.

‘Especially,’ pursued the barber, ‘when the gentleman bears such a character as you gave him.’

‘I speak; as I find, Mr Sweedlepipes,’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘Forbid it should be otherways! But we never knows wot’s hidden in each other’s hearts; and if we had glass winders there, we’d need keep the shetters up, some on us, I do assure you!’

‘But you don’t mean to say—’ Poll Sweedlepipe began.

‘No,’ said Mrs Gamp, cutting him very short, ‘I don’t. Don’t think I do. The torters of the Imposition shouldn’t make me own I did. All I says is,’ added the good woman, rising and folding her shawl about her, ‘that the Bull’s a-waitin, and the precious moments is a-flyin’ fast.’

The little barber having in his eager curiosity a great desire to see Mrs Gamp’s patient, proposed to Mr Bailey that they should accompany her to the Bull, and witness the departure of the coach. That young gentleman assenting, they all went out together.

Arriving at the tavern, Mrs Gamp (who was full-dressed for the journey, in her latest suit of mourning) left her friends to entertain themselves in the yard, while she ascended to the sick room, where her fellow-labourer Mrs Prig was dressing the invalid.

He was so wasted, that it seemed as if his bones would rattle when they moved him. His cheeks were sunken, and his eyes unnaturally large. He lay back in the easy-chair like one more dead than living; and rolled his languid eyes towards the door when Mrs Gamp appeared, as painfully as if their weight alone were burdensome to move.

‘And how are we by this time?’ Mrs Gamp observed. ‘We looks charming.’

‘We looks a deal charminger than we are, then,’ returned Mrs Prig, a little chafed in her temper. ‘We got out of bed back’ards, I think, for we’re as cross as two sticks. I never see sich a man. He wouldn’t have been washed, if he’d had his own way.’

‘She put the soap in my mouth,’ said the unfortunate patient feebly.

‘Couldn’t you keep it shut then?’ retorted Mrs Prig. ‘Who do you think’s to wash one feater, and miss another, and wear one’s eyes out with all manner of fine work of that description, for half-a-crown a day! If you wants to be tittivated, you must pay accordin’.’

‘Oh dear me!’ cried the patient, ‘oh dear, dear!’

‘There!’ said Mrs Prig, ‘that’s the way he’s been a-conductin of himself, Sarah, ever since I got him out of bed, if you’ll believe it.’

‘Instead of being grateful,’ Mrs Gamp observed, ‘for all our little ways. Oh, fie for shame, sir, fie for shame!’

Here Mrs Prig seized the patient by the chin, and began to rasp his unhappy head with a hair-brush.

‘I suppose you don’t like that, neither!’ she observed, stopping to look at him.

It was just possible that he didn’t for the brush was a specimen of the hardest kind of instrument producible by modern art; and his very eyelids were red with the friction. Mrs Prig was gratified to observe the correctness of her supposition, and said triumphantly ‘she know’d as much.’

When his hair was smoothed down comfortably into his eyes, Mrs Prig and Mrs Gamp put on his neckerchief; adjusting his shirt collar with great nicety, so that the starched points should also invade those organs, and afflict them with an artificial ophthalmia. His waistcoat and coat were next arranged; and as every button was wrenched into a wrong button-hole, and the order of his boots was reversed, he presented on the whole rather a melancholy appearance.

‘I don’t think it’s right,’ said the poor weak invalid. ‘I feel as if I was in somebody else’s clothes. I’m all on one side; and you’ve made one of my legs shorter than the other. There’s a bottle in my pocket too. What do you make me sit upon a bottle for?’

‘Deuce take the man!’ cried Mrs Gamp, drawing it forth. ‘If he ain’t been and got my night-bottle here. I made a little cupboard of his coat when it hung behind the door, and quite forgot it, Betsey. You’ll find a ingun or two, and a little tea and sugar in his t’other pocket, my dear, if you’ll just be good enough to take ‘em out.’

Betsey produced the property in question, together with some other articles of general chandlery; and Mrs Gamp transferred them to her own pocket, which was a species of nankeen pannier. Refreshment then arrived in the form of chops and strong ale for the ladies, and a basin of beef-tea for the patient; which refection was barely at an end when John Westlock appeared.

‘Up and dressed!’ cried John, sitting down beside him. ‘That’s brave. How do you feel?’

‘Much better. But very weak.’

‘No wonder. You have had a hard bout of it. But country air, and change of scene,’ said John, ‘will make another man of you! Why, Mrs Gamp,’ he added, laughing, as he kindly arranged the sick man’s garments, ‘you have odd notions of a gentleman’s dress!’

‘Mr Lewsome an’t a easy gent to get into his clothes, sir,’ Mrs Gamp replied with dignity; ‘as me and Betsey Prig can certify afore the Lord Mayor and Uncommon Counsellors, if needful!’

John at that moment was standing close in front of the sick man, in the act of releasing him from the torture of the collars before mentioned, when he said in a whisper:

‘Mr Westlock! I don’t wish to be overheard. I have something very particular and strange to say to you; something that has been a dreadful weight on my mind, through this long illness.’

Quick in all his motions, John was turning round to desire the women to leave the room; when the sick man held him by the sleeve.

‘Not now. I’ve not the strength. I’ve not the courage. May I tell it when I have? May I write it, if I find that easier and better?’

‘May you!’ cried John. ‘Why, Lewsome, what is this!’

‘Don’t ask me what it is. It’s unnatural and cruel. Frightful to think of. Frightful to tell. Frightful to know. Frightful to have helped in. Let me kiss your hand for all your goodness to me. Be kinder still, and don’t ask me what it is!’

At first, John gazed at him in great surprise; but remembering how very much reduced he was, and how recently his brain had been on fire with fever, believed that he was labouring under some imaginary horror or despondent fancy. For farther information on this point, he took an opportunity of drawing Mrs Gamp aside, while Betsey Prig was wrapping him in cloaks and shawls, and asked her whether he was quite collected in his mind.

‘Oh bless you, no!’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘He hates his nusses to this hour. They always does it, sir. It’s a certain sign. If you could have heerd the poor dear soul a-findin fault with me and Betsey Prig, not half an hour ago, you would have wondered how it is we don’t get fretted to the tomb.’

This almost confirmed John in his suspicion; so, not taking what had passed into any serious account, he resumed his former cheerful manner, and assisted by Mrs Gamp and Betsey Prig, conducted Lewsome downstairs to the coach; just then upon the point of starting. Poll Sweedlepipe was at the door with his arms tight folded and his eyes wide open, and looked on with absorbing interest, while the sick man was slowly moved into the vehicle. His bony hands and haggard face impressed Poll wonderfully; and he informed Mr Bailey in confidence, that he wouldn’t have missed seeing him for a pound. Mr Bailey, who was of a different constitution, remarked that he would have stayed away for five shillings.

It was a troublesome matter to adjust Mrs Gamp’s luggage to her satisfaction; for every package belonging to that lady had the inconvenient property of requiring to be put in a boot by itself, and to have no other luggage near it, on pain of actions at law for heavy damages against the proprietors of the coach. The umbrella with the circular patch was particularly hard to be got rid of, and several times thrust out its battered brass nozzle from improper crevices and chinks, to the great terror of the other passengers. Indeed, in her intense anxiety to find a haven of refuge for this chattel, Mrs Gamp so often moved it, in the course of five minutes, that it seemed not one umbrella but fifty. At length it was lost, or said to be; and for the next five minutes she was face to face with the coachman, go wherever he might, protesting that it should be ‘made good,’ though she took the question to the House of Commons.

At last, her bundle, and her pattens, and her basket, and everything else, being disposed of, she took a friendly leave of Poll and Mr Bailey, dropped a curtsey to John Westlock, and parted as from a cherished member of the sisterhood with Betsey Prig.

‘Wishin you lots of sickness, my darlin creetur,’ Mrs Gamp observed, ‘and good places. It won’t be long, I hope, afore we works together, off and on, again, Betsey; and may our next meetin’ be at a large family’s, where they all takes it reg’lar, one from another, turn and turn about, and has it business-like.’

‘I don’t care how soon it is,’ said Mrs Prig; ‘nor how many weeks it lasts.’

Mrs Gamp with a reply in a congenial spirit was backing to the coach, when she came in contact with a lady and gentleman who were passing along the footway.

‘Take care, take care here!’ cried the gentleman. ‘Halloo! My dear! Why, it’s Mrs Gamp!’

‘What, Mr Mould!’ exclaimed the nurse. ‘And Mrs Mould! who would have thought as we should ever have a meetin’ here, I’m sure!’

‘Going out of town, Mrs Gamp?’ cried Mould. ‘That’s unusual, isn’t it?’

‘It IS unusual, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘But only for a day or two at most. The gent,’ she whispered, ‘as I spoke about.’

‘What, in the coach!’ cried Mould. ‘The one you thought of recommending? Very odd. My dear, this will interest you. The gentleman that Mrs Gamp thought likely to suit us is in the coach, my love.’

Mrs Mould was greatly interested.

‘Here, my dear. You can stand upon the door-step,’ said Mould, ‘and take a look at him. Ha! There he is. Where’s my glass? Oh! all right. I’ve got it. Do you see him, my dear?’

‘Quite plain,’ said Mrs Mould.

‘Upon my life, you know, this is a very singular circumstance,’ said Mould, quite delighted. ‘This is the sort of thing, my dear, I wouldn’t have missed on any account. It tickles one. It’s interesting. It’s almost a little play, you know. Ah! There he is! To be sure. Looks poorly, Mrs M., don’t he?’

Mrs Mould assented.

‘He’s coming our way, perhaps, after all,’ said Mould. ‘Who knows! I feel as if I ought to show him some little attention, really. He don’t seem a stranger to me. I’m very much inclined to move my hat, my dear.’

‘He’s looking hard this way,’ said Mrs Mould.

‘Then I will!’ cried Mould. ‘How d’ye do, sir! I wish you good day. Ha! He bows too. Very gentlemanly. Mrs Gamp has the cards in her pocket, I have no doubt. This is very singular, my dear—and very pleasant. I am not superstitious, but it really seems as if one was destined to pay him those little melancholy civilities which belong to our peculiar line of business. There can be no kind of objection to your kissing your hand to him, my dear.’

Mrs Mould did so.

‘Ha!’ said Mould. ‘He’s evidently gratified. Poor fellow! I am quite glad you did it, my love. Bye bye, Mrs Gamp!’ waving his hand. ‘There he goes; there he goes!’

So he did; for the coach rolled off as the words were spoken. Mr and Mrs Mould, in high good humour, went their merry way. Mr Bailey retired with Poll Sweedlepipe as soon as possible; but some little time elapsed before he could remove his friend from the ground, owing to the impression wrought upon the barber’s nerves by Mrs Prig, whom he pronounced, in admiration of her beard, to be a woman of transcendent charms.

When the light cloud of bustle hanging round the coach was thus dispersed, Nadgett was seen in the darkest box of the Bull coffee-room, looking wistfully up at the clock—as if the man who never appeared were a little behind his time.

CHAPTER THIRTY

PROVES THAT CHANGES MAY BE RUNG IN THE BEST-REGULATED FAMILIES, AND THAT MR PECKNIFF WAS A SPECIAL HAND AT A TRIPLE-BOB-MAJOR

As the surgeon’s first care after amputating a limb, is to take up the arteries the cruel knife has severed, so it is the duty of this history, which in its remorseless course has cut from the Pecksniffian trunk its right arm, Mercy, to look to the parent stem, and see how in all its various ramifications it got on without her.

And first of Mr Pecksniff it may be observed, that having provided for his youngest daughter that choicest of blessings, a tender and indulgent husband; and having gratified the dearest wish of his parental heart by establishing her in life so happily; he renewed his youth, and spreading the plumage of his own bright conscience, felt himself equal to all kinds of flights. It is customary with fathers in stage-plays, after giving their daughters to the men of their hearts, to congratulate themselves on having no other business on their hands but to die immediately; though it is rarely found that they are in a hurry to do it. Mr Pecksniff, being a father of a more sage and practical class, appeared to think that his immediate business was to live; and having deprived himself of one comfort, to surround himself with others.

But however much inclined the good man was to be jocose and playful, and in the garden of his fancy to disport himself (if one may say so) like an architectural kitten, he had one impediment constantly opposed to him. The gentle Cherry, stung by a sense of slight and injury, which far from softening down or wearing out, rankled and festered in her heart—the gentle Cherry was in flat rebellion. She waged fierce war against her dear papa, she led her parent what is usually called, for want of a better figure of speech, the life of a dog. But never did that dog live, in kennel, stable-yard, or house, whose life was half as hard as Mr Pecksniff’s with his gentle child.

The father and daughter were sitting at their breakfast. Tom had retired, and they were alone. Mr Pecksniff frowned at first; but having cleared his brow, looked stealthily at his child. Her nose was very red indeed, and screwed up tight, with hostile preparation.

‘Cherry,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, ‘what is amiss between us? My child, why are we disunited?’

Miss Pecksniff’s answer was scarcely a response to this gush of affection, for it was simply, ‘Bother, Pa!’

‘Bother!’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, in a tone of anguish.

‘Oh! ‘tis too late, Pa,’ said his daughter, calmly ‘to talk to me like this. I know what it means, and what its value is.’

‘This is hard!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, addressing his breakfast-cup. ‘This is very hard! She is my child. I carried her in my arms when she wore shapeless worsted shoes—I might say, mufflers—many years ago!’

‘You needn’t taunt me with that, Pa,’ retorted Cherry, with a spiteful look. ‘I am not so many years older than my sister, either, though she IS married to your friend!’

‘Ah, human nature, human nature! Poor human nature!’ said Mr Pecksniff, shaking his head at human nature, as if he didn’t belong to it. ‘To think that this discord should arise from such a cause! oh dear, oh dear!’

‘From such a cause indeed!’ cried Cherry. ‘State the real cause, Pa, or I’ll state it myself. Mind! I will!’

Perhaps the energy with which she said this was infectious. However that may be, Mr Pecksniff changed his tone and the expression of his face for one of anger, if not downright violence, when he said:

‘You will! you have. You did yesterday. You do always. You have no decency; you make no secret of your temper; you have exposed yourself to Mr Chuzzlewit a hundred times.’

‘Myself!’ cried Cherry, with a bitter smile. ‘Oh indeed! I don’t mind that.’

‘Me, too, then,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

His daughter answered with a scornful laugh.

‘And since we have come to an explanation, Charity,’ said Mr Pecksniff, rolling his head portentously, ‘let me tell you that I won’t allow it. None of your nonsense, Miss! I won’t permit it to be done.’

‘I shall do,’ said Charity, rocking her chair backwards and forwards, and raising her voice to a high pitch, ‘I shall do, Pa, what I please and what I have done. I am not going to be crushed in everything, depend upon it. I’ve been more shamefully used than anybody ever was in this world,’ here she began to cry and sob, ‘and may expect the worse treatment from you, I know. But I don’t care for that. No, I don’t!’

Mr Pecksniff was made so desperate by the loud tone in which she spoke, that, after looking about him in frantic uncertainty for some means of softening it, he rose and shook her until the ornamental bow of hair upon her head nodded like a plume. She was so very much astonished by this assault, that it really had the desired effect.

‘I’ll do it again!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, as he resumed his seat and fetched his breath, ‘if you dare to talk in that loud manner. How do you mean about being shamefully used? If Mr Jonas chose your sister in preference to you, who could help it, I should wish to know? What have I to do with it?’

‘Wasn’t I made a convenience of? Weren’t my feelings trifled with? Didn’t he address himself to me first?’ sobbed Cherry, clasping her hands; ‘and oh, good gracious, that I should live to be shook!’

‘You’ll live to be shaken again,’ returned her parent, ‘if you drive me to that means of maintaining the decorum of this humble roof. You surprise me. I wonder you have not more spirit. If Mr Jonas didn’t care for you, how could you wish to have him?’

‘I wish to have him!’ exclaimed Cherry. ‘I wish to have him, Pa!’

‘Then what are you making all this piece of work for,’ retorted her father, ‘if you didn’t wish to have him?’

‘Because I was treated with duplicity,’ said Cherry; ‘and because my own sister and my own father conspired against me. I am not angry with HER,’ said Cherry; looking much more angry than ever. ‘I pity her. I’m sorry for her. I know the fate that’s in store for her, with that Wretch.’

‘Mr Jonas will survive your calling him a wretch, my child, I dare say,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with returning resignation; ‘but call him what you like and make an end of it.’

‘Not an end, Pa,’ said Charity. ‘No, not an end. That’s not the only point on which we’re not agreed. I won’t submit to it. It’s better you should know that at once. No; I won’t submit to it indeed, Pa! I am not quite a fool, and I am not blind. All I have got to say is, I won’t submit to it.’

Whatever she meant, she shook Mr Pecksniff now; for his lame attempt to seem composed was melancholy in the last degree. His anger changed to meekness, and his words were mild and fawning.

‘My dear,’ he said; ‘if in the short excitement of an angry moment I resorted to an unjustifiable means of suppressing a little outbreak calculated to injure you as well as myself—it’s possible I may have done so; perhaps I did—I ask your pardon. A father asking pardon of his child,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘is, I believe, a spectacle to soften the most rugged nature.’

But it didn’t at all soften Miss Pecksniff; perhaps because her nature was not rugged enough. On the contrary, she persisted in saying, over and over again, that she wasn’t quite a fool, and wasn’t blind, and wouldn’t submit to it.

‘You labour under some mistake, my child!’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘but I will not ask you what it is; I don’t desire to know. No, pray!’ he added, holding out his hand and colouring again, ‘let us avoid the subject, my dear, whatever it is!’

‘It’s quite right that the subject should be avoided between us, sir,’ said Cherry. ‘But I wish to be able to avoid it altogether, and consequently must beg you to provide me with a home.’

Mr Pecksniff looked about the room, and said, ‘A home, my child!’

‘Another home, papa,’ said Cherry, with increasing stateliness ‘Place me at Mrs Todgers’s or somewhere, on an independent footing; but I will not live here, if such is to be the case.’

It is possible that Miss Pecksniff saw in Mrs Todgers’s a vision of enthusiastic men, pining to fall in adoration at her feet. It is possible that Mr Pecksniff, in his new-born juvenility, saw, in the suggestion of that same establishment, an easy means of relieving himself from an irksome charge in the way of temper and watchfulness. It is undoubtedly a fact that in the attentive ears of Mr Pecksniff, the proposition did not sound quite like the dismal knell of all his hopes.

But he was a man of great feeling and acute sensibility; and he squeezed his pocket-handkerchief against his eyes with both hands—as such men always do, especially when they are observed. ‘One of my birds,’ Mr Pecksniff said, ‘has left me for the stranger’s breast; the other would take wing to Todgers’s! Well, well, what am I? I don’t know what I am, exactly. Never mind!’

Even this remark, made more pathetic perhaps by his breaking down in the middle of it, had no effect upon Charity. She was grim, rigid, and inflexible.

‘But I have ever,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘sacrificed my children’s happiness to my own—I mean my own happiness to my children’s—and I will not begin to regulate my life by other rules of conduct now. If you can be happier at Mrs Todgers’s than in your father’s house, my dear, go to Mrs Todgers’s! Do not think of me, my girl!’ said Mr Pecksniff with emotion; ‘I shall get on pretty well, no doubt.’

Miss Charity, who knew he had a secret pleasure in the contemplation of the proposed change, suppressed her own, and went on to negotiate the terms. His views upon this subject were at first so very limited that another difference, involving possibly another shaking, threatened to ensue; but by degrees they came to something like an understanding, and the storm blew over. Indeed, Miss Charity’s idea was so agreeable to both, that it would have been strange if they had not come to an amicable agreement. It was soon arranged between them that the project should be tried, and that immediately; and that Cherry’s not being well, and needing change of scene, and wishing to be near her sister, should form the excuse for her departure to Mr Chuzzlewit and Mary, to both of whom she had pleaded indisposition for some time past. These premises agreed on, Mr Pecksniff gave her his blessing, with all the dignity of a self-denying man who had made a hard sacrifice, but comforted himself with the reflection that virtue is its own reward. Thus they were reconciled for the first time since that not easily forgiven night, when Mr Jonas, repudiating the elder, had confessed his passion for the younger sister, and Mr Pecksniff had abetted him on moral grounds.

But how happened it—in the name of an unexpected addition to that small family, the Seven Wonders of the World, whatever and wherever they may be, how happened it—that Mr Pecksniff and his daughter were about to part? How happened it that their mutual relations were so greatly altered? Why was Miss Pecksniff so clamorous to have it understood that she was neither blind nor foolish, and she wouldn’t bear it? It is not possible that Mr Pecksniff had any thoughts of marrying again; or that his daughter, with the sharp eye of a single woman, fathomed his design!

Let us inquire into this.

Mr Pecksniff, as a man without reproach, from whom the breath of slander passed like common breath from any other polished surface, could afford to do what common men could not. He knew the purity of his own motives; and when he had a motive worked at it as only a very good man (or a very bad one) can. Did he set before himself any strong and palpable motives for taking a second wife? Yes; and not one or two of them, but a combination of very many.

Old Martin Chuzzlewit had gradually undergone an important change. Even upon the night when he made such an ill-timed arrival at Mr Pecksniff’s house, he was comparatively subdued and easy to deal with. This Mr Pecksniff attributed, at the time, to the effect his brother’s death had had upon him. But from that hour his character seemed to have modified by regular degrees, and to have softened down into a dull indifference for almost every one but Mr Pecksniff. His looks were much the same as ever, but his mind was singularly altered. It was not that this or that passion stood out in brighter or in dimmer hues; but that the colour of the whole man was faded. As one trait disappeared, no other trait sprung up to take its place. His senses dwindled too. He was less keen of sight; was deaf sometimes; took little notice of what passed before him; and would be profoundly taciturn for days together. The process of this alteration was so easy that almost as soon as it began to be observed it was complete. But Mr Pecksniff saw it first, and having Anthony Chuzzlewit fresh in his recollection, saw in his brother Martin the same process of decay.

To a gentleman of Mr Pecksniff’s tenderness, this was a very mournful sight. He could not but foresee the probability of his respected relative being made the victim of designing persons, and of his riches falling into worthless hands. It gave him so much pain that he resolved to secure the property to himself; to keep bad testamentary suitors at a distance; to wall up the old gentleman, as it were, for his own use. By little and little, therefore, he began to try whether Mr Chuzzlewit gave any promise of becoming an instrument in his hands, and finding that he did, and indeed that he was very supple in his plastic fingers, he made it the business of his life—kind soul!—to establish an ascendancy over him; and every little test he durst apply meeting with a success beyond his hopes, he began to think he heard old Martin’s cash already chinking in his own unworldly pockets.

But when Mr Pecksniff pondered on this subject (as, in his zealous way, he often did), and thought with an uplifted heart of the train of circumstances which had delivered the old gentleman into his hands for the confusion of evil-doers and the triumph of a righteous nature, he always felt that Mary Graham was his stumbling-block. Let the old man say what he would, Mr Pecksniff knew he had a strong affection for her. He knew that he showed it in a thousand little ways; that he liked to have her near him, and was never quite at ease when she was absent long. That he had ever really sworn to leave her nothing in his will, Mr Pecksniff greatly doubted. That even if he had, there were many ways by which he could evade the oath and satisfy his conscience, Mr Pecksniff knew. That her unprotected state was no light burden on the old man’s mind, he also knew, for Mr Chuzzlewit had plainly told him so. ‘Then,’ said Mr Pecksniff ‘what if I married her! What,’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, sticking up his hair and glancing at his bust by Spoker; ‘what if, making sure of his approval first—he is nearly imbecile, poor gentleman—I married her!’

Mr Pecksniff had a lively sense of the Beautiful; especially in women. His manner towards the sex was remarkable for its insinuating character. It is recorded of him in another part of these pages, that he embraced Mrs Todgers on the smallest provocation; and it was a way he had; it was a part of the gentle placidity of his disposition. Before any thought of matrimony was in his mind, he had bestowed on Mary many little tokens of his spiritual admiration. They had been indignantly received, but that was nothing. True, as the idea expanded within him, these had become too ardent to escape the piercing eye of Cherry, who read his scheme at once; but he had always felt the power of Mary’s charms. So Interest and Inclination made a pair, and drew the curricle of Mr Pecksniff’s plan.

As to any thought of revenging himself on young Martin for his insolent expressions when they parted, and of shutting him out still more effectually from any hope of reconciliation with his grandfather, Mr Pecksniff was much too meek and forgiving to be suspected of harbouring it. As to being refused by Mary, Mr Pecksniff was quite satisfied that in her position she could never hold out if he and Mr Chuzzlewit were both against her. As to consulting the wishes of her heart in such a case, it formed no part of Mr Pecksniff’s moral code; for he knew what a good man he was, and what a blessing he must be to anybody. His daughter having broken the ice, and the murder being out between them, Mr Pecksniff had now only to pursue his design as cleverly as he could, and by the craftiest approaches.

‘Well, my good sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, meeting old Martin in the garden, for it was his habit to walk in and out by that way, as the fancy took him; ‘and how is my dear friend this delicious morning?’

‘Do you mean me?’ asked the old man.

‘Ah!’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘one of his deaf days, I see. Could I mean any one else, my dear sir?’

‘You might have meant Mary,’ said the old man.

‘Indeed I might. Quite true. I might speak of her as a dear, dear friend, I hope?’ observed Mr Pecksniff.

‘I hope so,’ returned old Martin. ‘I think she deserves it.’

‘Think!’ cried Pecksniff, ‘think, Mr Chuzzlewit!’

‘You are speaking, I know,’ returned Martin, ‘but I don’t catch what you say. Speak up!’

‘He’s getting deafer than a flint,’ said Pecksniff. ‘I was saying, my dear sir, that I am afraid I must make up my mind to part with Cherry.’

‘What has SHE been doing?’ asked the old man.

‘He puts the most ridiculous questions I ever heard!’ muttered Mr Pecksniff. ‘He’s a child to-day.’ After which he added, in a mild roar: ‘She hasn’t been doing anything, my dear friend.’

‘What are you going to part with her for?’ demanded Martin.

‘She hasn’t her health by any means,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘She misses her sister, my dear sir; they doted on each other from the cradle. And I think of giving her a run in London for a change. A good long run, sir, if I find she likes it.’

‘Quite right,’ cried Martin. ‘It’s judicious.’

‘I am glad to hear you say so. I hope you mean to bear me company in this dull part, while she’s away?’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘I have no intention of removing from it,’ was Martin’s answer.

‘Then why,’ said Mr Pecksniff, taking the old man’s arm in his, and walking slowly on; ‘Why, my good sir, can’t you come and stay with me? I am sure I could surround you with more comforts—lowly as is my Cot—than you can obtain at a village house of entertainment. And pardon me, Mr Chuzzlewit, pardon me if I say that such a place as the Dragon, however well-conducted (and, as far as I know, Mrs Lupin is one of the worthiest creatures in this county), is hardly a home for Miss Graham.’

Martin mused a moment; and then said, as he shook him by the hand:

‘No. You’re quite right; it is not.’

‘The very sight of skittles,’ Mr Pecksniff eloquently pursued, ‘is far from being congenial to a delicate mind.’

‘It’s an amusement of the vulgar,’ said old Martin, ‘certainly.’

‘Of the very vulgar,’ Mr Pecksniff answered. ‘Then why not bring Miss Graham here, sir? Here is the house. Here am I alone in it, for Thomas Pinch I do not count as any one. Our lovely friend shall occupy my daughter’s chamber; you shall choose your own; we shall not quarrel, I hope!’

‘We are not likely to do that,’ said Martin.

Mr Pecksniff pressed his hand. ‘We understand each other, my dear sir, I see!—I can wind him,’ he thought, with exultation, ‘round my little finger.’

‘You leave the recompense to me?’ said the old man, after a minute’s silence.

‘Oh! do not speak of recompense!’ cried Pecksniff.

‘I say,’ repeated Martin, with a glimmer of his old obstinacy, ‘you leave the recompense to me. Do you?’

‘Since you desire it, my good sir.’

‘I always desire it,’ said the old man. ‘You know I always desire it. I wish to pay as I go, even when I buy of you. Not that I do not leave a balance to be settled one day, Pecksniff.’

The architect was too much overcome to speak. He tried to drop a tear upon his patron’s hand, but couldn’t find one in his dry distillery.

‘May that day be very distant!’ was his pious exclamation. ‘Ah, sir! If I could say how deep an interest I have in you and yours! I allude to our beautiful young friend.’

‘True,’ he answered. ‘True. She need have some one interested in her. I did her wrong to train her as I did. Orphan though she was, she would have found some one to protect her whom she might have loved again. When she was a child, I pleased myself with the thought that in gratifying my whim of placing her between me and false-hearted knaves, I had done her a kindness. Now she is a woman, I have no such comfort. She has no protector but herself. I have put her at such odds with the world, that any dog may bark or fawn upon her at his pleasure. Indeed she stands in need of delicate consideration. Yes; indeed she does!’

‘If her position could be altered and defined, sir?’ Mr Pecksniff hinted.

‘How can that be done? Should I make a seamstress of her, or a governess?’

‘Heaven forbid!’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘My dear sir, there are other ways. There are indeed. But I am much excited and embarrassed at present, and would rather not pursue the subject. I scarcely know what I mean. Permit me to resume it at another time.’

‘You are not unwell?’ asked Martin anxiously.

‘No, no!’ cried Pecksniff. ‘No. Permit me to resume it at another time. I’ll walk a little. Bless you!’

Old Martin blessed him in return, and squeezed his hand. As he turned away, and slowly walked towards the house, Mr Pecksniff stood gazing after him; being pretty well recovered from his late emotion, which, in any other man, one might have thought had been assumed as a machinery for feeling Martin’s pulse. The change in the old man found such a slight expression in his figure, that Mr Pecksniff, looking after him, could not help saying to himself:

‘And I can wind him round my little finger! Only think!’

Old Martin happening to turn his head, saluted him affectionately. Mr Pecksniff returned the gesture.

‘Why, the time was,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘and not long ago, when he wouldn’t look at me! How soothing is this change. Such is the delicate texture of the human heart; so complicated is the process of its being softened! Externally he looks the same, and I can wind him round my little finger. Only think!’

In sober truth, there did appear to be nothing on which Mr Pecksniff might not have ventured with Martin Chuzzlewit; for whatever Mr Pecksniff said or did was right, and whatever he advised was done. Martin had escaped so many snares from needy fortune-hunters, and had withered in the shell of his suspicion and distrust for so many years, but to become the good man’s tool and plaything. With the happiness of this conviction painted on his face, the architect went forth upon his morning walk.

The summer weather in his bosom was reflected in the breast of Nature. Through deep green vistas where the boughs arched overhead, and showed the sunlight flashing in the beautiful perspective; through dewy fern from which the startled hares leaped up, and fled at his approach; by mantled pools, and fallen trees, and down in hollow places, rustling among last year’s leaves whose scent woke memory of the past; the placid Pecksniff strolled. By meadow gates and hedges fragrant with wild roses; and by thatched-roof cottages whose inmates humbly bowed before him as a man both good and wise; the worthy Pecksniff walked in tranquil meditation. The bee passed onward, humming of the work he had to do; the idle gnats for ever going round and round in one contracting and expanding ring, yet always going on as fast as he, danced merrily before him; the colour of the long grass came and went, as if the light clouds made it timid as they floated through the distant air. The birds, so many Pecksniff consciences, sang gayly upon every branch; and Mr Pecksniff paid HIS homage to the day by ruminating on his projects as he walked along.

Chancing to trip, in his abstraction, over the spreading root of an old tree, he raised his pious eyes to take a survey of the ground before him. It startled him to see the embodied image of his thoughts not far ahead. Mary herself. And alone.

At first Mr Pecksniff stopped as if with the intention of avoiding her; but his next impulse was to advance, which he did at a brisk pace; caroling as he went so sweetly and with so much innocence that he only wanted feathers and wings to be a bird.

Hearing notes behind her, not belonging to the songsters of the grove, she looked round. Mr Pecksniff kissed his hand, and was at her side immediately.

‘Communing with nature?’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘So am I.’

She said the morning was so beautiful that she had walked further than she intended, and would return. Mr Pecksniff said it was exactly his case, and he would return with her.

‘Take my arm, sweet girl,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

Mary declined it, and walked so very fast that he remonstrated. ‘You were loitering when I came upon you,’ Mr Pecksniff said. ‘Why be so cruel as to hurry now? You would not shun me, would you?’

‘Yes, I would,’ she answered, turning her glowing cheek indignantly upon him, ‘you know I would. Release me, Mr Pecksniff. Your touch is disagreeable to me.’

His touch! What? That chaste patriarchal touch which Mrs Todgers—surely a discreet lady—had endured, not only without complaint, but with apparent satisfaction! This was positively wrong. Mr Pecksniff was sorry to hear her say it.

‘If you have not observed,’ said Mary, ‘that it is so, pray take assurance from my lips, and do not, as you are a gentleman, continue to offend me.’

‘Well, well!’ said Mr Pecksniff, mildly, ‘I feel that I might consider this becoming in a daughter of my own, and why should I object to it in one so beautiful! It’s harsh. It cuts me to the soul,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘but I cannot quarrel with you, Mary.’

She tried to say she was sorry to hear it, but burst into tears. Mr Pecksniff now repeated the Todgers performance on a comfortable scale, as if he intended it to last some time; and in his disengaged hand, catching hers, employed himself in separating the fingers with his own, and sometimes kissing them, as he pursued the conversation thus:

‘I am glad we met. I am very glad we met. I am able now to ease my bosom of a heavy load, and speak to you in confidence. Mary,’ said Mr Pecksniff in his tenderest tones, indeed they were so very tender that he almost squeaked: ‘My soul! I love you!’

A fantastic thing, that maiden affectation! She made believe to shudder.

‘I love you,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘my gentle life, with a devotion which is quite surprising, even to myself. I did suppose that the sensation was buried in the silent tomb of a lady, only second to you in qualities of the mind and form; but I find I am mistaken.’

She tried to disengage her hand, but might as well have tried to free herself from the embrace of an affectionate boa-constrictor; if anything so wily may be brought into comparison with Pecksniff.

‘Although I am a widower,’ said Mr Pecksniff, examining the rings upon her fingers, and tracing the course of one delicate blue vein with his fat thumb, ‘a widower with two daughters, still I am not encumbered, my love. One of them, as you know, is married. The other, by her own desire, but with a view, I will confess—why not?—to my altering my condition, is about to leave her father’s house. I have a character, I hope. People are pleased to speak well of me, I think. My person and manner are not absolutely those of a monster, I trust. Ah! naughty Hand!’ said Mr Pecksniff, apostrophizing the reluctant prize, ‘why did you take me prisoner? Go, go!’

He slapped the hand to punish it; but relenting, folded it in his waistcoat to comfort it again.

‘Blessed in each other, and in the society of our venerable friend, my darling,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘we shall be happy. When he is wafted to a haven of rest, we will console each other. My pretty primrose, what do you say?’

‘It is possible,’ Mary answered, in a hurried manner, ‘that I ought to feel grateful for this mark of your confidence. I cannot say that I do, but I am willing to suppose you may deserve my thanks. Take them; and pray leave me, Mr Pecksniff.’

The good man smiled a greasy smile; and drew her closer to him.

‘Pray, pray release me, Mr Pecksniff. I cannot listen to your proposal. I cannot receive it. There are many to whom it may be acceptable, but it is not so to me. As an act of kindness and an act of pity, leave me!’

Mr Pecksniff walked on with his arm round her waist, and her hand in his, as contentedly as if they had been all in all to each other, and were joined in the bonds of truest love.

‘If you force me by your superior strength,’ said Mary, who finding that good words had not the least effect upon him, made no further effort to suppress her indignation; ‘if you force me by your superior strength to accompany you back, and to be the subject of your insolence upon the way, you cannot constrain the expression of my thoughts. I hold you in the deepest abhorrence. I know your real nature and despise it.’

‘No, no,’ said Mr Pecksniff, sweetly. ‘No, no, no!’

‘By what arts or unhappy chances you have gained your influence over Mr Chuzzlewit, I do not know,’ said Mary; ‘it may be strong enough to soften even this, but he shall know of this, trust me, sir.’

Mr Pecksniff raised his heavy eyelids languidly, and let them fall again. It was saying with perfect coolness, ‘Aye, aye! Indeed!’

‘Is it not enough,’ said Mary, ‘that you warp and change his nature, adapt his every prejudice to your bad ends, and harden a heart naturally kind by shutting out the truth and allowing none but false and distorted views to reach it; is it not enough that you have the power of doing this, and that you exercise it, but must you also be so coarse, so cruel, and so cowardly to me?’

Still Mr Pecksniff led her calmly on, and looked as mild as any lamb that ever pastured in the fields.

‘Will nothing move you, sir?’ cried Mary.

‘My dear,’ observed Mr Pecksniff, with a placid leer, ‘a habit of self-examination, and the practice of—shall I say of virtue?’

‘Of hypocrisy,’ said Mary.

‘No, no,’ resumed Mr Pecksniff, chafing the captive hand reproachfully, ‘of virtue—have enabled me to set such guards upon myself, that it is really difficult to ruffle me. It is a curious fact, but it is difficult, do you know, for any one to ruffle me. And did she think,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a playful tightening of his grasp ‘that SHE could! How little did she know his heart!’

Little, indeed! Her mind was so strangely constituted that she would have preferred the caresses of a toad, an adder, or a serpent—nay, the hug of a bear—to the endearments of Mr Pecksniff.

‘Come, come,’ said that good gentleman, ‘a word or two will set this matter right, and establish a pleasant understanding between us. I am not angry, my love.’

‘YOU angry!’

‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘I am not. I say so. Neither are you.’

There was a beating heart beneath his hand that told another story though.

‘I am sure you are not,’ said Mr Pecksniff: ‘and I will tell you why. There are two Martin Chuzzlewits, my dear; and your carrying your anger to one might have a serious effect—who knows!—upon the other. You wouldn’t wish to hurt him, would you?’

She trembled violently, and looked at him with such a proud disdain that he turned his eyes away. No doubt lest he should be offended with her in spite of his better self.

‘A passive quarrel, my love,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘may be changed into an active one, remember. It would be sad to blight even a disinherited young man in his already blighted prospects; but how easy to do it. Ah, how easy! HAVE I influence with our venerable friend, do you think? Well, perhaps I have. Perhaps I have.’

He raised his eyes to hers; and nodded with an air of banter that was charming.

‘No,’ he continued, thoughtfully. ‘Upon the whole, my sweet, if I were you I’d keep my secret to myself. I am not at all sure—very far from it—that it would surprise our friend in any way, for he and I have had some conversation together only this morning, and he is anxious, very anxious, to establish you in some more settled manner. But whether he was surprised or not surprised, the consequence of your imparting it might be the same. Martin junior might suffer severely. I’d have compassion on Martin junior, do you know?’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a persuasive smile. ‘Yes. He don’t deserve it, but I would.’

She wept so bitterly now, and was so much distressed, that he thought it prudent to unclasp her waist, and hold her only by the hand.

‘As to our own share in the precious little mystery,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘we will keep it to ourselves, and talk of it between ourselves, and you shall think it over. You will consent, my love; you will consent, I know. Whatever you may think; you will. I seem to remember to have heard—I really don’t know where, or how’—he added, with bewitching frankness, ‘that you and Martin junior, when you were children, had a sort of childish fondness for each other. When we are married, you shall have the satisfaction of thinking that it didn’t last to ruin him, but passed away to do him good; for we’ll see then what we can do to put some trifling help in Martin junior’s way. HAVE I any influence with our venerable friend? Well! Perhaps I have. Perhaps I have.’

The outlet from the wood in which these tender passages occurred, was close to Mr Pecksniff’s house. They were now so near it that he stopped, and holding up her little finger, said in playful accents, as a parting fancy:

‘Shall I bite it?’

Receiving no reply he kissed it instead; and then stooping down, inclined his flabby face to hers—he had a flabby face, although he WAS a good man—and with a blessing, which from such a source was quite enough to set her up in life, and prosper her from that time forth permitted her to leave him.

Gallantry in its true sense is supposed to ennoble and dignify a man; and love has shed refinements on innumerable Cymons. But Mr Pecksniff—perhaps because to one of his exalted nature these were mere grossnesses—certainly did not appear to any unusual advantage, now that he was left alone. On the contrary, he seemed to be shrunk and reduced; to be trying to hide himself within himself; and to be wretched at not having the power to do it. His shoes looked too large; his sleeve looked too long; his hair looked too limp; his features looked too mean; his exposed throat looked as if a halter would have done it good. For a minute or two, in fact, he was hot, and pale, and mean, and shy, and slinking, and consequently not at all Pecksniffian. But after that, he recovered himself, and went home with as beneficent an air as if he had been the High Priest of the summer weather.

‘I have arranged to go, Papa,’ said Charity, ‘to-morrow.’

‘So soon, my child!’

‘I can’t go too soon,’ said Charity, ‘under the circumstances. I have written to Mrs Todgers to propose an arrangement, and have requested her to meet me at the coach, at all events. You’ll be quite your own master now, Mr Pinch!’

Mr Pecksniff had just gone out of the room, and Tom had just come into it.

‘My own master!’ repeated Tom.

‘Yes, you’ll have nobody to interfere with you,’ said Charity. ‘At least I hope you won’t. Hem! It’s a changing world.’

‘What! are YOU going to be married, Miss Pecksniff?’ asked Tom in great surprise.

‘Not exactly,’ faltered Cherry. ‘I haven’t made up my mind to be. I believe I could be, if I chose, Mr Pinch.’

‘Of course you could!’ said Tom. And he said it in perfect good faith. He believed it from the bottom of his heart.

‘No,’ said Cherry, ‘I am not going to be married. Nobody is, that I know of. Hem! But I am not going to live with Papa. I have my reasons, but it’s all a secret. I shall always feel very kindly towards you, I assure you, for the boldness you showed that night. As to you and me, Mr Pinch, WE part the best friends possible!’

Tom thanked her for her confidence, and for her friendship, but there was a mystery in the former which perfectly bewildered him. In his extravagant devotion to the family, he had felt the loss of Merry more than any one but those who knew that for all the slights he underwent he thought his own demerits were to blame, could possibly have understood. He had scarcely reconciled himself to that when here was Charity about to leave them. She had grown up, as it were, under Tom’s eye. The sisters were a part of Pecksniff, and a part of Tom; items in Pecksniff’s goodness, and in Tom’s service. He couldn’t bear it; not two hours’ sleep had Tom that night, through dwelling in his bed upon these dreadful changes.

When morning dawned he thought he must have dreamed this piece of ambiguity; but no, on going downstairs he found them packing trunks and cording boxes, and making other preparations for Miss Charity’s departure, which lasted all day long. In good time for the evening coach, Miss Charity deposited her housekeeping keys with much ceremony upon the parlour table; took a gracious leave of all the house; and quitted her paternal roof—a blessing for which the Pecksniffian servant was observed by some profane persons to be particularly active in the thanksgiving at church next Sunday.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

MR PINCH IS DISCHARGED OF A DUTY WHICH HE NEVER OWED TO ANYBODY, AND MR PECKSNIFF DISCHARGES A DUTY WHICH HE OWES TO SOCIETY

The closing words of the last chapter lead naturally to the commencement of this, its successor; for it has to do with a church. With the church, so often mentioned heretofore, in which Tom Pinch played the organ for nothing.

One sultry afternoon, about a week after Miss Charity’s departure for London, Mr Pecksniff being out walking by himself, took it into his head to stray into the churchyard. As he was lingering among the tombstones, endeavouring to extract an available sentiment or two from the epitaphs—for he never lost an opportunity of making up a few moral crackers, to be let off as occasion served—Tom Pinch began to practice. Tom could run down to the church and do so whenever he had time to spare; for it was a simple little organ, provided with wind by the action of the musician’s feet; and he was independent, even of a bellows-blower. Though if Tom had wanted one at any time, there was not a man or boy in all the village, and away to the turnpike (tollman included), but would have blown away for him till he was black in the face.

Mr Pecksniff had no objection to music; not the least. He was tolerant of everything; he often said so. He considered it a vagabond kind of trifling, in general, just suited to Tom’s capacity. But in regard to Tom’s performance upon this same organ, he was remarkably lenient, singularly amiable; for when Tom played it on Sundays, Mr Pecksniff in his unbounded sympathy felt as if he played it himself, and were a benefactor to the congregation. So whenever it was impossible to devise any other means of taking the value of Tom’s wages out of him, Mr Pecksniff gave him leave to cultivate this instrument. For which mark of his consideration Tom was very grateful.

The afternoon was remarkably warm, and Mr Pecksniff had been strolling a long way. He had not what may be called a fine ear for music, but he knew when it had a tranquilizing influence on his soul; and that was the case now, for it sounded to him like a melodious snore. He approached the church, and looking through the diamond lattice of a window near the porch, saw Tom, with the curtains in the loft drawn back, playing away with great expression and tenderness.

The church had an inviting air of coolness. The old oak roof supported by cross-beams, the hoary walls, the marble tablets, and the cracked stone pavement, were refreshing to look at. There were leaves of ivy tapping gently at the opposite windows; and the sun poured in through only one; leaving the body of the church in tempting shade. But the most tempting spot of all, was one red-curtained and soft-cushioned pew, wherein the official dignitaries of the place (of whom Mr Pecksniff was the head and chief) enshrined themselves on Sundays. Mr Pecksniff’s seat was in the corner; a remarkably comfortable corner; where his very large Prayer-Book was at that minute making the most of its quarto self upon the desk. He determined to go in and rest.

He entered very softly; in part because it was a church; in part because his tread was always soft; in part because Tom played a solemn tune; in part because he thought he would surprise him when he stopped. Unbolting the door of the high pew of state, he glided in and shut it after him; then sitting in his usual place, and stretching out his legs upon the hassocks, he composed himself to listen to the music.

It is an unaccountable circumstance that he should have felt drowsy there, where the force of association might surely have been enough to keep him wide awake; but he did. He had not been in the snug little corner five minutes before he began to nod. He had not recovered himself one minute before he began to nod again. In the very act of opening his eyes indolently, he nodded again. In the very act of shutting them, he nodded again. So he fell out of one nod into another until at last he ceased to nod at all, and was as fast as the church itself.

He had a consciousness of the organ, long after he fell asleep, though as to its being an organ he had no more idea of that than he had of its being a bull. After a while he began to have at intervals the same dreamy impressions of voices; and awakening to an indolent curiosity upon the subject, opened his eyes.

He was so indolent, that after glancing at the hassocks and the pew, he was already half-way off to sleep again, when it occurred to him that there really were voices in the church; low voices, talking earnestly hard by; while the echoes seemed to mutter responses. He roused himself, and listened.

Before he had listened half a dozen seconds, he became as broad awake as ever he had been in all his life. With eyes, and ears, and mouth, wide open, he moved himself a very little with the utmost caution, and gathering the curtain in his hand, peeped out.

Tom Pinch and Mary. Of course. He had recognized their voices, and already knew the topic they discussed. Looking like the small end of a guillotined man, with his chin on a level with the top of the pew, so that he might duck down immediately in case of either of them turning round, he listened. Listened with such concentrated eagerness, that his very hair and shirt-collar stood bristling up to help him.

‘No,’ cried Tom. ‘No letters have ever reached me, except that one from New York. But don’t be uneasy on that account, for it’s very likely they have gone away to some far-off place, where the posts are neither regular nor frequent. He said in that very letter that it might be so, even in that city to which they thought of travelling—Eden, you know.’

‘It is a great weight upon my mind,’ said Mary.

‘Oh, but you mustn’t let it be,’ said Tom. ‘There’s a true saying that nothing travels so fast as ill news; and if the slightest harm had happened to Martin, you may be sure you would have heard of it long ago. I have often wished to say this to you,’ Tom continued with an embarrassment that became him very well, ‘but you have never given me an opportunity.’

‘I have sometimes been almost afraid,’ said Mary, ‘that you might suppose I hesitated to confide in you, Mr Pinch.’

‘No,’ Tom stammered, ‘I—I am not aware that I ever supposed that. I am sure that if I have, I have checked the thought directly, as an injustice to you. I feel the delicacy of your situation in having to confide in me at all,’ said Tom, ‘but I would risk my life to save you from one day’s uneasiness; indeed I would!’

Poor Tom!

‘I have dreaded sometimes,’ Tom continued, ‘that I might have displeased you by—by having the boldness to try and anticipate your wishes now and then. At other times I have fancied that your kindness prompted you to keep aloof from me.’

‘Indeed!’

‘It was very foolish; very presumptuous and ridiculous, to think so,’ Tom pursued; ‘but I feared you might suppose it possible that I—I—should admire you too much for my own peace; and so denied yourself the slight assistance you would otherwise have accepted from me. If such an idea has ever presented itself to you,’ faltered Tom, ‘pray dismiss it. I am easily made happy; and I shall live contented here long after you and Martin have forgotten me. I am a poor, shy, awkward creature; not at all a man of the world; and you should think no more of me, bless you, than if I were an old friar!’

If friars bear such hearts as thine, Tom, let friars multiply; though they have no such rule in all their stern arithmetic.

‘Dear Mr Pinch!’ said Mary, giving him her hand; ‘I cannot tell you how your kindness moves me. I have never wronged you by the lightest doubt, and have never for an instant ceased to feel that you were all—much more than all—that Martin found you. Without the silent care and friendship I have experienced from you, my life here would have been unhappy. But you have been a good angel to me; filling me with gratitude of heart, hope, and courage.’

‘I am as little like an angel, I am afraid,’ replied Tom, shaking his head, ‘as any stone cherubim among the grave-stones; and I don’t think there are many real angels of THAT pattern. But I should like to know (if you will tell me) why you have been so very silent about Martin.’

‘Because I have been afraid,’ said Mary, ‘of injuring you.’

‘Of injuring me!’ cried Tom.

‘Of doing you an injury with your employer.’

The gentleman in question dived.

‘With Pecksniff!’ rejoined Tom, with cheerful confidence. ‘Oh dear, he’d never think of us! He’s the best of men. The more at ease you were, the happier he would be. Oh dear, you needn’t be afraid of Pecksniff. He is not a spy.’

Many a man in Mr Pecksniff’s place, if he could have dived through the floor of the pew of state and come out at Calcutta or any inhabited region on the other side of the earth, would have done it instantly. Mr Pecksniff sat down upon a hassock, and listening more attentively than ever, smiled.

Mary seemed to have expressed some dissent in the meanwhile, for Tom went on to say, with honest energy:

‘Well, I don’t know how it is, but it always happens, whenever I express myself in this way to anybody almost, that I find they won’t do justice to Pecksniff. It is one of the most extraordinary circumstances that ever came within my knowledge, but it is so. There’s John Westlock, who used to be a pupil here, one of the best-hearted young men in the world, in all other matters—I really believe John would have Pecksniff flogged at the cart’s tail if he could. And John is not a solitary case, for every pupil we have had in my time has gone away with the same inveterate hatred of him. There was Mark Tapley, too, quite in another station of life,’ said Tom; ‘the mockery he used to make of Pecksniff when he was at the Dragon was shocking. Martin too: Martin was worse than any of ‘em. But I forgot. He prepared you to dislike Pecksniff, of course. So you came with a prejudice, you know, Miss Graham, and are not a fair witness.’

Tom triumphed very much in this discovery, and rubbed his hands with great satisfaction.

‘Mr Pinch,’ said Mary, ‘you mistake him.’

‘No, no!’ cried Tom. ‘YOU mistake him. But,’ he added, with a rapid change in his tone, ‘what is the matter? Miss Graham, what is the matter?’

Mr Pecksniff brought up to the top of the pew, by slow degrees, his hair, his forehead, his eyebrow, his eye. She was sitting on a bench beside the door with her hands before her face; and Tom was bending over her.

‘What is the matter?’ cried Tom. ‘Have I said anything to hurt you? Has any one said anything to hurt you? Don’t cry. Pray tell me what it is. I cannot bear to see you so distressed. Mercy on us, I never was so surprised and grieved in all my life!’

Mr Pecksniff kept his eye in the same place. He could have moved it now for nothing short of a gimlet or a red-hot wire.

‘I wouldn’t have told you, Mr Pinch,’ said Mary, ‘if I could have helped it; but your delusion is so absorbing, and it is so necessary that we should be upon our guard; that you should not be compromised; and to that end that you should know by whom I am beset; that no alternative is left me. I came here purposely to tell you, but I think I should have wanted courage if you had not chanced to lead me so directly to the object of my coming.’

Tom gazed at her steadfastly, and seemed to say, ‘What else?’ But he said not a word.

‘That person whom you think the best of men,’ said Mary, looking up, and speaking with a quivering lip and flashing eye.

‘Lord bless me!’ muttered Tom, staggering back. ‘Wait a moment. That person whom I think the best of men! You mean Pecksniff, of course. Yes, I see you mean Pecksniff. Good gracious me, don’t speak without authority. What has he done? If he is not the best of men, what is he?’

‘The worst. The falsest, craftiest, meanest, cruellest, most sordid, most shameless,’ said the trembling girl—trembling with her indignation.

Tom sat down on a seat, and clasped his hands.

‘What is he,’ said Mary, ‘who receiving me in his house as his guest; his unwilling guest; knowing my history, and how defenceless and alone I am, presumes before his daughters to affront me so, that if I had a brother but a child, who saw it, he would instinctively have helped me?’

‘He is a scoundrel!’ exclaimed Tom. ‘Whoever he may be, he is a scoundrel.’

Mr Pecksniff dived again.

‘What is he,’ said Mary, ‘who, when my only friend—a dear and kind one, too—was in full health of mind, humbled himself before him, but was spurned away (for he knew him then) like a dog. Who, in his forgiving spirit, now that that friend is sunk into a failing state, can crawl about him again, and use the influence he basely gains for every base and wicked purpose, and not for one—not one—that’s true or good?’

‘I say he is a scoundrel!’ answered Tom.

‘But what is he—oh, Mr Pinch, what IS he—who, thinking he could compass these designs the better if I were his wife, assails me with the coward’s argument that if I marry him, Martin, on whom I have brought so much misfortune, shall be restored to something of his former hopes; and if I do not, shall be plunged in deeper ruin? What is he who makes my very constancy to one I love with all my heart a torture to myself and wrong to him; who makes me, do what I will, the instrument to hurt a head I would heap blessings on! What is he who, winding all these cruel snares about me, explains their purpose to me, with a smooth tongue and a smiling face, in the broad light of day; dragging me on, the while, in his embrace, and holding to his lips a hand,’ pursued the agitated girl, extending it, ‘which I would have struck off, if with it I could lose the shame and degradation of his touch?’

‘I say,’ cried Tom, in great excitement, ‘he is a scoundrel and a villain! I don’t care who he is, I say he is a double-dyed and most intolerable villain!’

Covering her face with her hands again, as if the passion which had sustained her through these disclosures lost itself in an overwhelming sense of shame and grief, she abandoned herself to tears.

Any sight of distress was sure to move the tenderness of Tom, but this especially. Tears and sobs from her were arrows in his heart. He tried to comfort her; sat down beside her; expended all his store of homely eloquence; and spoke in words of praise and hope of Martin. Aye, though he loved her from his soul with such a self-denying love as woman seldom wins; he spoke from first to last of Martin. Not the wealth of the rich Indies would have tempted Tom to shirk one mention of her lover’s name.

When she was more composed, she impressed upon Tom that this man she had described, was Pecksniff in his real colours; and word by word and phrase by phrase, as well as she remembered it, related what had passed between them in the wood: which was no doubt a source of high gratification to that gentleman himself, who in his desire to see and his dread of being seen, was constantly diving down into the state pew, and coming up again like the intelligent householder in Punch’s Show, who avoids being knocked on the head with a cudgel. When she had concluded her account, and had besought Tom to be very distant and unconscious in his manner towards her after this explanation, and had thanked him very much, they parted on the alarm of footsteps in the burial-ground; and Tom was left alone in the church again.

And now the full agitation and misery of the disclosure came rushing upon Tom indeed. The star of his whole life from boyhood had become, in a moment, putrid vapour. It was not that Pecksniff, Tom’s Pecksniff, had ceased to exist, but that he never had existed. In his death Tom would have had the comfort of remembering what he used to be, but in this discovery, he had the anguish of recollecting what he never was. For, as Tom’s blindness in this matter had been total and not partial, so was his restored sight. HIS Pecksniff could never have worked the wickedness of which he had just now heard, but any other Pecksniff could; and the Pecksniff who could do that could do anything, and no doubt had been doing anything and everything except the right thing, all through his career. From the lofty height on which poor Tom had placed his idol it was tumbled down headlong, and

Not all the king’s horses, nor all the king’s men, Could have set Mr Pecksniff up again.

Legions of Titans couldn’t have got him out of the mud; and serve him right! But it was not he who suffered; it was Tom. His compass was broken, his chart destroyed, his chronometer had stopped, his masts were gone by the board; his anchor was adrift, ten thousand leagues away.

Mr Pecksniff watched him with a lively interest, for he divined the purpose of Tom’s ruminations, and was curious to see how he conducted himself. For some time, Tom wandered up and down the aisle like a man demented, stopping occasionally to lean against a pew and think it over; then he stood staring at a blank old monument bordered tastefully with skulls and cross-bones, as if it were the finest work of Art he had ever seen, although at other times he held it in unspeakable contempt; then he sat down; then walked to and fro again; then went wandering up into the organ-loft, and touched the keys. But their minstrelsy was changed, their music gone; and sounding one long melancholy chord, Tom drooped his head upon his hands and gave it up as hopeless.

‘I wouldn’t have cared,’ said Tom Pinch, rising from his stool and looking down into the church as if he had been the Clergyman, ‘I wouldn’t have cared for anything he might have done to Me, for I have tried his patience often, and have lived upon his sufferance and have never been the help to him that others could have been. I wouldn’t have minded, Pecksniff,’ Tom continued, little thinking who heard him, ‘if you had done Me any wrong; I could have found plenty of excuses for that; and though you might have hurt me, could have still gone on respecting you. But why did you ever fall so low as this in my esteem! Oh Pecksniff, Pecksniff, there is nothing I would not have given, to have had you deserve my old opinion of you; nothing!’

Mr Pecksniff sat upon the hassock pulling up his shirt-collar, while Tom, touched to the quick, delivered this apostrophe. After a pause he heard Tom coming down the stairs, jingling the church keys; and bringing his eye to the top of the pew again, saw him go slowly out and lock the door.

Mr Pecksniff durst not issue from his place of concealment; for through the windows of the church he saw Tom passing on among the graves, and sometimes stopping at a stone, and leaning there as if he were a mourner who had lost a friend. Even when he had left the churchyard, Mr Pecksniff still remained shut up; not being at all secure but that in his restless state of mind Tom might come wandering back. At length he issued forth, and walked with a pleasant countenance into the vestry; where he knew there was a window near the ground, by which he could release himself by merely stepping out.

He was in a curious frame of mind, Mr Pecksniff; being in no hurry to go, but rather inclining to a dilatory trifling with the time, which prompted him to open the vestry cupboard, and look at himself in the parson’s little glass that hung within the door. Seeing that his hair was rumpled, he took the liberty of borrowing the canonical brush and arranging it. He also took the liberty of opening another cupboard; but he shut it up again quickly, being rather startled by the sight of a black and a white surplice dangling against the wall; which had very much the appearance of two curates who had committed suicide by hanging themselves. Remembering that he had seen in the first cupboard a port-wine bottle and some biscuits, he peeped into it again, and helped himself with much deliberation; cogitating all the time though, in a very deep and weighty manner, as if his thoughts were otherwise employed.

He soon made up his mind, if it had ever been in doubt; and putting back the bottle and biscuits, opened the casement. He got out into the churchyard without any difficulty; shut the window after him; and walked straight home.

‘Is Mr Pinch indoors?’ asked Mr Pecksniff of his serving-maid.

‘Just come in, sir.’

‘Just come in, eh?’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, cheerfully. ‘And gone upstairs, I suppose?’

‘Yes sir. Gone upstairs. Shall I call him, sir?’

‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘no. You needn’t call him, Jane. Thank you, Jane. How are your relations, Jane?’

‘Pretty well, I thank you, sir.’

‘I am glad to hear it. Let them know I asked about them, Jane. Is Mr Chuzzlewit in the way, Jane?’

‘Yes, sir. He’s in the parlour, reading.’

‘He’s in the parlour, reading, is he, Jane?’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Very well. Then I think I’ll go and see him, Jane.’

Never had Mr Pecksniff been beheld in a more pleasant humour!

But when he walked into the parlour where the old man was engaged as Jane had said; with pen and ink and paper on a table close at hand (for Mr Pecksniff was always very particular to have him well supplied with writing materials), he became less cheerful. He was not angry, he was not vindictive, he was not cross, he was not moody, but he was grieved; he was sorely grieved. As he sat down by the old man’s side, two tears—not tears like those with which recording angels blot their entries out, but drops so precious that they use them for their ink—stole down his meritorious cheeks.

‘What is the matter?’ asked old Martin. ‘Pecksniff, what ails you, man?’

‘I am sorry to interrupt you, my dear sir, and I am still more sorry for the cause. My good, my worthy friend, I am deceived.’

‘You are deceived!’

‘Ah!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, in an agony, ‘deceived in the tenderest point. Cruelly deceived in that quarter, sir, in which I placed the most unbounded confidence. Deceived, Mr Chuzzlewit, by Thomas Pinch.’

‘Oh! bad, bad, bad!’ said Martin, laying down his book. ‘Very bad! I hope not. Are you certain?’

‘Certain, my good sir! My eyes and ears are witnesses. I wouldn’t have believed it otherwise. I wouldn’t have believed it, Mr Chuzzlewit, if a Fiery Serpent had proclaimed it from the top of Salisbury Cathedral. I would have said,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, ‘that the Serpent lied. Such was my faith in Thomas Pinch, that I would have cast the falsehood back into the Serpent’s teeth, and would have taken Thomas to my heart. But I am not a Serpent, sir, myself, I grieve to say, and no excuse or hope is left me.’

Martin was greatly disturbed to see him so much agitated, and to hear such unexpected news. He begged him to compose himself, and asked upon what subject Mr Pinch’s treachery had been developed.

‘That is almost the worst of all, sir,’ Mr Pecksniff answered, ‘on a subject nearly concerning YOU. Oh! is it not enough,’ said Mr Pecksniff, looking upward, ‘that these blows must fall on me, but must they also hit my friends!’

‘You alarm me,’ cried the old man, changing colour. ‘I am not so strong as I was. You terrify me, Pecksniff!’

‘Cheer up, my noble sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, taking courage, ‘and we will do what is required of us. You shall know all, sir, and shall be righted. But first excuse me, sir, excuse me. I have a duty to discharge, which I owe to society.’

He rang the bell, and Jane appeared. ‘Send Mr Pinch here, if you please, Jane.’

Tom came. Constrained and altered in his manner, downcast and dejected, visibly confused; not liking to look Pecksniff in the face.

The honest man bestowed a glance on Mr Chuzzlewit, as who should say ‘You see!’ and addressed himself to Tom in these terms:

‘Mr Pinch, I have left the vestry-window unfastened. Will you do me the favour to go and secure it; then bring the keys of the sacred edifice to me!’

‘The vestry-window, sir?’ cried Tom.

‘You understand me, Mr Pinch, I think,’ returned his patron. ‘Yes, Mr Pinch, the vestry-window. I grieve to say that sleeping in the church after a fatiguing ramble, I overheard just now some fragments,’ he emphasised that word, ‘of a dialogue between two parties; and one of them locking the church when he went out, I was obliged to leave it myself by the vestry-window. Do me the favour to secure that vestry-window, Mr Pinch, and then come back to me.’

No physiognomist that ever dwelt on earth could have construed Tom’s face when he heard these words. Wonder was in it, and a mild look of reproach, but certainly no fear or guilt, although a host of strong emotions struggled to display themselves. He bowed, and without saying one word, good or bad, withdrew.

‘Pecksniff,’ cried Martin, in a tremble, ‘what does all this mean? You are not going to do anything in haste, you may regret!’

‘No, my good sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, firmly, ‘No. But I have a duty to discharge which I owe to society; and it shall be discharged, my friend, at any cost!’

Oh, late-remembered, much-forgotten, mouthing, braggart duty, always owed, and seldom paid in any other coin than punishment and wrath, when will mankind begin to know thee! When will men acknowledge thee in thy neglected cradle, and thy stunted youth, and not begin their recognition in thy sinful manhood and thy desolate old age! Oh, ermined Judge whose duty to society is, now, to doom the ragged criminal to punishment and death, hadst thou never, Man, a duty to discharge in barring up the hundred open gates that wooed him to the felon’s dock, and throwing but ajar the portals to a decent life! Oh, prelate, prelate, whose duty to society it is to mourn in melancholy phrase the sad degeneracy of these bad times in which thy lot of honours has been cast, did nothing go before thy elevation to the lofty seat, from which thou dealest out thy homilies to other tarriers for dead men’s shoes, whose duty to society has not begun! Oh! magistrate, so rare a country gentleman and brave a squire, had you no duty to society, before the ricks were blazing and the mob were mad; or did it spring up, armed and booted from the earth, a corps of yeomanry full-grown!

Mr Pecksniff’s duty to society could not be paid till Tom came back. The interval which preceded the return of that young man, he occupied in a close conference with his friend; so that when Tom did arrive, he found the two quite ready to receive him. Mary was in her own room above, whither Mr Pecksniff, always considerate, had besought old Martin to entreat her to remain some half-hour longer, that her feelings might be spared.

When Tom came back, he found old Martin sitting by the window, and Mr Pecksniff in an imposing attitude at the table. On one side of him was his pocket-handkerchief; and on the other a little heap (a very little heap) of gold and silver, and odd pence. Tom saw, at a glance, that it was his own salary for the current quarter.

‘Have you fastened the vestry-window, Mr Pinch?’ said Pecksniff.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Thank you. Put down the keys if you please, Mr Pinch.’

Tom placed them on the table. He held the bunch by the key of the organ-loft (though it was one of the smallest), and looked hard at it as he laid it down. It had been an old, old friend of Tom’s; a kind companion to him, many and many a day.

‘Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff, shaking his head; ‘oh, Mr Pinch! I wonder you can look me in the face!’

Tom did it though; and notwithstanding that he has been described as stooping generally, he stood as upright then as man could stand.

‘Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff, taking up his handkerchief, as if he felt that he should want it soon, ‘I will not dwell upon the past. I will spare you, and I will spare myself, that pain at least.’

Tom’s was not a very bright eye, but it was a very expressive one when he looked at Mr Pecksniff, and said:

‘Thank you, sir. I am very glad you will not refer to the past.’

‘The present is enough,’ said Mr Pecksniff, dropping a penny, ‘and the sooner THAT is past, the better. Mr Pinch, I will not dismiss you without a word of explanation. Even such a course would be quite justifiable under the circumstances; but it might wear an appearance of hurry, and I will not do it; for I am,’ said Mr Pecksniff, knocking down another penny, ‘perfectly self-possessed. Therefore I will say to you, what I have already said to Mr Chuzzlewit.’

Tom glanced at the old gentleman, who nodded now and then as approving of Mr Pecksniff’s sentences and sentiments, but interposed between them in no other way.

‘From fragments of a conversation which I overheard in the church, just now, Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff, ‘between yourself and Miss Graham—I say fragments, because I was slumbering at a considerable distance from you, when I was roused by your voices—and from what I saw, I ascertained (I would have given a great deal not to have ascertained, Mr Pinch) that you, forgetful of all ties of duty and of honour, sir; regardless of the sacred laws of hospitality, to which you were pledged as an inmate of this house; have presumed to address Miss Graham with unreturned professions of attachment and proposals of love.’

Tom looked at him steadily.

‘Do you deny it, sir?’ asked Mr Pecksniff, dropping one pound two and fourpence, and making a great business of picking it up again.

‘No, sir,’ replied Tom. ‘I do not.’

‘You do not,’ said Mr Pecksniff, glancing at the old gentleman. ‘Oblige me by counting this money, Mr Pinch, and putting your name to this receipt. You do not?’

No, Tom did not. He scorned to deny it. He saw that Mr Pecksniff having overheard his own disgrace, cared not a jot for sinking lower yet in his contempt. He saw that he had devised this fiction as the readiest means of getting rid of him at once, but that it must end in that any way. He saw that Mr Pecksniff reckoned on his not denying it, because his doing so and explaining would incense the old man more than ever against Martin and against Mary; while Pecksniff himself would only have been mistaken in his ‘fragments.’ Deny it! No.

‘You find the amount correct, do you, Mr Pinch?’ said Pecksniff.

‘Quite correct, sir,’ answered Tom.

‘A person is waiting in the kitchen,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘to carry your luggage wherever you please. We part, Mr Pinch, at once, and are strangers from this time.’

Something without a name; compassion, sorrow, old tenderness, mistaken gratitude, habit; none of these, and yet all of them; smote upon Tom’s gentle heart at parting. There was no such soul as Pecksniff’s in that carcase; and yet, though his speaking out had not involved the compromise of one he loved, he couldn’t have denounced the very shape and figure of the man. Not even then.

‘I will not say,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, shedding tears, ‘what a blow this is. I will not say how much it tries me; how it works upon my nature; how it grates upon my feelings. I do not care for that. I can endure as well as another man. But what I have to hope, and what you have to hope, Mr Pinch (otherwise a great responsibility rests upon you), is, that this deception may not alter my ideas of humanity; that it may not impair my freshness, or contract, if I may use the expression, my Pinions. I hope it will not; I don’t think it will. It may be a comfort to you, if not now, at some future time, to know that I shall endeavour not to think the worse of my fellow-creatures in general, for what has passed between us. Farewell!’

Tom had meant to spare him one little puncturation with a lancet, which he had it in his power to administer, but he changed his mind on hearing this, and said:

‘I think you left something in the church, sir.’

‘Thank you, Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff. ‘I am not aware that I did.’

‘This is your double eye-glass, I believe?’ said Tom.

‘Oh!’ cried Pecksniff, with some degree of confusion. ‘I am obliged to you. Put it down, if you please.’

‘I found it,’ said Tom, slowly—‘when I went to bolt the vestry-window—in the pew.’

So he had. Mr Pecksniff had taken it off when he was bobbing up and down, lest it should strike against the panelling; and had forgotten it. Going back to the church with his mind full of having been watched, and wondering very much from what part, Tom’s attention was caught by the door of the state pew standing open. Looking into it he found the glass. And thus he knew, and by returning it gave Mr Pecksniff the information that he knew, where the listener had been; and that instead of overhearing fragments of the conversation, he must have rejoiced in every word of it.

‘I am glad he’s gone,’ said Martin, drawing a long breath when Tom had left the room.

‘It IS a relief,’ assented Mr Pecksniff. ‘It is a great relief. But having discharged—I hope with tolerable firmness—the duty which I owed to society, I will now, my dear sir, if you will give me leave, retire to shed a few tears in the back garden, as an humble individual.’

Tom went upstairs; cleared his shelf of books; packed them up with his music and an old fiddle in his trunk; got out his clothes (they were not so many that they made his head ache); put them on the top of his books; and went into the workroom for his case of instruments. There was a ragged stool there, with the horsehair all sticking out of the top like a wig: a very Beast of a stool in itself; on which he had taken up his daily seat, year after year, during the whole period of his service. They had grown older and shabbier in company. Pupils had served their time; seasons had come and gone. Tom and the worn-out stool had held together through it all. That part of the room was traditionally called ‘Tom’s Corner.’ It had been assigned to him at first because of its being situated in a strong draught, and a great way from the fire; and he had occupied it ever since. There were portraits of him on the walls, with all his weak points monstrously portrayed. Diabolical sentiments, foreign to his character, were represented as issuing from his mouth in fat balloons. Every pupil had added something, even unto fancy portraits of his father with one eye, and of his mother with a disproportionate nose, and especially of his sister; who always being presented as extremely beautiful, made full amends to Tom for any other jokes. Under less uncommon circumstances, it would have cut Tom to the heart to leave these things and think that he saw them for the last time; but it didn’t now. There was no Pecksniff; there never had been a Pecksniff; and all his other griefs were swallowed up in that.

So, when he returned into the bedroom, and, having fastened his box and a carpet-bag, put on his walking gaiters, and his great-coat, and his hat, and taken his stick in his hand, looked round it for the last time. Early on summer mornings, and by the light of private candle-ends on winter nights, he had read himself half blind in this same room. He had tried in this same room to learn the fiddle under the bedclothes, but yielding to objections from the other pupils, had reluctantly abandoned the design. At any other time he would have parted from it with a pang, thinking of all he had learned there, of the many hours he had passed there; for the love of his very dreams. But there was no Pecksniff; there never had been a Pecksniff, and the unreality of Pecksniff extended itself to the chamber, in which, sitting on one particular bed, the thing supposed to be that Great Abstraction had often preached morality with such effect that Tom had felt a moisture in his eyes, while hanging breathless on the words.

The man engaged to bear his box—Tom knew him well: a Dragon man—came stamping up the stairs, and made a roughish bow to Tom (to whom in common times he would have nodded with a grin) as though he were aware of what had happened, and wished him to perceive it made no difference to HIM. It was clumsily done; he was a mere waterer of horses; but Tom liked the man for it, and felt it more than going away.

Tom would have helped him with the box, but he made no more of it, though it was a heavy one, than an elephant would have made of a castle; just swinging it on his back and bowling downstairs as if, being naturally a heavy sort of fellow, he could carry a box infinitely better than he could go alone. Tom took the carpet-bag, and went downstairs along with him. At the outer door stood Jane, crying with all her might; and on the steps was Mrs Lupin, sobbing bitterly, and putting out her hand for Tom to shake.

‘You’re coming to the Dragon, Mr Pinch?’

‘No,’ said Tom, ‘no. I shall walk to Salisbury to-night. I couldn’t stay here. For goodness’ sake, don’t make me so unhappy, Mrs Lupin.’

‘But you’ll come to the Dragon, Mr Pinch. If it’s only for tonight. To see me, you know; not as a traveller.’

‘God bless my soul!’ said Tom, wiping his eyes. ‘The kindness of people is enough to break one’s heart! I mean to go to Salisbury to-night, my dear good creature. If you’ll take care of my box for me till I write for it, I shall consider it the greatest kindness you can do me.’

‘I wish,’ cried Mrs Lupin, ‘there were twenty boxes, Mr Pinch, that I might have ‘em all.’

‘Thank’ee,’ said Tom. ‘It’s like you. Good-bye. Good-bye.’

There were several people, young and old, standing about the door, some of whom cried with Mrs Lupin; while others tried to keep up a stout heart, as Tom did; and others were absorbed in admiration of Mr Pecksniff—a man who could build a church, as one may say, by squinting at a sheet of paper; and others were divided between that feeling and sympathy with Tom. Mr Pecksniff had appeared on the top of the steps, simultaneously with his old pupil, and while Tom was talking with Mrs Lupin kept his hand stretched out, as though he said ‘Go forth!’ When Tom went forth, and had turned the corner Mr Pecksniff shook his head, shut his eyes, and heaving a deep sigh, shut the door. On which, the best of Tom’s supporters said he must have done some dreadful deed, or such a man as Mr Pecksniff never could have felt like that. If it had been a common quarrel (they observed), he would have said something, but when he didn’t, Mr Pinch must have shocked him dreadfully.

Tom was out of hearing of their shrewd opinions, and plodded on as steadily as he could go, until he came within sight of the turnpike where the tollman’s family had cried out ‘Mr Pinch!’ that frosty morning, when he went to meet young Martin. He had got through the village, and this toll-bar was his last trial; but when the infant toll-takers came screeching out, he had half a mind to run for it, and make a bolt across the country.

‘Why, deary Mr Pinch! oh, deary sir!’ cried the tollman’s wife. ‘What an unlikely time for you to be a-going this way with a bag!’

‘I am going to Salisbury,’ said Tom.

‘Why, goodness, where’s the gig, then?’ cried the tollman’s wife, looking down the road, as if she thought Tom might have been upset without observing it.

‘I haven’t got it,’ said Tom. ‘I—’ he couldn’t evade it; he felt she would have him in the next question, if he got over this one. ‘I have left Mr Pecksniff.’

The tollman—a crusty customer, always smoking solitary pipes in a Windsor chair, inside, set artfully between two little windows that looked up and down the road, so that when he saw anything coming up he might hug himself on having toll to take, and when he saw it going down, might hug himself on having taken it—the tollman was out in an instant.

‘Left Mr Pecksniff!’ cried the tollman.

‘Yes,’ said Tom, ‘left him.’

The tollman looked at his wife, uncertain whether to ask her if she had anything to suggest, or to order her to mind the children. Astonishment making him surly, he preferred the latter, and sent her into the toll-house with a flea in her ear.

‘You left Mr Pecksniff!’ cried the tollman, folding his arms, and spreading his legs. ‘I should as soon have thought of his head leaving him.’

‘Aye!’ said Tom, ‘so should I, yesterday. Good night!’

If a heavy drove of oxen hadn’t come by immediately, the tollman would have gone down to the village straight, to inquire into it. As things turned out, he smoked another pipe, and took his wife into his confidence. But their united sagacity could make nothing of it, and they went to bed—metaphorically—in the dark. But several times that night, when a waggon or other vehicle came through, and the driver asked the tollkeeper ‘What news?’ he looked at the man by the light of his lantern, to assure himself that he had an interest in the subject, and then said, wrapping his watch-coat round his legs:

‘You’ve heerd of Mr Pecksniff down yonder?’

‘Ah! sure-ly!’

‘And of his young man Mr Pinch, p’raps?’

‘Ah!’

‘They’ve parted.’

After every one of these disclosures, the tollman plunged into his house again, and was seen no more, while the other side went on in great amazement.

But this was long after Tom was abed, and Tom was now with his face towards Salisbury, doing his best to get there. The evening was beautiful at first, but it became cloudy and dull at sunset, and the rain fell heavily soon afterwards. For ten long miles he plodded on, wet through, until at last the lights appeared, and he came into the welcome precincts of the city.

He went to the inn where he had waited for Martin, and briefly answering their inquiries after Mr Pecksniff, ordered a bed. He had no heart for tea or supper, meat or drink of any kind, but sat by himself before an empty table in the public room while the bed was getting ready, revolving in his mind all that had happened that eventful day, and wondering what he could or should do for the future. It was a great relief when the chambermaid came in, and said the bed was ready.

It was a low four-poster, shelving downward in the centre like a trough, and the room was crowded with impracticable tables and exploded chests of drawers, full of damp linen. A graphic representation in oil of a remarkably fat ox hung over the fireplace, and the portrait of some former landlord (who might have been the ox’s brother, he was so like him) stared roundly in, at the foot of the bed. A variety of queer smells were partially quenched in the prevailing scent of very old lavender; and the window had not been opened for such a long space of time that it pleaded immemorial usage, and wouldn’t come open now.

These were trifles in themselves, but they added to the strangeness of the place, and did not induce Tom to forget his new position. Pecksniff had gone out of the world—had never been in it—and it was as much as Tom could do to say his prayers without him. But he felt happier afterwards, and went to sleep, and dreamed about him as he Never Was.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

TREATS OF TODGER’S AGAIN; AND OF ANOTHER BLIGHTED PLANT BESIDES THE PLANTS UPON THE LEADS

Early on the day next after that on which she bade adieu to the halls of her youth and the scenes of her childhood, Miss Pecksniff, arriving safely at the coach-office in London, was there received, and conducted to her peaceful home beneath the shadow of the Monument, by Mrs Todgers. M. Todgers looked a little worn by cares of gravy and other such solicitudes arising out of her establishment, but displayed her usual earnestness and warmth of manner.

‘And how, my sweet Miss Pecksniff,’ said she, ‘how is your princely pa?’

Miss Pecksniff signified (in confidence) that he contemplated the introduction of a princely ma; and repeated the sentiment that she wasn’t blind, and wasn’t quite a fool, and wouldn’t bear it.

Mrs Todgers was more shocked by the intelligence than any one could have expected. She was quite bitter. She said there was no truth in man and that the warmer he expressed himself, as a general principle, the falser and more treacherous he was. She foresaw with astonishing clearness that the object of Mr Pecksniff’s attachment was designing, worthless, and wicked; and receiving from Charity the fullest confirmation of these views, protested with tears in her eyes that she loved Miss Pecksniff like a sister, and felt her injuries as if they were her own.

‘Your real darling sister, I have not seen her more than once since her marriage,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘and then I thought her looking poorly. My sweet Miss Pecksniff, I always thought that you was to be the lady?’

‘Oh dear no!’ cried Cherry, shaking her head. ‘Oh no, Mrs Todgers. Thank you. No! not for any consideration he could offer.’

‘I dare say you are right,’ said Mrs Todgers with a sigh. ‘I feared it all along. But the misery we have had from that match, here among ourselves, in this house, my dear Miss Pecksniff, nobody would believe.’

‘Lor, Mrs Todgers!’

‘Awful, awful!’ repeated Mrs Todgers, with strong emphasis. ‘You recollect our youngest gentleman, my dear?’

‘Of course I do,’ said Cherry.

‘You might have observed,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘how he used to watch your sister; and that a kind of stony dumbness came over him whenever she was in company?’

‘I am sure I never saw anything of the sort,’ said Cherry, in a peevish manner. ‘What nonsense, Mrs Todgers!’

‘My dear,’ returned that lady in a hollow voice, ‘I have seen him again and again, sitting over his pie at dinner, with his spoon a perfect fixture in his mouth, looking at your sister. I have seen him standing in a corner of our drawing-room, gazing at her, in such a lonely, melancholy state, that he was more like a Pump than a man, and might have drawed tears.’

‘I never saw it!’ cried Cherry; ‘that’s all I can say.’

‘But when the marriage took place,’ said Mrs Todgers, proceeding with her subject, ‘when it was in the paper, and was read out here at breakfast, I thought he had taken leave of his senses, I did indeed. The violence of that young man, my dear Miss Pecksniff; the frightful opinions he expressed upon the subject of self-destruction; the extraordinary actions he performed with his tea; the clenching way in which he bit his bread and butter; the manner in which he taunted Mr Jinkins; all combined to form a picture never to be forgotten.’

‘It’s a pity he didn’t destroy himself, I think,’ observed Miss Pecksniff.

‘Himself!’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘it took another turn at night. He was for destroying other people then. There was a little chaffing going on—I hope you don’t consider that a low expression, Miss Pecksniff; it is always in our gentlemen’s mouths—a little chaffing going on, my dear, among ‘em, all in good nature, when suddenly he rose up, foaming with his fury, and but for being held by three would have had Mr Jinkins’s life with a bootjack.’

Miss Pecksniff’s face expressed supreme indifference.

‘And now,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘now he is the meekest of men. You can almost bring the tears into his eyes by looking at him. He sits with me the whole day long on Sundays, talking in such a dismal way that I find it next to impossible to keep my spirits up equal to the accommodation of the boarders. His only comfort is in female society. He takes me half-price to the play, to an extent which I sometimes fear is beyond his means; and I see the tears a-standing in his eyes during the whole performance—particularly if it is anything of a comic nature. The turn I experienced only yesterday,’ said Mrs Todgers putting her hand to her side, ‘when the house-maid threw his bedside carpet out of the window of his room, while I was sitting here, no one can imagine. I thought it was him, and that he had done it at last!’

The contempt with which Miss Charity received this pathetic account of the state to which the youngest gentleman in company was reduced, did not say much for her power of sympathising with that unfortunate character. She treated it with great levity, and went on to inform herself, then and afterwards, whether any other changes had occurred in the commercial boarding-house.

Mr Bailey was gone, and had been succeeded (such is the decay of human greatness!) by an old woman whose name was reported to be Tamaroo—which seemed an impossibility. Indeed it appeared in the fullness of time that the jocular boarders had appropriated the word from an English ballad, in which it is supposed to express the bold and fiery nature of a certain hackney coachman; and that it was bestowed upon Mr Bailey’s successor by reason of her having nothing fiery about her, except an occasional attack of that fire which is called St. Anthony’s. This ancient female had been engaged, in fulfillment of a vow, registered by Mrs Todgers, that no more boys should darken the commercial doors; and she was chiefly remarkable for a total absence of all comprehension upon every subject whatever. She was a perfect Tomb for messages and small parcels; and when dispatched to the Post Office with letters, had been frequently seen endeavouring to insinuate them into casual chinks in private doors, under the delusion that any door with a hole in it would answer the purpose. She was a very little old woman, and always wore a very coarse apron with a bib before and a loop behind, together with bandages on her wrists, which appeared to be afflicted with an everlasting sprain. She was on all occasions chary of opening the street door, and ardent to shut it again; and she waited at table in a bonnet.

This was the only great change over and above the change which had fallen on the youngest gentleman. As for him, he more than corroborated the account of Mrs Todgers; possessing greater sensibility than even she had given him credit for. He entertained some terrible notions of Destiny, among other matters, and talked much about people’s ‘Missions’; upon which he seemed to have some private information not generally attainable, as he knew it had been poor Merry’s mission to crush him in the bud. He was very frail and tearful; for being aware that a shepherd’s mission was to pipe to his flocks, and that a boatswain’s mission was to pipe all hands, and that one man’s mission was to be a paid piper, and another man’s mission was to pay the piper, so he had got it into his head that his own peculiar mission was to pipe his eye. Which he did perpetually.

He often informed Mrs Todgers that the sun had set upon him; that the billows had rolled over him; that the car of Juggernaut had crushed him, and also that the deadly Upas tree of Java had blighted him. His name was Moddle.

Towards this most unhappy Moddle, Miss Pecksniff conducted herself at first with distant haughtiness, being in no humour to be entertained with dirges in honour of her married sister. The poor young gentleman was additionally crushed by this, and remonstrated with Mrs Todgers on the subject.

‘Even she turns from me, Mrs Todgers,’ said Moddle.

‘Then why don’t you try and be a little bit more cheerful, sir?’ retorted Mrs Todgers.

‘Cheerful, Mrs Todgers! cheerful!’ cried the youngest gentleman; ‘when she reminds me of days for ever fled, Mrs Todgers!’

‘Then you had better avoid her for a short time, if she does,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘and come to know her again, by degrees. That’s my advice.’

‘But I can’t avoid her,’ replied Moddle, ‘I haven’t strength of mind to do it. Oh, Mrs Todgers, if you knew what a comfort her nose is to me!’

‘Her nose, sir!’ Mrs Todgers cried.

‘Her profile, in general,’ said the youngest gentleman, ‘but particularly her nose. It’s so like;’ here he yielded to a burst of grief. ‘It’s so like hers who is Another’s, Mrs Todgers!’

The observant matron did not fail to report this conversation to Charity, who laughed at the time, but treated Mr Moddle that very evening with increased consideration, and presented her side face to him as much as possible. Mr Moddle was not less sentimental than usual; was rather more so, if anything; but he sat and stared at her with glistening eyes, and seemed grateful.

‘Well, sir!’ said the lady of the Boarding-House next day. ‘You held up your head last night. You’re coming round, I think.’

‘Only because she’s so like her who is Another’s, Mrs Todgers,’ rejoined the youth. ‘When she talks, and when she smiles, I think I’m looking on HER brow again, Mrs Todgers.’

This was likewise carried to Charity, who talked and smiled next evening in her most engaging manner, and rallying Mr Moddle on the lowness of his spirits, challenged him to play a rubber at cribbage. Mr Moddle taking up the gauntlet, they played several rubbers for sixpences, and Charity won them all. This may have been partially attributable to the gallantry of the youngest gentleman, but it was certainly referable to the state of his feelings also; for his eyes being frequently dimmed by tears, he thought that aces were tens, and knaves queens, which at times occasioned some confusion in his play.

On the seventh night of cribbage, when Mrs Todgers, sitting by, proposed that instead of gambling they should play for ‘love,’ Mr Moddle was seen to change colour. On the fourteenth night, he kissed Miss Pecksniff’s snuffers, in the passage, when she went upstairs to bed; meaning to have kissed her hand, but missing it.

In short, Mr Moddle began to be impressed with the idea that Miss Pecksniff’s mission was to comfort him; and Miss Pecksniff began to speculate on the probability of its being her mission to become ultimately Mrs Moddle. He was a young gentleman (Miss Pecksniff was not a very young lady) with rising prospects, and ‘almost’ enough to live on. Really it looked very well.

Besides—besides—he had been regarded as devoted to Merry. Merry had joked about him, and had once spoken of it to her sister as a conquest. He was better looking, better shaped, better spoken, better tempered, better mannered than Jonas. He was easy to manage, could be made to consult the humours of his Betrothed, and could be shown off like a lamb when Jonas was a bear. There was the rub!

In the meantime the cribbage went on, and Mrs Todgers went off; for the youngest gentleman, dropping her society, began to take Miss Pecksniff to the play. He also began, as Mrs Todgers said, to slip home ‘in his dinner-times,’ and to get away from ‘the office’ at unholy seasons; and twice, as he informed Mrs Todgers himself, he received anonymous letters, enclosing cards from Furniture Warehouses—clearly the act of that ungentlemanly ruffian Jinkins; only he hadn’t evidence enough to call him out upon. All of which, so Mrs Todgers told Miss Pecksniff, spoke as plain English as the shining sun.

‘My dear Miss Pecksniff, you may depend upon it,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘that he is burning to propose.’

‘My goodness me, why don’t he then?’ cried Cherry.

‘Men are so much more timid than we think ‘em, my dear,’ returned Mrs Todgers. ‘They baulk themselves continually. I saw the words on Todgers’s lips for months and months and months, before he said ‘em.’

Miss Pecksniff submitted that Todgers might not have been a fair specimen.

‘Oh yes, he was. Oh bless you, yes, my dear. I was very particular in those days, I assure you,’ said Mrs Todgers, bridling. ‘No, no. You give Mr Moddle a little encouragement, Miss Pecksniff, if you wish him to speak; and he’ll speak fast enough, depend upon it.’

‘I am sure I don’t know what encouragement he would have, Mrs Todgers,’ returned Charity. ‘He walks with me, and plays cards with me, and he comes and sits alone with me.’

‘Quite right,’ said Mrs Todgers. ‘That’s indispensable, my dear.’

‘And he sits very close to me.’

‘Also quite correct,’ said Mrs Todgers.

‘And he looks at me.’

‘To be sure he does,’ said Mrs Todgers.

‘And he has his arm upon the back of the chair or sofa, or whatever it is—behind me, you know.’

‘I should think so,’ said Mrs Todgers.

‘And then he begins to cry!’

Mrs Todgers admitted that he might do better than that; and might undoubtedly profit by the recollection of the great Lord Nelson’s signal at the battle of Trafalgar. Still, she said, he would come round, or, not to mince the matter, would be brought round, if Miss Pecksniff took up a decided position, and plainly showed him that it must be done.

Determining to regulate her conduct by this opinion, the young lady received Mr Moddle, on the earliest subsequent occasion, with an air of constraint; and gradually leading him to inquire, in a dejected manner, why she was so changed, confessed to him that she felt it necessary for their mutual peace and happiness to take a decided step. They had been much together lately, she observed, much together, and had tasted the sweets of a genuine reciprocity of sentiment. She never could forget him, nor could she ever cease to think of him with feelings of the liveliest friendship, but people had begun to talk, the thing had been observed, and it was necessary that they should be nothing more to each other, than any gentleman and lady in society usually are. She was glad she had had the resolution to say thus much before her feelings had been tried too far; they had been greatly tried, she would admit; but though she was weak and silly, she would soon get the better of it, she hoped.

Moddle, who had by this time become in the last degree maudlin, and wept abundantly, inferred from the foregoing avowal, that it was his mission to communicate to others the blight which had fallen on himself; and that, being a kind of unintentional Vampire, he had had Miss Pecksniff assigned to him by the Fates, as Victim Number One. Miss Pecksniff controverting this opinion as sinful, Moddle was goaded on to ask whether she could be contented with a blighted heart; and it appearing on further examination that she could be, plighted his dismal troth, which was accepted and returned.

He bore his good fortune with the utmost moderation. Instead of being triumphant, he shed more tears than he had ever been known to shed before; and, sobbing, said:

‘Oh! what a day this has been! I can’t go back to the office this afternoon. Oh, what a trying day this has been! Good Gracious!’

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

FURTHER PROCEEDINGS IN EDEN, AND A PROCEEDING OUT OF IT. MARTIN MAKES A DISCOVERY OF SOME IMPORTANCE

From Mr Moddle to Eden is an easy and natural transition. Mr Moddle, living in the atmosphere of Miss Pecksniff’s love, dwelt (if he had but known it) in a terrestrial Paradise. The thriving city of Eden was also a terrestrial Paradise, upon the showing of its proprietors. The beautiful Miss Pecksniff might have been poetically described as a something too good for man in his fallen and degraded state. That was exactly the character of the thriving city of Eden, as poetically heightened by Zephaniah Scadder, General Choke, and other worthies; part and parcel of the talons of that great American Eagle, which is always airing itself sky-high in purest aether, and never, no never, never, tumbles down with draggled wings into the mud.

When Mark Tapley, leaving Martin in the architectural and surveying offices, had effectually strengthened and encouraged his own spirits by the contemplation of their joint misfortunes, he proceeded, with new cheerfulness, in search of help; congratulating himself, as he went along, on the enviable position to which he had at last attained.

‘I used to think, sometimes,’ said Mr Tapley, ‘as a desolate island would suit me, but I should only have had myself to provide for there, and being naturally a easy man to manage, there wouldn’t have been much credit in THAT. Now here I’ve got my partner to take care on, and he’s something like the sort of man for the purpose. I want a man as is always a-sliding off his legs when he ought to be on ‘em. I want a man as is so low down in the school of life that he’s always a-making figures of one in his copy-book, and can’t get no further. I want a man as is his own great coat and cloak, and is always a-wrapping himself up in himself. And I have got him too,’ said Mr Tapley, after a moment’s silence. ‘What a happiness!’

He paused to look round, uncertain to which of the log-houses he should repair.

‘I don’t know which to take,’ he observed; ‘that’s the truth. They’re equally prepossessing outside, and equally commodious, no doubt, within; being fitted up with every convenience that a Alligator, in a state of natur’, could possibly require. Let me see! The citizen as turned out last night, lives under water, in the right hand dog-kennel at the corner. I don’t want to trouble him if I can help it, poor man, for he is a melancholy object; a reg’lar Settler in every respect. There’s house with a winder, but I am afraid of their being proud. I don’t know whether a door ain’t too aristocratic; but here goes for the first one!’

He went up to the nearest cabin, and knocked with his hand. Being desired to enter, he complied.

‘Neighbour,’ said Mark; ‘for I AM a neighbour, though you don’t know me; I’ve come a-begging. Hallo! hal—lo! Am I a-bed, and dreaming!’

He made this exclamation on hearing his own name pronounced, and finding himself clasped about the skirts by two little boys, whose faces he had often washed, and whose suppers he had often cooked, on board of that noble and fast-sailing line-of-packet ship, the Screw.

‘My eyes is wrong!’ said Mark. ‘I don’t believe ‘em. That ain’t my fellow-passenger younder, a-nursing her little girl, who, I am sorry to see, is so delicate; and that ain’t her husband as come to New York to fetch her. Nor these,’ he added, looking down upon the boys, ‘ain’t them two young shavers as was so familiar to me; though they are uncommon like ‘em. That I must confess.’

The woman shed tears, in very joy to see him; the man shook both his hands and would not let them go; the two boys hugged his legs; the sick child in the mother’s arms stretched out her burning little fingers, and muttered, in her hoarse, dry throat, his well-remembered name.

It was the same family, sure enough. Altered by the salubrious air of Eden. But the same.

‘This is a new sort of a morning call,’ said Mark, drawing a long breath. ‘It strikes one all of a heap. Wait a little bit! I’m a-coming round fast. That’ll do! These gentlemen ain’t my friends. Are they on the visiting list of the house?’

The inquiry referred to certain gaunt pigs, who had walked in after him, and were much interested in the heels of the family. As they did not belong to the mansion, they were expelled by the two little boys.

‘I ain’t superstitious about toads,’ said Mark, looking round the room, ‘but if you could prevail upon the two or three I see in company, to step out at the same time, my young friends, I think they’d find the open air refreshing. Not that I at all object to ‘em. A very handsome animal is a toad,’ said Mr Tapley, sitting down upon a stool; ‘very spotted; very like a partickler style of old gentleman about the throat; very bright-eyed, very cool, and very slippy. But one sees ‘em to the best advantage out of doors perhaps.’

While pretending, with such talk as this, to be perfectly at his ease, and to be the most indifferent and careless of men, Mark Tapley had an eye on all around him. The wan and meagre aspect of the family, the changed looks of the poor mother, the fevered child she held in her lap, the air of great despondency and little hope on everything, were plain to him, and made a deep impression on his mind. He saw it all as clearly and as quickly, as with his bodily eyes he saw the rough shelves supported by pegs driven between the logs, of which the house was made; the flour-cask in the corner, serving also for a table; the blankets, spades, and other articles against the walls; the damp that blotched the ground; or the crop of vegetable rottenness in every crevice of the hut.

‘How is it that you have come here?’ asked the man, when their first expressions of surprise were over.

‘Why, we come by the steamer last night,’ replied Mark. ‘Our intention is to make our fortuns with punctuality and dispatch; and to retire upon our property as soon as ever it’s realised. But how are you all? You’re looking noble!’

‘We are but sickly now,’ said the poor woman, bending over her child. ‘But we shall do better when we are seasoned to the place.’

‘There are some here,’ thought Mark ‘whose seasoning will last for ever.’

But he said cheerfully, ‘Do better! To be sure you will. We shall all do better. What we’ve got to do is, to keep up our spirits, and be neighbourly. We shall come all right in the end, never fear. That reminds me, by the bye, that my partner’s all wrong just at present; and that I looked in to beg for him. I wish you’d come and give me your opinion of him, master.’

That must have been a very unreasonable request on the part of Mark Tapley, with which, in their gratitude for his kind offices on board the ship, they would not have complied instantly. The man rose to accompany him without a moment’s delay. Before they went, Mark took the sick child in his arms, and tried to comfort the mother; but the hand of death was on it then, he saw.

They found Martin in the house, lying wrapped up in his blanket on the ground. He was, to all appearance, very ill indeed, and shook and shivered horribly; not as people do from cold, but in a frightful kind of spasm or convulsion, that racked his whole body. Mark’s friend pronounced his disease an aggravated kind of fever, accompanied with ague; which was very common in those parts, and which he predicted would be worse to-morrow, and for many more to-morrows. He had had it himself off and on, he said, for a couple of years or so; but he was thankful that, while so many he had known had died about him, he had escaped with life.

‘And with not too much of that,’ thought Mark, surveying his emaciated form. ‘Eden for ever!’

They had some medicine in their chest; and this man of sad experience showed Mark how and when to administer it, and how he could best alleviate the sufferings of Martin. His attentions did not stop there; for he was backwards and forwards constantly, and rendered Mark good service in all his brisk attempts to make their situation more endurable. Hope or comfort for the future he could not bestow. The season was a sickly one; the settlement a grave. His child died that night; and Mark, keeping the secret from Martin, helped to bury it, beneath a tree, next day.

With all his various duties of attendance upon Martin (who became the more exacting in his claims, the worse he grew), Mark worked out of doors, early and late; and with the assistance of his friend and others, laboured to do something with their land. Not that he had the least strength of heart or hope, or steady purpose in so doing, beyond the habitual cheerfulness of his disposition, and his amazing power of self-sustainment; for within himself, he looked on their condition as beyond all hope, and, in his own words, ‘came out strong’ in consequence.

‘As to coming out as strong as I could wish, sir,’ he confided to Martin in a leisure moment; that is to say, one evening, while he was washing the linen of the establishment, after a hard day’s work, ‘that I give up. It’s a piece of good fortune as never is to happen to me, I see!’

‘Would you wish for circumstances stronger than these?’ Martin retorted with a groan, from underneath his blanket.

‘Why, only see how easy they might have been stronger, sir,’ said Mark, ‘if it wasn’t for the envy of that uncommon fortun of mine, which is always after me, and tripping me up. The night we landed here, I thought things did look pretty jolly. I won’t deny it. I thought they did look pretty jolly.’

‘How do they look now?’ groaned Martin.

‘Ah!’ said Mark, ‘Ah, to be sure. That’s the question. How do they look now? On the very first morning of my going out, what do I do? Stumble on a family I know, who are constantly assisting of us in all sorts of ways, from that time to this! That won’t do, you know; that ain’t what I’d a right to expect. If I had stumbled on a serpent and got bit; or stumbled on a first-rate patriot, and got bowie-knifed, or stumbled on a lot of Sympathisers with inverted shirt-collars, and got made a lion of; I might have distinguished myself, and earned some credit. As it is, the great object of my voyage is knocked on the head. So it would be, wherever I went. How do you feel to-night, sir?’

‘Worse than ever,’ said poor Martin.

‘That’s something,’ returned Mark, ‘but not enough. Nothing but being very bad myself, and jolly to the last, will ever do me justice.’

‘In Heaven’s name, don’t talk of that,’ said Martin with a thrill of terror. ‘What should I do, Mark, if you were taken ill!’

Mr Tapley’s spirits appeared to be stimulated by this remark, although it was not a very flattering one. He proceeded with his washing in a brighter mood; and observed ‘that his glass was arising.’

‘There’s one good thing in this place, sir,’ said Mr Tapley, scrubbing away at the linen, ‘as disposes me to be jolly; and that is that it’s a reg’lar little United States in itself. There’s two or three American settlers left; and they coolly comes over one, even here, sir, as if it was the wholesomest and loveliest spot in the world. But they’re like the cock that went and hid himself to save his life, and was found out by the noise he made. They can’t help crowing. They was born to do it, and do it they must, whatever comes of it.’

Glancing from his work out at the door as he said these words, Mark’s eyes encountered a lean person in a blue frock and a straw hat, with a short black pipe in his mouth, and a great hickory stick studded all over with knots, in his hand; who smoking and chewing as he came along, and spitting frequently, recorded his progress by a train of decomposed tobacco on the ground.

‘Here’s one on ‘em,’ cried Mark, ‘Hannibal Chollop.’

‘Don’t let him in,’ said Martin, feebly.

‘He won’t want any letting in,’ replied Mark. ‘He’ll come in, sir.’ Which turned out to be quite true, for he did. His face was almost as hard and knobby as his stick; and so were his hands. His head was like an old black hearth-broom. He sat down on the chest with his hat on; and crossing his legs and looking up at Mark, said, without removing his pipe:

‘Well, Mr Co.! and how do you git along, sir?’

It may be necessary to observe that Mr Tapley had gravely introduced himself to all strangers, by that name.

‘Pretty well, sir; pretty well,’ said Mark.

‘If this ain’t Mr Chuzzlewit, ain’t it!’ exclaimed the visitor ‘How do YOU git along, sir?’

Martin shook his head, and drew the blanket over it involuntarily; for he felt that Hannibal was going to spit; and his eye, as the song says, was upon him.

‘You need not regard me, sir,’ observed Mr Chollop, complacently. ‘I am fever-proof, and likewise agur.’

‘Mine was a more selfish motive,’ said Martin, looking out again. ‘I was afraid you were going to—’

‘I can calc’late my distance, sir,’ returned Mr Chollop, ‘to an inch.’

With a proof of which happy faculty he immediately favoured him.

‘I re-quire, sir,’ said Hannibal, ‘two foot clear in a circ’lar di-rection, and can engage my-self toe keep within it. I HAVE gone ten foot, in a circ’lar di-rection, but that was for a wager.’

‘I hope you won it, sir,’ said Mark.

‘Well, sir, I realised the stakes,’ said Chollop. ‘Yes, sir.’

He was silent for a time, during which he was actively engaged in the formation of a magic circle round the chest on which he sat. When it was completed, he began to talk again.

‘How do you like our country, sir?’ he inquired, looking at Martin.

‘Not at all,’ was the invalid’s reply.

Chollop continued to smoke without the least appearance of emotion, until he felt disposed to speak again. That time at length arriving, he took his pipe from his mouth, and said:

‘I am not surprised to hear you say so. It re-quires An elevation, and A preparation of the intellect. The mind of man must be prepared for Freedom, Mr Co.’

He addressed himself to Mark; because he saw that Martin, who wished him to go, being already half-mad with feverish irritation, which the droning voice of this new horror rendered almost insupportable, had closed his eyes, and turned on his uneasy bed.

‘A little bodily preparation wouldn’t be amiss, either, would it, sir,’ said Mark, ‘in the case of a blessed old swamp like this?’

‘Do you con-sider this a swamp, sir?’ inquired Chollop gravely.

‘Why yes, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘I haven’t a doubt about it myself.’

‘The sentiment is quite Europian,’ said the major, ‘and does not surprise me; what would your English millions say to such a swamp in England, sir?’

‘They’d say it was an uncommon nasty one, I should think, said Mark; ‘and that they would rather be inoculated for fever in some other way.’

‘Europian!’ remarked Chollop, with sardonic pity. ‘Quite Europian!’

And there he sat. Silent and cool, as if the house were his; smoking away like a factory chimney.

Mr Chollop was, of course, one of the most remarkable men in the country; but he really was a notorious person besides. He was usually described by his friends, in the South and West, as ‘a splendid sample of our na-tive raw material, sir,’ and was much esteemed for his devotion to rational Liberty; for the better propagation whereof he usually carried a brace of revolving pistols in his coat pocket, with seven barrels a-piece. He also carried, amongst other trinkets, a sword-stick, which he called his ‘Tickler.’ and a great knife, which (for he was a man of a pleasant turn of humour) he called ‘Ripper,’ in allusion to its usefulness as a means of ventilating the stomach of any adversary in a close contest. He had used these weapons with distinguished effect in several instances, all duly chronicled in the newspapers; and was greatly beloved for the gallant manner in which he had ‘jobbed out’ the eye of one gentleman, as he was in the act of knocking at his own street-door.

Mr Chollop was a man of a roving disposition; and, in any less advanced community, might have been mistaken for a violent vagabond. But his fine qualities being perfectly understood and appreciated in those regions where his lot was cast, and where he had many kindred spirits to consort with, he may be regarded as having been born under a fortunate star, which is not always the case with a man so much before the age in which he lives. Preferring, with a view to the gratification of his tickling and ripping fancies, to dwell upon the outskirts of society, and in the more remote towns and cities, he was in the habit of emigrating from place to place, and establishing in each some business—usually a newspaper—which he presently sold; for the most part closing the bargain by challenging, stabbing, pistolling, or gouging the new editor, before he had quite taken possession of the property.

He had come to Eden on a speculation of this kind, but had abandoned it, and was about to leave. He always introduced himself to strangers as a worshipper of Freedom; was the consistent advocate of Lynch law, and slavery; and invariably recommended, both in print and speech, the ‘tarring and feathering’ of any unpopular person who differed from himself. He called this ‘planting the standard of civilization in the wilder gardens of My country.’

There is little doubt that Chollop would have planted this standard in Eden at Mark’s expense, in return for his plainness of speech (for the genuine Freedom is dumb, save when she vaunts herself), but for the utter desolation and decay prevailing in the settlement, and his own approaching departure from it. As it was, he contented himself with showing Mark one of the revolving-pistols, and asking him what he thought of that weapon.

‘It ain’t long since I shot a man down with that, sir, in the State of IllinOY,’ observed Chollop.

‘Did you, indeed!’ said Mark, without the smallest agitation. ‘Very free of you. And very independent!’

‘I shot him down, sir,’ pursued Chollop, ‘for asserting in the Spartan Portico, a tri-weekly journal, that the ancient Athenians went a-head of the present Locofoco Ticket.’

‘And what’s that?’ asked Mark.

‘Europian not to know,’ said Chollop, smoking placidly. ‘Europian quite!’

After a short devotion to the interests of the magic circle, he resumed the conversation by observing:

‘You won’t half feel yourself at home in Eden, now?’

‘No,’ said Mark, ‘I don’t.’

‘You miss the imposts of your country. You miss the house dues?’ observed Chollop.

‘And the houses—rather,’ said Mark.

‘No window dues here, sir,’ observed Chollop.

‘And no windows to put ‘em on,’ said Mark.

‘No stakes, no dungeons, no blocks, no racks, no scaffolds, no thumbscrews, no pikes, no pillories,’ said Chollop.

‘Nothing but rewolwers and bowie-knives,’ returned Mark. ‘And what are they? Not worth mentioning!’

The man who had met them on the night of their arrival came crawling up at this juncture, and looked in at the door.

‘Well, sir,’ said Chollop. ‘How do YOU git along?’

He had considerable difficulty in getting along at all, and said as much in reply.

‘Mr Co. And me, sir,’ observed Chollop, ‘are disputating a piece. He ought to be slicked up pretty smart to disputate between the Old World and the New, I do expect?’

‘Well!’ returned the miserable shadow. ‘So he had.’

‘I was merely observing, sir,’ said Mark, addressing this new visitor, ‘that I looked upon the city in which we have the honour to live, as being swampy. What’s your sentiments?’

‘I opinionate it’s moist perhaps, at certain times,’ returned the man.

‘But not as moist as England, sir?’ cried Chollop, with a fierce expression in his face.

‘Oh! Not as moist as England; let alone its Institutions,’ said the man.

‘I should hope there ain’t a swamp in all Americay, as don’t whip THAT small island into mush and molasses,’ observed Chollop, decisively. ‘You bought slick, straight, and right away, of Scadder, sir?’ to Mark.

He answered in the affirmative. Mr Chollop winked at the other citizen.

‘Scadder is a smart man, sir? He is a rising man? He is a man as will come up’ards, right side up, sir?’ Mr Chollop winked again at the other citizen.

‘He should have his right side very high up, if I had my way,’ said Mark. ‘As high up as the top of a good tall gallows, perhaps.’

Mr Chollop was so delighted at the smartness of his excellent countryman having been too much for the Britisher, and at the Britisher’s resenting it, that he could contain himself no longer, and broke forth in a shout of delight. But the strangest exposition of this ruling passion was in the other—the pestilence-stricken, broken, miserable shadow of a man—who derived so much entertainment from the circumstance that he seemed to forget his own ruin in thinking of it, and laughed outright when he said ‘that Scadder was a smart man, and had draw’d a lot of British capital that way, as sure as sun-up.’

After a full enjoyment of this joke, Mr Hannibal Chollop sat smoking and improving the circle, without making any attempts either to converse or to take leave; apparently labouring under the not uncommon delusion that for a free and enlightened citizen of the United States to convert another man’s house into a spittoon for two or three hours together, was a delicate attention, full of interest and politeness, of which nobody could ever tire. At last he rose.

‘I am a-going easy,’ he observed.

Mark entreated him to take particular care of himself.

‘Afore I go,’ he said sternly, ‘I have got a leetle word to say to you. You are darnation ‘cute, you are.’

Mark thanked him for the compliment.

‘But you are much too ‘cute to last. I can’t con-ceive of any spotted Painter in the bush, as ever was so riddled through and through as you will be, I bet.’

‘What for?’ asked Mark.

‘We must be cracked up, sir,’ retorted Chollop, in a tone of menace. ‘You are not now in A despotic land. We are a model to the airth, and must be jist cracked-up, I tell you.’

‘What! I speak too free, do I?’ cried Mark.

‘I have draw’d upon A man, and fired upon A man for less,’ said Chollop, frowning. ‘I have know’d strong men obleeged to make themselves uncommon skase for less. I have know’d men Lynched for less, and beaten into punkin’-sarse for less, by an enlightened people. We are the intellect and virtue of the airth, the cream of human natur’, and the flower Of moral force. Our backs is easy ris. We must be cracked-up, or they rises, and we snarls. We shows our teeth, I tell you, fierce. You’d better crack us up, you had!’

After the delivery of this caution, Mr Chollop departed; with Ripper, Tickler, and the revolvers, all ready for action on the shortest notice.

‘Come out from under the blanket, sir,’ said Mark, ‘he’s gone. What’s this!’ he added softly; kneeling down to look into his partner’s face, and taking his hot hand. ‘What’s come of all that chattering and swaggering? He’s wandering in his mind to-night, and don’t know me!’

Martin indeed was dangerously ill; very near his death. He lay in that state many days, during which time Mark’s poor friends, regardless of themselves, attended him. Mark, fatigued in mind and body; working all the day and sitting up at night; worn with hard living and the unaccustomed toil of his new life; surrounded by dismal and discouraging circumstances of every kind; never complained or yielded in the least degree. If ever he had thought Martin selfish or inconsiderate, or had deemed him energetic only by fits and starts, and then too passive for their desperate fortunes, he now forgot it all. He remembered nothing but the better qualities of his fellow-wanderer, and was devoted to him, heart and hand.

Many weeks elapsed before Martin was strong enough to move about with the help of a stick and Mark’s arm; and even then his recovery, for want of wholesome air and proper nourishment, was very slow. He was yet in a feeble and weak condition, when the misfourtune he had so much dreaded fell upon them. Mark was taken ill.

Mark fought against it; but the malady fought harder, and his efforts were in vain.

‘Floored for the present, sir,’ he said one morning, sinking back upon his bed; ‘but jolly!’

Floored indeed, and by a heavy blow! As any one but Martin might have known beforehand.

If Mark’s friends had been kind to Martin (and they had been very), they were twenty times kinder to Mark. And now it was Martin’s turn to work, and sit beside the bed and watch, and listen through the long, long nights, to every sound in the gloomy wilderness; and hear poor Mr Tapley, in his wandering fancy, playing at skittles in the Dragon, making love-remonstrances to Mrs Lupin, getting his sea-legs on board the Screw, travelling with old Tom Pinch on English roads, and burning stumps of trees in Eden, all at once.

But whenever Martin gave him drink or medicine, or tended him in any way, or came into the house returning from some drudgery without, the patient Mr Tapley brightened up and cried: ‘I’m jolly, sir; ‘I’m jolly!’

Now, when Martin began to think of this, and to look at Mark as he lay there; never reproaching him by so much as an expression of regret; never murmuring; always striving to be manful and staunch; he began to think, how was it that this man who had had so few advantages, was so much better than he who had had so many? And attendance upon a sick bed, but especially the sick bed of one whom we have been accustomed to see in full activity and vigour, being a great breeder of reflection, he began to ask himself in what they differed.

He was assisted in coming to a conclusion on this head by the frequent presence of Mark’s friend, their fellow-passenger across the ocean, which suggested to him that in regard to having aided her, for example, they had differed very much. Somehow he coupled Tom Pinch with this train of reflection; and thinking that Tom would be very likely to have struck up the same sort of acquaintance under similar circumstances, began to think in what respects two people so extremely different were like each other, and were unlike him. At first sight there was nothing very distressing in these meditations, but they did undoubtedly distress him for all that.

Martin’s nature was a frank and generous one; but he had been bred up in his grandfather’s house; and it will usually be found that the meaner domestic vices propagate themselves to be their own antagonists. Selfishness does this especially; so do suspicion, cunning, stealth, and covetous propensities. Martin had unconsciously reasoned as a child, ‘My guardian takes so much thought of himself, that unless I do the like by MYself, I shall be forgotten.’ So he had grown selfish.

But he had never known it. If any one had taxed him with the vice, he would have indignantly repelled the accusation, and conceived himself unworthily aspersed. He never would have known it, but that being newly risen from a bed of dangerous sickness, to watch by such another couch, he felt how nearly Self had dropped into the grave, and what a poor dependent, miserable thing it was.

It was natural for him to reflect—he had months to do it in—upon his own escape, and Mark’s extremity. This led him to consider which of them could be the better spared, and why? Then the curtain slowly rose a very little way; and Self, Self, Self, was shown below.

He asked himself, besides, when dreading Mark’s decease (as all men do and must, at such a time), whether he had done his duty by him, and had deserved and made a good response to his fidelity and zeal. No. Short as their companionship had been, he felt in many, many instances, that there was blame against himself; and still inquiring why, the curtain slowly rose a little more, and Self, Self, Self, dilated on the scene.

It was long before he fixed the knowledge of himself so firmly in his mind that he could thoroughly discern the truth; but in the hideous solitude of that most hideous place, with Hope so far removed, Ambition quenched, and Death beside him rattling at the very door, reflection came, as in a plague-beleaguered town; and so he felt and knew the failing of his life, and saw distinctly what an ugly spot it was.

Eden was a hard school to learn so hard a lesson in; but there were teachers in the swamp and thicket, and the pestilential air, who had a searching method of their own.

He made a solemn resolution that when his strength returned he would not dispute the point or resist the conviction, but would look upon it as an established fact, that selfishness was in his breast, and must be rooted out. He was so doubtful (and with justice) of his own character, that he determined not to say one word of vain regret or good resolve to Mark, but steadily to keep his purpose before his own eyes solely; and there was not a jot of pride in this; nothing but humility and steadfastness; the best armour he could wear. So low had Eden brought him down. So high had Eden raised him up.

After a long and lingering illness (in certain forlorn stages of which, when too far gone to speak, he had feebly written ‘jolly!’ on a slate), Mark showed some symptoms of returning health. They came and went, and flickered for a time; but he began to mend at last decidedly; and after that continued to improve from day to day.

As soon as he was well enough to talk without fatigue, Martin consulted him upon a project he had in his mind, and which a few months back he would have carried into execution without troubling anybody’s head but his own.

‘Ours is a desperate case,’ said Martin. ‘Plainly. The place is deserted; its failure must have become known; and selling what we have bought to any one, for anything, is hopeless, even if it were honest. We left home on a mad enterprise, and have failed. The only hope left us, the only one end for which we have now to try, is to quit this settlement for ever, and get back to England. Anyhow! by any means! only to get back there, Mark.’

‘That’s all, sir,’ returned Mr Tapley, with a significant stress upon the words; ‘only that!’

‘Now, upon this side of the water,’ said Martin, ‘we have but one friend who can help us, and that is Mr Bevan.’

‘I thought of him when you was ill,’ said Mark.

‘But for the time that would be lost, I would even write to my grandfather,’ Martin went on to say, ‘and implore him for money to free us from this trap into which we were so cruelly decoyed. Shall I try Mr Bevan first?’

‘He’s a very pleasant sort of a gentleman,’ said Mark. ‘I think so.’

‘The few goods we brought here, and in which we spent our money, would produce something if sold,’ resumed Martin; ‘and whatever they realise shall be paid him instantly. But they can’t be sold here.’

‘There’s nobody but corpses to buy ‘em,’ said Mr Tapley, shaking his head with a rueful air, ‘and pigs.’

‘Shall I tell him so, and only ask him for money enough to enable us by the cheapest means to reach New York, or any port from which we may hope to get a passage home, by serving in any capacity? Explaining to him at the same time how I am connected, and that I will endeavour to repay him, even through my grandfather, immediately on our arrival in England?’

‘Why to be sure,’ said Mark: ‘he can only say no, and he may say yes. If you don’t mind trying him, sir—’

‘Mind!’ exclaimed Martin. ‘I am to blame for coming here, and I would do anything to get away. I grieve to think of the past. If I had taken your opinion sooner, Mark, we never should have been here, I am certain.’

Mr Tapley was very much surprised at this admission, but protested, with great vehemence, that they would have been there all the same; and that he had set his heart upon coming to Eden, from the first word he had ever heard of it.

Martin then read him a letter to Mr Bevan, which he had already prepared. It was frankly and ingenuously written, and described their situation without the least concealment; plainly stated the miseries they had undergone; and preferred their request in modest but straightforward terms. Mark highly commended it; and they determined to dispatch it by the next steamboat going the right way, that might call to take in wood at Eden—where there was plenty of wood to spare. Not knowing how to address Mr Bevan at his own place of abode, Martin superscribed it to the care of the memorable Mr Norris of New York, and wrote upon the cover an entreaty that it might be forwarded without delay.

More than a week elapsed before a boat appeared; but at length they were awakened very early one morning by the high-pressure snorting of the ‘Esau Slodge;’ named after one of the most remarkable men in the country, who had been very eminent somewhere. Hurrying down to the landing-place, they got it safe on board; and waiting anxiously to see the boat depart, stopped up the gangway; an instance of neglect which caused the ‘Capting’ of the Esau Slodge to ‘wish he might be sifted fine as flour, and whittled small as chips; that if they didn’t come off that there fixing right smart too, he’d spill ‘em in the drink;’ whereby the Capting metaphorically said he’d throw them in the river.

They were not likely to receive an answer for eight or ten weeks at the earliest. In the meantime they devoted such strength as they had to the attempted improvement of their land; to clearing some of it, and preparing it for useful purposes. Monstrously defective as their farming was, still it was better than their neighbours’; for Mark had some practical knowledge of such matters, and Martin learned of him; whereas the other settlers who remained upon the putrid swamp (a mere handful, and those withered by disease), appeared to have wandered there with the idea that husbandry was the natural gift of all mankind. They helped each other after their own manner in these struggles, and in all others; but they worked as hopelessly and sadly as a gang of convicts in a penal settlement.

Often at night when Mark and Martin were alone, and lying down to sleep, they spoke of home, familiar places, houses, roads, and people whom they knew; sometimes in the lively hope of seeing them again, and sometimes with a sorrowful tranquillity, as if that hope were dead. It was a source of great amazement to Mark Tapley to find, pervading all these conversations, a singular alteration in Martin.

‘I don’t know what to make of him,’ he thought one night, ‘he ain’t what I supposed. He don’t think of himself half as much. I’ll try him again. Asleep, sir?’

‘No, Mark.’

‘Thinking of home, sir?’

‘Yes, Mark.’

‘So was I, sir. I was wondering how Mr Pinch and Mr Pecksniff gets on now.’

‘Poor Tom!’ said Martin, thoughtfully.

‘Weak-minded man, sir,’ observed Mr Tapley. ‘Plays the organ for nothing, sir. Takes no care of himself?’

‘I wish he took a little more, indeed,’ said Martin. ‘Though I don’t know why I should. We shouldn’t like him half as well, perhaps.’

‘He gets put upon, sir,’ hinted Mark.

‘Yes!’ said Martin, after a short silence. ‘I know that, Mark.’

He spoke so regretfully that his partner abandoned the theme, and was silent for a short time until he had thought of another.

‘Ah, sir!’ said Mark, with a sigh. ‘Dear me! You’ve ventured a good deal for a young lady’s love!’

‘I tell you what. I’m not so sure of that, Mark,’ was the reply; so hastily and energetically spoken, that Martin sat up in his bed to give it. ‘I begin to be far from clear upon it. You may depend upon it she is very unhappy. She has sacrificed her peace of mind; she has endangered her interests very much; she can’t run away from those who are jealous of her, and opposed to her, as I have done. She has to endure, Mark; to endure without the possibility of action, poor girl! I begin to think that she has more to bear than ever I had. Upon my soul I do!’

Mr Tapley opened his eyes wide in the dark; but did not interrupt.

‘And I’ll tell you a secret, Mark,’ said Martin, ‘since we ARE upon this subject. That ring—’

‘Which ring, sir?’ Mark inquired, opening his eyes still wider.

‘That ring she gave me when we parted, Mark. She bought it; bought it; knowing I was poor and proud (Heaven help me! Proud!) and wanted money.’

‘Who says so, sir?’ asked Mark.

‘I say so. I know it. I thought of it, my good fellow, hundreds of times, while you were lying ill. And like a beast, I took it from her hand, and wore it on my own, and never dreamed of this even at the moment when I parted with it, when some faint glimmering of the truth might surely have possessed me! But it’s late,’ said Martin, checking himself, ‘and you are weak and tired, I know. You only talk to cheer me up. Good night! God bless you, Mark!’

‘God bless you, sir! But I’m reg’larly defrauded,’ thought Mr Tapley, turning round with a happy face. ‘It’s a swindle. I never entered for this sort of service. There’ll be no credit in being jolly with HIM!’

The time wore on, and other steamboats coming from the point on which their hopes were fixed, arrived to take in wood; but still no answer to the letter. Rain, heat, foul slime, and noxious vapour, with all the ills and filthy things they bred, prevailed. The earth, the air, the vegetation, and the water that they drank, all teemed with deadly properties. Their fellow-passenger had lost two children long before; and buried now her last. Such things are much too common to be widely known or cared for. Smart citizens grow rich, and friendless victims smart and die, and are forgotten. That is all.

At last a boat came panting up the ugly river, and stopped at Eden. Mark was waiting at the wood hut when it came, and had a letter handed to him from on board. He bore it off to Martin. They looked at one another, trembling.

‘It feels heavy,’ faltered Martin. And opening it a little roll of dollar-notes fell out upon the ground.

What either of them said, or did, or felt, at first, neither of them knew. All Mark could ever tell was, that he was at the river’s bank again out of breath, before the boat had gone, inquiring when it would retrace its track and put in there.

The answer was, in ten or twelve days; notwithstanding which they began to get their goods together and to tie them up that very night. When this stage of excitement was passed, each of them believed (they found this out, in talking of it afterwards) that he would surely die before the boat returned.

They lived, however, and it came, after the lapse of three long crawling weeks. At sunrise, on an autumn day, they stood upon her deck.

‘Courage! We shall meet again!’ cried Martin, waving his hand to two thin figures on the bank. ‘In the Old World!’

‘Or in the next one,’ added Mark below his breath. ‘To see them standing side by side, so quiet, is a’most the worst of all!’

They looked at one another as the vessel moved away, and then looked backward at the spot from which it hurried fast. The log-house, with the open door, and drooping trees about it; the stagnant morning mist, and red sun, dimly seen beyond; the vapour rising up from land and river; the quick stream making the loathsome banks it washed more flat and dull; how often they returned in dreams! How often it was happiness to wake and find them Shadows that had vanished!

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

IN WHICH THE TRAVELLERS MOVE HOMEWARD, AND ENCOUNTER SOME DISTINGUISHED CHARACTERS UPON THE WAY

Among the passengers on board the steamboat, there was a faint gentleman sitting on a low camp-stool, with his legs on a high barrel of flour, as if he were looking at the prospect with his ankles, who attracted their attention speedily.

He had straight black hair, parted up the middle of his head and hanging down upon his coat; a little fringe of hair upon his chin; wore no neckcloth; a white hat; a suit of black, long in the sleeves and short in the legs; soiled brown stockings and laced shoes. His complexion, naturally muddy, was rendered muddier by too strict an economy of soap and water; and the same observation will apply to the washable part of his attire, which he might have changed with comfort to himself and gratification to his friends. He was about five and thirty; was crushed and jammed up in a heap, under the shade of a large green cotton umbrella; and ruminated over his tobacco-plug like a cow.

He was not singular, to be sure, in these respects; for every gentleman on board appeared to have had a difference with his laundress and to have left off washing himself in early youth. Every gentleman, too, was perfectly stopped up with tight plugging, and was dislocated in the greater part of his joints. But about this gentleman there was a peculiar air of sagacity and wisdom, which convinced Martin that he was no common character; and this turned out to be the case.

‘How do you do sir?’ said a voice in Martin’s ear

‘How do you do sir?’ said Martin.

It was a tall thin gentleman who spoke to him, with a carpet-cap on, and a long loose coat of green baize, ornamented about the pockets with black velvet.

‘You air from Europe, sir?’

‘I am,’ said Martin.

‘You air fortunate, sir.’

Martin thought so too; but he soon discovered that the gentleman and he attached different meanings to this remark.

‘You air fortunate, sir, in having an opportunity of beholding our Elijah Pogram, sir.’

‘Your Elijahpogram!’ said Martin, thinking it was all one word, and a building of some sort.

‘Yes sir.’

Martin tried to look as if he understood him, but he couldn’t make it out.

‘Yes, sir,’ repeated the gentleman, ‘our Elijah Pogram, sir, is, at this minute, identically settin’ by the engine biler.’

The gentleman under the umbrella put his right forefinger to his eyebrow, as if he were revolving schemes of state.

‘That is Elijah Pogram, is it?’ said Martin.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the other. ‘That is Elijah Pogram.’

‘Dear me!’ said Martin. ‘I am astonished.’ But he had not the least idea who this Elijah Pogram was; having never heard the name in all his life.

‘If the biler of this vessel was Toe bust, sir,’ said his new acquaintance, ‘and Toe bust now, this would be a festival day in the calendar of despotism; pretty nigh equallin’, sir, in its effects upon the human race, our Fourth of glorious July. Yes, sir, that is the Honourable Elijah Pogram, Member of Congress; one of the master-minds of our country, sir. There is a brow, sir, there!’

‘Quite remarkable,’ said Martin.

‘Yes, sir. Our own immortal Chiggle, sir, is said to have observed, when he made the celebrated Pogram statter in marble, which rose so much con-test and preju-dice in Europe, that the brow was more than mortal. This was before the Pogram Defiance, and was, therefore, a pre-diction, cruel smart.’

‘What is the Pogram Defiance?’ asked Martin, thinking, perhaps, it was the sign of a public-house.

‘An o-ration, sir,’ returned his friend.

‘Oh! to be sure,’ cried Martin. ‘What am I thinking of! It defied—’

‘It defied the world, sir,’ said the other, gravely. ‘Defied the world in general to com-pete with our country upon any hook; and devellop’d our internal resources for making war upon the universal airth. You would like to know Elijah Pogram, sir?’

‘If you please,’ said Martin.

‘Mr Pogram,’ said the stranger—Mr Pogram having overheard every word of the dialogue—‘this is a gentleman from Europe, sir; from England, sir. But gen’rous ene-mies may meet upon the neutral sile of private life, I think.’

The languid Mr Pogram shook hands with Martin, like a clock-work figure that was just running down. But he made amends by chewing like one that was just wound up.

‘Mr Pogram,’ said the introducer, ‘is a public servant, sir. When Congress is recessed, he makes himself acquainted with those free United States, of which he is the gifted son.’

It occurred to Martin that if the Honourable Elijah Pogram had stayed at home, and sent his shoes upon a tour, they would have answered the same purpose; for they were the only part of him in a situation to see anything.

In course of time, however, Mr Pogram rose; and having ejected certain plugging consequences which would have impeded his articulation, took up a position where there was something to lean against, and began to talk to Martin; shading himself with the green umbrella all the time.

As he began with the words, ‘How do you like—?’ Martin took him up and said:

‘The country, I presume?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Elijah Pogram. A knot of passengers gathered round to hear what followed; and Martin heard his friend say, as he whispered to another friend, and rubbed his hands, ‘Pogram will smash him into sky-blue fits, I know!’

‘Why,’ said Martin, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘I have learned by experience, that you take an unfair advantage of a stranger, when you ask that question. You don’t mean it to be answered, except in one way. Now, I don’t choose to answer it in that way, for I cannot honestly answer it in that way. And therefore, I would rather not answer it at all.’

But Mr Pogram was going to make a great speech in the next session about foreign relations, and was going to write strong articles on the subject; and as he greatly favoured the free and independent custom (a very harmless and agreeable one) of procuring information of any sort in any kind of confidence, and afterwards perverting it publicly in any manner that happened to suit him, he had determined to get at Martin’s opinions somehow or other. For if he could have got nothing out of him, he would have had to invent it for him, and that would have been laborious. He made a mental note of his answer, and went in again.

‘You are from Eden, sir? How did you like Eden?’

Martin said what he thought of that part of the country, in pretty strong terms.

‘It is strange,’ said Pogram, looking round upon the group, ‘this hatred of our country, and her Institutions! This national antipathy is deeply rooted in the British mind!’

‘Good Heaven, sir,’ cried Martin. ‘Is the Eden Land Corporation, with Mr Scadder at its head, and all the misery it has worked, at its door, an Institution of America? A part of any form of government that ever was known or heard of?’

‘I con-sider the cause of this to be,’ said Pogram, looking round again and taking himself up where Martin had interrupted him, ‘partly jealousy and pre-judice, and partly the nat’ral unfitness of the British people to appreciate the ex-alted Institutions of our native land. I expect, sir,’ turning to Martin again, ‘that a gentleman named Chollop happened in upon you during your lo-cation in the town of Eden?’

‘Yes,’ answered Martin; ‘but my friend can answer this better than I can, for I was very ill at the time. Mark! The gentleman is speaking of Mr Chollop.’

‘Oh. Yes, sir. Yes. I see him,’ observed Mark.

‘A splendid example of our na-tive raw material, sir?’ said Pogram, interrogatively.

‘Indeed, sir!’ cried Mark.

The Honourable Elijah Pogram glanced at his friends as though he would have said, ‘Observe this! See what follows!’ and they rendered tribute to the Pogram genius by a gentle murmur.

‘Our fellow-countryman is a model of a man, quite fresh from Natur’s mould!’ said Pogram, with enthusiasm. ‘He is a true-born child of this free hemisphere! Verdant as the mountains of our country; bright and flowing as our mineral Licks; unspiled by withering conventionalities as air our broad and boundless Perearers! Rough he may be. So air our Barrs. Wild he may be. So air our Buffalers. But he is a child of Natur’, and a child of Freedom; and his boastful answer to the Despot and the Tyrant is, that his bright home is in the Settin Sun.’

Part of this referred to Chollop, and part to a Western postmaster, who, being a public defaulter not very long before (a character not at all uncommon in America), had been removed from office; and on whose behalf Mr Pogram (he voted for Pogram) had thundered the last sentence from his seat in Congress, at the head of an unpopular President. It told brilliantly; for the bystanders were delighted, and one of them said to Martin, ‘that he guessed he had now seen something of the eloquential aspect of our country, and was chawed up pritty small.’

Mr Pogram waited until his hearers were calm again, before he said to Mark:

‘You do not seem to coincide, sir?’

‘Why,’ said Mark, ‘I didn’t like him much; and that’s the truth, sir. I thought he was a bully; and I didn’t admire his carryin’ them murderous little persuaders, and being so ready to use ‘em.’

‘It’s singler!’ said Pogram, lifting his umbrella high enough to look all round from under it. ‘It’s strange! You observe the settled opposition to our Institutions which pervades the British mind!’

‘What an extraordinary people you are!’ cried Martin. ‘Are Mr Chollop and the class he represents, an Institution here? Are pistols with revolving barrels, sword-sticks, bowie-knives, and such things, Institutions on which you pride yourselves? Are bloody duels, brutal combats, savage assaults, shooting down and stabbing in the streets, your Institutions! Why, I shall hear next that Dishonour and Fraud are among the Institutions of the great republic!’

The moment the words passed his lips, the Honourable Elijah Pogram looked round again.

‘This morbid hatred of our Institutions,’ he observed, ‘is quite a study for the psychological observer. He’s alludin’ to Repudiation now!’

‘Oh! you may make anything an Institution if you like,’ said Martin, laughing, ‘and I confess you had me there, for you certainly have made that one. But the greater part of these things are one Institution with us, and we call it by the generic name of Old Bailey!’

The bell being rung for dinner at this moment, everybody ran away into the cabin, whither the Honourable Elijah Pogram fled with such precipitation that he forgot his umbrella was up, and fixed it so tightly in the cabin door that it could neither be let down nor got out. For a minute or so this accident created a perfect rebellion among the hungry passengers behind, who, seeing the dishes, and hearing the knives and forks at work, well knew what would happen unless they got there instantly, and were nearly mad; while several virtuous citizens at the table were in deadly peril of choking themselves in their unnatural efforts to get rid of all the meat before these others came.

They carried the umbrella by storm, however, and rushed in at the breach. The Honourable Elijah Pogram and Martin found themselves, after a severe struggle, side by side, as they might have come together in the pit of a London theatre; and for four whole minutes afterwards, Pogram was snapping up great blocks of everything he could get hold of, like a raven. When he had taken this unusually protracted dinner, he began to talk to Martin; and begged him not to have the least delicacy in speaking with perfect freedom to him, for he was a calm philosopher. Which Martin was extremely glad to hear; for he had begun to speculate on Elijah being a disciple of that other school of republican philosophy, whose noble sentiments are carved with knives upon a pupil’s body, and written, not with pen and ink, but tar and feathers.

‘What do you think of my countrymen who are present, sir?’ inquired Elijah Pogram.

‘Oh! very pleasant,’ said Martin.

They were a very pleasant party. No man had spoken a word; every one had been intent, as usual, on his own private gorging; and the greater part of the company were decidedly dirty feeders.

The Honourable Elijah Pogram looked at Martin as if he thought ‘You don’t mean that, I know!’ and he was soon confirmed in this opinion.

Sitting opposite to them was a gentleman in a high state of tobacco, who wore quite a little beard, composed of the overflowing of that weed, as they had dried about his mouth and chin; so common an ornament that it would scarcely have attracted Martin’s observation, but that this good citizen, burning to assert his equality against all comers, sucked his knife for some moments, and made a cut with it at the butter, just as Martin was in the act of taking some. There was a juiciness about the deed that might have sickened a scavenger.

When Elijah Pogram (to whom this was an every-day incident) saw that Martin put the plate away, and took no butter, he was quite delighted, and said,

‘Well! The morbid hatred of you British to the Institutions of our country is as-TONishing!’

‘Upon my life!’ cried Martin, in his turn. ‘This is the most wonderful community that ever existed. A man deliberately makes a hog of himself, and THAT’S an Institution!’

‘We have no time to ac-quire forms, sir,’ said Elijah Pogram.

‘Acquire!’ cried Martin. ‘But it’s not a question of acquiring anything. It’s a question of losing the natural politeness of a savage, and that instinctive good breeding which admonishes one man not to offend and disgust another. Don’t you think that man over the way, for instance, naturally knows better, but considers it a very fine and independent thing to be a brute in small matters?’

‘He is a na-tive of our country, and is nat’rally bright and spry, of course,’ said Mr Pogram.

‘Now, observe what this comes to, Mr Pogram,’ pursued Martin. ‘The mass of your countrymen begin by stubbornly neglecting little social observances, which have nothing to do with gentility, custom, usage, government, or country, but are acts of common, decent, natural, human politeness. You abet them in this, by resenting all attacks upon their social offences as if they were a beautiful national feature. From disregarding small obligations they come in regular course to disregard great ones; and so refuse to pay their debts. What they may do, or what they may refuse to do next, I don’t know; but any man may see if he will, that it will be something following in natural succession, and a part of one great growth, which is rotten at the root.’

The mind of Mr Pogram was too philosophical to see this; so they went on deck again, where, resuming his former post, he chewed until he was in a lethargic state, amounting to insensibility.

After a weary voyage of several days, they came again to that same wharf where Mark had been so nearly left behind, on the night of starting for Eden. Captain Kedgick, the landlord, was standing there, and was greatly surprised to see them coming from the boat.

‘Why, what the ‘tarnal!’ cried the Captain. ‘Well! I do admire at this, I do!’

‘We can stay at your house until to-morrow, Captain, I suppose?’ said Martin.

‘I reckon you can stay there for a twelvemonth if you like,’ retorted Kedgick coolly. ‘But our people won’t best like your coming back.’

‘Won’t like it, Captain Kedgick!’ said Martin.

‘They did expect you was a-going to settle,’ Kedgick answered, as he shook his head. ‘They’ve been took in, you can’t deny!’

‘What do you mean?’ cried Martin.

‘You didn’t ought to have received ‘em,’ said the Captain. ‘No you didn’t!’

‘My good friend,’ returned Martin, ‘did I want to receive them? Was it any act of mine? Didn’t you tell me they would rile up, and that I should be flayed like a wild cat—and threaten all kinds of vengeance, if I didn’t receive them?’

‘I don’t know about that,’ returned the Captain. ‘But when our people’s frills is out, they’re starched up pretty stiff, I tell you!’

With that, he fell into the rear to walk with Mark, while Martin and Elijah Pogram went on to the National.

‘We’ve come back alive, you see!’ said Mark.

‘It ain’t the thing I did expect,’ the Captain grumbled. ‘A man ain’t got no right to be a public man, unless he meets the public views. Our fashionable people wouldn’t have attended his le-vee, if they had know’d it.’

Nothing mollified the Captain, who persisted in taking it very ill that they had not both died in Eden. The boarders at the National felt strongly on the subject too; but it happened by good fortune that they had not much time to think about this grievance, for it was suddenly determined to pounce upon the Honourable Elijah Pogram, and give HIM a le-vee forthwith.

As the general evening meal of the house was over before the arrival of the boat, Martin, Mark, and Pogram were taking tea and fixings at the public table by themselves, when the deputation entered to announce this honour; consisting of six gentlemen boarders and a very shrill boy.

‘Sir!’ said the spokesman.

‘Mr Pogram!’ cried the shrill boy.

The spokesman thus reminded of the shrill boy’s presence, introduced him. ‘Doctor Ginery Dunkle, sir. A gentleman of great poetical elements. He has recently jined us here, sir, and is an acquisition to us, sir, I do assure you. Yes, sir. Mr Jodd, sir. Mr Izzard, sir. Mr Julius Bib, sir.’

‘Julius Washington Merryweather Bib,’ said the gentleman himself TO himself.

‘I beg your pardon, sir. Excuse me. Mr Julius Washington Merryweather Bib, sir; a gentleman in the lumber line, sir, and much esteemed. Colonel Groper, sir. Pro-fessor Piper, sir. My own name, sir, is Oscar Buffum.’

Each man took one slide forward as he was named; butted at the Honourable Elijah Pogram with his head; shook hands, and slid back again. The introductions being completed, the spokesman resumed.

‘Sir!’

‘Mr Pogram!’ cried the shrill boy.

‘Perhaps,’ said the spokesman, with a hopeless look, ‘you will be so good, Dr. Ginery Dunkle, as to charge yourself with the execution of our little office, sir?’

As there was nothing the shrill boy desired more, he immediately stepped forward.

‘Mr Pogram! Sir! A handful of your fellow-citizens, sir, hearing of your arrival at the National Hotel, and feeling the patriotic character of your public services, wish, sir, to have the gratification of beholding you, and mixing with you, sir; and unbending with you, sir, in those moments which—’

‘Air,’ suggested Buffum.

‘Which air so peculiarly the lot, sir, of our great and happy country.’

‘Hear!’ cried Colonel Grouper, in a loud voice. ‘Good! Hear him! Good!’

‘And therefore, sir,’ pursued the Doctor, ‘they request; as A mark Of their respect; the honour of your company at a little le-Vee, sir, in the ladies’ ordinary, at eight o’clock.’

Mr Pogram bowed, and said:

‘Fellow countrymen!’

‘Good!’ cried the Colonel. ‘Hear, him! Good!’

Mr Pogram bowed to the Colonel individually, and then resumed.

‘Your approbation of My labours in the common cause goes to My heart. At all times and in all places; in the ladies’ ordinary, My friends, and in the Battle Field—’

‘Good, very good! Hear him! Hear him!’ said the Colonel.

‘The name of Pogram will be proud to jine you. And may it, My friends, be written on My tomb, “He was a member of the Congress of our common country, and was ac-Tive in his trust.”’

‘The Com-mittee, sir,’ said the shrill boy, ‘will wait upon you at five minutes afore eight. I take My leave, sir!’

Mr Pogram shook hands with him, and everybody else, once more; and when they came back again at five minutes before eight, they said, one by one, in a melancholy voice, ‘How do you do, sir?’ and shook hands with Mr Pogram all over again, as if he had been abroad for a twelvemonth in the meantime, and they met, now, at a funeral.

But by this time Mr Pogram had freshened himself up, and had composed his hair and features after the Pogram statue, so that any one with half an eye might cry out, ‘There he is! as he delivered the Defiance!’ The Committee were embellished also; and when they entered the ladies’ ordinary in a body, there was much clapping of hands from ladies and gentlemen, accompanied by cries of ‘Pogram! Pogram!’ and some standing up on chairs to see him.

The object of the popular caress looked round the room as he walked up it, and smiled; at the same time observing to the shrill boy, that he knew something of the beauty of the daughters of their common country, but had never seen it in such lustre and perfection as at that moment. Which the shrill boy put in the paper next day; to Elijah Pogram’s great surprise.

‘We will re-quest you, sir, if you please,’ said Buffum, laying hands on Mr Pogram as if he were taking his measure for a coat, ‘to stand up with your back agin the wall right in the furthest corner, that there may be more room for our fellow citizens. If you could set your back right slap agin that curtain-peg, sir, keeping your left leg everlastingly behind the stove, we should be fixed quite slick.’

Mr Pogram did as he was told, and wedged himself into such a little corner that the Pogram statue wouldn’t have known him.

The entertainments of the evening then began. Gentlemen brought ladies up, and brought themselves up, and brought each other up; and asked Elijah Pogram what he thought of this political question, and what he thought of that; and looked at him, and looked at one another, and seemed very unhappy indeed. The ladies on the chairs looked at Elijah Pogram through their glasses, and said audibly, ‘I wish he’d speak. Why don’t he speak? Oh, do ask him to speak!’ And Elijah Pogram looked sometimes at the ladies and sometimes elsewhere, delivering senatorial opinions, as he was asked for them. But the great end and object of the meeting seemed to be, not to let Elijah Pogram out of the corner on any account; so there they kept him, hard and fast.

A great bustle at the door, in the course of the evening, announced the arrival of some remarkable person; and immediately afterwards an elderly gentleman, much excited, was seen to precipitate himself upon the crowd, and battle his way towards the Honourable Elijah Pogram. Martin, who had found a snug place of observation in a distant corner, where he stood with Mark beside him (for he did not so often forget him now as formerly, though he still did sometimes), thought he knew this gentleman, but had no doubt of it, when he cried as loud as he could, with his eyes starting out of his head:

‘Sir, Mrs Hominy!’

‘Lord bless that woman, Mark. She has turned up again!’

‘Here she comes, sir,’ answered Mr Tapley. ‘Pogram knows her. A public character! Always got her eye upon her country, sir! If that there lady’s husband is of my opinion, what a jolly old gentleman he must be!’

A lane was made; and Mrs Hominy, with the aristocratic stalk, the pocket handkerchief, the clasped hands, and the classical cap, came slowly up it, in a procession of one. Mr Pogram testified emotions of delight on seeing her, and a general hush prevailed. For it was known that when a woman like Mrs Hominy encountered a man like Pogram, something interesting must be said.

Their first salutations were exchanged in a voice too low to reach the impatient ears of the throng; but they soon became audible, for Mrs Hominy felt her position, and knew what was expected of her.

Mrs H. was hard upon him at first; and put him through a rigid catechism in reference to a certain vote he had given, which she had found it necessary, as the mother of the modern Gracchi, to deprecate in a line by itself, set up expressly for the purpose in German text. But Mr Pogram evading it by a well-timed allusion to the star-spangled banner, which, it appeared, had the remarkable peculiarity of flouting the breeze whenever it was hoisted where the wind blew, she forgave him. They now enlarged on certain questions of tariff, commercial treaty, boundary, importation and exportation with great effect. And Mrs Hominy not only talked, as the saying is, like a book, but actually did talk her own books, word for word.

‘My! what is this!’ cried Mrs Hominy, opening a little note which was handed her by her excited gentleman-usher. ‘Do tell! oh, well, now! on’y think!’

And then she read aloud, as follows:

‘Two literary ladies present their compliments to the mother of the modern Gracchi, and claim her kind introduction, as their talented countrywoman, to the honourable (and distinguished) Elijah Pogram, whom the two L. L.’s have often contemplated in the speaking marble of the soul-subduing Chiggle. On a verbal intimation from the mother of the M. G., that she will comply with the request of the two L. L.’s, they will have the immediate pleasure of joining the galaxy assembled to do honour to the patriotic conduct of a Pogram. It may be another bond of union between the two L. L.’s and the mother of the M. G. to observe, that the two L. L.’s are Transcendental.’

Mrs Hominy promptly rose, and proceeded to the door, whence she returned, after a minute’s interval, with the two L. L.’s, whom she led, through the lane in the crowd, with all that stateliness of deportment which was so remarkably her own, up to the great Elijah Pogram. It was (as the shrill boy cried out in an ecstasy) quite the Last Scene from Coriolanus. One of the L. L.’s wore a brown wig of uncommon size. Sticking on the forehead of the other, by invisible means, was a massive cameo, in size and shape like the raspberry tart which is ordinarily sold for a penny, representing on its front the Capitol at Washington.

‘Miss Toppit, and Miss Codger!’ said Mrs Hominy.

‘Codger’s the lady so often mentioned in the English newspapers I should think, sir,’ whispered Mark. ‘The oldest inhabitant as never remembers anything.’

‘To be presented to a Pogram,’ said Miss Codger, ‘by a Hominy, indeed, a thrilling moment is it in its impressiveness on what we call our feelings. But why we call them so, or why impressed they are, or if impressed they are at all, or if at all we are, or if there really is, oh gasping one! a Pogram or a Hominy, or any active principle to which we give those titles, is a topic, Spirit searching, light abandoned, much too vast to enter on, at this unlooked-for crisis.’

‘Mind and matter,’ said the lady in the wig, ‘glide swift into the vortex of immensity. Howls the sublime, and softly sleeps the calm Ideal, in the whispering chambers of Imagination. To hear it, sweet it is. But then, outlaughs the stern philosopher, and saith to the Grotesque, “What ho! arrest for me that Agency. Go, bring it here!” And so the vision fadeth.’

After this, they both took Mr Pogram by the hand, and pressed it to their lips, as a patriotic palm. That homage paid, the mother of the modern Gracchi called for chairs, and the three literary ladies went to work in earnest, to bring poor Pogram out, and make him show himself in all his brilliant colours.

How Pogram got out of his depth instantly, and how the three L. L.’s were never in theirs, is a piece of history not worth recording. Suffice it, that being all four out of their depths, and all unable to swim, they splashed up words in all directions, and floundered about famously. On the whole, it was considered to have been the severest mental exercise ever heard in the National Hotel. Tears stood in the shrill boy’s eyes several times; and the whole company observed that their heads ached with the effort—as well they might.

When it at last became necessary to release Elijah Pogram from the corner, and the Committee saw him safely back again to the next room, they were fervent in their admiration.

‘Which,’ said Mr Buffum, ‘must have vent, or it will bust. Toe you, Mr Pogram, I am grateful. Toe-wards you, sir, I am inspired with lofty veneration, and with deep e-mo-tion. The sentiment Toe which I would propose to give ex-pression, sir, is this: “May you ever be as firm, sir, as your marble statter! May it ever be as great a terror Toe its ene-mies as you.”’

There is some reason to suppose that it was rather terrible to its friends; being a statue of the Elevated or Goblin School, in which the Honourable Elijah Pogram was represented as in a very high wind, with his hair all standing on end, and his nostrils blown wide open. But Mr Pogram thanked his friend and countryman for the aspiration to which he had given utterance, and the Committee, after another solemn shaking of hands, retired to bed, except the Doctor; who immediately repaired to the newspaper-office, and there wrote a short poem suggested by the events of the evening, beginning with fourteen stars, and headed, ‘A Fragment. Suggested by witnessing the Honourable Elijah Pogram engaged in a philosophical disputation with three of Columbia’s fairest daughters. By Doctor Ginery Dunkle. Of Troy.’

If Pogram was as glad to get to bed as Martin was, he must have been well rewarded for his labours. They started off again next day (Martin and Mark previously disposing of their goods to the storekeepers of whom they had purchased them, for anything they would bring), and were fellow travellers to within a short distance of New York. When Pogram was about to leave them he grew thoughtful, and after pondering for some time, took Martin aside.

‘We air going to part, sir,’ said Pogram.

‘Pray don’t distress yourself,’ said Martin; ‘we must bear it.’

‘It ain’t that, sir,’ returned Pogram, ‘not at all. But I should wish you to accept a copy of My oration.’

‘Thank you,’ said Martin, ‘you are very good. I shall be most happy.’

‘It ain’t quite that, sir, neither,’ resumed Pogram; ‘air you bold enough to introduce a copy into your country?’

‘Certainly,’ said Martin. ‘Why not?’

‘Its sentiments air strong, sir,’ hinted Pogram, darkly.

‘That makes no difference,’ said Martin. ‘I’ll take a dozen if you like.’

‘No, sir,’ retorted Pogram. ‘Not A dozen. That is more than I require. If you are content to run the hazard, sir, here is one for your Lord Chancellor,’ producing it, ‘and one for Your principal Secretary of State. I should wish them to see it, sir, as expressing what my opinions air. That they may not plead ignorance at a future time. But don’t get into danger, sir, on my account!’

‘There is not the least danger, I assure you,’ said Martin. So he put the pamphlets in his pocket, and they parted.

Mr Bevan had written in his letter that, at a certain time, which fell out happily just then, he would be at a certain hotel in the city, anxiously expecting to see them. To this place they repaired without a moment’s delay. They had the satisfaction of finding him within; and of being received by their good friend, with his own warmth and heartiness.

‘I am truly sorry and ashamed,’ said Martin, ‘to have begged of you. But look at us. See what we are, and judge to what we are reduced!’

‘So far from claiming to have done you any service,’ returned the other, ‘I reproach myself with having been, unwittingly, the original cause of your misfortunes. I no more supposed you would go to Eden on such representations as you received; or, indeed, that you would do anything but be dispossessed, by the readiest means, of your idea that fortunes were so easily made here; than I thought of going to Eden myself.’

‘The fact is, I closed with the thing in a mad and sanguine manner,’ said Martin, ‘and the less said about it the better for me. Mark, here, hadn’t a voice in the matter.’

‘Well! but he hadn’t a voice in any other matter, had he?’ returned Mr Bevan; laughing with an air that showed his understanding of Mark and Martin too.

‘Not a very powerful one, I am afraid,’ said Martin with a blush. ‘But live and learn, Mr Bevan! Nearly die and learn; we learn the quicker.’

‘Now,’ said their friend, ‘about your plans. You mean to return home at once?’

‘Oh, I think so,’ returned Martin hastily, for he turned pale at the thought of any other suggestion. ‘That is your opinion too, I hope?’

‘Unquestionably. For I don’t know why you ever came here; though it’s not such an unusual case, I am sorry to say, that we need go any farther into that. You don’t know that the ship in which you came over with our friend General Fladdock, is in port, of course?’

‘Indeed!’ said Martin.

‘Yes. And is advertised to sail to-morrow.’

This was tempting news, but tantalising too; for Martin knew that his getting any employment on board a ship of that class was hopeless. The money in his pocket would not pay one-fourth of the sum he had already borrowed, and if it had been enough for their passage-money, he could hardly have resolved to spend it. He explained this to Mr Bevan, and stated what their project was.

‘Why, that’s as wild as Eden every bit,’ returned his friend. ‘You must take your passage like a Christian; at least, as like a Christian as a fore-cabin passenger can; and owe me a few more dollars than you intend. If Mark will go down to the ship and see what passengers there are, and finds that you can go in her without being actually suffocated, my advice is, go! You and I will look about us in the meantime (we won’t call at the Norris’s unless you like), and we will all three dine together in the afternoon.’

Martin had nothing to express but gratitude, and so it was arranged. But he went out of the room after Mark, and advised him to take their passage in the Screw, though they lay upon the bare deck; which Mr Tapley, who needed no entreaty on the subject readily promised to do.

When he and Martin met again, and were alone, he was in high spirits, and evidently had something to communicate, in which he gloried very much.

‘I’ve done Mr Bevan, sir,’ said Mark.

‘Done Mr Bevan!’ repeated Martin.

‘The cook of the Screw went and got married yesterday, sir,’ said Mr Tapley.

Martin looked at him for farther explanation.

‘And when I got on board, and the word was passed that it was me,’ said Mark, ‘the mate he comes and asks me whether I’d engage to take this said cook’s place upon the passage home. “For you’re used to it,” he says; “you were always a-cooking for everybody on your passage out.” And so I was,’ said Mark, ‘although I never cooked before, I’ll take my oath.’

‘What did you say?’ demanded Martin.

‘Say!’ cried Mark. ‘That I’d take anything I could get. “If that’s so,” says the mate, “why, bring a glass of rum;” which they brought according. And my wages, sir,’ said Mark in high glee, ‘pays your passage; and I’ve put the rolling-pin in your berth to take it (it’s the easy one up in the corner); and there we are, Rule Britannia, and Britons strike home!’

‘There never was such a good fellow as you are!’ cried Martin seizing him by the hand. ‘But what do you mean by “doing” Mr Bevan, Mark?’

‘Why, don’t you see?’ said Mark. ‘We don’t tell him, you know. We take his money, but we don’t spend it, and we don’t keep it. What we do is, write him a little note, explaining this engagement, and roll it up, and leave it at the bar, to be given to him after we are gone. Don’t you see?’

Martin’s delight in this idea was not inferior to Mark’s. It was all done as he proposed. They passed a cheerful evening; slept at the hotel; left the letter as arranged; and went off to the ship betimes next morning, with such light hearts as the weight of their past miseries engendered.

‘Good-bye! a hundred thousand times good-bye!’ said Martin to their friend. ‘How shall I remember all your kindness! How shall I ever thank you!’

‘If you ever become a rich man, or a powerful one,’ returned his friend, ‘you shall try to make your Government more careful of its subjects when they roam abroad to live. Tell it what you know of emigration in your own case, and impress upon it how much suffering may be prevented with a little pains!’

Cheerily, lads, cheerily! Anchor weighed. Ship in full sail. Her sturdy bowsprit pointing true to England. America a cloud upon the sea behind them!

‘Why, Cook! what are you thinking of so steadily?’ said Martin.

‘Why, I was a-thinking, sir,’ returned Mark, ‘that if I was a painter and was called upon to paint the American Eagle, how should I do it?’

‘Paint it as like an Eagle as you could, I suppose.’

‘No,’ said Mark. ‘That wouldn’t do for me, sir. I should want to draw it like a Bat, for its short-sightedness; like a Bantam, for its bragging; like a Magpie, for its honesty; like a Peacock, for its vanity; like a ostrich, for its putting its head in the mud, and thinking nobody sees it—’

‘And like a Phoenix, for its power of springing from the ashes of its faults and vices, and soaring up anew into the sky!’ said Martin. ‘Well, Mark. Let us hope so.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

ARRIVING IN ENGLAND, MARTIN WITNESSES A CEREMONY, FROM WHICH HE DERIVES THE CHEERING INFORMATION THAT HE HAS NOT BEEN FORGOTTEN IN HIS ABSENCE

It was mid-day, and high water in the English port for which the Screw was bound, when, borne in gallantly upon the fullness of the tide, she let go her anchor in the river.

Bright as the scene was; fresh, and full of motion; airy, free, and sparkling; it was nothing to the life and exultation in the breasts of the two travellers, at sight of the old churches, roofs, and darkened chimney stacks of Home. The distant roar that swelled up hoarsely from the busy streets, was music in their ears; the lines of people gazing from the wharves, were friends held dear; the canopy of smoke that overhung the town was brighter and more beautiful to them than if the richest silks of Persia had been waving in the air. And though the water going on its glistening track, turned, ever and again, aside to dance and sparkle round great ships, and heave them up; and leaped from off the blades of oars, a shower of diving diamonds; and wantoned with the idle boats, and swiftly passed, in many a sportive chase, through obdurate old iron rings, set deep into the stone-work of the quays; not even it was half so buoyant, and so restless, as their fluttering hearts, when yearning to set foot, once more, on native ground.

A year had passed since those same spires and roofs had faded from their eyes. It seemed to them, a dozen years. Some trifling changes, here and there, they called to mind; and wondered that they were so few and slight. In health and fortune, prospect and resource, they came back poorer men than they had gone away. But it was home. And though home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit answered to, in strongest conjuration.

Being set ashore, with very little money in their pockets, and no definite plan of operation in their heads, they sought out a cheap tavern, where they regaled upon a smoking steak, and certain flowing mugs of beer, as only men just landed from the sea can revel in the generous dainties of the earth. When they had feasted, as two grateful-tempered giants might have done, they stirred the fire, drew back the glowing curtain from the window, and making each a sofa for himself, by union of the great unwieldy chairs, gazed blissfully into the street.

Even the street was made a fairy street, by being half hidden in an atmosphere of steak, and strong, stout, stand-up English beer. For on the window-glass hung such a mist, that Mr Tapley was obliged to rise and wipe it with his handkerchief, before the passengers appeared like common mortals. And even then, a spiral little cloud went curling up from their two glasses of hot grog, which nearly hid them from each other.

It was one of those unaccountable little rooms which are never seen anywhere but in a tavern, and are supposed to have got into taverns by reason of the facilities afforded to the architect for getting drunk while engaged in their construction. It had more corners in it than the brain of an obstinate man; was full of mad closets, into which nothing could be put that was not specially invented and made for that purpose; had mysterious shelvings and bulkheads, and indications of staircases in the ceiling; and was elaborately provided with a bell that rung in the room itself, about two feet from the handle, and had no connection whatever with any other part of the establishment. It was a little below the pavement, and abutted close upon it; so that passengers grated against the window-panes with their buttons, and scraped it with their baskets; and fearful boys suddenly coming between a thoughtful guest and the light, derided him, or put out their tongues as if he were a physician; or made white knobs on the ends of their noses by flattening the same against the glass, and vanished awfully, like spectres.

Martin and Mark sat looking at the people as they passed, debating every now and then what their first step should be.

‘We want to see Miss Mary, of course,’ said Mark.

‘Of course,’ said Martin. ‘But I don’t know where she is. Not having had the heart to write in our distress—you yourself thought silence most advisable—and consequently, never having heard from her since we left New York the first time, I don’t know where she is, my good fellow.’

‘My opinion is, sir,’ returned Mark, ‘that what we’ve got to do is to travel straight to the Dragon. There’s no need for you to go there, where you’re known, unless you like. You may stop ten mile short of it. I’ll go on. Mrs Lupin will tell me all the news. Mr Pinch will give me every information that we want; and right glad Mr Pinch will be to do it. My proposal is: To set off walking this afternoon. To stop when we are tired. To get a lift when we can. To walk when we can’t. To do it at once, and do it cheap.’

‘Unless we do it cheap, we shall have some difficulty in doing it at all,’ said Martin, pulling out the bank, and telling it over in his hand.

‘The greater reason for losing no time, sir,’ replied Mark. ‘Whereas, when you’ve seen the young lady; and know what state of mind the old gentleman’s in, and all about it; then you’ll know what to do next.’

‘No doubt,’ said Martin. ‘You are quite right.’

They were raising their glasses to their lips, when their hands stopped midway, and their gaze was arrested by a figure which slowly, very slowly, and reflectively, passed the window at that moment.

Mr Pecksniff. Placid, calm, but proud. Honestly proud. Dressed with peculiar care, smiling with even more than usual blandness, pondering on the beauties of his art with a mild abstraction from all sordid thoughts, and gently travelling across the disc, as if he were a figure in a magic lantern.

As Mr Pecksniff passed, a person coming in the opposite direction stopped to look after him with great interest and respect, almost with veneration; and the landlord bouncing out of the house, as if he had seen him too, joined this person, and spoke to him, and shook his head gravely, and looked after Mr Pecksniff likewise.

Martin and Mark sat staring at each other, as if they could not believe it; but there stood the landlord, and the other man still. In spite of the indignation with which this glimpse of Mr Pecksniff had inspired him, Martin could not help laughing heartily. Neither could Mark.

‘We must inquire into this!’ said Martin. ‘Ask the landlord in, Mark.’

Mr Tapley retired for that purpose, and immediately returned with their large-headed host in safe convoy.

‘Pray, landlord!’ said Martin, ‘who is that gentleman who passed just now, and whom you were looking after?’

The landlord poked the fire as if, in his desire to make the most of his answer, he had become indifferent even to the price of coals; and putting his hands in his pockets, said, after inflating himself to give still further effect to his reply:

‘That, gentlemen, is the great Mr Pecksniff! The celebrated architect, gentlemen!’

He looked from one to the other while he said it, as if he were ready to assist the first man who might be overcome by the intelligence.

‘The great Mr Pecksniff, the celebrated architect, gentlemen.’ said the landlord, ‘has come down here, to help to lay the first stone of a new and splendid public building.’

‘Is it to be built from his designs?’ asked Martin.

‘The great Mr Pecksniff, the celebrated architect, gentlemen,’ returned the landlord, who seemed to have an unspeakable delight in the repetition of these words, ‘carried off the First Premium, and will erect the building.’

‘Who lays the stone?’ asked Martin.

‘Our member has come down express,’ returned the landlord. ‘No scrubs would do for no such a purpose. Nothing less would satisfy our Directors than our member in the House of Commons, who is returned upon the Gentlemanly Interest.’

‘Which interest is that?’ asked Martin.

‘What, don’t you know!’ returned the landlord.

It was quite clear the landlord didn’t. They always told him at election time, that it was the Gentlemanly side, and he immediately put on his top-boots, and voted for it.

‘When does the ceremony take place?’ asked Martin.

‘This day,’ replied the landlord. Then pulling out his watch, he added, impressively, ‘almost this minute.’

Martin hastily inquired whether there was any possibility of getting in to witness it; and finding that there would be no objection to the admittance of any decent person, unless indeed the ground were full, hurried off with Mark, as hard as they could go.

They were fortunate enough to squeeze themselves into a famous corner on the ground, where they could see all that passed, without much dread of being beheld by Mr Pecksniff in return. They were not a minute too soon, for as they were in the act of congratulating each other, a great noise was heard at some distance, and everybody looked towards the gate. Several ladies prepared their pocket handkerchiefs for waving; and a stray teacher belonging to the charity school being much cheered by mistake, was immensely groaned at when detected.

‘Perhaps he has Tom Pinch with him,’ Martin whispered Mr Tapley.

‘It would be rather too much of a treat for him, wouldn’t it, sir?’ whispered Mr Tapley in return.

There was no time to discuss the probabilities either way, for the charity school, in clean linen, came filing in two and two, so much to the self-approval of all the people present who didn’t subscribe to it, that many of them shed tears. A band of music followed, led by a conscientious drummer who never left off. Then came a great many gentlemen with wands in their hands, and bows on their breasts, whose share in the proceedings did not appear to be distinctly laid down, and who trod upon each other, and blocked up the entry for a considerable period. These were followed by the Mayor and Corporation, all clustering round the member for the Gentlemanly Interest; who had the great Mr Pecksniff, the celebrated architect on his right hand, and conversed with him familiarly as they came along. Then the ladies waved their handkerchiefs, and the gentlemen their hats, and the charity children shrieked, and the member for the Gentlemanly Interest bowed.

Silence being restored, the member for the Gentlemanly Interest rubbed his hands, and wagged his head, and looked about him pleasantly; and there was nothing this member did, at which some lady or other did not burst into an ecstatic waving of her pocket handkerchief. When he looked up at the stone, they said how graceful! when he peeped into the hole, they said how condescending! when he chatted with the Mayor, they said how easy! when he folded his arms they cried with one accord, how statesman-like!

Mr Pecksniff was observed too, closely. When he talked to the Mayor, they said, Oh, really, what a courtly man he was! When he laid his hand upon the mason’s shoulder, giving him directions, how pleasant his demeanour to the working classes; just the sort of man who made their toil a pleasure to them, poor dear souls!

But now a silver trowel was brought; and when the member for the Gentlemanly Interest, tucking up his coat-sleeve, did a little sleight of hand with the mortar, the air was rent, so loud was the applause. The workman-like manner in which he did it was amazing. No one could conceive where such a gentlemanly creature could have picked the knowledge up.

When he had made a kind of dirt-pie under the direction of the mason, they brought a little vase containing coins, the which the member for the Gentlemanly Interest jingled, as if he were going to conjure. Whereat they said how droll, how cheerful, what a flow of spirits! This put into its place, an ancient scholar read the inscription, which was in Latin; not in English; that would never do. It gave great satisfaction; especially every time there was a good long substantive in the third declension, ablative case, with an adjective to match; at which periods the assembly became very tender, and were much affected.

And now the stone was lowered down into its place, amidst the shouting of the concourse. When it was firmly fixed, the member for the Gentlemanly Interest struck upon it thrice with the handle of the trowel, as if inquiring, with a touch of humour, whether anybody was at home. Mr Pecksniff then unrolled his Plans (prodigious plans they were), and people gathered round to look at and admire them.

Martin, who had been fretting himself—quite unnecessarily, as Mark thought—during the whole of these proceedings, could no longer restrain his impatience; but stepping forward among several others, looked straight over the shoulder of the unconscious Mr Pecksniff, at the designs and plans he had unrolled. He returned to Mark, boiling with rage.

‘Why, what’s the matter, sir?’ cried Mark.

‘Matter! This is MY building.’

‘Your building, sir!’ said Mark.

‘My grammar-school. I invented it. I did it all. He has only put four windows in, the villain, and spoilt it!’

Mark could hardly believe it at first, but being assured that it was really so, actually held him to prevent his interference foolishly, until his temporary heat was past. In the meantime, the member addressed the company on the gratifying deed which he had just performed.

He said that since he had sat in Parliament to represent the Gentlemanly Interest of that town; and he might add, the Lady Interest, he hoped, besides (pocket handkerchiefs); it had been his pleasant duty to come among them, and to raise his voice on their behalf in Another Place (pocket handkerchiefs and laughter), often. But he had never come among them, and had never raised his voice, with half such pure, such deep, such unalloyed delight, as now. ‘The present occasion,’ he said, ‘will ever be memorable to me; not only for the reasons I have assigned, but because it has afforded me an opportunity of becoming personally known to a gentleman—’

Here he pointed the trowel at Mr Pecksniff, who was greeted with vociferous cheering, and laid his hand upon his heart.

‘To a gentleman who, I am happy to believe, will reap both distinction and profit from this field; whose fame had previously penetrated to me—as to whose ears has it not!—but whose intellectual countenance I never had the distinguished honour to behold until this day, and whose intellectual conversation I had never before the improving pleasure to enjoy.’

Everybody seemed very glad of this, and applauded more than ever.

‘But I hope my Honourable Friend,’ said the Gentlemanly member—of course he added “if he will allow me to call him so,” and of course Mr Pecksniff bowed—‘will give me many opportunities of cultivating the knowledge of him; and that I may have the extraordinary gratification of reflecting in after-time that I laid on this day two first stones, both belonging to structures which shall last my life!’

Great cheering again. All this time, Martin was cursing Mr Pecksniff up hill and down dale.

‘My friends!’ said Mr Pecksniff, in reply. ‘My duty is to build, not speak; to act, not talk; to deal with marble, stone, and brick; not language. I am very much affected. God bless you!’

This address, pumped out apparently from Mr Pecksniff’s very heart, brought the enthusiasm to its highest pitch. The pocket handkerchiefs were waved again; the charity children were admonished to grow up Pecksniffs, every boy among them; the Corporation, gentlemen with wands, member for the Gentlemanly Interest, all cheered for Mr Pecksniff. Three cheers for Mr Pecksniff! Three more for Mr Pecksniff! Three more for Mr Pecksniff, gentlemen, if you please! One more, gentlemen, for Mr Pecksniff, and let it be a good one to finish with!

In short, Mr Pecksniff was supposed to have done a great work and was very kindly, courteously, and generously rewarded. When the procession moved away, and Martin and Mark were left almost alone upon the ground, his merits and a desire to acknowledge them formed the common topic. He was only second to the Gentlemanly member.

‘Compare the fellow’s situation to-day with ours!’ said Martin bitterly.

‘Lord bless you, sir!’ cried Mark, ‘what’s the use? Some architects are clever at making foundations, and some architects are clever at building on ‘em when they’re made. But it’ll all come right in the end, sir; it’ll all come right!’

‘And in the meantime—’ began Martin.

‘In the meantime, as you say, sir, we have a deal to do, and far to go. So sharp’s the word, and Jolly!’

‘You are the best master in the world, Mark,’ said Martin, ‘and I will not be a bad scholar if I can help it, I am resolved! So come! Best foot foremost, old fellow!’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

TOM PINCH DEPARTS TO SEEK HIS FORTUNE. WHAT HE FINDS AT STARTING

Oh! What a different town Salisbury was in Tom Pinch’s eyes to be sure, when the substantial Pecksniff of his heart melted away into an idle dream! He possessed the same faith in the wonderful shops, the same intensified appreciation of the mystery and wickedness of the place; made the same exalted estimate of its wealth, population, and resources; and yet it was not the old city nor anything like it. He walked into the market while they were getting breakfast ready for him at the Inn; and though it was the same market as of old, crowded by the same buyers and sellers; brisk with the same business; noisy with the same confusion of tongues and cluttering of fowls in coops; fair with the same display of rolls of butter, newly made, set forth in linen cloths of dazzling whiteness; green with the same fresh show of dewy vegetables; dainty with the same array in higglers’ baskets of small shaving-glasses, laces, braces, trouser-straps, and hardware; savoury with the same unstinted show of delicate pigs’ feet, and pies made precious by the pork that once had walked upon them; still it was strangely changed to Tom. For, in the centre of the market-place, he missed a statue he had set up there as in all other places of his personal resort; and it looked cold and bare without that ornament.

The change lay no deeper than this, for Tom was far from being sage enough to know, that, having been disappointed in one man, it would have been a strictly rational and eminently wise proceeding to have revenged himself upon mankind in general, by mistrusting them one and all. Indeed this piece of justice, though it is upheld by the authority of divers profound poets and honourable men, bears a nearer resemblance to the justice of that good Vizier in the Thousand-and-one Nights, who issues orders for the destruction of all the Porters in Bagdad because one of that unfortunate fraternity is supposed to have misconducted himself, than to any logical, not to say Christian, system of conduct, known to the world in later times.

Tom had so long been used to steep the Pecksniff of his fancy in his tea, and spread him out upon his toast, and take him as a relish with his beer, that he made but a poor breakfast on the first morning after his expulsion. Nor did he much improve his appetite for dinner by seriously considering his own affairs, and taking counsel thereon with his friend the organist’s assistant.

The organist’s assistant gave it as his decided opinion that whatever Tom did, he must go to London; for there was no place like it. Which may be true in the main, though hardly, perhaps, in itself, a sufficient reason for Tom’s going there.

But Tom had thought of London before, and had coupled with it thoughts of his sister, and of his old friend John Westlock, whose advice he naturally felt disposed to seek in this important crisis of his fortunes. To London, therefore, he resolved to go; and he went away to the coach-office at once, to secure his place. The coach being already full, he was obliged to postpone his departure until the next night; but even this circumstance had its bright side as well as its dark one, for though it threatened to reduce his poor purse with unexpected country charges, it afforded him an opportunity of writing to Mrs Lupin and appointing his box to be brought to the old finger-post at the old time; which would enable him to take that treasure with him to the metropolis, and save the expense of its carriage. ‘So,’ said Tom, comforting himself, ‘it’s very nearly as broad as it’s long.’

And it cannot be denied that, when he had made up his mind to even this extent, he felt an unaccustomed sense of freedom—a vague and indistinct impression of holiday-making—which was very luxurious. He had his moments of depression and anxiety, and they were, with good reason, pretty numerous; but still, it was wonderfully pleasant to reflect that he was his own master, and could plan and scheme for himself. It was startling, thrilling, vast, difficult to understand; it was a stupendous truth, teeming with responsibility and self-distrust; but in spite of all his cares, it gave a curious relish to the viands at the Inn, and interposed a dreamy haze between him and his prospects, in which they sometimes showed to magical advantage.

In this unsettled state of mind, Tom went once more to bed in the low four-poster, to the same immovable surprise of the effigies of the former landlord and the fat ox; and in this condition, passed the whole of the succeeding day. When the coach came round at last with ‘London’ blazoned in letters of gold upon the boot, it gave Tom such a turn, that he was half disposed to run away. But he didn’t do it; for he took his seat upon the box instead, and looking down upon the four greys, felt as if he were another grey himself, or, at all events, a part of the turn-out; and was quite confused by the novelty and splendour of his situation.

And really it might have confused a less modest man than Tom to find himself sitting next that coachman; for of all the swells that ever flourished a whip professionally, he might have been elected emperor. He didn’t handle his gloves like another man, but put them on—even when he was standing on the pavement, quite detached from the coach—as if the four greys were, somehow or other, at the ends of the fingers. It was the same with his hat. He did things with his hat, which nothing but an unlimited knowledge of horses and the wildest freedom of the road, could ever have made him perfect in. Valuable little parcels were brought to him with particular instructions, and he pitched them into this hat, and stuck it on again; as if the laws of gravity did not admit of such an event as its being knocked off or blown off, and nothing like an accident could befall it. The guard, too! Seventy breezy miles a day were written in his very whiskers. His manners were a canter; his conversation a round trot. He was a fast coach upon a down-hill turnpike road; he was all pace. A waggon couldn’t have moved slowly, with that guard and his key-bugle on the top of it.

These were all foreshadowings of London, Tom thought, as he sat upon the box, and looked about him. Such a coachman, and such a guard, never could have existed between Salisbury and any other place. The coach was none of your steady-going, yokel coaches, but a swaggering, rakish, dissipated London coach; up all night, and lying by all day, and leading a devil of a life. It cared no more for Salisbury than if it had been a hamlet. It rattled noisily through the best streets, defied the Cathedral, took the worst corners sharpest, went cutting in everywhere, making everything get out of its way; and spun along the open country-road, blowing a lively defiance out of its key-bugle, as its last glad parting legacy.

It was a charming evening. Mild and bright. And even with the weight upon his mind which arose out of the immensity and uncertainty of London, Tom could not resist the captivating sense of rapid motion through the pleasant air. The four greys skimmed along, as if they liked it quite as well as Tom did; the bugle was in as high spirits as the greys; the coachman chimed in sometimes with his voice; the wheels hummed cheerfully in unison; the brass work on the harness was an orchestra of little bells; and thus, as they went clinking, jingling, rattling smoothly on, the whole concern, from the buckles of the leaders’ coupling-reins to the handle of the hind boot, was one great instrument of music.

Yoho, past hedges, gates, and trees; past cottages and barns, and people going home from work. Yoho, past donkey-chaises, drawn aside into the ditch, and empty carts with rampant horses, whipped up at a bound upon the little watercourse, and held by struggling carters close to the five-barred gate, until the coach had passed the narrow turning in the road. Yoho, by churches dropped down by themselves in quiet nooks, with rustic burial-grounds about them, where the graves are green, and daisies sleep—for it is evening—on the bosoms of the dead. Yoho, past streams, in which the cattle cool their feet, and where the rushes grow; past paddock-fences, farms, and rick-yards; past last year’s stacks, cut, slice by slice, away, and showing, in the waning light, like ruined gables, old and brown. Yoho, down the pebbly dip, and through the merry water-splash and up at a canter to the level road again. Yoho! Yoho!

Was the box there, when they came up to the old finger-post? The box! Was Mrs Lupin herself? Had she turned out magnificently as a hostess should, in her own chaise-cart, and was she sitting in a mahogany chair, driving her own horse Dragon (who ought to have been called Dumpling), and looking lovely? Did the stage-coach pull up beside her, shaving her very wheel, and even while the guard helped her man up with the trunk, did he send the glad echoes of his bugle careering down the chimneys of the distant Pecksniff, as if the coach expressed its exultation in the rescue of Tom Pinch?

‘This is kind indeed!’ said Tom, bending down to shake hands with her. ‘I didn’t mean to give you this trouble.’

‘Trouble, Mr Pinch!’ cried the hostess of the Dragon.

‘Well! It’s a pleasure to you, I know,’ said Tom, squeezing her hand heartily. ‘Is there any news?’

The hostess shook her head.

‘Say you saw me,’ said Tom, ‘and that I was very bold and cheerful, and not a bit down-hearted; and that I entreated her to be the same, for all is certain to come right at last. Good-bye!’

‘You’ll write when you get settled, Mr Pinch?’ said Mrs Lupin.

‘When I get settled!’ cried Tom, with an involuntary opening of his eyes. ‘Oh, yes, I’ll write when I get settled. Perhaps I had better write before, because I may find that it takes a little time to settle myself; not having too much money, and having only one friend. I shall give your love to the friend, by the way. You were always great with Mr Westlock, you know. Good-bye!’

‘Good-bye!’ said Mrs Lupin, hastily producing a basket with a long bottle sticking out of it. ‘Take this. Good-bye!’

‘Do you want me to carry it to London for you?’ cried Tom. She was already turning the chaise-cart round.

‘No, no,’ said Mrs Lupin. ‘It’s only a little something for refreshment on the road. Sit fast, Jack. Drive on, sir. All right! Good-bye!’

She was a quarter of a mile off, before Tom collected himself; and then he was waving his hand lustily; and so was she.

‘And that’s the last of the old finger-post,’ thought Tom, straining his eyes, ‘where I have so often stood to see this very coach go by, and where I have parted with so many companions! I used to compare this coach to some great monster that appeared at certain times to bear my friends away into the world. And now it’s bearing me away, to seek my fortune, Heaven knows where and how!’

It made Tom melancholy to picture himself walking up the lane and back to Pecksniff’s as of old; and being melancholy, he looked downwards at the basket on his knee, which he had for the moment forgotten.

‘She is the kindest and most considerate creature in the world,’ thought Tom. ‘Now I KNOW that she particularly told that man of hers not to look at me, on purpose to prevent my throwing him a shilling! I had it ready for him all the time, and he never once looked towards me; whereas that man naturally, (for I know him very well,) would have done nothing but grin and stare. Upon my word, the kindness of people perfectly melts me.’

Here he caught the coachman’s eye. The coachman winked. ‘Remarkable fine woman for her time of life,’ said the coachman.

‘I quite agree with you,’ returned Tom. ‘So she is.’

‘Finer than many a young ‘un, I mean to say,’ observed the coachman. ‘Eh?’

‘Than many a young one,’ Tom assented.

‘I don’t care for ‘em myself when they’re too young,’ remarked the coachman.

This was a matter of taste, which Tom did not feel himself called upon to discuss.

‘You’ll seldom find ‘em possessing correct opinions about refreshment, for instance, when they’re too young, you know,’ said the coachman; ‘a woman must have arrived at maturity, before her mind’s equal to coming provided with a basket like that.’

‘Perhaps you would like to know what it contains?’ said Tom, smiling.

As the coachman only laughed, and as Tom was curious himself, he unpacked it, and put the articles, one by one, upon the footboard. A cold roast fowl, a packet of ham in slices, a crusty loaf, a piece of cheese, a paper of biscuits, half a dozen apples, a knife, some butter, a screw of salt, and a bottle of old sherry. There was a letter besides, which Tom put in his pocket.

The coachman was so earnest in his approval of Mrs Lupin’s provident habits, and congratulated Torn so warmly on his good fortune, that Tom felt it necessary, for the lady’s sake, to explain that the basket was a strictly Platonic basket, and had merely been presented to him in the way of friendship. When he had made the statement with perfect gravity; for he felt it incumbent on him to disabuse the mind of this lax rover of any incorrect impressions on the subject; he signified that he would be happy to share the gifts with him, and proposed that they should attack the basket in a spirit of good fellowship at any time in the course of the night which the coachman’s experience and knowledge of the road might suggest, as being best adapted to the purpose. From this time they chatted so pleasantly together, that although Tom knew infinitely more of unicorns than horses, the coachman informed his friend the guard at the end of the next stage, ‘that rum as the box-seat looked, he was as good a one to go, in pint of conversation, as ever he’d wish to sit by.’

Yoho, among the gathering shades; making of no account the deep reflections of the trees, but scampering on through light and darkness, all the same, as if the light of London fifty miles away, were quite enough to travel by, and some to spare. Yoho, beside the village green, where cricket-players linger yet, and every little indentation made in the fresh grass by bat or wicket, ball or player’s foot, sheds out its perfume on the night. Away with four fresh horses from the Bald-faced Stag, where topers congregate about the door admiring; and the last team with traces hanging loose, go roaming off towards the pond, until observed and shouted after by a dozen throats, while volunteering boys pursue them. Now, with a clattering of hoofs and striking out of fiery sparks, across the old stone bridge, and down again into the shadowy road, and through the open gate, and far away, away, into the wold. Yoho!

Yoho, behind there, stop that bugle for a moment! Come creeping over to the front, along the coach-roof, guard, and make one at this basket! Not that we slacken in our pace the while, not we; we rather put the bits of blood upon their metal, for the greater glory of the snack. Ah! It is long since this bottle of old wine was brought into contact with the mellow breath of night, you may depend, and rare good stuff it is to wet a bugler’s whistle with. Only try it. Don’t be afraid of turning up your finger, Bill, another pull! Now, take your breath, and try the bugle, Bill. There’s music! There’s a tone!’ over the hills and far away,’ indeed. Yoho! The skittish mare is all alive to-night. Yoho! Yoho!

See the bright moon! High up before we know it; making the earth reflect the objects on its breast like water. Hedges, trees, low cottages, church steeples, blighted stumps and flourishing young slips, have all grown vain upon the sudden, and mean to contemplate their own fair images till morning. The poplars yonder rustle that their quivering leaves may see themselves upon the ground. Not so the oak; trembling does not become HIM; and he watches himself in his stout old burly steadfastness, without the motion of a twig. The moss-grown gate, ill-poised upon its creaking hinges, crippled and decayed swings to and fro before its glass, like some fantastic dowager; while our own ghostly likeness travels on, Yoho! Yoho! through ditch and brake, upon the ploughed land and the smooth, along the steep hillside and steeper wall, as if it were a phantom-Hunter.

Clouds too! And a mist upon the Hollow! Not a dull fog that hides it, but a light airy gauze-like mist, which in our eyes of modest admiration gives a new charm to the beauties it is spread before; as real gauze has done ere now, and would again, so please you, though we were the Pope. Yoho! Why now we travel like the Moon herself. Hiding this minute in a grove of trees; next minute in a patch of vapour; emerging now upon our broad clear course; withdrawing now, but always dashing on, our journey is a counter-part of hers. Yoho! A match against the Moon!

The beauty of the night is hardly felt, when Day comes rushing up. Yoho! Two stages, and the country roads are almost changed to a continuous street. Yoho, past market-gardens, rows of houses, villas, crescents, terraces, and squares; past waggons, coaches, carts; past early workmen, late stragglers, drunken men, and sober carriers of loads; past brick and mortar in its every shape; and in among the rattling pavements, where a jaunty-seat upon a coach is not so easy to preserve! Yoho, down countless turnings, and through countless mazy ways, until an old Innyard is gained, and Tom Pinch, getting down quite stunned and giddy, is in London!

‘Five minutes before the time, too!’ said the driver, as he received his fee of Tom.

‘Upon my word,’ said Tom, ‘I should not have minded very much, if we had been five hours after it; for at this early hour I don’t know where to go, or what to do with myself.’

‘Don’t they expect you then?’ inquired the driver.

‘Who?’ said Tom.

‘Why them,’ returned the driver.

His mind was so clearly running on the assumption of Tom’s having come to town to see an extensive circle of anxious relations and friends, that it would have been pretty hard work to undeceive him. Tom did not try. He cheerfully evaded the subject, and going into the Inn, fell fast asleep before a fire in one of the public rooms opening from the yard. When he awoke, the people in the house were all astir, so he washed and dressed himself; to his great refreshment after the journey; and, it being by that time eight o’clock, went forth at once to see his old friend John.

John Westlock lived in Furnival’s Inn, High Holborn, which was within a quarter of an hour’s walk of Tom’s starting-point, but seemed a long way off, by reason of his going two or three miles out of the straight road to make a short cut. When at last he arrived outside John’s door, two stories up, he stood faltering with his hand upon the knocker, and trembled from head to foot. For he was rendered very nervous by the thought of having to relate what had fallen out between himself and Pecksniff; and he had a misgiving that John would exult fearfully in the disclosure.

‘But it must be made,’ thought Tom, ‘sooner or later; and I had better get it over.’

Rat tat.

‘I am afraid that’s not a London knock,’ thought Tom. ‘It didn’t sound bold. Perhaps that’s the reason why nobody answers the door.’

It is quite certain that nobody came, and that Tom stood looking at the knocker; wondering whereabouts in the neighbourhood a certain gentleman resided, who was roaring out to somebody ‘Come in!’ with all his might.

‘Bless my soul!’ thought Tom at last. ‘Perhaps he lives here, and is calling to me. I never thought of that. Can I open the door from the outside, I wonder. Yes, to be sure I can.’

To be sure he could, by turning the handle; and to be sure when he did turn it the same voice came rushing out, crying ‘Why don’t you come in? Come in, do you hear? What are you standing there for?’—quite violently.

Tom stepped from the little passage into the room from which these sounds proceeded, and had barely caught a glimpse of a gentleman in a dressing-gown and slippers (with his boots beside him ready to put on), sitting at his breakfast with a newspaper in his hand, when the said gentleman, at the imminent hazard of oversetting his tea-table, made a plunge at Tom, and hugged him.

‘Why, Tom, my boy!’ cried the gentleman. ‘Tom!’

‘How glad I am to see you, Mr Westlock!’ said Tom Pinch, shaking both his hands, and trembling more than ever. ‘How kind you are!’

‘Mr Westlock!’ repeated John, ‘what do you mean by that, Pinch? You have not forgotten my Christian name, I suppose?’

‘No, John, no. I have not forgotten,’ said Thomas Pinch. ‘Good gracious me, how kind you are!’

‘I never saw such a fellow in all my life!’ cried John. ‘What do you mean by saying THAT over and over again? What did you expect me to be, I wonder! Here, sit down, Tom, and be a reasonable creature. How are you, my boy? I am delighted to see you!’

‘And I am delighted to see YOU,’ said Tom.

‘It’s mutual, of course,’ returned John. ‘It always was, I hope. If I had known you had been coming, Tom, I would have had something for breakfast. I would rather have such a surprise than the best breakfast in the world, myself; but yours is another case, and I have no doubt you are as hungry as a hunter. You must make out as well as you can, Tom, and we’ll recompense ourselves at dinner-time. You take sugar, I know; I recollect the sugar at Pecksniff’s. Ha, ha, ha! How IS Pecksniff? When did you come to town? DO begin at something or other, Tom. There are only scraps here, but they are not at all bad. Boar’s Head potted. Try it, Tom. Make a beginning whatever you do. What an old Blade you are! I am delighted to see you.’

While he delivered himself of these words in a state of great commotion, John was constantly running backwards and forwards to and from the closet, bringing out all sorts of things in pots, scooping extraordinary quantities of tea out of the caddy, dropping French rolls into his boots, pouring hot water over the butter, and making a variety of similar mistakes without disconcerting himself in the least.

‘There!’ said John, sitting down for the fiftieth time, and instantly starting up again to make some other addition to the breakfast. ‘Now we are as well off as we are likely to be till dinner. And now let us have the news, Tom. Imprimis, how’s Pecksniff?’

‘I don’t know how he is,’ was Tom’s grave answer.

John Westlock put the teapot down, and looked at him, in astonishment.

‘I don’t know how he is,’ said Thomas Pinch; ‘and, saving that I wish him no ill, I don’t care. I have left him, John. I have left him for ever.’

‘Voluntarily?’

‘Why, no, for he dismissed me. But I had first found out that I was mistaken in him; and I could not have remained with him under any circumstances. I grieve to say that you were right in your estimate of his character. It may be a ridiculous weakness, John, but it has been very painful and bitter to me to find this out, I do assure you.’

Tom had no need to direct that appealing look towards his friend, in mild and gentle deprecation of his answering with a laugh. John Westlock would as soon have thought of striking him down upon the floor.

‘It was all a dream of mine,’ said Tom, ‘and it is over. I’ll tell you how it happened, at some other time. Bear with my folly, John. I do not, just now, like to think or speak about it.’

‘I swear to you, Tom,’ returned his friend, with great earnestness of manner, after remaining silent for a few moments, ‘that when I see, as I do now, how deeply you feel this, I don’t know whether to be glad or sorry that you have made the discovery at last. I reproach myself with the thought that I ever jested on the subject; I ought to have known better.’

‘My dear friend,’ said Tom, extending his hand, ‘it is very generous and gallant in you to receive me and my disclosure in this spirit; it makes me blush to think that I should have felt a moment’s uneasiness as I came along. You can’t think what a weight is lifted off my mind,’ said Tom, taking up his knife and fork again, and looking very cheerful. ‘I shall punish the Boar’s Head dreadfully.’

The host, thus reminded of his duties, instantly betook himself to piling up all kinds of irreconcilable and contradictory viands in Tom’s plate, and a very capital breakfast Tom made, and very much the better for it Tom felt.

‘That’s all right,’ said John, after contemplating his visitor’s proceedings with infinite satisfaction. ‘Now, about our plans. You are going to stay with me, of course. Where’s your box?’

‘It’s at the Inn,’ said Tom. ‘I didn’t intend—’

‘Never mind what you didn’t intend,’ John Westlock interposed. ‘What you DID intend is more to the purpose. You intended, in coming here, to ask my advice, did you not, Tom?’

‘Certainly.’

‘And to take it when I gave it to you?’

‘Yes,’ rejoined Tom, smiling, ‘if it were good advice, which, being yours, I have no doubt it will be.’

‘Very well. Then don’t be an obstinate old humbug in the outset, Tom, or I shall shut up shop and dispense none of that invaluable commodity. You are on a visit to me. I wish I had an organ for you, Tom!’

‘So do the gentlemen downstairs, and the gentlemen overhead I have no doubt,’ was Tom’s reply.

‘Let me see. In the first place, you will wish to see your sister this morning,’ pursued his friend, ‘and of course you will like to go there alone. I’ll walk part of the way with you; and see about a little business of my own, and meet you here again in the afternoon. Put that in your pocket, Tom. It’s only the key of the door. If you come home first you’ll want it.’

‘Really,’ said Tom, ‘quartering one’s self upon a friend in this way—’

‘Why, there are two keys,’ interposed John Westlock. ‘I can’t open the door with them both at once, can I? What a ridiculous fellow you are, Tom? Nothing particular you’d like for dinner, is there?’

‘Oh dear no,’ said Tom.

‘Very well, then you may as well leave it to me. Have a glass of cherry brandy, Tom?’

‘Not a drop! What remarkable chambers these are!’ said Pinch ‘there’s everything in ‘em!’

‘Bless your soul, Tom, nothing but a few little bachelor contrivances! the sort of impromptu arrangements that might have suggested themselves to Philip Quarll or Robinson Crusoe, that’s all. What do you say? Shall we walk?’

‘By all means,’ cried Tom. ‘As soon as you like.’

Accordingly John Westlock took the French rolls out of his boots, and put his boots on, and dressed himself; giving Tom the paper to read in the meanwhile. When he returned, equipped for walking, he found Tom in a brown study, with the paper in his hand.

‘Dreaming, Tom?’

‘No,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘No. I have been looking over the advertising sheet, thinking there might be something in it which would be likely to suit me. But, as I often think, the strange thing seems to be that nobody is suited. Here are all kinds of employers wanting all sorts of servants, and all sorts of servants wanting all kinds of employers, and they never seem to come together. Here is a gentleman in a public office in a position of temporary difficulty, who wants to borrow five hundred pounds; and in the very next advertisement here is another gentleman who has got exactly that sum to lend. But he’ll never lend it to him, John, you’ll find! Here is a lady possessing a moderate independence, who wants to board and lodge with a quiet, cheerful family; and here is a family describing themselves in those very words, “a quiet, cheerful family,” who want exactly such a lady to come and live with them. But she’ll never go, John! Neither do any of these single gentlemen who want an airy bedroom, with the occasional use of a parlour, ever appear to come to terms with these other people who live in a rural situation remarkable for its bracing atmosphere, within five minutes’ walk of the Royal Exchange. Even those letters of the alphabet who are always running away from their friends and being entreated at the tops of columns to come back, never DO come back, if we may judge from the number of times they are asked to do it and don’t. It really seems,’ said Tom, relinquishing the paper with a thoughtful sigh, ‘as if people had the same gratification in printing their complaints as in making them known by word of mouth; as if they found it a comfort and consolation to proclaim “I want such and such a thing, and I can’t get it, and I don’t expect I ever shall!”’

John Westlock laughed at the idea, and they went out together. So many years had passed since Tom was last in London, and he had known so little of it then, that his interest in all he saw was very great. He was particularly anxious, among other notorious localities, to have those streets pointed out to him which were appropriated to the slaughter of countrymen; and was quite disappointed to find, after half-an-hour’s walking, that he hadn’t had his pocket picked. But on John Westlock’s inventing a pickpocket for his gratification, and pointing out a highly respectable stranger as one of that fraternity, he was much delighted.

His friend accompanied him to within a short distance of Camberwell and having put him beyond the possibility of mistaking the wealthy brass-and-copper founder’s, left him to make his visit. Arriving before the great bell-handle, Tom gave it a gentle pull. The porter appeared.

‘Pray does Miss Pinch live here?’ said Tom.

‘Miss Pinch is governess here,’ replied the porter.

At the same time he looked at Tom from head to foot, as if he would have said, ‘You are a nice man, YOU are; where did YOU come from?’

‘It’s the same young lady,’ said Tom. ‘It’s quite right. Is she at home?’

‘I don’t know, I’m sure,’ rejoined the porter.

‘Do you think you could have the goodness to ascertain?’ said Tom. He had quite a delicacy in offering the suggestion, for the possibility of such a step did not appear to present itself to the porter’s mind at all.

The fact was that the porter in answering the gate-bell had, according to usage, rung the house-bell (for it is as well to do these things in the Baronial style while you are about it), and that there the functions of his office had ceased. Being hired to open and shut the gate, and not to explain himself to strangers, he left this little incident to be developed by the footman with the tags, who, at this juncture, called out from the door steps:

‘Hollo, there! wot are you up to? This way, young man!’

‘Oh!’ said Tom, hurrying towards him. ‘I didn’t observe that there was anybody else. Pray is Miss Pinch at home?’

‘She’s IN,’ replied the footman. As much as to say to Tom: ‘But if you think she has anything to do with the proprietorship of this place you had better abandon that idea.’

‘I wish to see her, if you please,’ said Tom.

The footman, being a lively young man, happened to have his attention caught at that moment by the flight of a pigeon, in which he took so warm an interest that his gaze was rivetted on the bird until it was quite out of sight. He then invited Tom to come in, and showed him into a parlour.

‘Hany neem?’ said the young man, pausing languidly at the door.

It was a good thought; because without providing the stranger, in case he should happen to be of a warm temper, with a sufficient excuse for knocking him down, it implied this young man’s estimate of his quality, and relieved his breast of the oppressive burden of rating him in secret as a nameless and obscure individual.

‘Say her brother, if you please,’ said Tom.

‘Mother?’ drawled the footman.

‘Brother,’ repeated Tom, slightly raising his voice. ‘And if you will say, in the first instance, a gentleman, and then say her brother, I shall be obliged to you, as she does not expect me or know I am in London, and I do not wish to startle her.’

The young man’s interest in Tom’s observations had ceased long before this time, but he kindly waited until now; when, shutting the door, he withdrew.

‘Dear me!’ said Tom. ‘This is very disrespectful and uncivil behaviour. I hope these are new servants here, and that Ruth is very differently treated.’

His cogitations were interrupted by the sound of voices in the adjoining room. They seemed to be engaged in high dispute, or in indignant reprimand of some offender; and gathering strength occasionally, broke out into a perfect whirlwind. It was in one of these gusts, as it appeared to Tom, that the footman announced him; for an abrupt and unnatural calm took place, and then a dead silence. He was standing before the window, wondering what domestic quarrel might have caused these sounds, and hoping Ruth had nothing to do with it, when the door opened, and his sister ran into his arms.

‘Why, bless my soul!’ said Tom, looking at her with great pride, when they had tenderly embraced each other, ‘how altered you are Ruth! I should scarcely have known you, my love, if I had seen you anywhere else, I declare! You are so improved,’ said Tom, with inexpressible delight; ‘you are so womanly; you are so—positively, you know, you are so handsome!’

‘If YOU think so Tom—’

‘Oh, but everybody must think so, you know,’ said Tom, gently smoothing down her hair. ‘It’s matter of fact; not opinion. But what’s the matter?’ said Tom, looking at her more intently, ‘how flushed you are! and you have been crying.’

‘No, I have not, Tom.’

‘Nonsense,’ said her brother stoutly. ‘That’s a story. Don’t tell me! I know better. What is it, dear? I’m not with Mr Pecksniff now. I am going to try and settle myself in London; and if you are not happy here (as I very much fear you are not, for I begin to think you have been deceiving me with the kindest and most affectionate intention) you shall not remain here.’

Oh! Tom’s blood was rising; mind that! Perhaps the Boar’s Head had something to do with it, but certainly the footman had. So had the sight of his pretty sister—a great deal to do with it. Tom could bear a good deal himself, but he was proud of her, and pride is a sensitive thing. He began to think, ‘there are more Pecksniffs than one, perhaps,’ and by all the pins and needles that run up and down in angry veins, Tom was in a most unusual tingle all at once!

‘We will talk about it, Tom,’ said Ruth, giving him another kiss to pacify him. ‘I am afraid I cannot stay here.’

‘Cannot!’ replied Tom. ‘Why then, you shall not, my love. Heyday! You are not an object of charity! Upon my word!’

Tom was stopped in these exclamations by the footman, who brought a message from his master, importing that he wished to speak with him before he went, and with Miss Pinch also.

‘Show the way,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll wait upon him at once.’

Accordingly they entered the adjoining room from which the noise of altercation had proceeded; and there they found a middle-aged gentleman, with a pompous voice and manner, and a middle-aged lady, with what may be termed an excisable face, or one in which starch and vinegar were decidedly employed. There was likewise present that eldest pupil of Miss Pinch, whom Mrs Todgers, on a previous occasion, had called a syrup, and who was now weeping and sobbing spitefully.

‘My brother, sir,’ said Ruth Pinch, timidly presenting Tom.

‘Oh!’ cried the gentleman, surveying Tom attentively. ‘You really are Miss Pinch’s brother, I presume? You will excuse my asking. I don’t observe any resemblance.’

‘Miss Pinch has a brother, I know,’ observed the lady.

‘Miss Pinch is always talking about her brother, when she ought to be engaged upon my education,’ sobbed the pupil.

‘Sophia! Hold your tongue!’ observed the gentleman. ‘Sit down, if you please,’ addressing Tom.

Tom sat down, looking from one face to another, in mute surprise.

‘Remain here, if you please, Miss Pinch,’ pursued the gentleman, looking slightly over his shoulder.

Tom interrupted him here, by rising to place a chair for his sister. Having done which he sat down again.

‘I am glad you chance to have called to see your sister to-day, sir,’ resumed the brass-and-copper founder. ‘For although I do not approve, as a principle, of any young person engaged in my family in the capacity of a governess, receiving visitors, it happens in this case to be well timed. I am sorry to inform you that we are not at all satisfied with your sister.’

‘We are very much DISsatisfied with her,’ observed the lady.

‘I’d never say another lesson to Miss Pinch if I was to be beat to death for it!’ sobbed the pupil.

‘Sophia!’ cried her father. ‘Hold your tongue!’

‘Will you allow me to inquire what your ground of dissatisfaction is?’ asked Tom.

‘Yes,’ said the gentleman, ‘I will. I don’t recognize it as a right; but I will. Your sister has not the slightest innate power of commanding respect. It has been a constant source of difference between us. Although she has been in this family for some time, and although the young lady who is now present has almost, as it were, grown up under her tuition, that young lady has no respect for her. Miss Pinch has been perfectly unable to command my daughter’s respect, or to win my daughter’s confidence. Now,’ said the gentleman, allowing the palm of his hand to fall gravely down upon the table: ‘I maintain that there is something radically wrong in that! You, as her brother, may be disposed to deny it—’

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Tom. ‘I am not at all disposed to deny it. I am sure that there is something radically wrong; radically monstrous, in that.’

‘Good Heavens!’ cried the gentleman, looking round the room with dignity, ‘what do I find to be the case! what results obtrude themselves upon me as flowing from this weakness of character on the part of Miss Pinch! What are my feelings as a father, when, after my desire (repeatedly expressed to Miss Pinch, as I think she will not venture to deny) that my daughter should be choice in her expressions, genteel in her deportment, as becomes her station in life, and politely distant to her inferiors in society, I find her, only this very morning, addressing Miss Pinch herself as a beggar!’

‘A beggarly thing,’ observed the lady, in correction.

‘Which is worse,’ said the gentleman, triumphantly; ‘which is worse. A beggarly thing. A low, coarse, despicable expression!’

‘Most despicable,’ cried Tom. ‘I am glad to find that there is a just appreciation of it here.’

‘So just, sir,’ said the gentleman, lowering his voice to be the more impressive. ‘So just, that, but for my knowing Miss Pinch to be an unprotected young person, an orphan, and without friends, I would, as I assured Miss Pinch, upon my veracity and personal character, a few minutes ago, I would have severed the connection between us at that moment and from that time.’

‘Bless my soul, sir!’ cried Tom, rising from his seat; for he was now unable to contain himself any longer; ‘don’t allow such considerations as those to influence you, pray. They don’t exist, sir. She is not unprotected. She is ready to depart this instant. Ruth, my dear, get your bonnet on!’

‘Oh, a pretty family!’ cried the lady. ‘Oh, he’s her brother! There’s no doubt about that!’

‘As little doubt, madam,’ said Tom, ‘as that the young lady yonder is the child of your teaching, and not my sister’s. Ruth, my dear, get your bonnet on!’

‘When you say, young man,’ interposed the brass-and-copper founder, haughtily, ‘with that impertinence which is natural to you, and which I therefore do not condescend to notice further, that the young lady, my eldest daughter, has been educated by any one but Miss Pinch, you—I needn’t proceed. You comprehend me fully. I have no doubt you are used to it.’

‘Sir!’ cried Tom, after regarding him in silence for some little time. ‘If you do not understand what I mean, I will tell you. If you do understand what I mean, I beg you not to repeat that mode of expressing yourself in answer to it. My meaning is, that no man can expect his children to respect what he degrades.’

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ laughed the gentleman. ‘Cant! cant! The common cant!’

‘The common story, sir!’ said Tom; ‘the story of a common mind. Your governess cannot win the confidence and respect of your children, forsooth! Let her begin by winning yours, and see what happens then.’

‘Miss Pinch is getting her bonnet on, I trust, my dear?’ said the gentleman.

‘I trust she is,’ said Tom, forestalling the reply. ‘I have no doubt she is. In the meantime I address myself to you, sir. You made your statement to me, sir; you required to see me for that purpose; and I have a right to answer it. I am not loud or turbulent,’ said Tom, which was quite true, ‘though I can scarcely say as much for you, in your manner of addressing yourself to me. And I wish, on my sister’s behalf, to state the simple truth.’

‘You may state anything you like, young man,’ returned the gentleman, affecting to yawn. ‘My dear, Miss Pinch’s money.’

‘When you tell me,’ resumed Tom, who was not the less indignant for keeping himself quiet, ‘that my sister has no innate power of commanding the respect of your children, I must tell you it is not so; and that she has. She is as well bred, as well taught, as well qualified by nature to command respect, as any hirer of a governess you know. But when you place her at a disadvantage in reference to every servant in your house, how can you suppose, if you have the gift of common sense, that she is not in a tenfold worse position in reference to your daughters?’

‘Pretty well! Upon my word,’ exclaimed the gentleman, ‘this is pretty well!’

‘It is very ill, sir,’ said Tom. ‘It is very bad and mean, and wrong and cruel. Respect! I believe young people are quick enough to observe and imitate; and why or how should they respect whom no one else respects, and everybody slights? And very partial they must grow—oh, very partial!—to their studies, when they see to what a pass proficiency in those same tasks has brought their governess! Respect! Put anything the most deserving of respect before your daughters in the light in which you place her, and you will bring it down as low, no matter what it is!’

‘You speak with extreme impertinence, young man,’ observed the gentleman.

‘I speak without passion, but with extreme indignation and contempt for such a course of treatment, and for all who practice it,’ said Tom. ‘Why, how can you, as an honest gentleman, profess displeasure or surprise at your daughter telling my sister she is something beggarly and humble, when you are for ever telling her the same thing yourself in fifty plain, outspeaking ways, though not in words; and when your very porter and footman make the same delicate announcement to all comers? As to your suspicion and distrust of her; even of her word; if she is not above their reach, you have no right to employ her.’

‘No right!’ cried the brass-and-copper founder.

‘Distinctly not,’ Tom answered. ‘If you imagine that the payment of an annual sum of money gives it to you, you immensely exaggerate its power and value. Your money is the least part of your bargain in such a case. You may be punctual in that to half a second on the clock, and yet be Bankrupt. I have nothing more to say,’ said Tom, much flushed and flustered, now that it was over, ‘except to crave permission to stand in your garden until my sister is ready.’

Not waiting to obtain it, Tom walked out.

Before he had well begun to cool, his sister joined him. She was crying; and Tom could not bear that any one about the house should see her doing that.

‘They will think you are sorry to go,’ said Tom. ‘You are not sorry to go?’

‘No, Tom, no. I have been anxious to go for a very long time.’

‘Very well, then! Don’t cry!’ said Tom.

‘I am so sorry for YOU, dear,’ sobbed Tom’s sister.

‘But you ought to be glad on my account,’ said Tom. ‘I shall be twice as happy with you for a companion. Hold up your head. There! Now we go out as we ought. Not blustering, you know, but firm and confident in ourselves.’

The idea of Tom and his sister blustering, under any circumstances, was a splendid absurdity. But Tom was very far from feeling it to be so, in his excitement; and passed out at the gate with such severe determination written in his face that the porter hardly knew him again.

It was not until they had walked some short distance, and Tom found himself getting cooler and more collected, that he was quite restored to himself by an inquiry from his sister, who said in her pleasant little voice:

‘Where are we going, Tom?’

‘Dear me!’ said Tom, stopping, ‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t you—don’t you live anywhere, dear?’ asked Tom’s sister looking wistfully in his face.

‘No,’ said Tom. ‘Not at present. Not exactly. I only arrived this morning. We must have some lodgings.’

He didn’t tell her that he had been going to stay with his friend John, and could on no account think of billeting two inmates upon him, of whom one was a young lady; for he knew that would make her uncomfortable, and would cause her to regard herself as being an inconvenience to him. Neither did he like to leave her anywhere while he called on John, and told him of this change in his arrangements; for he was delicate of seeming to encroach upon the generous and hospitable nature of his friend. Therefore he said again, ‘We must have some lodgings, of course;’ and said it as stoutly as if he had been a perfect Directory and Guide-Book to all the lodgings in London.

‘Where shall we go and look for ‘em?’ said Tom. ‘What do you think?’

Tom’s sister was not much wiser on such a topic than he was. So she squeezed her little purse into his coat-pocket, and folding the little hand with which she did so on the other little hand with which she clasped his arm, said nothing.

‘It ought to be a cheap neighbourhood,’ said Tom, ‘and not too far from London. Let me see. Should you think Islington a good place?’

‘I should think it was an excellent place, Tom.’

‘It used to be called Merry Islington, once upon a time,’ said Tom. ‘Perhaps it’s merry now; if so, it’s all the better. Eh?’

‘If it’s not too dear,’ said Tom’s sister.

‘Of course, if it’s not too dear,’ assented Tom. ‘Well, where IS Islington? We can’t do better than go there, I should think. Let’s go.’

Tom’s sister would have gone anywhere with him; so they walked off, arm in arm, as comfortably as possible. Finding, presently, that Islington was not in that neighbourhood, Tom made inquiries respecting a public conveyance thither; which they soon obtained. As they rode along they were very full of conversation indeed, Tom relating what had happened to him, and Tom’s sister relating what had happened to her, and both finding a great deal more to say than time to say it in; for they had only just begun to talk, in comparison with what they had to tell each other, when they reached their journey’s end.

‘Now,’ said Tom, ‘we must first look out for some very unpretending streets, and then look out for bills in the windows.’

So they walked off again, quite as happily as if they had just stepped out of a snug little house of their own, to look for lodgings on account of somebody else. Tom’s simplicity was unabated, Heaven knows; but now that he had somebody to rely upon him, he was stimulated to rely a little more upon himself, and was, in his own opinion, quite a desperate fellow.

After roaming up and down for hours, looking at some scores of lodgings, they began to find it rather fatiguing, especially as they saw none which were at all adapted to their purpose. At length, however, in a singular little old-fashioned house, up a blind street, they discovered two small bedrooms and a triangular parlour, which promised to suit them well enough. Their desiring to take possession immediately was a suspicious circumstance, but even this was surmounted by the payment of their first week’s rent, and a reference to John Westlock, Esquire, Furnival’s Inn, High Holborn.

Ah! It was a goodly sight, when this important point was settled, to behold Tom and his sister trotting round to the baker’s, and the butcher’s, and the grocer’s, with a kind of dreadful delight in the unaccustomed cares of housekeeping; taking secret counsel together as they gave their small orders, and distracted by the least suggestion on the part of the shopkeeper! When they got back to the triangular parlour, and Tom’s sister, bustling to and fro, busy about a thousand pleasant nothings, stopped every now and then to give old Tom a kiss or smile upon him, Tom rubbed his hands as if all Islington were his.

It was late in the afternoon now, though, and high time for Tom to keep his appointment. So, after agreeing with his sister that in consideration of not having dined, they would venture on the extravagance of chops for supper at nine, he walked out again to narrate these marvellous occurrences to John.

‘I am quite a family man all at once,’ thought Tom. ‘If I can only get something to do, how comfortable Ruth and I may be! Ah, that if! But it’s of no use to despond. I can but do that, when I have tried everything and failed; and even then it won’t serve me much. Upon my word,’ thought Tom, quickening his pace, ‘I don’t know what John will think has become of me. He’ll begin to be afraid I have strayed into one of those streets where the countrymen are murdered; and that I have been made meat pies of, or some such horrible thing.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

TOM PINCH, GOING ASTRAY, FINDS THAT HE IS NOT THE ONLY PERSON IN THAT PREDICAMENT. HE RETALIATES UPON A FALLEN FOE

Tom’s evil genius did not lead him into the dens of any of those preparers of cannibalic pastry, who are represented in many standard country legends as doing a lively retail business in the Metropolis; nor did it mark him out as the prey of ring-droppers, pea and thimble-riggers, duffers, touters, or any of those bloodless sharpers, who are, perhaps, a little better known to the Police. He fell into conversation with no gentleman who took him into a public-house, where there happened to be another gentleman who swore he had more money than any gentleman, and very soon proved he had more money than one gentleman by taking his away from him; neither did he fall into any other of the numerous man-traps which are set up without notice, in the public grounds of this city. But he lost his way. He very soon did that; and in trying to find it again he lost it more and more.

Now, Tom, in his guileless distrust of London, thought himself very knowing in coming to the determination that he would not ask to be directed to Furnival’s Inn, if he could help it; unless, indeed, he should happen to find himself near the Mint, or the Bank of England; in which case he would step in, and ask a civil question or two, confiding in the perfect respectability of the concern. So on he went, looking up all the streets he came near, and going up half of them; and thus, by dint of not being true to Goswell Street, and filing off into Aldermanbury, and bewildering himself in Barbican, and being constant to the wrong point of the compass in London Wall, and then getting himself crosswise into Thames Street, by an instinct that would have been marvellous if he had had the least desire or reason to go there, he found himself, at last, hard by the Monument.

The Man in the Monument was quite as mysterious a being to Tom as the Man in the Moon. It immediately occurred to him that the lonely creature who held himself aloof from all mankind in that pillar like some old hermit was the very man of whom to ask his way. Cold, he might be; little sympathy he had, perhaps, with human passion—the column seemed too tall for that; but if Truth didn’t live in the base of the Monument, notwithstanding Pope’s couplet about the outside of it, where in London (thought Tom) was she likely to be found!

Coming close below the pillar, it was a great encouragement to Tom to find that the Man in the Monument had simple tastes; that stony and artificial as his residence was, he still preserved some rustic recollections; that he liked plants, hung up bird-cages, was not wholly cut off from fresh groundsel, and kept young trees in tubs. The Man in the Monument, himself, was sitting outside the door—his own door: the Monument-door: what a grand idea!—and was actually yawning, as if there were no Monument to stop his mouth, and give him a perpetual interest in his own existence.

Tom was advancing towards this remarkable creature, to inquire the way to Furnival’s Inn, when two people came to see the Monument. They were a gentleman and a lady; and the gentleman said, ‘How much a-piece?’

The Man in the Monument replied, ‘A Tanner.’

It seemed a low expression, compared with the Monument.

The gentleman put a shilling into his hand, and the Man in the Monument opened a dark little door. When the gentleman and lady had passed out of view, he shut it again, and came slowly back to his chair.

He sat down and laughed.

‘They don’t know what a many steps there is!’ he said. ‘It’s worth twice the money to stop here. Oh, my eye!’

The Man in the Monument was a Cynic; a worldly man! Tom couldn’t ask his way of HIM. He was prepared to put no confidence in anything he said.

‘My gracious!’ cried a well-known voice behind Mr Pinch. ‘Why, to be sure it is!’

At the same time he was poked in the back by a parasol. Turning round to inquire into this salute, he beheld the eldest daughter of his late patron.

‘Miss Pecksniff!’ said Tom.

‘Why, my goodness, Mr Pinch!’ cried Cherry. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I have rather wandered from my way,’ said Tom. ‘I—’

‘I hope you have run away,’ said Charity. ‘It would be quite spirited and proper if you had, when my Papa so far forgets himself.’

‘I have left him,’ returned Tom. ‘But it was perfectly understood on both sides. It was not done clandestinely.’

‘Is he married?’ asked Cherry, with a spasmodic shake of her chin.

‘No, not yet,’ said Tom, colouring; ‘to tell you the truth, I don’t think he is likely to be, if—if Miss Graham is the object of his passion.’

‘Tcha, Mr Pinch!’ cried Charity, with sharp impatience, ‘you’re very easily deceived. You don’t know the arts of which such a creature is capable. Oh! it’s a wicked world.’

‘You are not married?’ Tom hinted, to divert the conversation.

‘N—no!’ said Cherry, tracing out one particular paving-stone in Monument Yard with the end of her parasol. ‘I—but really it’s quite impossible to explain. Won’t you walk in?’

‘You live here, then?’ said Tom

‘Yes,’ returned Miss Pecksniff, pointing with her parasol to Todgers’s; ‘I reside with this lady, AT PRESENT.’

The great stress on the two last words suggested to Tom that he was expected to say something in reference to them. So he said.

‘Only at present! Are you going home again soon?’

‘No, Mr Pinch,’ returned Charity. ‘No, thank you. No! A mother-in-law who is younger than—I mean to say, who is as nearly as possible about the same age as one’s self, would not quite suit my spirit. Not quite!’ said Cherry, with a spiteful shiver.

‘I thought from your saying “at present”’—Tom observed.

‘Really, upon my word! I had no idea you would press me so very closely on the subject, Mr Pinch,’ said Charity, blushing, ‘or I should not have been so foolish as to allude to—oh really!—won’t you walk in?’

Tom mentioned, to excuse himself, that he had an appointment in Furnival’s Inn, and that coming from Islington he had taken a few wrong turnings, and arrived at the Monument instead. Miss Pecksniff simpered very much when he asked her if she knew the way to Furnival’s Inn, and at length found courage to reply.

‘A gentleman who is a friend of mine, or at least who is not exactly a friend so much as a sort of acquaintance—Oh upon my word, I hardly know what I say, Mr Pinch; you mustn’t suppose there is any engagement between us; or at least if there is, that it is at all a settled thing as yet—is going to Furnival’s Inn immediately, I believe upon a little business, and I am sure he would be very glad to accompany you, so as to prevent your going wrong again. You had better walk in. You will very likely find my sister Merry here,’ she said with a curious toss of her head, and anything but an agreeable smile.

‘Then, I think, I’ll endeavour to find my way alone,’ said Tom, ‘for I fear she would not be very glad to see me. That unfortunate occurrence, in relation to which you and I had some amicable words together, in private, is not likely to have impressed her with any friendly feeling towards me. Though it really was not my fault.’

‘She has never heard of that, you may depend,’ said Cherry, gathering up the corners of her mouth, and nodding at Tom. ‘I am far from sure that she would bear you any mighty ill will for it, if she had.’

‘You don’t say so?’ cried Tom, who was really concerned by this insinuation.

‘I say nothing,’ said Charity. ‘If I had not already known what shocking things treachery and deceit are in themselves, Mr Pinch, I might perhaps have learnt it from the success they meet with—from the success they meet with.’ Here she smiled as before. ‘But I don’t say anything. On the contrary, I should scorn it. You had better walk in!’

There was something hidden here, which piqued Tom’s interest and troubled his tender heart. When, in a moment’s irresolution, he looked at Charity, he could not but observe a struggle in her face between a sense of triumph and a sense of shame; nor could he but remark how, meeting even his eyes, which she cared so little for, she turned away her own, for all the splenetic defiance in her manner.

An uneasy thought entered Tom’s head; a shadowy misgiving that the altered relations between himself and Pecksniff were somehow to involve an altered knowledge on his part of other people, and were to give him an insight into much of which he had had no previous suspicion. And yet he put no definite construction upon Charity’s proceedings. He certainly had no idea that as he had been the audience and spectator of her mortification, she grasped with eager delight at any opportunity of reproaching her sister with his presence in HER far deeper misery; for he knew nothing of it, and only pictured that sister as the same giddy, careless, trivial creature she always had been, with the same slight estimation of himself which she had never been at the least pains to conceal. In short, he had merely a confused impression that Miss Pecksniff was not quite sisterly or kind; and being curious to set it right, accompanied her as she desired.

The house-door being opened, she went in before Tom, requesting him to follow her; and led the way to the parlour door.

‘Oh, Merry!’ she said, looking in, ‘I am so glad you have not gone home. Who do you think I have met in the street, and brought to see you! Mr Pinch! There. Now you ARE surprised, I am sure!’

Not more surprised than Tom was, when he looked upon her. Not so much. Not half so much.

‘Mr Pinch has left Papa, my dear,’ said Cherry, ‘and his prospects are quite flourishing. I have promised that Augustus, who is going that way, shall escort him to the place he wants. Augustus, my child, where are you?’

With these words Miss Pecksniff screamed her way out of the parlour, calling on Augustus Moddle to appear; and left Tom Pinch alone with her sister.

If she had always been his kindest friend; if she had treated him through all his servitude with such consideration as was never yet received by struggling man; if she had lightened every moment of those many years, and had ever spared and never wounded him; his honest heart could not have swelled before her with a deeper pity, or a purer freedom from all base remembrance than it did then.

‘My gracious me! You are really the last person in the world I should have thought of seeing, I am sure!’

Tom was sorry to hear her speaking in her old manner. He had not expected that. Yet he did not feel it a contradiction that he should be sorry to see her so unlike her old self, and sorry at the same time to hear her speaking in her old manner. The two things seemed quite natural.

‘I wonder you find any gratification in coming to see me. I can’t think what put it in your head. I never had much in seeing you. There was no love lost between us, Mr Pinch, at any time, I think.’

Her bonnet lay beside her on the sofa, and she was very busy with the ribbons as she spoke. Much too busy to be conscious of the work her fingers did.

‘We never quarrelled,’ said Tom.—Tom was right in that, for one person can no more quarrel without an adversary, than one person can play at chess, or fight a duel. ‘I hoped you would be glad to shake hands with an old friend. Don’t let us rake up bygones,’ said Tom. ‘If I ever offended you, forgive me.’

She looked at him for a moment; dropped her bonnet from her hands; spread them before her altered face, and burst into tears.

‘Oh, Mr Pinch!’ she said, ‘although I never used you well, I did believe your nature was forgiving. I did not think you could be cruel.’

She spoke as little like her old self now, for certain, as Tom could possibly have wished. But she seemed to be appealing to him reproachfully, and he did not understand her.

‘I seldom showed it—never—I know that. But I had that belief in you, that if I had been asked to name the person in the world least likely to retort upon me, I would have named you, confidently.’

‘Would have named me!’ Tom repeated.

‘Yes,’ she said with energy, ‘and I have often thought so.’

After a moment’s reflection, Tom sat himself upon a chair beside her.

‘Do you believe,’ said Tom, ‘oh, can you think, that what I said just now, I said with any but the true and plain intention which my words professed? I mean it, in the spirit and the letter. If I ever offended you, forgive me; I may have done so, many times. You never injured or offended me. How, then, could I possibly retort, if even I were stern and bad enough to wish to do it!’

After a little while she thanked him, through her tears and sobs, and told him she had never been at once so sorry and so comforted, since she left home. Still she wept bitterly; and it was the greater pain to Tom to see her weeping, from her standing in especial need, just then, of sympathy and tenderness.

‘Come, come!’ said Tom, ‘you used to be as cheerful as the day was long.’

‘Ah! used!’ she cried, in such a tone as rent Tom’s heart.

‘And will be again,’ said Tom.

‘No, never more. No, never, never more. If you should talk with old Mr Chuzzlewit, at any time,’ she added, looking hurriedly into his face—‘I sometimes thought he liked you, but suppressed it—will you promise me to tell him that you saw me here, and that I said I bore in mind the time we talked together in the churchyard?’

Tom promised that he would.

‘Many times since then, when I have wished I had been carried there before that day, I have recalled his words. I wish that he should know how true they were, although the least acknowledgment to that effect has never passed my lips and never will.’

Tom promised this, conditionally too. He did not tell her how improbable it was that he and the old man would ever meet again, because he thought it might disturb her more.

‘If he should ever know this, through your means, dear Mr Pinch,’ said Mercy, ‘tell him that I sent the message, not for myself, but that he might be more forbearing and more patient, and more trustful to some other person, in some other time of need. Tell him that if he could know how my heart trembled in the balance that day, and what a very little would have turned the scale, his own would bleed with pity for me.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Tom, ‘I will.’

‘When I appeared to him the most unworthy of his help, I was—I know I was, for I have often, often, thought about it since—the most inclined to yield to what he showed me. Oh! if he had relented but a little more; if he had thrown himself in my way for but one other quarter of an hour; if he had extended his compassion for a vain, unthinking, miserable girl, in but the least degree; he might, and I believe he would, have saved her! Tell him that I don’t blame him, but am grateful for the effort that he made; but ask him for the love of God, and youth, and in merciful consideration for the struggle which an ill-advised and unwakened nature makes to hide the strength it thinks its weakness—ask him never, never, to forget this, when he deals with one again!’

Although Tom did not hold the clue to her full meaning, he could guess it pretty nearly. Touched to the quick, he took her hand and said, or meant to say, some words of consolation. She felt and understood them, whether they were spoken or no. He was not quite certain, afterwards, but that she had tried to kneel down at his feet, and bless him.

He found that he was not alone in the room when she had left it. Mrs Todgers was there, shaking her head. Tom had never seen Mrs Todgers, it is needless to say, but he had a perception of her being the lady of the house; and he saw some genuine compassion in her eyes, that won his good opinion.

‘Ah, sir! You are an old friend, I see,’ said Mrs Todgers.

‘Yes,’ said Tom.

‘And yet,’ quoth Mrs Todgers, shutting the door softly, ‘she hasn’t told you what her troubles are, I’m certain.’

Tom was struck by these words, for they were quite true. ‘Indeed,’ he said, ‘she has not.’

‘And never would,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘if you saw her daily. She never makes the least complaint to me, or utters a single word of explanation or reproach. But I know,’ said Mrs Todgers, drawing in her breath, ‘I know!’

Tom nodded sorrowfully, ‘So do I.’

‘I fully believe,’ said Mrs Todgers, taking her pocket-handkerchief from the flat reticule, ‘that nobody can tell one half of what that poor young creature has to undergo. But though she comes here, constantly, to ease her poor full heart without his knowing it; and saying, “Mrs Todgers, I am very low to-day; I think that I shall soon be dead,” sits crying in my room until the fit is past; I know no more from her. And, I believe,’ said Mrs Todgers, putting back her handkerchief again, ‘that she considers me a good friend too.’

Mrs Todgers might have said her best friend. Commercial gentlemen and gravy had tried Mrs Todgers’s temper; the main chance—it was such a very small one in her case, that she might have been excused for looking sharp after it, lest it should entirely vanish from her sight—had taken a firm hold on Mrs Todgers’s attention. But in some odd nook in Mrs Todgers’s breast, up a great many steps, and in a corner easy to be overlooked, there was a secret door, with ‘Woman’ written on the spring, which, at a touch from Mercy’s hand, had flown wide open, and admitted her for shelter.

When boarding-house accounts are balanced with all other ledgers, and the books of the Recording Angel are made up for ever, perhaps there may be seen an entry to thy credit, lean Mrs Todgers, which shall make thee beautiful!

She was growing beautiful so rapidly in Tom’s eyes; for he saw that she was poor, and that this good had sprung up in her from among the sordid strivings of her life; that she might have been a very Venus in a minute more, if Miss Pecksniff had not entered with her friend.

‘Mr Thomas Pinch!’ said Charity, performing the ceremony of introduction with evident pride. ‘Mr Moddle. Where’s my sister?’

‘Gone, Miss Pecksniff,’ Mrs Todgers answered. ‘She had appointed to be home.’

‘Ah!’ said Charity, looking at Tom. ‘Oh, dear me!’

‘She’s greatly altered since she’s been Anoth—since she’s been married, Mrs Todgers!’ observed Moddle.

‘My dear Augustus!’ said Miss Pecksniff, in a low voice. ‘I verily believe you have said that fifty thousand times, in my hearing. What a Prose you are!’

This was succeeded by some trifling love passages, which appeared to originate with, if not to be wholly carried on by Miss Pecksniff. At any rate, Mr Moddle was much slower in his responses than is customary with young lovers, and exhibited a lowness of spirits which was quite oppressive.

He did not improve at all when Tom and he were in the streets, but sighed so dismally that it was dreadful to hear him. As a means of cheering him up, Tom told him that he wished him joy.

‘Joy!’ cried Moddle. ‘Ha, ha!’

‘What an extraordinary young man!’ thought Tom.

‘The Scorner has not set his seal upon you. YOU care what becomes of you?’ said Moddle.

Tom admitted that it was a subject in which he certainly felt some interest.

‘I don’t,’ said Mr Moddle. ‘The Elements may have me when they please. I’m ready.’

Tom inferred from these, and other expressions of the same nature, that he was jealous. Therefore he allowed him to take his own course; which was such a gloomy one, that he felt a load removed from his mind when they parted company at the gate of Furnival’s Inn.

It was now a couple of hours past John Westlock’s dinner-time; and he was walking up and down the room, quite anxious for Tom’s safety. The table was spread; the wine was carefully decanted; and the dinner smelt delicious.

‘Why, Tom, old boy, where on earth have you been? Your box is here. Get your boots off instantly, and sit down!’

‘I am sorry to say I can’t stay, John,’ replied Tom Pinch, who was breathless with the haste he had made in running up the stairs.

‘Can’t stay!’

‘If you’ll go on with your dinner,’ said Tom, ‘I’ll tell you my reason the while. I mustn’t eat myself, or I shall have no appetite for the chops.’

‘There are no chops here, my food fellow.’

‘No. But there are at Islington,’ said Tom.

John Westlock was perfectly confounded by this reply, and vowed he would not touch a morsel until Tom had explained himself fully. So Tom sat down, and told him all; to which he listened with the greatest interest.

He knew Tom too well, and respected his delicacy too much, to ask him why he had taken these measures without communicating with him first. He quite concurred in the expediency of Tom’s immediately returning to his sister, as he knew so little of the place in which he had left her, and good-humouredly proposed to ride back with him in a cab, in which he might convey his box. Tom’s proposition that he should sup with them that night, he flatly rejected, but made an appointment with him for the morrow. ‘And now Tom,’ he said, as they rode along, ‘I have a question to ask you to which I expect a manly and straightforward answer. Do you want any money? I am pretty sure you do.’

‘I don’t indeed,’ said Tom.

‘I believe you are deceiving me.’

‘No. With many thanks to you, I am quite in earnest,’ Tom replied. ‘My sister has some money, and so have I. If I had nothing else, John, I have a five-pound note, which that good creature, Mrs Lupin, of the Dragon, handed up to me outside the coach, in a letter begging me to borrow it; and then drove off as hard as she could go.’

‘And a blessing on every dimple in her handsome face, say I!’ cried John, ‘though why you should give her the preference over me, I don’t know. Never mind. I bide my time, Tom.’

‘And I hope you’ll continue to bide it,’ returned Tom, gayly. ‘For I owe you more, already, in a hundred other ways, than I can ever hope to pay.’

They parted at the door of Tom’s new residence. John Westlock, sitting in the cab, and, catching a glimpse of a blooming little busy creature darting out to kiss Tom and to help him with his box, would not have had the least objection to change places with him.

Well! she WAS a cheerful little thing; and had a quaint, bright quietness about her that was infinitely pleasant. Surely she was the best sauce for chops ever invented. The potatoes seemed to take a pleasure in sending up their grateful steam before her; the froth upon the pint of porter pouted to attract her notice. But it was all in vain. She saw nothing but Tom. Tom was the first and last thing in the world.

As she sat opposite to Tom at supper, fingering one of Tom’s pet tunes upon the table-cloth, and smiling in his face, he had never been so happy in his life.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

SECRET SERVICE

In walking from the city with his sentimental friend, Tom Pinch had looked into the face, and brushed against the threadbare sleeve, of Mr Nadgett, man of mystery to the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company. Mr Nadgett naturally passed away from Tom’s remembrance as he passed out of his view; for he didn’t know him, and had never heard his name.

As there are a vast number of people in the huge metropolis of England who rise up every morning not knowing where their heads will rest at night, so there are a multitude who shooting arrows over houses as their daily business, never know on whom they fall. Mr Nadgett might have passed Tom Pinch ten thousand times; might even have been quite familiar with his face, his name, pursuits, and character; yet never once have dreamed that Tom had any interest in any act or mystery of his. Tom might have done the like by him of course. But the same private man out of all the men alive, was in the mind of each at the same moment; was prominently connected though in a different manner, with the day’s adventures of both; and formed, when they passed each other in the street, the one absorbing topic of their thoughts.

Why Tom had Jonas Chuzzlewit in his mind requires no explanation. Why Mr Nadgett should have had Jonas Chuzzlewit in his, is quite another thing.

But, somehow or other, that amiable and worthy orphan had become a part of the mystery of Mr Nadgett’s existence. Mr Nadgett took an interest in his lightest proceedings; and it never flagged or wavered. He watched him in and out of the Assurance Office, where he was now formally installed as a Director; he dogged his footsteps in the streets; he stood listening when he talked; he sat in coffee-rooms entering his name in the great pocket-book, over and over again; he wrote letters to himself about him constantly; and, when he found them in his pocket, put them in the fire, with such distrust and caution that he would bend down to watch the crumpled tinder while it floated upwards, as if his mind misgave him, that the mystery it had contained might come out at the chimney-pot.

And yet all this was quite a secret. Mr Nadgett kept it to himself, and kept it close. Jonas had no more idea that Mr Nadgett’s eyes were fixed on him, than he had that he was living under the daily inspection and report of a whole order of Jesuits. Indeed Mr Nadgett’s eyes were seldom fixed on any other objects than the ground, the clock, or the fire; but every button on his coat might have been an eye, he saw so much.

The secret manner of the man disarmed suspicion in this wise; suggesting, not that he was watching any one, but that he thought some other man was watching him. He went about so stealthily, and kept himself so wrapped up in himself, that the whole object of his life appeared to be, to avoid notice and preserve his own mystery. Jonas sometimes saw him in the street, hovering in the outer office, waiting at the door for the man who never came, or slinking off with his immovable face and drooping head, and the one beaver glove dangling before him; but he would as soon have thought of the cross upon the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral taking note of what he did, or slowly winding a great net about his feet, as of Nadgett’s being engaged in such an occupation.

Mr Nadgett made a mysterious change about this time in his mysterious life: for whereas he had, until now, been first seen every morning coming down Cornhill, so exactly like the Nadgett of the day before as to occasion a popular belief that he never went to bed or took his clothes off, he was now first seen in Holborn, coming out of Kingsgate Street; and it was soon discovered that he actually went every morning to a barber’s shop in that street to get shaved; and that the barber’s name was Sweedlepipe. He seemed to make appointments with the man who never came, to meet him at this barber’s; for he would frequently take long spells of waiting in the shop, and would ask for pen and ink, and pull out his pocket-book, and be very busy over it for an hour at a time. Mrs Gamp and Mr Sweedlepipe had many deep discoursings on the subject of this mysterious customer; but they usually agreed that he had speculated too much and was keeping out of the way.

He must have appointed the man who never kept his word, to meet him at another new place too; for one day he was found, for the first time, by the waiter at the Mourning Coach-Horse, the House-of-call for Undertakers, down in the City there, making figures with a pipe-stem in the sawdust of a clean spittoon; and declining to call for anything, on the ground of expecting a gentleman presently. As the gentleman was not honourable enough to keep his engagement, he came again next day, with his pocket-book in such a state of distention that he was regarded in the bar as a man of large property. After that, he repeated his visits every day, and had so much writing to do, that he made nothing of emptying a capacious leaden inkstand in two sittings. Although he never talked much, still, by being there among the regular customers, he made their acquaintance, and in course of time became quite intimate with Mr Tacker, Mr Mould’s foreman; and even with Mr Mould himself, who openly said he was a long-headed man, a dry one, a salt fish, a deep file, a rasper; and made him the subject of many other flattering encomiums.

At the same time, too, he told the people at the Assurance Office, in his own mysterious way, that there was something wrong (secretly wrong, of course) in his liver, and that he feared he must put himself under the doctor’s hands. He was delivered over to Jobling upon this representation; and though Jobling could not find out where his liver was wrong, wrong Mr Nadgett said it was; observing that it was his own liver, and he hoped he ought to know. Accordingly, he became Mr Jobling’s patient; and detailing his symptoms in his slow and secret way, was in and out of that gentleman’s room a dozen times a day.

As he pursued all these occupations at once; and all steadily; and all secretly; and never slackened in his watchfulness of everything that Mr Jonas said and did, and left unsaid and undone; it is not improbable that they were, secretly, essential parts of some great scheme which Mr Nadgett had on foot.

It was on the morning of this very day on which so much had happened to Tom Pinch, that Nadgett suddenly appeared before Mr Montague’s house in Pall Mall—he always made his appearance as if he had that moment come up a trap—when the clocks were striking nine. He rang the bell in a covert under-handed way, as though it were a treasonable act; and passed in at the door, the moment it was opened wide enough to receive his body. That done, he shut it immediately with his own hands.

Mr Bailey, taking up his name without delay, returned with a request that he would follow him into his master’s chamber. The chairman of the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Board was dressing, and received him as a business person who was often backwards and forwards, and was received at all times for his business’ sake.

‘Well, Mr Nadgett?’

Mr Nadgett put his hat upon the ground and coughed. The boy having withdrawn and shut the door, he went to it softly, examined the handle, and returned to within a pace or two of the chair in which Mr Montague sat.

‘Any news, Mr Nadgett?’

‘I think we have some news at last, sir.’

‘I am happy to hear it. I began to fear you were off the scent, Mr Nadgett.’

‘No, sir. It grows cold occasionally. It will sometimes. We can’t help that.’

‘You are truth itself, Mr Nadgett. Do you report a great success?’

‘That depends upon your judgment and construction of it,’ was his answer, as he put on his spectacles.

‘What do you think of it yourself? Have you pleased yourself?’

Mr Nadgett rubbed his hands slowly, stroked his chin, looked round the room, and said, ‘Yes, yes, I think it’s a good case. I am disposed to think it’s a good case. Will you go into it at once?’

‘By all means.’

Mr Nadgett picked out a certain chair from among the rest, and having planted it in a particular spot, as carefully as if he had been going to vault over it, placed another chair in front of it; leaving room for his own legs between them. He then sat down in chair number two, and laid his pocket-book, very carefully, on chair number one. He then untied the pocket-book, and hung the string over the back of chair number one. He then drew both the chairs a little nearer Mr Montague, and opening the pocket-book spread out its contents. Finally he selected a certain memorandum from the rest, and held it out to his employer, who, during the whole of these preliminary ceremonies, had been making violent efforts to conceal his impatience.

‘I wish you wouldn’t be so fond of making notes, my excellent friend,’ said Tigg Montague with a ghastly smile. ‘I wish you would consent to give me their purport by word of mouth.’

‘I don’t like word of mouth,’ said Mr Nadgett gravely. ‘We never know who’s listening.’

Mr Montague was going to retort, when Nadgett handed him the paper, and said, with quiet exultation in his tone, ‘We’ll begin at the beginning, and take that one first, if you please, sir.’

The chairman cast his eyes upon it, coldly, and with a smile which did not render any great homage to the slow and methodical habits of his spy. But he had not read half-a-dozen lines when the expression of his face began to change, and before he had finished the perusal of the paper, it was full of grave and serious attention.

‘Number Two,’ said Mr Nadgett, handing him another, and receiving back the first. ‘Read Number Two, sir, if you please. There is more interest as you go on.’

Tigg Montague leaned backward in his chair, and cast upon his emissary such a look of vacant wonder (not unmingled with alarm), that Mr Nadgett considered it necessary to repeat the request he had already twice preferred; with the view to recalling his attention to the point in hand. Profiting by the hint, Mr Montague went on with Number Two, and afterwards with Numbers Three, and Four, and Five, and so on.

These documents were all in Mr Nadgett’s writing, and were apparently a series of memoranda, jotted down from time to time upon the backs of old letters, or any scrap of paper that came first to hand. Loose straggling scrawls they were, and of very uninviting exterior; but they had weighty purpose in them, if the chairman’s face were any index to the character of their contents.

The progress of Mr Nadgett’s secret satisfaction arising out of the effect they made, kept pace with the emotions of the reader. At first, Mr Nadgett sat with his spectacles low down upon his nose, looking over them at his employer, and nervously rubbing his hands. After a little while, he changed his posture in his chair for one of greater ease, and leisurely perused the next document he held ready as if an occasional glance at his employer’s face were now enough and all occasion for anxiety or doubt were gone. And finally he rose and looked out of the window, where he stood with a triumphant air until Tigg Montague had finished.

‘And this is the last, Mr Nadgett!’ said that gentleman, drawing a long breath.

‘That, sir, is the last.’

‘You are a wonderful man, Mr Nadgett!’

‘I think it is a pretty good case,’ he returned as he gathered up his papers. ‘It cost some trouble, sir.’

‘The trouble shall be well rewarded, Mr Nadgett.’ Nadgett bowed. ‘There is a deeper impression of Somebody’s Hoof here, than I had expected, Mr Nadgett. I may congratulate myself upon your being such a good hand at a secret.’

‘Oh! nothing has an interest to me that’s not a secret,’ replied Nadgett, as he tied the string about his pocket-book, and put it up. ‘It always takes away any pleasure I may have had in this inquiry even to make it known to you.’

‘A most invaluable constitution,’ Tigg retorted. ‘A great gift for a gentleman employed as you are, Mr Nadgett. Much better than discretion; though you possess that quality also in an eminent degree. I think I heard a double knock. Will you put your head out of window, and tell me whether there is anybody at the door?’

Mr Nadgett softly raised the sash, and peered out from the very corner, as a man might who was looking down into a street from whence a brisk discharge of musketry might be expected at any moment. Drawing in his head with equal caution, he observed, not altering his voice or manner:

‘Mr Jonas Chuzzlewit!’

‘I thought so,’ Tigg retorted.

‘Shall I go?’

‘I think you had better. Stay though! No! remain here, Mr Nadgett, if you please.’

It was remarkable how pale and flurried he had become in an instant. There was nothing to account for it. His eye had fallen on his razors; but what of them!

Mr Chuzzlewit was announced.

‘Show him up directly. Nadgett! don’t you leave us alone together. Mind you don’t, now! By the Lord!’ he added in a whisper to himself: ‘We don’t know what may happen.’

Saying this, he hurriedly took up a couple of hair-brushes, and began to exercise them on his own head, as if his toilet had not been interrupted. Mr Nadgett withdrew to the stove, in which there was a small fire for the convenience of heating curling-irons; and taking advantage of so favourable an opportunity for drying his pocket-handkerchief, produced it without loss of time. There he stood, during the whole interview, holding it before the bars, and sometimes, but not often, glancing over his shoulder.

‘My dear Chuzzlewit!’ cried Montague, as Jonas entered. ‘You rise with the lark. Though you go to bed with the nightingale, you rise with the lark. You have superhuman energy, my dear Chuzzlewit!’

‘Ecod!’ said Jonas, with an air of langour and ill-humour, as he took a chair, ‘I should be very glad not to get up with the lark, if I could help it. But I am a light sleeper; and it’s better to be up than lying awake, counting the dismal old church-clocks, in bed.’

‘A light sleeper!’ cried his friend. ‘Now, what is a light sleeper? I often hear the expression, but upon my life I have not the least conception what a light sleeper is.’

‘Hallo!’ said Jonas, ‘Who’s that? Oh, old what’s-his-name: looking (as usual) as if he wanted to skulk up the chimney.’

‘Ha, ha! I have no doubt he does.’

‘Well! He’s not wanted here, I suppose,’ said Jonas. ‘He may go, mayn’t he?’

‘Oh, let him stay, let him stay!’ said Tigg. ‘He’s a mere piece of furniture. He has been making his report, and is waiting for further orders. He has been told,’ said Tigg, raising his voice, ‘not to lose sight of certain friends of ours, or to think that he has done with them by any means. He understands his business.’

‘He need,’ replied Jonas; ‘for of all the precious old dummies in appearance that I ever saw, he’s about the worst. He’s afraid of me, I think.’

‘It’s my belief,’ said Tigg, ‘that you are Poison to him. Nadgett! give me that towel!’

He had as little occasion for a towel as Jonas had for a start. But Nadgett brought it quickly; and, having lingered for a moment, fell back upon his old post by the fire.

‘You see, my dear fellow,’ resumed Tigg, ‘you are too—what’s the matter with your lips? How white they are!’

‘I took some vinegar just now,’ said Jonas. ‘I had oysters for my breakfast. Where are they white?’ he added, muttering an oath, and rubbing them upon his handkerchief. ‘I don’t believe they ARE white.’

‘Now I look again, they are not,’ replied his friend. ‘They are coming right again.’

‘Say what you were going to say,’ cried Jonas angrily, ‘and let my face be! As long as I can show my teeth when I want to (and I can do that pretty well), the colour of my lips is not material.’

‘Quite true,’ said Tigg. ‘I was only going to say that you are too quick and active for our friend. He is too shy to cope with such a man as you, but does his duty well. Oh, very well! But what is a light sleeper?’

‘Hang a light sleeper!’ exclaimed Jonas pettishly.

‘No, no,’ interrupted Tigg. ‘No. We’ll not do that.’

‘A light sleeper ain’t a heavy one,’ said Jonas in his sulky way; ‘don’t sleep much, and don’t sleep well, and don’t sleep sound.’

‘And dreams,’ said Tigg, ‘and cries out in an ugly manner; and when the candle burns down in the night, is in an agony; and all that sort of thing. I see!’

They were silent for a little time. Then Jonas spoke:

‘Now we’ve done with child’s talk, I want to have a word with you. I want to have a word with you before we meet up yonder to-day. I am not satisfied with the state of affairs.’

‘Not satisfied!’ cried Tigg. ‘The money comes in well.’

‘The money comes in well enough,’ retorted Jonas, ‘but it don’t come out well enough. It can’t be got at easily enough. I haven’t sufficient power; it is all in your hands. Ecod! what with one of your by-laws, and another of your by-laws, and your votes in this capacity, and your votes in that capacity, and your official rights, and your individual rights, and other people’s rights who are only you again, there are no rights left for me. Everybody else’s rights are my wrongs. What’s the use of my having a voice if it’s always drowned? I might as well be dumb, and it would be much less aggravating. I’m not a-going to stand that, you know.’

‘No!’ said Tigg in an insinuating tone.

‘No!’ returned Jonas, ‘I’m not indeed. I’ll play old Gooseberry with the office, and make you glad to buy me out at a good high figure, if you try any of your tricks with me.’

‘I give you my honour—’ Montague began.

‘Oh! confound your honour,’ interrupted Jonas, who became more coarse and quarrelsome as the other remonstrated, which may have been a part of Mr Montague’s intention; ‘I want a little more control over the money. You may have all the honour, if you like; I’ll never bring you to book for that. But I’m not a-going to stand it, as it is now. If you should take it into your honourable head to go abroad with the bank, I don’t see much to prevent you. Well! That won’t do. I’ve had some very good dinners here, but they’d come too dear on such terms; and therefore, that won’t do.’

‘I am unfortunate to find you in this humour,’ said Tigg, with a remarkable kind of smile; ‘for I was going to propose to you—for your own advantage; solely for your own advantage—that you should venture a little more with us.’

‘Was you, by G—?’ said Jonas, with a short laugh.

‘Yes. And to suggest,’ pursued Montague, ‘that surely you have friends; indeed, I know you have; who would answer our purpose admirably, and whom we should be delighted to receive.’

‘How kind of you! You’d be delighted to receive ‘em, would you?’ said Jonas, bantering.

‘I give you my sacred honour, quite transported. As your friends, observe!’

‘Exactly,’ said Jonas; ‘as my friends, of course. You’ll be very much delighted when you get ‘em, I have no doubt. And it’ll be all to my advantage, won’t it?’

‘It will be very much to your advantage,’ answered Montague poising a brush in each hand, and looking steadily upon him. ‘It will be very much to your advantage, I assure you.’

‘And you can tell me how,’ said Jonas, ‘can’t you?’

‘SHALL I tell you how?’ returned the other.

‘I think you had better,’ said Jonas. ‘Strange things have been done in the Assurance way before now, by strange sorts of men, and I mean to take care of myself.’

‘Chuzzlewit!’ replied Montague, leaning forward, with his arms upon his knees, and looking full into his face. ‘Strange things have been done, and are done every day; not only in our way, but in a variety of other ways; and no one suspects them. But ours, as you say, my good friend, is a strange way; and we strangely happen, sometimes, to come into the knowledge of very strange events.’

He beckoned to Jonas to bring his chair nearer; and looking slightly round, as if to remind him of the presence of Nadgett, whispered in his ear.

From red to white; from white to red again; from red to yellow; then to a cold, dull, awful, sweat-bedabbled blue. In that short whisper, all these changes fell upon the face of Jonas Chuzzlewit; and when at last he laid his hand upon the whisperer’s mouth, appalled, lest any syllable of what he said should reach the ears of the third person present, it was as bloodless and as heavy as the hand of Death.

He drew his chair away, and sat a spectacle of terror, misery, and rage. He was afraid to speak, or look, or move, or sit still. Abject, crouching, and miserable, he was a greater degradation to the form he bore, than if he had been a loathsome wound from head to heel.

His companion leisurely resumed his dressing, and completed it, glancing sometimes with a smile at the transformation he had effected, but never speaking once.

‘You’ll not object,’ he said, when he was quite equipped, ‘to venture further with us, Chuzzlewit, my friend?’

His pale lips faintly stammered out a ‘No.’

‘Well said! That’s like yourself. Do you know I was thinking yesterday that your father-in-law, relying on your advice as a man of great sagacity in money matters, as no doubt you are, would join us, if the thing were well presented to him. He has money?’

‘Yes, he has money.’

‘Shall I leave Mr Pecksniff to you? Will you undertake for Mr Pecksniff.’

‘I’ll try. I’ll do my best.’

‘A thousand thanks,’ replied the other, clapping him upon the shoulder. ‘Shall we walk downstairs? Mr Nadgett! Follow us, if you please.’

They went down in that order. Whatever Jonas felt in reference to Montague; whatever sense he had of being caged, and barred, and trapped, and having fallen down into a pit of deepest ruin; whatever thoughts came crowding on his mind even at that early time, of one terrible chance of escape, of one red glimmer in a sky of blackness; he no more thought that the slinking figure half-a-dozen stairs behind him was his pursuing Fate, than that the other figure at his side was his Good Angel.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CONTAINING SOME FURTHER PARTICULARS OF THE DOMESTIC ECONOMY OF THE PINCHES; WITH STRANGE NEWS FROM THE CITY, NARROWLY CONCERNING TOM

Pleasant little Ruth! Cheerful, tidy, bustling, quiet little Ruth! No doll’s house ever yielded greater delight to its young mistress, than little Ruth derived from her glorious dominion over the triangular parlour and the two small bedrooms.

To be Tom’s housekeeper. What dignity! Housekeeping, upon the commonest terms, associated itself with elevated responsibilities of all sorts and kinds; but housekeeping for Tom implied the utmost complication of grave trusts and mighty charges. Well might she take the keys out of the little chiffonier which held the tea and sugar; and out of the two little damp cupboards down by the fireplace, where the very black beetles got mouldy, and had the shine taken out of their backs by envious mildew; and jingle them upon a ring before Tom’s eyes when he came down to breakfast! Well might she, laughing musically, put them up in that blessed little pocket of hers with a merry pride! For it was such a grand novelty to be mistress of anything, that if she had been the most relentless and despotic of all little housekeepers, she might have pleaded just that much for her excuse, and have been honourably acquitted.

So far from being despotic, however, there was a coyness about her very way of pouring out the tea, which Tom quite revelled in. And when she asked him what he would like to have for dinner, and faltered out ‘chops’ as a reasonably good suggestion after their last night’s successful supper, Tom grew quite facetious, and rallied her desperately.

‘I don’t know, Tom,’ said his sister, blushing, ‘I am not quite confident, but I think I could make a beef-steak pudding, if I tried, Tom.’

‘In the whole catalogue of cookery, there is nothing I should like so much as a beef-steak pudding!’ cried Tom, slapping his leg to give the greater force to this reply.

‘Yes, dear, that’s excellent! But if it should happen not to come quite right the first time,’ his sister faltered; ‘if it should happen not to be a pudding exactly, but should turn out a stew, or a soup, or something of that sort, you’ll not be vexed, Tom, will you?’

The serious way in which she looked at Tom; the way in which Tom looked at her; and the way in which she gradually broke into a merry laugh at her own expense, would have enchanted you.

‘Why,’ said Tom ‘this is capital. It gives us a new, and quite an uncommon interest in the dinner. We put into a lottery for a beefsteak pudding, and it is impossible to say what we may get. We may make some wonderful discovery, perhaps, and produce such a dish as never was known before.’

‘I shall not be at all surprised if we do, Tom,’ returned his sister, still laughing merrily, ‘or if it should prove to be such a dish as we shall not feel very anxious to produce again; but the meat must come out of the saucepan at last, somehow or other, you know. We can’t cook it into nothing at all; that’s a great comfort. So if you like to venture, I will.’

‘I have not the least doubt,’ rejoined Tom, ‘that it will come out an excellent pudding, or at all events, I am sure that I shall think it so. There is naturally something so handy and brisk about you, Ruth, that if you said you could make a bowl of faultless turtle soup, I should believe you.’

And Tom was right. She was precisely that sort of person. Nobody ought to have been able to resist her coaxing manner; and nobody had any business to try. Yet she never seemed to know it was her manner at all. That was the best of it.

Well! she washed up the breakfast cups, chatting away the whole time, and telling Tom all sorts of anecdotes about the brass-and-copper founder; put everything in its place; made the room as neat as herself;—you must not suppose its shape was half as neat as hers though, or anything like it—and brushed Tom’s old hat round and round and round again, until it was as sleek as Mr Pecksniff. Then she discovered, all in a moment, that Tom’s shirt-collar was frayed at the edge; and flying upstairs for a needle and thread, came flying down again with her thimble on, and set it right with wonderful expertness; never once sticking the needle into his face, although she was humming his pet tune from first to last, and beating time with the fingers of her left hand upon his neckcloth. She had no sooner done this, than off she was again; and there she stood once more, as brisk and busy as a bee, tying that compact little chin of hers into an equally compact little bonnet; intent on bustling out to the butcher’s, without a minute’s loss of time; and inviting Tom to come and see the steak cut, with his own eyes. As to Tom, he was ready to go anywhere; so off they trotted, arm-in-arm, as nimbly as you please; saying to each other what a quiet street it was to lodge in, and how very cheap, and what an airy situation.

To see the butcher slap the steak, before he laid it on the block, and give his knife a sharpening, was to forget breakfast instantly. It was agreeable, too—it really was—to see him cut it off, so smooth and juicy. There was nothing savage in the act, although the knife was large and keen; it was a piece of art, high art; there was delicacy of touch, clearness of tone, skillful handling of the subject, fine shading. It was the triumph of mind over matter; quite.

Perhaps the greenest cabbage-leaf ever grown in a garden was wrapped about this steak, before it was delivered over to Tom. But the butcher had a sentiment for his business, and knew how to refine upon it. When he saw Tom putting the cabbage-leaf into his pocket awkwardly, he begged to be allowed to do it for him; ‘for meat,’ he said with some emotion, ‘must be humoured, not drove.’

Back they went to the lodgings again, after they had bought some eggs, and flour, and such small matters; and Tom sat gravely down to write at one end of the parlour table, while Ruth prepared to make the pudding at the other end; for there was nobody in the house but an old woman (the landlord being a mysterious sort of man, who went out early in the morning, and was scarcely ever seen); and saving in mere household drudgery, they waited on themselves.

‘What are you writing, Tom?’ inquired his sister, laying her hand upon his shoulder.

‘Why, you see, my dear,’ said Tom, leaning back in his chair, and looking up in her face, ‘I am very anxious, of course, to obtain some suitable employment; and before Mr Westlock comes this afternoon, I think I may as well prepare a little description of myself and my qualifications; such as he could show to any friend of his.’

‘You had better do the same for me, Tom, also,’ said his sister, casting down her eyes. ‘I should dearly like to keep house for you and take care of you always, Tom; but we are not rich enough for that.’

‘We are not rich,’ returned Tom, ‘certainly; and we may be much poorer. But we will not part if we can help it. No, no; we will make up our minds Ruth, that unless we are so very unfortunate as to render me quite sure that you would be better off away from me than with me, we will battle it out together. I am certain we shall be happier if we can battle it out together. Don’t you think we shall?’

‘Think, Tom!’

‘Oh, tut, tut!’ interposed Tom, tenderly. ‘You mustn’t cry.’

‘No, no; I won’t, Tom. But you can’t afford it, dear. You can’t, indeed.’

‘We don’t know that,’ said Tom. ‘How are we to know that, yet awhile, and without trying? Lord bless my soul!’—Tom’s energy became quite grand—‘there is no knowing what may happen, if we try hard. And I am sure we can live contentedly upon a very little—if we can only get it.’

‘Yes; that I am sure we can, Tom.’

‘Why, then,’ said Tom, ‘we must try for it. My friend, John Westlock, is a capital fellow, and very shrewd and intelligent. I’ll take his advice. We’ll talk it over with him—both of us together. You’ll like John very much, when you come to know him, I am certain. Don’t cry, don’t cry. YOU make a beef-steak pudding, indeed!’ said Tom, giving her a gentle push. ‘Why, you haven’t boldness enough for a dumpling!’

‘You WILL call it a pudding, Tom. Mind! I told you not!’

‘I may as well call it that, till it proves to be something else,’ said Tom. ‘Oh, you are going to work in earnest, are you?’

Aye, aye! That she was. And in such pleasant earnest, moreover, that Tom’s attention wandered from his writing every moment. First, she tripped downstairs into the kitchen for the flour, then for the pie-board, then for the eggs, then for the butter, then for a jug of water, then for the rolling-pin, then for a pudding-basin, then for the pepper, then for the salt; making a separate journey for everything, and laughing every time she started off afresh. When all the materials were collected she was horrified to find she had no apron on, and so ran UPstairs by way of variety, to fetch it. She didn’t put it on upstairs, but came dancing down with it in her hand; and being one of those little women to whom an apron is a most becoming little vanity, it took an immense time to arrange; having to be carefully smoothed down beneath—Oh, heaven, what a wicked little stomacher!—and to be gathered up into little plaits by the strings before it could be tied, and to be tapped, rebuked, and wheedled, at the pockets, before it would set right, which at last it did, and when it did—but never mind; this is a sober chronicle. And then, there were her cuffs to be tucked up, for fear of flour; and she had a little ring to pull off her finger, which wouldn’t come off (foolish little ring!); and during the whole of these preparations she looked demurely every now and then at Tom, from under her dark eyelashes, as if they were all a part of the pudding, and indispensable to its composition.

For the life and soul of him, Tom could get no further in his writing than, ‘A respectable young man, aged thirty-five,’ and this, notwithstanding the show she made of being supernaturally quiet, and going about on tiptoe, lest she should disturb him; which only served as an additional means of distracting his attention, and keeping it upon her.

‘Tom,’ she said at last, in high glee. ‘Tom!’

‘What now?’ said Tom, repeating to himself, ‘aged thirty-five!’

‘Will you look here a moment, please?’

As if he hadn’t been looking all the time!

‘I am going to begin, Tom. Don’t you wonder why I butter the inside of the basin?’ said his busy little sister.

‘Not more than you do, I dare say,’ replied Tom, laughing. ‘For I believe you don’t know anything about it.’

‘What an infidel you are, Tom! How else do you think it would turn out easily when it was done! For a civil-engineer and land-surveyor not to know that! My goodness, Tom!’

It was wholly out of the question to try to write. Tom lined out ‘respectable young man, aged thirty-five;’ and sat looking on, pen in hand, with one of the most loving smiles imaginable.

Such a busy little woman as she was! So full of self-importance and trying so hard not to smile, or seem uncertain about anything! It was a perfect treat to Tom to see her with her brows knit, and her rosy lips pursed up, kneading away at the crust, rolling it out, cutting it up into strips, lining the basin with it, shaving it off fine round the rim, chopping up the steak into small pieces, raining down pepper and salt upon them, packing them into the basin, pouring in cold water for gravy, and never venturing to steal a look in his direction, lest her gravity should be disturbed; until, at last, the basin being quite full and only wanting the top crust, she clapped her hands all covered with paste and flour, at Tom, and burst out heartily into such a charming little laugh of triumph, that the pudding need have had no other seasoning to commend it to the taste of any reasonable man on earth.

‘Where’s the pudding?’ said Tom. For he was cutting his jokes, Tom was.

‘Where!’ she answered, holding it up with both hands. ‘Look at it!’

‘THAT a pudding!’ said Tom.

‘It WILL be, you stupid fellow, when it’s covered in,’ returned his sister. Tom still pretending to look incredulous, she gave him a tap on the head with the rolling-pin, and still laughing merrily, had returned to the composition of the top crust, when she started and turned very red. Tom started, too, for following her eyes, he saw John Westlock in the room.

‘Why, my goodness, John! How did YOU come in?’

‘I beg pardon,’ said John—’ your sister’s pardon especially—but I met an old lady at the street door, who requested me to enter here; and as you didn’t hear me knock, and the door was open, I made bold to do so. I hardly know,’ said John, with a smile, ‘why any of us should be disconcerted at my having accidentally intruded upon such an agreeable domestic occupation, so very agreeably and skillfully pursued; but I must confess that I am. Tom, will you kindly come to my relief?’

‘Mr John Westlock,’ said Tom. ‘My sister.’

‘I hope that, as the sister of so old a friend,’ said John, laughing ‘you will have the goodness to detach your first impressions of me from my unfortunate entrance.’

‘My sister is not indisposed perhaps to say the same to you on her own behalf,’ retorted Tom.

John said, of course, that this was quite unnecessary, for he had been transfixed in silent admiration; and he held out his hand to Miss Pinch; who couldn’t take it, however, by reason of the flour and paste upon her own. This, which might seem calculated to increase the general confusion and render matters worse, had in reality the best effect in the world, for neither of them could help laughing; and so they both found themselves on easy terms immediately.

‘I am delighted to see you,’ said Tom. ‘Sit down.’

‘I can only think of sitting down on one condition,’ returned his friend; ‘and that is, that your sister goes on with the pudding, as if you were still alone.’

‘That I am sure she will,’ said Tom. ‘On one other condition, and that is, that you stay and help us to eat it.’

Poor little Ruth was seized with a palpitation of the heart when Tom committed this appalling indiscretion, for she felt that if the dish turned out a failure, she never would be able to hold up her head before John Westlock again. Quite unconscious of her state of mind, John accepted the invitation with all imaginable heartiness; and after a little more pleasantry concerning this same pudding, and the tremendous expectations he made believe to entertain of it, she blushingly resumed her occupation, and he took a chair.

‘I am here much earlier than I intended, Tom; but I will tell you, what brings me, and I think I can answer for your being glad to hear it. Is that anything you wish to show me?’

‘Oh dear no!’ cried Tom, who had forgotten the blotted scrap of paper in his hand, until this inquiry brought it to his recollection. ‘“A respectable young man, aged thirty-five”—The beginning of a description of myself. That’s all.’

‘I don’t think you will have occasion to finish it, Tom. But how is it you never told me you had friends in London?’

Tom looked at his sister with all his might; and certainly his sister looked with all her might at him.

‘Friends in London!’ echoed Tom.

‘Ah!’ said Westlock, ‘to be sure.’

‘Have YOU any friends in London, Ruth, my dear!’ asked Tom.

‘No, Tom.’

‘I am very happy to hear that I have,’ said Tom, ‘but it’s news to me. I never knew it. They must be capital people to keep a secret, John.’

‘You shall judge for yourself,’ returned the other. ‘Seriously, Tom, here is the plain state of the case. As I was sitting at breakfast this morning, there comes a knock at my door.’

‘On which you cried out, very loud, “Come in!”’ suggested Tom.

‘So I did. And the person who knocked, not being a respectable young man, aged thirty-five, from the country, came in when he was invited, instead of standing gaping and staring about him on the landing. Well! When he came in, I found he was a stranger; a grave, business-like, sedate-looking, stranger. “Mr Westlock?” said he. “That is my name,” said I. “The favour of a few words with you?” said he. “Pray be seated, sir,” said I.’

Here John stopped for an instant, to glance towards the table, where Tom’s sister, listening attentively, was still busy with the basin, which by this time made a noble appearance. Then he resumed:

‘The pudding having taken a chair, Tom—’

‘What!’ cried Tom.

‘Having taken a chair.’

‘You said a pudding.’

‘No, no,’ replied John, colouring rather; ‘a chair. The idea of a stranger coming into my rooms at half-past eight o’clock in the morning, and taking a pudding! Having taken a chair, Tom, a chair—amazed me by opening the conversation thus: “I believe you are acquainted, sir, with Mr Thomas Pinch?”

‘No!’ cried Tom.

‘His very words, I assure you. I told him I was. Did I know where you were at present residing? Yes. In London? Yes. He had casually heard, in a roundabout way, that you had left your situation with Mr Pecksniff. Was that the fact? Yes, it was. Did you want another? Yes, you did.’

‘Certainly,’ said Tom, nodding his head.

‘Just what I impressed upon him. You may rest assured that I set that point beyond the possibility of any mistake, and gave him distinctly to understand that he might make up his mind about it. Very well.’

“Then,” said he, “I think I can accommodate him.”’

Tom’s sister stopped short.

‘Lord bless me!’ cried Tom. ‘Ruth, my dear, “think I can accommodate him.”’

‘Of course I begged him,’ pursued John Westlock, glancing at Tom’s sister, who was not less eager in her interest than Tom himself, ‘to proceed, and said that I would undertake to see you immediately. He replied that he had very little to say, being a man of few words, but such as it was, it was to the purpose—and so, indeed, it turned out—for he immediately went on to tell me that a friend of his was in want of a kind of secretary and librarian; and that although the salary was small, being only a hundred pounds a year, with neither board nor lodging, still the duties were not heavy, and there the post was. Vacant, and ready for your acceptance.’

‘Good gracious me!’ cried Tom; ‘a hundred pounds a year! My dear John! Ruth, my love! A hundred pounds a year!’

‘But the strangest part of the story,’ resumed John Westlock, laying his hand on Tom’s wrist, to bespeak his attention, and repress his ecstasies for the moment; ‘the strangest part of the story, Miss Pinch, is this. I don’t know this man from Adam; neither does this man know Tom.’

‘He can’t,’ said Tom, in great perplexity, ‘if he’s a Londoner. I don’t know any one in London.’

‘And on my observing,’ John resumed, still keeping his hand upon Tom’s wrist, ‘that I had no doubt he would excuse the freedom I took in inquiring who directed him to me; how he came to know of the change which had taken place in my friend’s position; and how he came to be acquainted with my friend’s peculiar fitness for such an office as he had described; he drily said that he was not at liberty to enter into any explanations.’

‘Not at liberty to enter into any explanations!’ repeated Tom, drawing a long breath.

‘“I must be perfectly aware,” he said,’ John added, ‘“that to any person who had ever been in Mr Pecksniff’s neighbourhood, Mr Thomas Pinch and his acquirements were as well known as the Church steeple, or the Blue Dragon.”’

‘The Blue Dragon!’ repeated Tom, staring alternately at his friend and his sister.

‘Aye, think of that! He spoke as familiarly of the Blue Dragon, I give you my word, as if he had been Mark Tapley. I opened my eyes, I can tell you, when he did so; but I could not fancy I had ever seen the man before, although he said with a smile, “You know the Blue Dragon, Mr Westlock; you kept it up there, once or twice, yourself.” Kept it up there! So I did. You remember, Tom?’

Tom nodded with great significance, and, falling into a state of deeper perplexity than before, observed that this was the most unaccountable and extraordinary circumstance he had ever heard of in his life.

‘Unaccountable?’ his friend repeated. ‘I became afraid of the man. Though it was broad day, and bright sunshine, I was positively afraid of him. I declare I half suspected him to be a supernatural visitor, and not a mortal, until he took out a common-place description of pocket-book, and handed me this card.’

‘Mr Fips,’ said Tom, reading it aloud. ‘Austin Friars. Austin Friars sounds ghostly, John.’

‘Fips don’t, I think,’ was John’s reply. ‘But there he lives, Tom, and there he expects us to call this morning. And now you know as much of this strange incident as I do, upon my honour.’

Tom’s face, between his exultation in the hundred pounds a year, and his wonder at this narration, was only to be equalled by the face of his sister, on which there sat the very best expression of blooming surprise that any painter could have wished to see. What the beef-steak pudding would have come to, if it had not been by this time finished, astrology itself could hardly determine.

‘Tom,’ said Ruth, after a little hesitation, ‘perhaps Mr Westlock, in his friendship for you, knows more of this than he chooses to tell.’

‘No, indeed!’ cried John, eagerly. ‘It is not so, I assure you. I wish it were. I cannot take credit to myself, Miss Pinch, for any such thing. All that I know, or, so far as I can judge, am likely to know, I have told you.’

‘Couldn’t you know more, if you thought proper?’ said Ruth, scraping the pie-board industriously.

‘No,’ retorted John. ‘Indeed, no. It is very ungenerous in you to be so suspicious of me when I repose implicit faith in you. I have unbounded confidence in the pudding, Miss Pinch.’

She laughed at this, but they soon got back into a serious vein, and discussed the subject with profound gravity. Whatever else was obscure in the business, it appeared to be quite plain that Tom was offered a salary of one hundred pounds a year; and this being the main point, the surrounding obscurity rather set it off than otherwise.

Tom, being in a great flutter, wished to start for Austin Friars instantly, but they waited nearly an hour, by John’s advice, before they departed. Tom made himself as spruce as he could before leaving home, and when John Westlock, through the half-opened parlour door, had glimpses of that brave little sister brushing the collar of his coat in the passage, taking up loose stitches in his gloves and hovering lightly about and about him, touching him up here and there in the height of her quaint, little, old-fashioned tidiness, he called to mind the fancy-portraits of her on the wall of the Pecksniffian workroom, and decided with uncommon indignation that they were gross libels, and not half pretty enough; though, as hath been mentioned in its place, the artists always made those sketches beautiful, and he had drawn at least a score of them with his own hands.

‘Tom,’ he said, as they were walking along, ‘I begin to think you must be somebody’s son.’

‘I suppose I am,’ Tom answered in his quiet way.

‘But I mean somebody’s of consequence.’

‘Bless your heart,’ replied Tom, ‘my poor father was of no consequence, nor my mother either.’

‘You remember them perfectly, then?’

‘Remember them? oh dear yes. My poor mother was the last. She died when Ruth was a mere baby, and then we both became a charge upon the savings of that good old grandmother I used to tell you of. You remember! Oh! There’s nothing romantic in our history, John.’

‘Very well,’ said John in quiet despair. ‘Then there is no way of accounting for my visitor of this morning. So we’ll not try, Tom.’

They did try, notwithstanding, and never left off trying until they got to Austin Friars, where, in a very dark passage on the first floor, oddly situated at the back of a house, across some leads, they found a little blear-eyed glass door up in one corner, with Mr FIPS painted on it in characters which were meant to be transparent. There was also a wicked old sideboard hiding in the gloom hard by, meditating designs upon the ribs of visitors; and an old mat, worn into lattice work, which, being useless as a mat (even if anybody could have seen it, which was impossible), had for many years directed its industry into another channel, and regularly tripped up every one of Mr Fips’s clients.

Mr Fips, hearing a violent concussion between a human hat and his office door, was apprised, by the usual means of communication, that somebody had come to call upon him, and giving that somebody admission, observed that it was ‘rather dark.’

‘Dark indeed,’ John whispered in Tom Pinch’s ear. ‘Not a bad place to dispose of a countryman in, I should think, Tom.’

Tom had been already turning over in his mind the possibility of their having been tempted into that region to furnish forth a pie; but the sight of Mr Fips, who was small and spare, and looked peaceable, and wore black shorts and powder, dispelled his doubts.

‘Walk in,’ said Mr Fips.

They walked in. And a mighty yellow-jaundiced little office Mr Fips had of it; with a great, black, sprawling splash upon the floor in one corner, as if some old clerk had cut his throat there, years ago, and had let out ink instead of blood.

‘I have brought my friend Mr Pinch, sir,’ said John Westlock.

‘Be pleased to sit,’ said Mr Fips.

They occupied the two chairs, and Mr Fips took the office stool from the stuffing whereof he drew forth a piece of horse-hair of immense length, which he put into his mouth with a great appearance of appetite.

He looked at Tom Pinch curiously, but with an entire freedom from any such expression as could be reasonably construed into an unusual display of interest. After a short silence, during which Mr Fips was so perfectly unembarrassed as to render it manifest that he could have broken it sooner without hesitation, if he had felt inclined to do so, he asked if Mr Westlock had made his offer fully known to Mr Pinch.

John answered in the affirmative.

‘And you think it worth your while, sir, do you?’ Mr Fips inquired of Tom.

‘I think it a piece of great good fortune, sir,’ said Tom. ‘I am exceedingly obliged to you for the offer.’

‘Not to me,’ said Mr Fips. ‘I act upon instructions.’

‘To your friend, sir, then,’ said Tom. ‘To the gentleman with whom I am to engage, and whose confidence I shall endeavour to deserve. When he knows me better, sir, I hope he will not lose his good opinion of me. He will find me punctual and vigilant, and anxious to do what is right. That I think I can answer for, and so,’ looking towards him, ‘can Mr Westlock.’

‘Most assuredly,’ said John.

Mr Fips appeared to have some little difficulty in resuming the conversation. To relieve himself, he took up the wafer-stamp, and began stamping capital F’s all over his legs.

‘The fact is,’ said Mr Fips, ‘that my friend is not, at this present moment, in town.’

Tom’s countenance fell; for he thought this equivalent to telling him that his appearance did not answer; and that Fips must look out for somebody else.

‘When do you think he will be in town, sir?’ he asked.

‘I can’t say; it’s impossible to tell. I really have no idea. But,’ said Fips, taking off a very deep impression of the wafer-stamp upon the calf of his left leg, and looking steadily at Tom, ‘I don’t know that it’s a matter of much consequence.’

Poor Tom inclined his head deferentially, but appeared to doubt that.

‘I say,’ repeated Mr Fips, ‘that I don’t know it’s a matter of much consequence. The business lies entirely between yourself and me, Mr Pinch. With reference to your duties, I can set you going; and with reference to your salary, I can pay it. Weekly,’ said Mr Fips, putting down the wafer-stamp, and looking at John Westlock and Tom Pinch by turns, ‘weekly; in this office; at any time between the hours of four and five o’clock in the afternoon.’ As Mr Fips said this, he made up his face as if he were going to whistle. But he didn’t.

‘You are very good,’ said Tom, whose countenance was now suffused with pleasure; ‘and nothing can be more satisfactory or straightforward. My attendance will be required—’

‘From half-past nine to four o’clock or so, I should say,’ interrupted Mr Fips. ‘About that.’

‘I did not mean the hours of attendance,’ retorted Tom, ‘which are light and easy, I am sure; but the place.’

‘Oh, the place! The place is in the Temple.’

Tom was delighted.

‘Perhaps,’ said Mr Fips, ‘you would like to see the place?’

‘Oh, dear!’ cried Tom. ‘I shall only be too glad to consider myself engaged, if you will allow me; without any further reference to the place.’

‘You may consider yourself engaged, by all means,’ said Mr Fips; ‘you couldn’t meet me at the Temple Gate in Fleet Street, in an hour from this time, I suppose, could you?’

Certainly Tom could.

‘Good,’ said Mr Fips, rising. ‘Then I will show you the place; and you can begin your attendance to-morrow morning. In an hour, therefore, I shall see you. You too, Mr Westlock? Very good. Take care how you go. It’s rather dark.’

With this remark, which seemed superfluous, he shut them out upon the staircase, and they groped their way into the street again. The interview had done so little to remove the mystery in which Tom’s new engagement was involved, and had done so much to thicken it, that neither could help smiling at the puzzled looks of the other. They agreed, however, that the introduction of Tom to his new office and office companions could hardly fail to throw a light upon the subject; and therefore postponed its further consideration until after the fulfillment of the appointment they had made with Mr Fips.

After looking at John Westlock’s chambers, and devoting a few spare minutes to the Boar’s Head, they issued forth again to the place of meeting. The time agreed upon had not quite come; but Mr Fips was already at the Temple Gate, and expressed his satisfaction at their punctuality.

He led the way through sundry lanes and courts, into one more quiet and more gloomy than the rest, and, singling out a certain house, ascended a common staircase; taking from his pocket, as he went, a bunch of rusty keys. Stopping before a door upon an upper story, which had nothing but a yellow smear of paint where custom would have placed the tenant’s name, he began to beat the dust out of one of these keys, very deliberately, upon the great broad handrail of the balustrade.

‘You had better have a little plug made,’ he said, looking round at Tom, after blowing a shrill whistle into the barrel of the key. ‘It’s the only way of preventing them from getting stopped up. You’ll find the lock go the better, too, I dare say, for a little oil.’

Tom thanked him; but was too much occupied with his own speculations, and John Westlock’s looks, to be very talkative. In the meantime Mr Fips opened the door, which yielded to his hand very unwillingly, and with a horribly discordant sound. He took the key out, when he had done so, and gave it to Tom.

‘Aye, aye!’ said Mr Fips. ‘The dust lies rather thick here.’

Truly, it did. Mr Fips might have gone so far as to say, very thick. It had accumulated everywhere; lay deep on everything, and in one part, where a ray of sun shone through a crevice in the shutter and struck upon the opposite wall, it went twirling round and round, like a gigantic squirrel-cage.

Dust was the only thing in the place that had any motion about it. When their conductor admitted the light freely, and lifting up the heavy window-sash, let in the summer air, he showed the mouldering furniture, discoloured wainscoting and ceiling, rusty stove, and ashy hearth, in all their inert neglect. Close to the door there stood a candlestick, with an extinguisher upon it; as if the last man who had been there had paused, after securing a retreat, to take a parting look at the dreariness he left behind, and then had shut out light and life together, and closed the place up like a tomb.

There were two rooms on that floor; and in the first or outer one a narrow staircase, leading to two more above. These last were fitted up as bed-chambers. Neither in them, nor in the rooms below, was any scarcity of convenient furniture observable, although the fittings were of a bygone fashion; but solitude and want of use seemed to have rendered it unfit for any purposes of comfort, and to have given it a grisly, haunted air.

Movables of every kind lay strewn about, without the least attempt at order, and were intermixed with boxes, hampers, and all sorts of lumber. On all the floors were piles of books, to the amount, perhaps, of some thousands of volumes: these, still in bales; those, wrapped in paper, as they had been purchased; others scattered singly or in heaps; not one upon the shelves which lined the walls. To these Mr Fips called Tom’s attention.

‘Before anything else can be done, we must have them put in order, catalogued, and ranged upon the book-shelves, Mr Pinch. That will do to begin with, I think, sir.’

Tom rubbed his hands in the pleasant anticipation of a task so congenial to his taste, and said:

‘An occupation full of interest for me, I assure you. It will occupy me, perhaps, until Mr—’

‘Until Mr—’ repeated Fips; as much as to ask Tom what he was stopping for.

‘I forgot that you had not mentioned the gentleman’s name,’ said Tom.

‘Oh!’ cried Mr Fips, pulling on his glove, ‘didn’t I? No, by-the-bye, I don’t think I did. Ah! I dare say he’ll be here soon. You will get on very well together, I have no doubt. I wish you success I am sure. You won’t forget to shut the door? It’ll lock of itself if you slam it. Half-past nine, you know. Let us say from half-past nine to four, or half-past four, or thereabouts; one day, perhaps, a little earlier, another day, perhaps, a little later, according as you feel disposed, and as you arrange your work. Mr Fips, Austin Friars of course you’ll remember? And you won’t forget to slam the door, if you please!’

He said all this in such a comfortable, easy manner, that Tom could only rub his hands, and nod his head, and smile in acquiescence which he was still doing, when Mr Fips walked coolly out.

‘Why, he’s gone!’ cried Tom.

‘And what’s more, Tom,’ said John Westlock, seating himself upon a pile of books, and looking up at his astonished friend, ‘he is evidently not coming back again; so here you are, installed. Under rather singular circumstances, Tom!’

It was such an odd affair throughout, and Tom standing there among the books with his hat in one hand and the key in the other, looked so prodigiously confounded, that his friend could not help laughing heartily. Tom himself was tickled; no less by the hilarity of his friend than by the recollection of the sudden manner in which he had been brought to a stop, in the very height of his urbane conference with Mr Fips; so by degrees Tom burst out laughing too; and each making the other laugh more, they fairly roared.

When they had had their laugh out, which did not happen very soon, for give John an inch that way and he was sure to take several ells, being a jovial, good-tempered fellow, they looked about them more closely, groping among the lumber for any stray means of enlightenment that might turn up. But no scrap or shred of information could they find. The books were marked with a variety of owner’s names, having, no doubt, been bought at sales, and collected here and there at different times; but whether any one of these names belonged to Tom’s employer, and, if so, which of them, they had no means whatever of determining. It occurred to John as a very bright thought to make inquiry at the steward’s office, to whom the chambers belonged, or by whom they were held; but he came back no wiser than he went, the answer being, ‘Mr Fips, of Austin Friars.’

‘After all, Tom, I begin to think it lies no deeper than this. Fips is an eccentric man; has some knowledge of Pecksniff; despises him, of course; has heard or seen enough of you to know that you are the man he wants; and engages you in his own whimsical manner.’

‘But why in his own whimsical manner?’ asked Tom.

‘Oh! why does any man entertain his own whimsical taste? Why does Mr Fips wear shorts and powder, and Mr Fips’s next-door neighbour boots and a wig?’

Tom, being in that state of mind in which any explanation is a great relief, adopted this last one (which indeed was quite as feasible as any other) readily, and said he had no doubt of it. Nor was his faith at all shaken by his having said exactly the same thing to each suggestion of his friend’s in turn, and being perfectly ready to say it again if he had any new solution to propose.

As he had not, Tom drew down the window-sash, and folded the shutter; and they left the rooms. He closed the door heavily, as Mr Fips had desired him; tried it, found it all safe, and put the key in his pocket.

They made a pretty wide circuit in going back to Islington, as they had time to spare, and Tom was never tired of looking about him. It was well he had John Westlock for his companion, for most people would have been weary of his perpetual stoppages at shop-windows, and his frequent dashes into the crowded carriage-way at the peril of his life, to get the better view of church steeples, and other public buildings. But John was charmed to see him so much interested, and every time Tom came back with a beaming face from among the wheels of carts and hackney-coaches, wholly unconscious of the personal congratulations addressed to him by the drivers, John seemed to like him better than before.

There was no flour on Ruth’s hands when she received them in the triangular parlour, but there were pleasant smiles upon her face, and a crowd of welcomes shining out of every smile, and gleaming in her bright eyes. By the bye, how bright they were! Looking into them for but a moment, when you took her hand, you saw, in each, such a capital miniature of yourself, representing you as such a restless, flashing, eager, brilliant little fellow—

Ah! if you could only have kept them for your own miniature! But, wicked, roving, restless, too impartial eyes, it was enough for any one to stand before them, and, straightway, there he danced and sparkled quite as merrily as you!

The table was already spread for dinner; and though it was spread with nothing very choice in the way of glass or linen, and with green-handled knives, and very mountebanks of two-pronged forks, which seemed to be trying how far asunder they could possibly stretch their legs without converting themselves into double the number of iron toothpicks, it wanted neither damask, silver, gold, nor china; no, nor any other garniture at all. There it was; and, being there, nothing else would have done as well.

The success of that initiative dish; that first experiment of hers in cookery; was so entire, so unalloyed and perfect, that John Westlock and Tom agreed she must have been studying the art in secret for a long time past; and urged her to make a full confession of the fact. They were exceedingly merry over this jest, and many smart things were said concerning it; but John was not as fair in his behaviour as might have been expected, for, after luring Tom Pinch on for a long time, he suddenly went over to the enemy, and swore to everything his sister said. However, as Tom observed the same night before going to bed, it was only in joke, and John had always been famous for being polite to ladies, even when he was quite a boy. Ruth said, ‘Oh! indeed!’ She didn’t say anything else.

It is astonishing how much three people may find to talk about. They scarcely left off talking once. And it was not all lively chat which occupied them; for when Tom related how he had seen Mr Pecksniff’s daughters, and what a change had fallen on the younger, they were very serious.

John Westlock became quite absorbed in her fortunes; asking many questions of Tom Pinch about her marriage, inquiring whether her husband was the gentleman whom Tom had brought to dine with him at Salisbury; in what degree of relationship they stood towards each other, being different persons; and taking, in short, the greatest interest in the subject. Tom then went into it, at full length; he told how Martin had gone abroad, and had not been heard of for a long time; how Dragon Mark had borne him company; how Mr Pecksniff had got the poor old doting grandfather into his power; and how he basely sought the hand of Mary Graham. But not a word said Tom of what lay hidden in his heart; his heart, so deep, and true, and full of honour, and yet with so much room for every gentle and unselfish thought; not a word.

Tom, Tom! The man in all this world most confident in his sagacity and shrewdness; the man in all this world most proud of his distrust of other men, and having most to show in gold and silver as the gains belonging to his creed; the meekest favourer of that wise doctrine, Every man for himself, and God for us all (there being high wisdom in the thought that the Eternal Majesty of Heaven ever was, or can be, on the side of selfish lust and love!); shall never find, oh, never find, be sure of that, the time come home to him, when all his wisdom is an idiot’s folly, weighed against a simple heart!

Well, well, Tom, it was simple too, though simple in a different way, to be so eager touching that same theatre, of which John said, when tea was done, he had the absolute command, so far as taking parties in without the payment of a sixpence was concerned; and simpler yet, perhaps, never to suspect that when he went in first, alone, he paid the money! Simple in thee, dear Tom, to laugh and cry so heartily at such a sorry show, so poorly shown; simple to be so happy and loquacious trudging home with Ruth; simple to be so surprised to find that merry present of a cookery-book awaiting her in the parlour next morning, with the beef-steak-pudding-leaf turned down and blotted out. There! Let the record stand! Thy quality of soul was simple, simple, quite contemptible, Tom Pinch!

CHAPTER FORTY

THE PINCHES MAKE A NEW ACQUAINTANCE, AND HAVE FRESH OCCASION FOR SURPRISE AND WONDER

There was a ghostly air about these uninhabited chambers in the Temple, and attending every circumstance of Tom’s employment there, which had a strange charm in it. Every morning when he shut his door at Islington, he turned his face towards an atmosphere of unaccountable fascination, as surely as he turned it to the London smoke; and from that moment it thickened round and round him all day long, until the time arrived for going home again, and leaving it, like a motionless cloud, behind.

It seemed to Tom, every morning, that he approached this ghostly mist, and became enveloped in it, by the easiest succession of degrees imaginable. Passing from the roar and rattle of the streets into the quiet court-yards of the Temple, was the first preparation. Every echo of his footsteps sounded to him like a sound from the old walls and pavements, wanting language to relate the histories of the dim, dismal rooms; to tell him what lost documents were decaying in forgotten corners of the shut-up cellars, from whose lattices such mouldy sighs came breathing forth as he went past; to whisper of dark bins of rare old wine, bricked up in vaults among the old foundations of the Halls; or mutter in a lower tone yet darker legends of the cross-legged knights, whose marble effigies were in the church. With the first planting of his foot upon the staircase of his dusty office, all these mysteries increased; until, ascending step by step, as Tom ascended, they attained their full growth in the solitary labours of the day.

Every day brought one recurring, never-failing source of speculation. This employer; would he come to-day, and what would he be like? For Tom could not stop short at Mr Fips; he quite believed that Mr Fips had spoken truly, when he said he acted for another; and what manner of man that other was, became a full-blown flower of wonder in the garden of Tom’s fancy, which never faded or got trodden down.

At one time, he conceived that Mr Pecksniff, repenting of his falsehood, might, by exertion of his influence with some third person have devised these means of giving him employment. He found this idea so insupportable after what had taken place between that good man and himself, that he confided it to John Westlock on the very same day; informing John that he would rather ply for hire as a porter, than fall so low in his own esteem as to accept the smallest obligation from the hands of Mr Pecksniff. But John assured him that he (Tom Pinch) was far from doing justice to the character of Mr Pecksniff yet, if he supposed that gentleman capable of performing a generous action; and that he might make his mind quite easy on that head until he saw the sun turn green and the moon black, and at the same time distinctly perceived with the naked eye, twelve first-rate comets careering round those planets. In which unusual state of things, he said (and not before), it might become not absolutely lunatic to suspect Mr Pecksniff of anything so monstrous. In short he laughed the idea down completely; and Tom, abandoning it, was thrown upon his beam-ends again, for some other solution.

In the meantime Tom attended to his duties daily, and made considerable progress with the books; which were already reduced to some sort of order, and made a great appearance in his fairly-written catalogue. During his business hours, he indulged himself occasionally with snatches of reading; which were often, indeed, a necessary part of his pursuit; and as he usually made bold to carry one of these goblin volumes home at night (always bringing it back again next morning, in case his strange employer should appear and ask what had become of it), he led a happy, quiet, studious kind of life, after his own heart.

But though the books were never so interesting, and never so full of novelty to Tom, they could not so enchain him, in those mysterious chambers, as to render him unconscious, for a moment, of the lightest sound. Any footstep on the flags without set him listening attentively and when it turned into that house, and came up, up, up the stairs, he always thought with a beating heart, ‘Now I am coming face to face with him at last!’ But no footstep ever passed the floor immediately below: except his own.

This mystery and loneliness engendered fancies in Tom’s mind, the folly of which his common sense could readily discover, but which his common sense was quite unable to keep away, notwithstanding; that quality being with most of us, in such a case, like the old French Police—quick at detection, but very weak as a preventive power. Misgivings, undefined, absurd, inexplicable, that there was some one hiding in the inner room—walking softly overhead, peeping in through the door-chink, doing something stealthy, anywhere where he was not—came over him a hundred times a day, making it pleasant to throw up the sash, and hold communication even with the sparrows who had built in the roof and water-spout, and were twittering about the windows all day long.

He sat with the outer door wide open, at all times, that he might hear the footsteps as they entered, and turned off into the chambers on the lower floor. He formed odd prepossessions too, regarding strangers in the streets; and would say within himself of such or such a man, who struck him as having anything uncommon in his dress or aspect, ‘I shouldn’t wonder, now, if that were he!’ But it never was. And though he actually turned back and followed more than one of these suspected individuals, in a singular belief that they were going to the place he was then upon his way from, he never got any other satisfaction by it, than the satisfaction of knowing it was not the case.

Mr Fips, of Austin Friars, rather deepened than illumined the obscurity of his position; for on the first occasion of Tom’s waiting on him to receive his weekly pay, he said:

‘Oh! by the bye, Mr Pinch, you needn’t mention it, if you please!’

Tom thought he was going to tell him a secret; so he said that he wouldn’t on any account, and that Mr Fips might entirely depend upon him. But as Mr Fips said ‘Very good,’ in reply, and nothing more, Tom prompted him:

‘Not on any account,’ repeated Tom.

Mr Fips repeated: ‘Very good.’

‘You were going to say’—Tom hinted.

‘Oh dear no!’ cried Fips. ‘Not at all.’ However, seeing Tom confused, he added, ‘I mean that you needn’t mention any particulars about your place of employment, to people generally. You’ll find it better not.’

‘I have not had the pleasure of seeing my employer yet, sir,’ observed Tom, putting his week’s salary in his pocket.

‘Haven’t you?’ said Fips. ‘No, I don’t suppose you have though.’

‘I should like to thank him, and to know that what I have done so far, is done to his satisfaction,’ faltered Tom.

‘Quite right,’ said Mr Fips, with a yawn. ‘Highly creditable. Very proper.’

Tom hastily resolved to try him on another tack.

‘I shall soon have finished with the books,’ he said. ‘I hope that will not terminate my engagement, sir, or render me useless?’

‘Oh dear no!’ retorted Fips. ‘Plenty to do; plen-ty to do! Be careful how you go. It’s rather dark.’

This was the very utmost extent of information Tom could ever get out of HIM. So it was dark enough in all conscience; and if Mr Fips expressed himself with a double meaning, he had good reason for doing so.

But now a circumstance occurred, which helped to divert Tom’s thoughts from even this mystery, and to divide them between it and a new channel, which was a very Nile in itself.

The way it came about was this. Having always been an early riser and having now no organ to engage him in sweet converse every morning, it was his habit to take a long walk before going to the Temple; and naturally inclining, as a stranger, towards those parts of the town which were conspicuous for the life and animation pervading them, he became a great frequenter of the market-places, bridges, quays, and especially the steam-boat wharves; for it was very lively and fresh to see the people hurrying away upon their many schemes of business or pleasure, and it made Tom glad to think that there was that much change and freedom in the monotonous routine of city lives.

In most of these morning excursions Ruth accompanied him. As their landlord was always up and away at his business (whatever that might be, no one seemed to know) at a very early hour, the habits of the people of the house in which they lodged corresponded with their own. Thus they had often finished their breakfast, and were out in the summer air, by seven o’clock. After a two hours’ stroll they parted at some convenient point; Tom going to the Temple, and his sister returning home, as methodically as you please.

Many and many a pleasant stroll they had in Covent Garden Market; snuffing up the perfume of the fruits and flowers, wondering at the magnificence of the pineapples and melons; catching glimpses down side avenues, of rows and rows of old women, seated on inverted baskets, shelling peas; looking unutterable things at the fat bundles of asparagus with which the dainty shops were fortified as with a breastwork; and, at the herbalist’s doors, gratefully inhaling scents as of veal-stuffing yet uncooked, dreamily mixed up with capsicums, brown-paper, seeds, even with hints of lusty snails and fine young curly leeches. Many and many a pleasant stroll they had among the poultry markets, where ducks and fowls, with necks unnaturally long, lay stretched out in pairs, ready for cooking; where there were speckled eggs in mossy baskets, white country sausages beyond impeachment by surviving cat or dog, or horse or donkey; new cheeses to any wild extent, live birds in coops and cages, looking much too big to be natural, in consequence of those receptacles being much too little; rabbits, alive and dead, innumerable. Many a pleasant stroll they had among the cool, refreshing, silvery fish-stalls, with a kind of moonlight effect about their stock-in-trade, excepting always for the ruddy lobsters. Many a pleasant stroll among the waggon-loads of fragrant hay, beneath which dogs and tired waggoners lay fast asleep, oblivious of the pieman and the public-house. But never half so good a stroll as down among the steamboats on a bright morning.

There they lay, alongside of each other; hard and fast for ever, to all appearance, but designing to get out somehow, and quite confident of doing it; and in that faith shoals of passengers, and heaps of luggage, were proceeding hurriedly on board. Little steam-boats dashed up and down the stream incessantly. Tiers upon tiers of vessels, scores of masts, labyrinths of tackle, idle sails, splashing oars, gliding row-boats, lumbering barges, sunken piles, with ugly lodgings for the water-rat within their mud-discoloured nooks; church steeples, warehouses, house-roofs, arches, bridges, men and women, children, casks, cranes, boxes, horses, coaches, idlers, and hard-labourers; there they were, all jumbled up together, any summer morning, far beyond Tom’s power of separation.

In the midst of all this turmoil there was an incessant roar from every packet’s funnel, which quite expressed and carried out the uppermost emotion of the scene. They all appeared to be perspiring and bothering themselves, exactly as their passengers did; they never left off fretting and chafing, in their own hoarse manner, once; but were always panting out, without any stops, ‘Come along do make haste I’m very nervous come along oh good gracious we shall never get there how late you are do make haste I’m off directly come along!’

Even when they had left off, and had got safely out into the current, on the smallest provocation they began again; for the bravest packet of them all, being stopped by some entanglement in the river, would immediately begin to fume and pant afresh, ‘oh here’s a stoppage what’s the matter do go on there I’m in a hurry it’s done on purpose did you ever oh my goodness DO go on here!’ and so, in a state of mind bordering on distraction, would be last seen drifting slowly through the mist into the summer light beyond, that made it red.

Tom’s ship, however; or, at least, the packet-boat in which Tom and his sister took the greatest interest on one particular occasion; was not off yet, by any means; but was at the height of its disorder. The press of passengers was very great; another steam-boat lay on each side of her; the gangways were choked up; distracted women, obviously bound for Gravesend, but turning a deaf ear to all representations that this particular vessel was about to sail for Antwerp, persisted in secreting baskets of refreshments behind bulk-heads, and water-casks, and under seats; and very great confusion prevailed.

It was so amusing, that Tom, with Ruth upon his arm, stood looking down from the wharf, as nearly regardless as it was in the nature of flesh and blood to be, of an elderly lady behind him, who had brought a large umbrella with her, and didn’t know what to do with it. This tremendous instrument had a hooked handle; and its vicinity was first made known to him by a painful pressure on the windpipe, consequent upon its having caught him round the throat. Soon after disengaging himself with perfect good humour, he had a sensation of the ferule in his back; immediately afterwards, of the hook entangling his ankles; then of the umbrella generally, wandering about his hat, and flapping at it like a great bird; and, lastly, of a poke or thrust below the ribs, which give him such exceeding anguish, that he could not refrain from turning round to offer a mild remonstrance.

Upon his turning round, he found the owner of the umbrella struggling on tip-toe, with a countenance expressive of violent animosity, to look down upon the steam-boats; from which he inferred that she had attacked him, standing in the front row, by design, and as her natural enemy.

‘What a very ill-natured person you must be!’ said Tom.

The lady cried out fiercely, ‘Where’s the pelisse!’—meaning the constabulary—and went on to say, shaking the handle of the umbrella at Tom, that but for them fellers never being in the way when they was wanted, she’d have given him in charge, she would.

‘If they greased their whiskers less, and minded the duties which they’re paid so heavy for, a little more,’ she observed, ‘no one needn’t be drove mad by scrouding so!’

She had been grievously knocked about, no doubt, for her bonnet was bent into the shape of a cocked hat. Being a fat little woman, too, she was in a state of great exhaustion and intense heat. Instead of pursuing the altercation, therefore, Tom civilly inquired what boat she wanted to go on board of?

‘I suppose,’ returned the lady, ‘as nobody but yourself can want to look at a steam package, without wanting to go a-boarding of it, can they! Booby!’

‘Which one do you want to look at then?’ said Tom. ‘We’ll make room for you if we can. Don’t be so ill-tempered.’

‘No blessed creetur as ever I was with in trying times,’ returned the lady, somewhat softened, ‘and they’re a many in their numbers, ever brought it as a charge again myself that I was anythin’ but mild and equal in my spirits. Never mind a contradicting of me, if you seem to feel it does you good, ma’am, I often says, for well you know that Sairey may be trusted not to give it back again. But I will not denige that I am worrited and wexed this day, and with good reagion, Lord forbid!’

By this time, Mrs Gamp (for it was no other than that experienced practitioner) had, with Tom’s assistance, squeezed and worked herself into a small corner between Ruth and the rail; where, after breathing very hard for some little time, and performing a short series of dangerous evolutions with her umbrella, she managed to establish herself pretty comfortably.

‘And which of all them smoking monsters is the Ankworks boat, I wonder. Goodness me!’ cried Mrs Gamp.

‘What boat did you want?’ asked Ruth.

‘The Ankworks package,’ Mrs Gamp replied. ‘I will not deceive you, my sweet. Why should I?’

‘That is the Antwerp packet in the middle,’ said Ruth.

‘And I wish it was in Jonadge’s belly, I do,’ cried Mrs Gamp; appearing to confound the prophet with the whale in this miraculous aspiration.

Ruth said nothing in reply; but, as Mrs Gamp, laying her chin against the cool iron of the rail, continued to look intently at the Antwerp boat, and every now and then to give a little groan, she inquired whether any child of hers was going aboard that morning? Or perhaps her husband, she said kindly.

‘Which shows,’ said Mrs Gamp, casting up her eyes, ‘what a little way you’ve travelled into this wale of life, my dear young creetur! As a good friend of mine has frequent made remark to me, which her name, my love, is Harris, Mrs Harris through the square and up the steps a-turnin’ round by the tobacker shop, “Oh Sairey, Sairey, little do we know wot lays afore us!” “Mrs Harris, ma’am,” I says, “not much, it’s true, but more than you suppoge. Our calcilations, ma’am,” I says, “respectin’ wot the number of a family will be, comes most times within one, and oftener than you would suppoge, exact.” “Sairey,” says Mrs Harris, in a awful way, “Tell me wot is my indiwidgle number.” “No, Mrs Harris,” I says to her, “ex-cuge me, if you please. My own,” I says, “has fallen out of three-pair backs, and had damp doorsteps settled on their lungs, and one was turned up smilin’ in a bedstead unbeknown. Therefore, ma’am,” I says, “seek not to proticipate, but take ‘em as they come and as they go.” Mine,’ says Mrs Gamp, ‘mine is all gone, my dear young chick. And as to husbands, there’s a wooden leg gone likeways home to its account, which in its constancy of walkin’ into wine vaults, and never comin’ out again ‘till fetched by force, was quite as weak as flesh, if not weaker.’

When she had delivered this oration, Mrs Gamp leaned her chin upon the cool iron again; and looking intently at the Antwerp packet, shook her head and groaned.

‘I wouldn’t,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘I wouldn’t be a man and have such a think upon my mind!—but nobody as owned the name of man, could do it!’

Tom and his sister glanced at each other; and Ruth, after a moment’s hesitation, asked Mrs Gamp what troubled her so much.

‘My dear,’ returned that lady, dropping her voice, ‘you are single, ain’t you?’

Ruth laughed blushed, and said ‘Yes.’

‘Worse luck,’ proceeded Mrs Gamp, ‘for all parties! But others is married, and in the marriage state; and there is a dear young creetur a-comin’ down this mornin’ to that very package, which is no more fit to trust herself to sea, than nothin’ is!’

She paused here to look over the deck of the packet in question, and on the steps leading down to it, and on the gangways. Seeming to have thus assured herself that the object of her commiseration had not yet arrived, she raised her eyes gradually up to the top of the escape-pipe, and indignantly apostrophised the vessel:

‘Oh, drat you!’ said Mrs Gamp, shaking her umbrella at it, ‘you’re a nice spluttering nisy monster for a delicate young creetur to go and be a passinger by; ain’t you! YOU never do no harm in that way, do you? With your hammering, and roaring, and hissing, and lamp-iling, you brute! Them Confugion steamers,’ said Mrs Gamp, shaking her umbrella again, ‘has done more to throw us out of our reg’lar work and bring ewents on at times when nobody counted on ‘em (especially them screeching railroad ones), than all the other frights that ever was took. I have heerd of one young man, a guard upon a railway, only three years opened—well does Mrs Harris know him, which indeed he is her own relation by her sister’s marriage with a master sawyer—as is godfather at this present time to six-and-twenty blessed little strangers, equally unexpected, and all on ‘um named after the Ingeines as was the cause. Ugh!’ said Mrs Gamp, resuming her apostrophe, ‘one might easy know you was a man’s inwention, from your disregardlessness of the weakness of our naturs, so one might, you brute!’

It would not have been unnatural to suppose, from the first part of Mrs Gamp’s lamentations, that she was connected with the stage-coaching or post-horsing trade. She had no means of judging of the effect of her concluding remarks upon her young companion; for she interrupted herself at this point, and exclaimed:

‘There she identically goes! Poor sweet young creetur, there she goes, like a lamb to the sacrifige! If there’s any illness when that wessel gets to sea,’ said Mrs Gamp, prophetically, ‘it’s murder, and I’m the witness for the persecution.’

She was so very earnest on the subject, that Tom’s sister (being as kind as Tom himself) could not help saying something to her in reply.

‘Pray, which is the lady,’ she inquired, ‘in whom you are so much interested?’

‘There!’ groaned Mrs Gamp. ‘There she goes! A-crossin’ the little wooden bridge at this minute. She’s a-slippin’ on a bit of orangepeel!’ tightly clutching her umbrella. ‘What a turn it give me.’

‘Do you mean the lady who is with that man wrapped up from head to foot in a large cloak, so that his face is almost hidden?’

‘Well he may hide it!’ Mrs Gamp replied. ‘He’s good call to be ashamed of himself. Did you see him a-jerking of her wrist, then?’

‘He seems to be hasty with her, indeed.’

‘Now he’s a-taking of her down into the close cabin!’ said Mrs Gamp, impatiently. ‘What’s the man about! The deuce is in him, I think. Why can’t he leave her in the open air?’

He did not, whatever his reason was, but led her quickly down and disappeared himself, without loosening his cloak, or pausing on the crowded deck one moment longer than was necessary to clear their way to that part of the vessel.

Tom had not heard this little dialogue; for his attention had been engaged in an unexpected manner. A hand upon his sleeve had caused him to look round, just when Mrs Gamp concluded her apostrophe to the steam-engine; and on his right arm, Ruth being on his left, he found their landlord, to his great surprise.

He was not so much surprised at the man’s being there, as at his having got close to him so quietly and swiftly; for another person had been at his elbow one instant before; and he had not in the meantime been conscious of any change or pressure in the knot of people among whom he stood. He and Ruth had frequently remarked how noiselessly this landlord of theirs came into and went out of his own house; but Tom was not the less amazed to see him at his elbow now.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr Pinch,’ he said in his ear. ‘I am rather infirm, and out of breath, and my eyes are not very good. I am not as young as I was, sir. You don’t see a gentleman in a large cloak down yonder, with a lady on his arm; a lady in a veil and a black shawl; do you?’

If HE did not, it was curious that in speaking he should have singled out from all the crowd the very people whom he described; and should have glanced hastily from them to Tom, as if he were burning to direct his wandering eyes.

‘A gentleman in a large cloak!’ said Tom, ‘and a lady in a black shawl! Let me see!’

‘Yes, yes!’ replied the other, with keen impatience. ‘A gentleman muffled up from head to foot—strangely muffled up for such a morning as this—like an invalid, with his hand to his face at this minute, perhaps. No, no, no! not there,’ he added, following Tom’s gaze; ‘the other way; in that direction; down yonder.’ Again he indicated, but this time in his hurry, with his outstretched finger, the very spot on which the progress of these persons was checked at that moment.

‘There are so many people, and so much motion, and so many objects,’ said Tom, ‘that I find it difficult to—no, I really don’t see a gentleman in a large cloak, and a lady in a black shawl. There’s a lady in a red shawl over there!’

‘No, no, no!’ cried his landlord, pointing eagerly again, ‘not there. The other way; the other way. Look at the cabin steps. To the left. They must be near the cabin steps. Do you see the cabin steps? There’s the bell ringing already! DO you see the steps?’

‘Stay!’ said Tom, ‘you’re right. Look! there they go now. Is that the gentleman you mean? Descending at this minute, with the folds of a great cloak trailing down after him?’

‘The very man!’ returned the other, not looking at what Tom pointed out, however, but at Tom’s own face. ‘Will you do me a kindness, sir, a great kindness? Will you put that letter in his hand? Only give him that! He expects it. I am charged to do it by my employers, but I am late in finding him, and, not being as young as I have been, should never be able to make my way on board and off the deck again in time. Will you pardon my boldness, and do me that great kindness?’

His hands shook, and his face bespoke the utmost interest and agitation, as he pressed the letter upon Tom, and pointed to its destination, like the Tempter in some grim old carving.

To hesitate in the performance of a good-natured or compassionate office was not in Tom’s way. He took the letter; whispered Ruth to wait till he returned, which would be immediately; and ran down the steps with all the expedition he could make. There were so many people going down, so many others coming up, such heavy goods in course of transit to and fro, such a ringing of bell, blowing-off of steam, and shouting of men’s voices, that he had much ado to force his way, or keep in mind to which boat he was going. But he reached the right one with good speed, and going down the cabin-stairs immediately, described the object of his search standing at the upper end of the saloon, with his back towards him, reading some notice which was hung against the wall. As Tom advanced to give him the letter, he started, hearing footsteps, and turned round.

What was Tom’s astonishment to find in him the man with whom he had had the conflict in the field—poor Mercy’s husband. Jonas!

Tom understood him to say, what the devil did he want; but it was not easy to make out what he said; he spoke so indistinctly.

‘I want nothing with you for myself,’ said Tom; ‘I was asked, a moment since, to give you this letter. You were pointed out to me, but I didn’t know you in your strange dress. Take it!’

He did so, opened it, and read the writing on the inside. The contents were evidently very brief; not more perhaps than one line; but they struck upon him like a stone from a sling. He reeled back as he read.

His emotion was so different from any Tom had ever seen before that he stopped involuntarily. Momentary as his state of indecision was, the bell ceased while he stood there, and a hoarse voice calling down the steps, inquired if there was any to go ashore?

‘Yes,’ cried Jonas, ‘I—I am coming. Give me time. Where’s that woman! Come back; come back here.’

He threw open another door as he spoke, and dragged, rather than led, her forth. She was pale and frightened, and amazed to see her old acquaintance; but had no time to speak, for they were making a great stir above; and Jonas drew her rapidly towards the deck.

‘Where are we going? What is the matter?’

‘We are going back,’ said Jonas. ‘I have changed my mind. I can’t go. Don’t question me, or I shall be the death of you, or some one else. Stop there! Stop! We’re for the shore. Do you hear? We’re for the shore!’

He turned, even in the madness of his hurry, and scowling darkly back at Tom, shook his clenched hand at him. There are not many human faces capable of the expression with which he accompanied that gesture.

He dragged her up, and Tom followed them. Across the deck, over the side, along the crazy plank, and up the steps, he dragged her fiercely; not bestowing any look on her, but gazing upwards all the while among the faces on the wharf. Suddenly he turned again, and said to Tom with a tremendous oath:

‘Where is he?’

Before Tom, in his indignation and amazement, could return an answer to a question he so little understood, a gentleman approached Tom behind, and saluted Jonas Chuzzlewit by name. He has a gentleman of foreign appearance, with a black moustache and whiskers; and addressed him with a polite composure, strangely different from his own distracted and desperate manner.

‘Chuzzlewit, my good fellow!’ said the gentleman, raising his hat in compliment to Mrs Chuzzlewit, ‘I ask your pardon twenty thousand times. I am most unwilling to interfere between you and a domestic trip of this nature (always so very charming and refreshing, I know, although I have not the happiness to be a domestic man myself, which is the great infelicity of my existence); but the beehive, my dear friend, the beehive—will you introduce me?’

‘This is Mr Montague,’ said Jonas, whom the words appeared to choke.

‘The most unhappy and most penitent of men, Mrs Chuzzlewit,’ pursued that gentleman, ‘for having been the means of spoiling this excursion; but as I tell my friend, the beehive, the beehive. You projected a short little continental trip, my dear friend, of course?’

Jonas maintained a dogged silence.

‘May I die,’ cried Montague, ‘but I am shocked! Upon my soul I am shocked. But that confounded beehive of ours in the city must be paramount to every other consideration, when there is honey to be made; and that is my best excuse. Here is a very singular old female dropping curtseys on my right,’ said Montague, breaking off in his discourse, and looking at Mrs Gamp, ‘who is not a friend of mine. Does anybody know her?’

‘Ah! Well they knows me, bless their precious hearts!’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘not forgettin’ your own merry one, sir, and long may it be so! Wishin’ as every one’ (she delivered this in the form of a toast or sentiment) ‘was as merry, and as handsome-lookin’, as a little bird has whispered me a certain gent is, which I will not name for fear I give offence where none is doo! My precious lady,’ here she stopped short in her merriment, for she had until now affected to be vastly entertained, ‘you’re too pale by half!’

‘YOU are here too, are you?’ muttered Jonas. ‘Ecod, there are enough of you.’

‘I hope, sir,’ returned Mrs Gamp, dropping an indignant curtsey, ‘as no bones is broke by me and Mrs Harris a-walkin’ down upon a public wharf. Which was the very words she says to me (although they was the last I ever had to speak) was these: “Sairey,” she says, “is it a public wharf?” “Mrs Harris,” I makes answer, “can you doubt it? You have know’d me now, ma’am, eight and thirty year; and did you ever know me go, or wish to go, where I was not made welcome, say the words.” “No, Sairey,” Mrs Harris says, “contrairy quite.” And well she knows it too. I am but a poor woman, but I’ve been sought after, sir, though you may not think it. I’ve been knocked up at all hours of the night, and warned out by a many landlords, in consequence of being mistook for Fire. I goes out workin’ for my bread, ‘tis true, but I maintains my independency, with your kind leave, and which I will till death. I has my feelins as a woman, sir, and I have been a mother likeways; but touch a pipkin as belongs to me, or make the least remarks on what I eats or drinks, and though you was the favouritest young for’ard hussy of a servant-gal as ever come into a house, either you leaves the place, or me. My earnins is not great, sir, but I will not be impoged upon. Bless the babe, and save the mother, is my mortar, sir; but I makes so free as add to that, Don’t try no impogician with the Nuss, for she will not abear it!’

Mrs Gamp concluded by drawing her shawl tightly over herself with both hands, and, as usual, referring to Mrs Harris for full corroboration of these particulars. She had that peculiar trembling of the head which, in ladies of her excitable nature, may be taken as a sure indication of their breaking out again very shortly; when Jonas made a timely interposition.

‘As you ARE here,’ he said, ‘you had better see to her, and take her home. I am otherwise engaged.’ He said nothing more; but looked at Montague as if to give him notice that he was ready to attend him.

‘I am sorry to take you away,’ said Montague.

Jonas gave him a sinister look, which long lived in Tom’s memory, and which he often recalled afterwards.

‘I am, upon my life,’ said Montague. ‘Why did you make it necessary?’

With the same dark glance as before, Jonas replied, after a moment’s silence:

‘The necessity is none of my making. You have brought it about yourself.’

He said nothing more. He said even this as if he were bound, and in the other’s power, but had a sullen and suppressed devil within him, which he could not quite resist. His very gait, as they walked away together, was like that of a fettered man; but, striving to work out at his clenched hands, knitted brows, and fast-set lips, was the same imprisoned devil still.

They got into a handsome cabriolet which was waiting for them and drove away.

The whole of this extraordinary scene had passed so rapidly and the tumult which prevailed around as so unconscious of any impression from it, that, although Tom had been one of the chief actors, it was like a dream. No one had noticed him after they had left the packet. He had stood behind Jonas, and so near him, that he could not help hearing all that passed. He had stood there, with his sister on his arm, expecting and hoping to have an opportunity of explaining his strange share in this yet stranger business. But Jonas had not raised his eyes from the ground; no one else had even looked towards him; and before he could resolve on any course of action, they were all gone.

He gazed round for his landlord. But he had done that more than once already, and no such man was to be seen. He was still pursuing this search with his eyes, when he saw a hand beckoning to him from a hackney-coach; and hurrying towards it, found it was Merry’s. She addressed him hurriedly, but bent out of the window, that she might not be overheard by her companion, Mrs Gamp.

‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Good heaven, what is it? Why did he tell me last night to prepare for a long journey, and why have you brought us back like criminals? Dear Mr Pinch!’ she clasped her hands distractedly, ‘be merciful to us. Whatever this dreadful secret is, be merciful, and God will bless you!’

‘If any power of mercy lay with me,’ cried Tom, ‘trust me, you shouldn’t ask in vain. But I am far more ignorant and weak than you.’

She withdrew into the coach again, and he saw the hand waving towards him for a moment; but whether in reproachfulness or incredulity or misery, or grief, or sad adieu, or what else, he could not, being so hurried, understand. SHE was gone now; and Ruth and he were left to walk away, and wonder.

Had Mr Nadgett appointed the man who never came, to meet him upon London Bridge that morning? He was certainly looking over the parapet, and down upon the steamboat-wharf at that moment. It could not have been for pleasure; he never took pleasure. No. He must have had some business there.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND, ARRIVING AT A PLEASANT UNDERSTANDING, SET FORTH UPON AN ENTERPRISE

The office of the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company being near at hand, and Mr Montague driving Jonas straight there, they had very little way to go. But the journey might have been one of several hours’ duration, without provoking a remark from either; for it was clear that Jonas did not mean to break the silence which prevailed between them, and that it was not, as yet, his dear friend’s cue to tempt them into conversation.

He had thrown aside his cloak, as having now no motive for concealment, and with that garment huddled on his knees, sat as far removed from his companion as the limited space in such a carriage would allow. There was a striking difference in his manner, compared with what it had been, within a few minutes, when Tom encountered him so unexpectedly on board the packet, or when the ugly change had fallen on him in Mr Montague’s dressing-room. He had the aspect of a man found out and held at bay; of being baffled, hunted, and beset; but there was now a dawning and increasing purpose in his face, which changed it very much. It was gloomy, distrustful, lowering; pale with anger and defeat; it still was humbled, abject, cowardly and mean; but, let the conflict go on as it would, there was one strong purpose wrestling with every emotion of his mind, and casting the whole series down as they arose.

Not prepossessing in appearance at the best of times, it may be readily supposed that he was not so now. He had left deep marks of his front teeth in his nether lip; and those tokens of the agitation he had lately undergone improved his looks as little as the heavy corrugations in his forehead. But he was self-possessed now; unnaturally self-possessed, indeed, as men quite otherwise than brave are known to be in desperate extremities; and when the carriage stopped, he waited for no invitation, but leapt hardily out, and went upstairs.

The chairman followed him; and closing the board-room door as soon as they had entered, threw himself upon a sofa. Jonas stood before the window, looking down into the street; and leaned against the sash, resting his head upon his arms.

‘This is not handsome, Chuzzlewit!’ said Montague at length. ‘Not handsome upon my soul!’

‘What would you have me do?’ he answered, looking round abruptly; ‘What do you expect?’

‘Confidence, my good fellow. Some confidence!’ said Montague in an injured tone.

‘Ecod! You show great confidence in me,’ retorted Jonas. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Do I not?’ said his companion, raising his head, and looking at him, but he had turned again. ‘Do I not? Have I not confided to you the easy schemes I have formed for our advantage; OUR advantage, mind; not mine alone; and what is my return? Attempted flight!’

‘How do you know that? Who said I meant to fly?’

‘Who said? Come, come. A foreign boat, my friend, an early hour, a figure wrapped up for disguise! Who said? If you didn’t mean to jilt me, why were you there? If you didn’t mean to jilt me, why did you come back?’

‘I came back,’ said Jonas, ‘to avoid disturbance.’

‘You were wise,’ rejoined his friend.

Jonas stood quite silent; still looking down into the street, and resting his head upon his arms.

‘Now, Chuzzlewit,’ said Montague, ‘notwithstanding what has passed I will be plain with you. Are you attending to me there? I only see your back.’

‘I hear you. Go on!’

‘I say that notwithstanding what has passed, I will be plain with you.’

‘You said that before. And I have told you once I heard you say it. Go on.’

‘You are a little chafed, but I can make allowance for that, and am, fortunately, myself in the very best of tempers. Now, let us see how circumstances stand. A day or two ago, I mentioned to you, my dear fellow, that I thought I had discovered—’

‘Will you hold your tongue?’ said Jonas, looking fiercely round, and glancing at the door.

‘Well, well!’ said Montague. ‘Judicious! Quite correct! My discoveries being published, would be like many other men’s discoveries in this honest world; of no further use to me. You see, Chuzzlewit, how ingenuous and frank I am in showing you the weakness of my own position! To return. I make, or think I make, a certain discovery which I take an early opportunity of mentioning in your ear, in that spirit of confidence which I really hoped did prevail between us, and was reciprocated by you. Perhaps there is something in it; perhaps there is nothing. I have my knowledge and opinion on the subject. You have yours. We will not discuss the question. But, my good fellow, you have been weak; what I wish to point out to you is, that you have been weak. I may desire to turn this little incident to my account (indeed, I do—I’ll not deny it), but my account does not lie in probing it, or using it against you.’

‘What do you call using it against me?’ asked Jonas, who had not yet changed his attitude.

‘Oh!’ said Montague, with a laugh. ‘We’ll not enter into that.’

‘Using it to make a beggar of me. Is that the use you mean?’

‘No.’

‘Ecod,’ muttered Jonas, bitterly. ‘That’s the use in which your account DOES lie. You speak the truth there.’

‘I wish you to venture (it’s a very safe venture) a little more with us, certainly, and to keep quiet,’ said Montague. ‘You promised me you would; and you must. I say it plainly, Chuzzlewit, you MUST. Reason the matter. If you don’t, my secret is worthless to me: and being so, it may as well become the public property as mine; better, for I shall gain some credit, bringing it to light. I want you, besides, to act as a decoy in a case I have already told you of. You don’t mind that, I know. You care nothing for the man (you care nothing for any man; you are too sharp; so am I, I hope); and could bear any loss of his with pious fortitude. Ha, ha, ha! You have tried to escape from the first consequence. You cannot escape it, I assure you. I have shown you that to-day. Now, I am not a moral man, you know. I am not the least in the world affected by anything you may have done; by any little indiscretion you may have committed; but I wish to profit by it if I can; and to a man of your intelligence I make that free confession. I am not at all singular in that infirmity. Everybody profits by the indiscretion of his neighbour; and the people in the best repute, the most. Why do you give me this trouble? It must come to a friendly agreement, or an unfriendly crash. It must. If the former, you are very little hurt. If the latter—well! you know best what is likely to happen then.’

Jonas left the window, and walked up close to him. He did not look him in the face; it was not his habit to do that; but he kept his eyes towards him—on his breast, or thereabouts—and was at great pains to speak slowly and distinctly in reply. Just as a man in a state of conscious drunkenness might be.

‘Lying is of no use now,’ he said. ‘I DID think of getting away this morning, and making better terms with you from a distance.’

‘To be sure! to be sure!’ replied Montague. ‘Nothing more natural. I foresaw that, and provided against it. But I am afraid I am interrupting you.’

‘How the devil,’ pursued Jonas, with a still greater effort, ‘you made choice of your messenger, and where you found him, I’ll not ask you. I owed him one good turn before to-day. If you are so careless of men in general, as you said you were just now, you are quite indifferent to what becomes of such a crop-tailed cur as that, and will leave me to settle my account with him in my own manner.’

If he had raised his eyes to his companion’s face, he would have seen that Montague was evidently unable to comprehend his meaning. But continuing to stand before him, with his furtive gaze directed as before, and pausing here only to moisten his dry lips with his tongue, the fact was lost upon him. It might have struck a close observer that this fixed and steady glance of Jonas’s was a part of the alteration which had taken place in his demeanour. He kept it riveted on one spot, with which his thoughts had manifestly nothing to do; like as a juggler walking on a cord or wire to any dangerous end, holds some object in his sight to steady him, and never wanders from it, lest he trip.

Montague was quick in his rejoinder, though he made it at a venture. There was no difference of opinion between him and his friend on THAT point. Not the least.

‘Your great discovery,’ Jonas proceeded, with a savage sneer that got the better of him for the moment, ‘may be true, and may be false. Whichever it is, I dare say I’m no worse than other men.’

‘Not a bit,’ said Tigg. ‘Not a bit. We’re all alike—or nearly so.’

‘I want to know this,’ Jonas went on to say; ‘is it your own? You’ll not wonder at my asking the question.’

‘My own!’ repeated Montague.

‘Aye!’ returned the other, gruffly. ‘Is it known to anybody else? Come! Don’t waver about that.’

‘No!’ said Montague, without the smallest hesitation. ‘What would it be worth, do you think, unless I had the keeping of it?’

Now, for the first time, Jonas looked at him. After a pause, he put out his hand, and said, with a laugh:

‘Come! make things easy to me, and I’m yours. I don’t know that I may not be better off here, after all, than if I had gone away this morning. But here I am, and here I’ll stay now. Take your oath!’

He cleared his throat, for he was speaking hoarsely and said in a lighter tone:

‘Shall I go to Pecksniff? When? Say when!’

‘Immediately!’ cried Montague. ‘He cannot be enticed too soon.’

‘Ecod!’ cried Jonas, with a wild laugh. ‘There’s some fun in catching that old hypocrite. I hate him. Shall I go to-night?’

‘Aye! This,’ said Montague, ecstatically, ‘is like business! We understand each other now! To-night, my good fellow, by all means.’

‘Come with me,’ cried Jonas. ‘We must make a dash; go down in state, and carry documents, for he’s a deep file to deal with, and must be drawn on with an artful hand, or he’ll not follow. I know him. As I can’t take your lodgings or your dinners down, I must take you. Will you come to-night?’

His friend appeared to hesitate; and neither to have anticipated this proposal, nor to relish it very much.

‘We can concert our plans upon the road,’ said Jonas. ‘We must not go direct to him, but cross over from some other place, and turn out of our way to see him. I may not want to introduce you, but I must have you on the spot. I know the man, I tell you.’

‘But what if the man knows me?’ said Montague, shrugging his shoulders.

‘He know!’ cried Jonas. ‘Don’t you run that risk with fifty men a day! Would your father know you? Did I know you? Ecod! You were another figure when I saw you first. Ha, ha, ha! I see the rents and patches now! No false hair then, no black dye! You were another sort of joker in those days, you were! You even spoke different then. You’ve acted the gentleman so seriously since, that you’ve taken in yourself. If he should know you, what does it matter? Such a change is a proof of your success. You know that, or you would not have made yourself known to me. Will you come?’

‘My good fellow,’ said Montague, still hesitating, ‘I can trust you alone.’

‘Trust me! Ecod, you may trust me now, far enough. I’ll try to go away no more—no more!’ He stopped, and added in a more sober tone, ‘I can’t get on without you. Will you come?’

‘I will,’ said Montague, ‘if that’s your opinion.’ And they shook hands upon it.

The boisterous manner which Jonas had exhibited during the latter part of this conversation, and which had gone on rapidly increasing with almost every word he had spoken, from the time when he looked his honourable friend in the face until now, did not now subside, but, remaining at its height, abided by him. Most unusual with him at any period; most inconsistent with his temper and constitution; especially unnatural it would appear in one so darkly circumstanced; it abided by him. It was not like the effect of wine, or any ardent drink, for he was perfectly coherent. It even made him proof against the usual influence of such means of excitement; for, although he drank deeply several times that day, with no reserve or caution, he remained exactly the same man, and his spirits neither rose nor fell in the least observable degree.

Deciding, after some discussion, to travel at night, in order that the day’s business might not be broken in upon, they took counsel together in reference to the means. Mr Montague being of opinion that four horses were advisable, at all events for the first stage, as throwing a great deal of dust into people’s eyes, in more senses than one, a travelling chariot and four lay under orders for nine o’clock. Jonas did not go home; observing, that his being obliged to leave town on business in so great a hurry, would be a good excuse for having turned back so unexpectedly in the morning. So he wrote a note for his portmanteau, and sent it by a messenger, who duly brought his luggage back, with a short note from that other piece of luggage, his wife, expressive of her wish to be allowed to come and see him for a moment. To this request he sent for answer, ‘she had better;’ and one such threatening affirmative being sufficient, in defiance of the English grammar, to express a negative, she kept away.

Mr Montague being much engaged in the course of the day, Jonas bestowed his spirits chiefly on the doctor, with whom he lunched in the medical officer’s own room. On his way thither, encountering Mr Nadgett in the outer room, he bantered that stealthy gentleman on always appearing anxious to avoid him, and inquired if he were afraid of him. Mr Nadgett slyly answered, ‘No, but he believed it must be his way as he had been charged with much the same kind of thing before.’

Mr Montague was listening to, or, to speak with greater elegance, he overheard, this dialogue. As soon as Jonas was gone he beckoned Nadgett to him with the feather of his pen, and whispered in his ear.

‘Who gave him my letter this morning?’

‘My lodger, sir,’ said Nadgett, behind the palm of his hand.

‘How came that about?’

‘I found him on the wharf, sir. Being so much hurried, and you not arrived, it was necessary to do something. It fortunately occurred to me, that if I gave it him myself I could be of no further use. I should have been blown upon immediately.’

‘Mr Nadgett, you are a jewel,’ said Montague, patting him on the back. ‘What’s your lodger’s name?’

‘Pinch, sir. Thomas Pinch.’

Montague reflected for a little while, and then asked:

‘From the country, do you know?’

‘From Wiltshire, sir, he told me.’

They parted without another word. To see Mr Nadgett’s bow when Montague and he next met, and to see Mr Montague acknowledge it, anybody might have undertaken to swear that they had never spoken to each other confidentially in all their lives.

In the meanwhile, Mr Jonas and the doctor made themselves very comfortable upstairs, over a bottle of the old Madeira and some sandwiches; for the doctor having been already invited to dine below at six o’clock, preferred a light repast for lunch. It was advisable, he said, in two points of view: First, as being healthy in itself. Secondly as being the better preparation for dinner.

‘And you are bound for all our sakes to take particular care of your digestion, Mr Chuzzlewit, my dear sir,’ said the doctor smacking his lips after a glass of wine; ‘for depend upon it, it is worth preserving. It must be in admirable condition, sir; perfect chronometer-work. Otherwise your spirits could not be so remarkable. Your bosom’s lord sits lightly on its throne, Mr Chuzzlewit, as what’s-his-name says in the play. I wish he said it in a play which did anything like common justice to our profession, by the bye. There is an apothecary in that drama, sir, which is a low thing; vulgar, sir; out of nature altogether.’

Mr Jobling pulled out his shirt-frill of fine linen, as though he would have said, ‘This is what I call nature in a medical man, sir;’ and looked at Jonas for an observation.

Jonas not being in a condition to pursue the subject, took up a case of lancets that was lying on the table, and opened it.

‘Ah!’ said the doctor, leaning back in his chair, ‘I always take ‘em out of my pocket before I eat. My pockets are rather tight. Ha, ha, ha!’

Jonas had opened one of the shining little instruments; and was scrutinizing it with a look as sharp and eager as its own bright edge.

‘Good steel, doctor. Good steel! Eh!’

‘Ye-es,’ replied the doctor, with the faltering modesty of ownership. ‘One might open a vein pretty dexterously with that, Mr Chuzzlewit.’

‘It has opened a good many in its time, I suppose?’ said Jonas looking at it with a growing interest.

‘Not a few, my dear sir, not a few. It has been engaged in a—in a pretty good practice, I believe I may say,’ replied the doctor, coughing as if the matter-of-fact were so very dry and literal that he couldn’t help it. ‘In a pretty good practice,’ repeated the doctor, putting another glass of wine to his lips.

‘Now, could you cut a man’s throat with such a thing as this?’ demanded Jonas.

‘Oh certainly, certainly, if you took him in the right place,’ returned the doctor. ‘It all depends upon that.’

‘Where you have your hand now, hey?’ cried Jonas, bending forward to look at it.

‘Yes,’ said the doctor; ‘that’s the jugular.’

Jonas, in his vivacity, made a sudden sawing in the air, so close behind the doctor’s jugular that he turned quite red. Then Jonas (in the same strange spirit of vivacity) burst into a loud discordant laugh.

‘No, no,’ said the doctor, shaking his head; ‘edge tools, edge tools; never play with ‘em. A very remarkable instance of the skillful use of edge-tools, by the way, occurs to me at this moment. It was a case of murder. I am afraid it was a case of murder, committed by a member of our profession; it was so artistically done.’

‘Aye!’ said Jonas. ‘How was that?’

‘Why, sir,’ returned Jobling, ‘the thing lies in a nutshell. A certain gentleman was found, one morning, in an obscure street, lying in an angle of a doorway—I should rather say, leaning, in an upright position, in the angle of a doorway, and supported consequently by the doorway. Upon his waistcoat there was one solitary drop of blood. He was dead and cold; and had been murdered, sir.’

‘Only one drop of blood!’ said Jonas.

‘Sir, that man,’ replied the doctor, ‘had been stabbed to the heart. Had been stabbed to the heart with such dexterity, sir, that he had died instantly, and had bled internally. It was supposed that a medical friend of his (to whom suspicion attached) had engaged him in conversation on some pretence; had taken him, very likely, by the button in a conversational manner; had examined his ground at leisure with his other hand; had marked the exact spot; drawn out the instrument, whatever it was, when he was quite prepared; and—’

‘And done the trick,’ suggested Jonas.

‘Exactly so,’ replied the doctor. ‘It was quite an operation in its way, and very neat. The medical friend never turned up; and, as I tell you, he had the credit of it. Whether he did it or not I can’t say. But, having had the honour to be called in with two or three of my professional brethren on the occasion, and having assisted to make a careful examination of the wound, I have no hesitation in saying that it would have reflected credit on any medical man; and that in an unprofessional person it could not but be considered, either as an extraordinary work of art, or the result of a still more extraordinary, happy, and favourable conjunction of circumstances.’

His hearer was so much interested in this case, that the doctor went on to elucidate it with the assistance of his own finger and thumb and waistcoat; and at Jonas’s request, he took the further trouble of going into a corner of the room, and alternately representing the murdered man and the murderer; which he did with great effect. The bottle being emptied and the story done, Jonas was in precisely the same boisterous and unusual state as when they had sat down. If, as Jobling theorized, his good digestion were the cause, he must have been a very ostrich.

At dinner it was just the same; and after dinner too; though wine was drunk in abundance, and various rich meats eaten. At nine o’clock it was still the same. There being a lamp in the carriage, he swore they would take a pack of cards, and a bottle of wine; and with these things under his cloak, went down to the door.

‘Out of the way, Tom Thumb, and get to bed!’

This was the salutation he bestowed on Mr Bailey, who, booted and wrapped up, stood at the carriage door to help him in.

‘To bed, sir! I’m a-going, too,’ said Bailey.

He alighted quickly, and walked back into the hall, where Montague was lighting a cigar; conducting Mr Bailey with him, by the collar.

‘You are not a-going to take this monkey of a boy, are you?’

‘Yes,’ said Montague.

He gave the boy a shake, and threw him roughly aside. There was more of his familiar self in the action, than in anything he had done that day; but he broke out laughing immediately afterwards, and making a thrust at the doctor with his hand, in imitation of his representation of the medical friend, went out to the carriage again, and took his seat. His companion followed immediately. Mr Bailey climbed into the rumble. ‘It will be a stormy night!’ exclaimed the doctor, as they started.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CONTINUATION OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND

The doctor’s prognostication in reference to the weather was speedily verified. Although the weather was not a patient of his, and no third party had required him to give an opinion on the case, the quick fulfilment of his prophecy may be taken as an instance of his professional tact; for, unless the threatening aspect of the night had been perfectly plain and unmistakable, Mr Jobling would never have compromised his reputation by delivering any sentiments on the subject. He used this principle in Medicine with too much success to be unmindful of it in his commonest transactions.

It was one of those hot, silent nights, when people sit at windows listening for the thunder which they know will shortly break; when they recall dismal tales of hurricanes and earthquakes; and of lonely travellers on open plains, and lonely ships at sea, struck by lightning. Lightning flashed and quivered on the black horizon even now; and hollow murmurings were in the wind, as though it had been blowing where the thunder rolled, and still was charged with its exhausted echoes. But the storm, though gathering swiftly, had not yet come up; and the prevailing stillness was the more solemn, from the dull intelligence that seemed to hover in the air, of noise and conflict afar off.

It was very dark; but in the murky sky there were masses of cloud which shone with a lurid light, like monstrous heaps of copper that had been heated in a furnace, and were growing cold. These had been advancing steadily and slowly, but they were now motionless, or nearly so. As the carriage clattered round the corners of the streets, it passed at every one a knot of persons who had come there—many from their houses close at hand, without hats—to look up at that quarter of the sky. And now a very few large drops of rain began to fall, and thunder rumbled in the distance.

Jonas sat in a corner of the carriage with his bottle resting on his knee, and gripped as tightly in his hand as if he would have ground its neck to powder if he could. Instinctively attracted by the night, he had laid aside the pack of cards upon the cushion; and with the same involuntary impulse, so intelligible to both of them as not to occasion a remark on either side, his companion had extinguished the lamp. The front glasses were down; and they sat looking silently out upon the gloomy scene before them.

They were clear of London, or as clear of it as travellers can be whose way lies on the Western Road, within a stage of that enormous city. Occasionally they encountered a foot-passenger, hurrying to the nearest place of shelter; or some unwieldy cart proceeding onward at a heavy trot, with the same end in view. Little clusters of such vehicles were gathered round the stable-yard or baiting-place of every wayside tavern; while their drivers watched the weather from the doors and open windows, or made merry within. Everywhere the people were disposed to bear each other company rather than sit alone; so that groups of watchful faces seemed to be looking out upon the night AND THEM, from almost every house they passed.

It may appear strange that this should have disturbed Jonas, or rendered him uneasy; but it did. After muttering to himself, and often changing his position, he drew up the blind on his side of the carriage, and turned his shoulder sulkily towards it. But he neither looked at his companion, nor broke the silence which prevailed between them, and which had fallen so suddenly upon himself, by addressing a word to him.

The thunder rolled, the lightning flashed; the rain poured down like Heaven’s wrath. Surrounded at one moment by intolerable light, and at the next by pitchy darkness, they still pressed forward on their journey. Even when they arrived at the end of the stage, and might have tarried, they did not; but ordered horses out immediately. Nor had this any reference to some five minutes’ lull, which at that time seemed to promise a cessation of the storm. They held their course as if they were impelled and driven by its fury. Although they had not exchanged a dozen words, and might have tarried very well, they seemed to feel, by joint consent, that onward they must go.

Louder and louder the deep thunder rolled, as through the myriad halls of some vast temple in the sky; fiercer and brighter became the lightning, more and more heavily the rain poured down. The horses (they were travelling now with a single pair) plunged and started from the rills of quivering fire that seemed to wind along the ground before them; but there these two men sat, and forward they went as if they were led on by an invisible attraction.

The eye, partaking of the quickness of the flashing light, saw in its every gleam a multitude of objects which it could not see at steady noon in fifty times that period. Bells in steeples, with the rope and wheel that moved them; ragged nests of birds in cornices and nooks; faces full of consternation in the tilted waggons that came tearing past; their frightened teams ringing out a warning which the thunder drowned; harrows and ploughs left out in fields; miles upon miles of hedge-divided country, with the distant fringe of trees as obvious as the scarecrow in the bean-field close at hand; in a trembling, vivid, flickering instant, everything was clear and plain; then came a flush of red into the yellow light; a change to blue; a brightness so intense that there was nothing else but light; and then the deepest and profoundest darkness.

The lightning being very crooked and very dazzling may have presented or assisted a curious optical illusion, which suddenly rose before the startled eyes of Montague in the carriage, and as rapidly disappeared. He thought he saw Jonas with his hand lifted, and the bottle clenched in it like a hammer, making as if he would aim a blow at his head. At the same time he observed (or so believed) an expression in his face—a combination of the unnatural excitement he had shown all day, with a wild hatred and fear—which might have rendered a wolf a less terrible companion.

He uttered an involuntary exclamation, and called to the driver, who brought his horses to a stop with all speed.

It could hardly have been as he supposed, for although he had not taken his eyes off his companion, and had not seen him move, he sat reclining in his corner as before.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Jonas. ‘Is that your general way of waking out of your sleep?’

‘I could swear,’ returned the other, ‘that I have not closed my eyes!’

‘When you have sworn it,’ said Jonas, composedly, ‘we had better go on again, if you have only stopped for that.’

He uncorked the bottle with the help of his teeth; and putting it to his lips, took a long draught.

‘I wish we had never started on this journey. This is not,’ said Montague, recoiling instinctively, and speaking in a voice that betrayed his agitation; ‘this is not a night to travel in.’

‘Ecod! you’re right there,’ returned Jonas, ‘and we shouldn’t be out in it but for you. If you hadn’t kept me waiting all day, we might have been at Salisbury by this time; snug abed and fast asleep. What are we stopping for?’

His companion put his head out of window for a moment, and drawing it in again, observed (as if that were his cause of anxiety), that the boy was drenched to the skin.

‘Serve him right,’ said Jonas. ‘I’m glad of it. What the devil are we stopping for? Are you going to spread him out to dry?’

‘I have half a mind to take him inside,’ observed the other with some hesitation.

‘Oh! thankee!’ said Jonas. ‘We don’t want any damp boys here; especially a young imp like him. Let him be where he is. He ain’t afraid of a little thunder and lightning, I dare say; whoever else is. Go on, driver. We had better have HIM inside perhaps,’ he muttered with a laugh; ‘and the horses!’

‘Don’t go too fast,’ cried Montague to the postillion; ‘and take care how you go. You were nearly in the ditch when I called to you.’

This was not true; and Jonas bluntly said so, as they moved forward again. Montague took little or no heed of what he said, but repeated that it was not a night for travelling, and showed himself, both then and afterwards, unusually anxious.

From this time Jonas recovered his former spirits, if such a term may be employed to express the state in which he had left the city. He had his bottle often at his mouth; roared out snatches of songs, without the least regard to time or tune or voice, or anything but loud discordance; and urged his silent friend to be merry with him.

‘You’re the best company in the world, my good fellow,’ said Montague with an effort, ‘and in general irresistible; but to-night—do you hear it?’

‘Ecod! I hear and see it too,’ cried Jonas, shading his eyes, for the moment, from the lightning which was flashing, not in any one direction, but all around them. ‘What of that? It don’t change you, nor me, nor our affairs. Chorus, chorus,

It may lighten and storm, Till it hunt the red worm From the grass where the gibbet is driven; But it can’t hurt the dead, And it won’t save the head That is doom’d to be rifled and riven.

That must be a precious old song,’ he added with an oath, as he stopped short in a kind of wonder at himself. ‘I haven’t heard it since I was a boy, and how it comes into my head now, unless the lightning put it there, I don’t know. “Can’t hurt the dead”! No, no. “And won’t save the head”! No, no. No! Ha, ha, ha!’

His mirth was of such a savage and extraordinary character, and was, in an inexplicable way, at once so suited to the night, and yet such a coarse intrusion on its terrors, that his fellow-traveller, always a coward, shrunk from him in positive fear. Instead of Jonas being his tool and instrument, their places seemed to be reversed. But there was reason for this too, Montague thought; since the sense of his debasement might naturally inspire such a man with the wish to assert a noisy independence, and in that licence to forget his real condition. Being quick enough, in reference to such subjects of contemplation, he was not long in taking this argument into account and giving it its full weight. But still, he felt a vague sense of alarm, and was depressed and uneasy.

He was certain he had not been asleep; but his eyes might have deceived him; for, looking at Jonas now in any interval of darkness, he could represent his figure to himself in any attitude his state of mind suggested. On the other hand, he knew full well that Jonas had no reason to love him; and even taking the piece of pantomime which had so impressed his mind to be a real gesture, and not the working of his fancy, the most that could be said of it was, that it was quite in keeping with the rest of his diabolical fun, and had the same impotent expression of truth in it. ‘If he could kill me with a wish,’ thought the swindler, ‘I should not live long.’

He resolved that when he should have had his use of Jonas, he would restrain him with an iron curb; in the meantime, that he could not do better than leave him to take his own way, and preserve his own peculiar description of good-humour, after his own uncommon manner. It was no great sacrifice to bear with him; ‘for when all is got that can be got,’ thought Montague, ‘I shall decamp across the water, and have the laugh on my side—and the gains.’

Such were his reflections from hour to hour; his state of mind being one in which the same thoughts constantly present themselves over and over again in wearisome repetition; while Jonas, who appeared to have dismissed reflection altogether, entertained himself as before. They agreed that they would go to Salisbury, and would cross to Mr Pecksniff’s in the morning; and at the prospect of deluding that worthy gentleman, the spirits of his amiable son-in-law became more boisterous than ever.

As the night wore on, the thunder died away, but still rolled gloomily and mournfully in the distance. The lightning too, though now comparatively harmless, was yet bright and frequent. The rain was quite as violent as it had ever been.

It was their ill-fortune, at about the time of dawn and in the last stage of their journey, to have a restive pair of horses. These animals had been greatly terrified in their stable by the tempest; and coming out into the dreary interval between night and morning, when the glare of the lightning was yet unsubdued by day, and the various objects in their view were presented in indistinct and exaggerated shapes which they would not have worn by night, they gradually became less and less capable of control; until, taking a sudden fright at something by the roadside, they dashed off wildly down a steep hill, flung the driver from his saddle, drew the carriage to the brink of a ditch, stumbled headlong down, and threw it crashing over.

The travellers had opened the carriage door, and had either jumped or fallen out. Jonas was the first to stagger to his feet. He felt sick and weak, and very giddy, and reeling to a five-barred gate, stood holding by it; looking drowsily about as the whole landscape swam before his eyes. But, by degrees, he grew more conscious, and presently observed that Montague was lying senseless in the road, within a few feet of the horses.

In an instant, as if his own faint body were suddenly animated by a demon, he ran to the horses’ heads; and pulling at their bridles with all his force, set them struggling and plunging with such mad violence as brought their hoofs at every effort nearer to the skull of the prostrate man; and must have led in half a minute to his brains being dashed out on the highway.

As he did this, he fought and contended with them like a man possessed, making them wilder by his cries.

‘Whoop!’ cried Jonas. ‘Whoop! again! another! A little more, a little more! Up, ye devils! Hillo!’

As he heard the driver, who had risen and was hurrying up, crying to him to desist, his violence increased.

‘Hiilo! Hillo!’ cried Jonas.

‘For God’s sake!’ cried the driver. ‘The gentleman—in the road—he’ll be killed!’

The same shouts and the same struggles were his only answer. But the man darting in at the peril of his own life, saved Montague’s, by dragging him through the mire and water out of the reach of present harm. That done, he ran to Jonas; and with the aid of his knife they very shortly disengaged the horses from the broken chariot, and got them, cut and bleeding, on their legs again. The postillion and Jonas had now leisure to look at each other, which they had not had yet.

‘Presence of mind, presence of mind!’ cried Jonas, throwing up his hands wildly. ‘What would you have done without me?’

‘The other gentleman would have done badly without ME,’ returned the man, shaking his head. ‘You should have moved him first. I gave him up for dead.’

‘Presence of mind, you croaker, presence of mind’ cried Jonas with a harsh loud laugh. ‘Was he struck, do you think?’

They both turned to look at him. Jonas muttered something to himself, when he saw him sitting up beneath the hedge, looking vacantly around.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Montague. ‘Is anybody hurt?’

‘Ecod!’ said Jonas, ‘it don’t seem so. There are no bones broken, after all.’

They raised him, and he tried to walk. He was a good deal shaken, and trembled very much. But with the exception of a few cuts and bruises this was all the damage he had sustained.

‘Cuts and bruises, eh?’ said Jonas. ‘We’ve all got them. Only cuts and bruises, eh?’

‘I wouldn’t have given sixpence for the gentleman’s head in half-a-dozen seconds more, for all he’s only cut and bruised,’ observed the post-boy. ‘If ever you’re in an accident of this sort again, sir; which I hope you won’t be; never you pull at the bridle of a horse that’s down, when there’s a man’s head in the way. That can’t be done twice without there being a dead man in the case; it would have ended in that, this time, as sure as ever you were born, if I hadn’t come up just when I did.’

Jonas replied by advising him with a curse to hold his tongue, and to go somewhere, whither he was not very likely to go of his own accord. But Montague, who had listened eagerly to every word, himself diverted the subject, by exclaiming: ‘Where’s the boy?’

‘Ecod! I forgot that monkey,’ said Jonas. ‘What’s become of him?’ A very brief search settled that question. The unfortunate Mr Bailey had been thrown sheer over the hedge or the five-barred gate; and was lying in the neighbouring field, to all appearance dead.

‘When I said to-night, that I wished I had never started on this journey,’ cried his master, ‘I knew it was an ill-fated one. Look at this boy!’

‘Is that all?’ growled Jonas. ‘If you call THAT a sign of it—’

‘Why, what should I call a sign of it?’ asked Montague, hurriedly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean,’ said Jonas, stooping down over the body, ‘that I never heard you were his father, or had any particular reason to care much about him. Halloa. Hold up there!’

But the boy was past holding up, or being held up, or giving any other sign of life than a faint and fitful beating of the heart. After some discussion the driver mounted the horse which had been least injured, and took the lad in his arms as well as he could; while Montague and Jonas, leading the other horse, and carrying a trunk between them, walked by his side towards Salisbury.

‘You’d get there in a few minutes, and be able to send assistance to meet us, if you went forward, post-boy,’ said Jonas. ‘Trot on!’

‘No, no,’ cried Montague; ‘we’ll keep together.’

‘Why, what a chicken you are! You are not afraid of being robbed; are you?’ said Jonas.

‘I am not afraid of anything,’ replied the other, whose looks and manner were in flat contradiction to his words. ‘But we’ll keep together.’

‘You were mighty anxious about the boy, a minute ago,’ said Jonas. ‘I suppose you know that he may die in the meantime?’

‘Aye, aye. I know. But we’ll keep together.’

As it was clear that he was not to be moved from this determination, Jonas made no other rejoinder than such as his face expressed; and they proceeded in company. They had three or four good miles to travel; and the way was not made easier by the state of the road, the burden by which they were embarrassed, or their own stiff and sore condition. After a sufficiently long and painful walk, they arrived at the Inn; and having knocked the people up (it being yet very early in the morning), sent out messengers to see to the carriage and its contents, and roused a surgeon from his bed to tend the chief sufferer. All the service he could render, he rendered promptly and skillfully. But he gave it as his opinion that the boy was labouring under a severe concussion of the brain, and that Mr Bailey’s mortal course was run.

If Montague’s strong interest in the announcement could have been considered as unselfish in any degree, it might have been a redeeming trait in a character that had no such lineaments to spare. But it was not difficult to see that, for some unexpressed reason best appreciated by himself, he attached a strange value to the company and presence of this mere child. When, after receiving some assistance from the surgeon himself, he retired to the bedroom prepared for him, and it was broad day, his mind was still dwelling on this theme.

‘I would rather have lost,’ he said, ‘a thousand pounds than lost the boy just now. But I’ll return home alone. I am resolved upon that. Chuzzlewit shall go forward first, and I will follow in my own time. I’ll have no more of this,’ he added, wiping his damp forehead. ‘Twenty-four hours of this would turn my hair grey!’

After examining his chamber, and looking under the bed, and in the cupboards, and even behind the curtains, with unusual caution (although it was, as has been said, broad day), he double-locked the door by which he had entered, and retired to rest. There was another door in the room, but it was locked on the outer side; and with what place it communicated, he knew not.

His fears or evil conscience reproduced this door in all his dreams. He dreamed that a dreadful secret was connected with it; a secret which he knew, and yet did not know, for although he was heavily responsible for it, and a party to it, he was harassed even in his vision by a distracting uncertainty in reference to its import. Incoherently entwined with this dream was another, which represented it as the hiding-place of an enemy, a shadow, a phantom; and made it the business of his life to keep the terrible creature closed up, and prevent it from forcing its way in upon him. With this view Nadgett, and he, and a strange man with a bloody smear upon his head (who told him that he had been his playfellow, and told him, too, the real name of an old schoolmate, forgotten until then), worked with iron plates and nails to make the door secure; but though they worked never so hard, it was all in vain, for the nails broke, or changed to soft twigs, or what was worse, to worms, between their fingers; the wood of the door splintered and crumbled, so that even nails would not remain in it; and the iron plates curled up like hot paper. All this time the creature on the other side—whether it was in the shape of man, or beast, he neither knew nor sought to know—was gaining on them. But his greatest terror was when the man with the bloody smear upon his head demanded of him if he knew this creatures name, and said that he would whisper it. At this the dreamer fell upon his knees, his whole blood thrilling with inexplicable fear, and held his ears. But looking at the speaker’s lips, he saw that they formed the utterance of the letter ‘J’; and crying out aloud that the secret was discovered, and they were all lost, he awoke.

Awoke to find Jonas standing at his bedside watching him. And that very door wide open.

As their eyes met, Jonas retreated a few paces, and Montague sprang out of bed.

‘Heyday!’ said Jonas. ‘You’re all alive this morning.’

‘Alive!’ the other stammered, as he pulled the bell-rope violently. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘It’s your room to be sure,’ said Jonas; ‘but I’m almost inclined to ask you what YOU are doing here? My room is on the other side of that door. No one told me last night not to open it. I thought it led into a passage, and was coming out to order breakfast. There’s—there’s no bell in my room.’

Montague had in the meantime admitted the man with his hot water and boots, who hearing this, said, yes, there was; and passed into the adjoining room to point it out, at the head of the bed.

‘I couldn’t find it, then,’ said Jonas; ‘it’s all the same. Shall I order breakfast?’

Montague answered in the affirmative. When Jonas had retired, whistling, through his own room, he opened the door of communication, to take out the key and fasten it on the inner side. But it was taken out already.

He dragged a table against the door, and sat down to collect himself, as if his dreams still had some influence upon his mind.

‘An evil journey,’ he repeated several times. ‘An evil journey. But I’ll travel home alone. I’ll have no more of this.’

His presentiment, or superstition, that it was an evil journey, did not at all deter him from doing the evil for which the journey was undertaken. With this in view, he dressed himself more carefully than usual to make a favourable impression on Mr Pecksniff; and, reassured by his own appearance, the beauty of the morning, and the flashing of the wet boughs outside his window in the merry sunshine, was soon sufficiently inspirited to swear a few round oaths, and hum the fag-end of a song.

But he still muttered to himself at intervals, for all that: ‘I’ll travel home alone!’

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

HAS AN INFLUENCE ON THE FORTUNES OF SEVERAL PEOPLE. MR PECKSNIFF IS EXHIBITED IN THE PLENITUDE OF POWER; AND WIELDS THE SAME WITH FORTITUDE AND MAGNANIMITY

On the night of the storm, Mrs Lupin, hostess of the Blue Dragon, sat by herself in her little bar. Her solitary condition, or the bad weather, or both united, made Mrs Lupin thoughtful, not to say sorrowful. As she sat with her chin upon her hand, looking out through a low back lattice, rendered dim in the brightest day-time by clustering vine-leaves, she shook her head very often, and said, ‘Dear me! Oh, dear, dear me!’

It was a melancholy time, even in the snugness of the Dragon bar. The rich expanse of corn-field, pasture-land, green slope, and gentle undulation, with its sparkling brooks, its many hedgerows, and its clumps of beautiful trees, was black and dreary, from the diamond panes of the lattice away to the far horizon, where the thunder seemed to roll along the hills. The heavy rain beat down the tender branches of vine and jessamine, and trampled on them in its fury; and when the lightning gleamed it showed the tearful leaves shivering and cowering together at the window, and tapping at it urgently, as if beseeching to be sheltered from the dismal night.

As a mark of her respect for the lightning, Mrs Lupin had removed her candle to the chimney-piece. Her basket of needle-work stood unheeded at her elbow; her supper, spread on a round table not far off, was untasted; and the knives had been removed for fear of attraction. She had sat for a long time with her chin upon her hand, saying to herself at intervals, ‘Dear me! Ah, dear, dear me!’

She was on the eve of saying so, once more, when the latch of the house-door (closed to keep the rain out), rattled on its well-worn catch, and a traveller came in, who, shutting it after him, and walking straight up to the half-door of the bar, said, rather gruffly:

‘A pint of the best old beer here.’

He had some reason to be gruff, for if he had passed the day in a waterfall, he could scarcely have been wetter than he was. He was wrapped up to the eyes in a rough blue sailor’s coat, and had an oil-skin hat on, from the capacious brim of which the rain fell trickling down upon his breast, and back, and shoulders. Judging from a certain liveliness of chin—he had so pulled down his hat, and pulled up his collar, to defend himself from the weather, that she could only see his chin, and even across that he drew the wet sleeve of his shaggy coat, as she looked at him—Mrs Lupin set him down for a good-natured fellow, too.

‘A bad night!’ observed the hostess cheerfully.

The traveller shook himself like a Newfoundland dog, and said it was, rather.

‘There’s a fire in the kitchen,’ said Mrs Lupin, ‘and very good company there. Hadn’t you better go and dry yourself?’

‘No, thankee,’ said the man, glancing towards the kitchen as he spoke; he seemed to know the way.

‘It’s enough to give you your death of cold,’ observed the hostess.

‘I don’t take my death easy,’ returned the traveller; ‘or I should most likely have took it afore to-night. Your health, ma’am!’

Mrs Lupin thanked him; but in the act of lifting the tankard to his mouth, he changed his mind, and put it down again. Throwing his body back, and looking about him stiffly, as a man does who is wrapped up, and has his hat low down over his eyes, he said:

‘What do you call this house? Not the Dragon, do you?’

Mrs Lupin complacently made answer, ‘Yes, the Dragon.’

‘Why, then, you’ve got a sort of a relation of mine here, ma’am,’ said the traveller; ‘a young man of the name of Tapley. What! Mark, my boy!’ apostrophizing the premises, ‘have I come upon you at last, old buck!’

This was touching Mrs Lupin on a tender point. She turned to trim the candle on the chimney-piece, and said, with her back towards the traveller:

‘Nobody should be made more welcome at the Dragon, master, than any one who brought me news of Mark. But it’s many and many a long day and month since he left here and England. And whether he’s alive or dead, poor fellow, Heaven above us only knows!’

She shook her head, and her voice trembled; her hand must have done so too, for the light required a deal of trimming.

‘Where did he go, ma’am?’ asked the traveller, in a gentler voice.

‘He went,’ said Mrs Lupin, with increased distress, ‘to America. He was always tender-hearted and kind, and perhaps at this moment may be lying in prison under sentence of death, for taking pity on some miserable black, and helping the poor runaway creetur to escape. How could he ever go to America! Why didn’t he go to some of those countries where the savages eat each other fairly, and give an equal chance to every one!’

Quite subdued by this time, Mrs Lupin sobbed, and was retiring to a chair to give her grief free vent, when the traveller caught her in his arms, and she uttered a glad cry of recognition.

‘Yes, I will!’ cried Mark, ‘another—one more—twenty more! You didn’t know me in that hat and coat? I thought you would have known me anywheres! Ten more!’

‘So I should have known you, if I could have seen you; but I couldn’t, and you spoke so gruff. I didn’t think you could speak gruff to me, Mark, at first coming back.’

‘Fifteen more!’ said Mr Tapley. ‘How handsome and how young you look! Six more! The last half-dozen warn’t a fair one, and must be done over again. Lord bless you, what a treat it is to see you! One more! Well, I never was so jolly. Just a few more, on account of there not being any credit in it!’

When Mr Tapley stopped in these calculations in simple addition, he did it, not because he was at all tired of the exercise, but because he was out of breath. The pause reminded him of other duties.

‘Mr Martin Chuzzlewit’s outside,’ he said. ‘I left him under the cartshed, while I came on to see if there was anybody here. We want to keep quiet to-night, till we know the news from you, and what it’s best for us to do.’

‘There’s not a soul in the house, except the kitchen company,’ returned the hostess. ‘If they were to know you had come back, Mark, they’d have a bonfire in the street, late as it is.’

‘But they mustn’t know it to-night, my precious soul,’ said Mark; ‘so have the house shut, and the kitchen fire made up; and when it’s all ready, put a light in the winder, and we’ll come in. One more! I long to hear about old friends. You’ll tell me all about ‘em, won’t you; Mr Pinch, and the butcher’s dog down the street, and the terrier over the way, and the wheelwright’s, and every one of ‘em. When I first caught sight of the church to-night, I thought the steeple would have choked me, I did. One more! Won’t you? Not a very little one to finish off with?’

‘You have had plenty, I am sure,’ said the hostess. ‘Go along with your foreign manners!’

‘That ain’t foreign, bless you!’ cried Mark. ‘Native as oysters, that is! One more, because it’s native! As a mark of respect for the land we live in! This don’t count as between you and me, you understand,’ said Mr Tapley. ‘I ain’t a-kissing you now, you’ll observe. I have been among the patriots; I’m a-kissin’ my country.’

It would have been very unreasonable to complain of the exhibition of his patriotism with which he followed up this explanation, that it was at all lukewarm or indifferent. When he had given full expression to his nationality, he hurried off to Martin; while Mrs Lupin, in a state of great agitation and excitement, prepared for their reception.

The company soon came tumbling out; insisting to each other that the Dragon clock was half an hour too fast, and that the thunder must have affected it. Impatient, wet, and weary though they were, Martin and Mark were overjoyed to see these old faces, and watched them with delighted interest as they departed from the house, and passed close by them.

‘There’s the old tailor, Mark!’ whispered Martin.

‘There he goes, sir! A little bandier than he was, I think, sir, ain’t he? His figure’s so far altered, as it seems to me, that you might wheel a rather larger barrow between his legs as he walks, than you could have done conveniently when we know’d him. There’s Sam a-coming out, sir.’

‘Ah, to be sure!’ cried Martin; ‘Sam, the hostler. I wonder whether that horse of Pecksniff’s is alive still?’

‘Not a doubt on it, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘That’s a description of animal, sir, as will go on in a bony way peculiar to himself for a long time, and get into the newspapers at last under the title of “Sing’lar Tenacity of Life in a Quadruped.” As if he had ever been alive in all his life, worth mentioning! There’s the clerk, sir—wery drunk, as usual.’

‘I see him!’ said Martin, laughing. ‘But, my life, how wet you are, Mark!’

‘I am! What do you consider yourself, sir?’

‘Oh, not half as bad,’ said his fellow-traveller, with an air of great vexation. ‘I told you not to keep on the windy side, Mark, but to let us change and change about. The rain has been beating on you ever since it began.’

‘You don’t know how it pleases me, sir,’ said Mark, after a short silence, ‘if I may make so bold as say so, to hear you a-going on in that there uncommon considerate way of yours; which I don’t mean to attend to, never, but which, ever since that time when I was floored in Eden, you have showed.’

‘Ah, Mark!’ sighed Martin, ‘the less we say of that the better. Do I see the light yonder?’

‘That’s the light!’ cried Mark. ‘Lord bless her, what briskness she possesses! Now for it, sir. Neat wines, good beds, and first-rate entertainment for man or beast.’

The kitchen fire burnt clear and red, the table was spread out, the kettle boiled; the slippers were there, the boot-jack too, sheets of ham were there, cooking on the gridiron; half-a-dozen eggs were there, poaching in the frying-pan; a plethoric cherry-brandy bottle was there, winking at a foaming jug of beer upon the table; rare provisions were there, dangling from the rafters as if you had only to open your mouth, and something exquisitely ripe and good would be glad of the excuse for tumbling into it. Mrs Lupin, who for their sakes had dislodged the very cook, high priestess of the temple, with her own genial hands was dressing their repast.

It was impossible to help it—a ghost must have hugged her. The Atlantic Ocean and the Red Sea being, in that respect, all one, Martin hugged her instantly. Mr Tapley (as if the idea were quite novel, and had never occurred to him before), followed, with much gravity, on the same side.

‘Little did I ever think,’ said Mrs Lupin, adjusting her cap and laughing heartily; yes, and blushing too; ‘often as I have said that Mr Pecksniff’s young gentlemen were the life and soul of the Dragon, and that without them it would be too dull to live in—little did I ever think I am sure, that any one of them would ever make so free as you, Mr Martin! And still less that I shouldn’t be angry with him, but should be glad with all my heart to be the first to welcome him home from America, with Mark Tapley for his—’

‘For his friend, Mrs Lupin,’ interposed Martin.

‘For his friend,’ said the hostess, evidently gratified by this distinction, but at the same time admonishing Mr Tapley with a fork to remain at a respectful distance. ‘Little did I ever think that! But still less, that I should ever have the changes to relate that I shall have to tell you of, when you have done your supper!’

‘Good Heaven!’ cried Martin, changing colour, ‘what changes?’

‘SHE,’ said the hostess, ‘is quite well, and now at Mr Pecksniff’s. Don’t be at all alarmed about her. She is everything you could wish. It’s of no use mincing matters, or making secrets, is it?’ added Mrs Lupin. ‘I know all about it, you see!’

‘My good creature,’ returned Martin, ‘you are exactly the person who ought to know all about it. I am delighted to think you DO know about that! But what changes do you hint at? Has any death occurred?’

‘No, no!’ said the hostess. ‘Not as bad as that. But I declare now that I will not be drawn into saying another word till you have had your supper. If you ask me fifty questions in the meantime, I won’t answer one.’

She was so positive, that there was nothing for it but to get the supper over as quickly as possible; and as they had been walking a great many miles, and had fasted since the middle of the day, they did no great violence to their own inclinations in falling on it tooth and nail. It took rather longer to get through than might have been expected; for, half-a-dozen times, when they thought they had finished, Mrs Lupin exposed the fallacy of that impression triumphantly. But at last, in the course of time and nature, they gave in. Then, sitting with their slippered feet stretched out upon the kitchen hearth (which was wonderfully comforting, for the night had grown by this time raw and chilly), and looking with involuntary admiration at their dimpled, buxom, blooming hostess, as the firelight sparkled in her eyes and glimmered in her raven hair, they composed themselves to listen to her news.

Many were the exclamations of surprise which interrupted her, when she told them of the separation between Mr Pecksniff and his daughters, and between the same good gentleman and Mr Pinch. But these were nothing to the indignant demonstrations of Martin, when she related, as the common talk of the neighbourhood, what entire possession he had obtained over the mind and person of old Mr Chuzzlewit, and what high honour he designed for Mary. On receipt of this intelligence, Martin’s slippers flew off in a twinkling, and he began pulling on his wet boots with that indefinite intention of going somewhere instantly, and doing something to somebody, which is the first safety-valve of a hot temper.

‘He!’ said Martin, ‘smooth-tongued villain that he is! He! Give me that other boot, Mark?’

‘Where was you a-thinking of going to, sir?’ inquired Mr Tapley drying the sole at the fire, and looking coolly at it as he spoke, as if it were a slice of toast.

‘Where!’ repeated Martin. ‘You don’t suppose I am going to remain here, do you?’

The imperturbable Mark confessed that he did.

You do!’ retorted Martin angrily. ‘I am much obliged to you. What do you take me for?’

‘I take you for what you are, sir,’ said Mark; ‘and, consequently, am quite sure that whatever you do will be right and sensible. The boot, sir.’

Martin darted an impatient look at him, without taking it, and walked rapidly up and down the kitchen several times, with one boot and a stocking on. But, mindful of his Eden resolution, he had already gained many victories over himself when Mark was in the case, and he resolved to conquer now. So he came back to the book-jack, laid his hand on Mark’s shoulder to steady himself, pulled the boot off, picked up his slippers, put them on, and sat down again. He could not help thrusting his hands to the very bottom of his pockets, and muttering at intervals, ‘Pecksniff too! That fellow! Upon my soul! In-deed! What next?’ and so forth; nor could he help occasionally shaking his fist at the chimney, with a very threatening countenance; but this did not last long; and he heard Mrs Lupin out, if not with composure, at all events in silence.

‘As to Mr Pecksniff himself,’ observed the hostess in conclusion, spreading out the skirts of her gown with both hands, and nodding her head a great many times as she did so, ‘I don’t know what to say. Somebody must have poisoned his mind, or influenced him in some extraordinary way. I cannot believe that such a noble-spoken gentleman would go and do wrong of his own accord!’

A noble-spoken gentleman! How many people are there in the world, who, for no better reason, uphold their Pecksniffs to the last and abandon virtuous men, when Pecksniffs breathe upon them!

‘As to Mr Pinch,’ pursued the landlady, ‘if ever there was a dear, good, pleasant, worthy soul alive, Pinch, and no other, is his name. But how do we know that old Mr Chuzzlewit himself was not the cause of difference arising between him and Mr Pecksniff? No one but themselves can tell; for Mr Pinch has a proud spirit, though he has such a quiet way; and when he left us, and was so sorry to go, he scorned to make his story good, even to me.’

‘Poor old Tom!’ said Martin, in a tone that sounded like remorse.

‘It’s a comfort to know,’ resumed the landlady, ‘that he has his sister living with him, and is doing well. Only yesterday he sent me back, by post, a little’—here the colour came into her cheeks—‘a little trifle I was bold enough to lend him when he went away; saying, with many thanks, that he had good employment, and didn’t want it. It was the same note; he hadn’t broken it. I never thought I could have been so little pleased to see a bank-note come back to me as I was to see that.’

‘Kindly said, and heartily!’ said Martin. ‘Is it not, Mark?’

‘She can’t say anything as does not possess them qualities,’ returned Mr Tapley; ‘which as much belongs to the Dragon as its licence. And now that we have got quite cool and fresh, to the subject again, sir; what will you do? If you’re not proud, and can make up your mind to go through with what you spoke of, coming along, that’s the course for you to take. If you started wrong with your grandfather (which, you’ll excuse my taking the liberty of saying, appears to have been the case), up with you, sir, and tell him so, and make an appeal to his affections. Don’t stand out. He’s a great deal older than you, and if he was hasty, you was hasty too. Give way, sir, give way.’

The eloquence of Mr Tapley was not without its effect on Martin but he still hesitated, and expressed his reason thus:

‘That’s all very true, and perfectly correct, Mark; and if it were a mere question of humbling myself before HIM, I would not consider it twice. But don’t you see, that being wholly under this hypocrite’s government, and having (if what we hear be true) no mind or will of his own, I throw myself, in fact, not at his feet, but at the feet of Mr Pecksniff? And when I am rejected and spurned away,’ said Martin, turning crimson at the thought, ‘it is not by him; my own blood stirred against me; but by Pecksniff—Pecksniff, Mark!’

‘Well, but we know beforehand,’ returned the politic Mr Tapley, ‘that Pecksniff is a wagabond, a scoundrel, and a willain.’

‘A most pernicious villain!’ said Martin.

‘A most pernicious willain. We know that beforehand, sir; and, consequently, it’s no shame to be defeated by Pecksniff. Blow Pecksniff!’ cried Mr Tapley, in the fervour of his eloquence. ‘Who’s he! It’s not in the natur of Pecksniff to shame US, unless he agreed with us, or done us a service; and, in case he offered any audacity of that description, we could express our sentiments in the English language, I hope. Pecksniff!’ repeated Mr Tapley, with ineffable disdain. ‘What’s Pecksniff, who’s Pecksniff, where’s Pecksniff, that he’s to be so much considered? We’re not a-calculating for ourselves;’ he laid uncommon emphasis on the last syllable of that word, and looked full in Martin’s face; ‘we’re making a effort for a young lady likewise as has undergone her share; and whatever little hope we have, this here Pecksniff is not to stand in its way, I expect. I never heard of any act of Parliament, as was made by Pecksniff. Pecksniff! Why, I wouldn’t see the man myself; I wouldn’t hear him; I wouldn’t choose to know he was in company. I’d scrape my shoes on the scraper of the door, and call that Pecksniff, if you liked; but I wouldn’t condescend no further.’

The amazement of Mrs Lupin, and indeed of Mr Tapley himself for that matter, at this impassioned flow of language, was immense. But Martin, after looking thoughtfully at the fire for a short time, said:

‘You are right, Mark. Right or wrong, it shall be done. I’ll do it.’

‘One word more, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘Only think of him so far as not to give him a handle against you. Don’t you do anything secret that he can report before you get there. Don’t you even see Miss Mary in the morning, but let this here dear friend of ours’—Mr Tapley bestowed a smile upon the hostess—‘prepare her for what’s a-going to happen, and carry any little message as may be agreeable. She knows how. Don’t you?’ Mrs Lupin laughed and tossed her head. ‘Then you go in, bold and free as a gentleman should. “I haven’t done nothing under-handed,” says you. “I haven’t been skulking about the premises, here I am, for-give me, I ask your pardon, God Bless You!”’

Martin smiled, but felt that it was good advice notwithstanding, and resolved to act upon it. When they had ascertained from Mrs Lupin that Pecksniff had already returned from the great ceremonial at which they had beheld him in his glory; and when they had fully arranged the order of their proceedings; they went to bed, intent upon the morrow.

In pursuance of their project as agreed upon at this discussion, Mr Tapley issued forth next morning, after breakfast, charged with a letter from Martin to his grandfather, requesting leave to wait upon him for a few minutes. And postponing as he went along the congratulations of his numerous friends until a more convenient season, he soon arrived at Mr Pecksniff’s house. At that gentleman’s door; with a face so immovable that it would have been next to an impossibility for the most acute physiognomist to determine what he was thinking about, or whether he was thinking at all; he straightway knocked.

A person of Mr Tapley’s observation could not long remain insensible to the fact that Mr Pecksniff was making the end of his nose very blunt against the glass of the parlour window, in an angular attempt to discover who had knocked at the door. Nor was Mr Tapley slow to baffle this movement on the part of the enemy, by perching himself on the top step, and presenting the crown of his hat in that direction. But possibly Mr Pecksniff had already seen him, for Mark soon heard his shoes creaking, as he advanced to open the door with his own hands.

Mr Pecksniff was as cheerful as ever, and sang a little song in the passage.

‘How d’ye do, sir?’ said Mark.

‘Oh!’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘Tapley, I believe? The Prodigal returned! We don’t want any beer, my friend.’

‘Thankee, sir,’ said Mark. ‘I couldn’t accommodate you if you did. A letter, sir. Wait for an answer.’

‘For me?’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘And an answer, eh?’

‘Not for you, I think, sir,’ said Mark, pointing out the direction. ‘Chuzzlewit, I believe the name is, sir.’

‘Oh!’ returned Mr Pecksniff. ‘Thank you. Yes. Who’s it from, my good young man?’

‘The gentleman it comes from wrote his name inside, sir,’ returned Mr Tapley with extreme politeness. ‘I see him a-signing of it at the end, while I was a-waitin’.’

‘And he said he wanted an answer, did he?’ asked Mr Pecksniff in his most persuasive manner.

Mark replied in the affirmative.

‘He shall have an answer. Certainly,’ said Mr Pecksniff, tearing the letter into small pieces, as mildly as if that were the most flattering attention a correspondent could receive. ‘Have the goodness to give him that, with my compliments, if you please. Good morning!’ Whereupon he handed Mark the scraps; retired, and shut the door.

Mark thought it prudent to subdue his personal emotions, and return to Martin at the Dragon. They were not unprepared for such a reception, and suffered an hour or so to elapse before making another attempt. When this interval had gone by, they returned to Mr Pecksniff’s house in company. Martin knocked this time, while Mr Tapley prepared himself to keep the door open with his foot and shoulder, when anybody came, and by that means secure an enforced parley. But this precaution was needless, for the servant-girl appeared almost immediately. Brushing quickly past her as he had resolved in such a case to do, Martin (closely followed by his faithful ally) opened the door of that parlour in which he knew a visitor was most likely to be found; passed at once into the room; and stood, without a word of notice or announcement, in the presence of his grandfather.

Mr Pecksniff also was in the room; and Mary. In the swift instant of their mutual recognition, Martin saw the old man droop his grey head, and hide his face in his hands.

It smote him to the heart. In his most selfish and most careless day, this lingering remnant of the old man’s ancient love, this buttress of a ruined tower he had built up in the time gone by, with so much pride and hope, would have caused a pang in Martin’s heart. But now, changed for the better in his worst respect; looking through an altered medium on his former friend, the guardian of his childhood, so broken and bowed down; resentment, sullenness, self-confidence, and pride, were all swept away, before the starting tears upon the withered cheeks. He could not bear to see them. He could not bear to think they fell at sight of him. He could not bear to view reflected in them, the reproachful and irrevocable Past.

He hurriedly advanced to seize the old man’s hand in his, when Mr Pecksniff interposed himself between them.

‘No, young man!’ said Mr Pecksniff, striking himself upon the breast, and stretching out his other arm towards his guest as if it were a wing to shelter him. ‘No, sir. None of that. Strike here, sir, here! Launch your arrows at me, sir, if you’ll have the goodness; not at Him!’

‘Grandfather!’ cried Martin. ‘Hear me! I implore you, let me speak!’

‘Would you, sir? Would you?’ said Mr Pecksniff, dodging about, so as to keep himself always between them. ‘Is it not enough, sir, that you come into my house like a thief in the night, or I should rather say, for we can never be too particular on the subject of Truth, like a thief in the day-time; bringing your dissolute companions with you, to plant themselves with their backs against the insides of parlour doors, and prevent the entrance or issuing forth of any of my household’—Mark had taken up this position, and held it quite unmoved—‘but would you also strike at venerable Virtue? Would you? Know that it is not defenceless. I will be its shield, young man. Assail me. Come on, sir. Fire away!’

‘Pecksniff,’ said the old man, in a feeble voice. ‘Calm yourself. Be quiet.’

‘I can’t be calm,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, ‘and I won’t be quiet. My benefactor and my friend! Shall even my house be no refuge for your hoary pillow!’

‘Stand aside!’ said the old man, stretching out his hand; ‘and let me see what it is I used to love so dearly.’

‘It is right that you should see it, my friend,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘It is well that you should see it, my noble sir. It is desirable that you should contemplate it in its true proportions. Behold it! There it is, sir. There it is!’

Martin could hardly be a mortal man, and not express in his face something of the anger and disdain with which Mr Pecksniff inspired him. But beyond this he evinced no knowledge whatever of that gentleman’s presence or existence. True, he had once, and that at first, glanced at him involuntarily, and with supreme contempt; but for any other heed he took of him, there might have been nothing in his place save empty air.

As Mr Pecksniff withdrew from between them, agreeably to the wish just now expressed (which he did during the delivery of the observations last recorded), old Martin, who had taken Mary Graham’s hand in his, and whispered kindly to her, as telling her she had no cause to be alarmed, gently pushed her from him, behind his chair; and looked steadily at his grandson.

‘And that,’ he said, ‘is he. Ah! that is he! Say what you wish to say. But come no nearer,’

‘His sense of justice is so fine,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘that he will hear even him, although he knows beforehand that nothing can come of it. Ingenuous mind!’ Mr Pecksniff did not address himself immediately to any person in saying this, but assuming the position of the Chorus in a Greek Tragedy, delivered his opinion as a commentary on the proceedings.

‘Grandfather!’ said Martin, with great earnestness. ‘From a painful journey, from a hard life, from a sick-bed, from privation and distress, from gloom and disappointment, from almost hopelessness and despair, I have come back to you.’

‘Rovers of this sort,’ observed Mr Pecksniff, as Chorus, ‘very commonly come back when they find they don’t meet with the success they expected in their marauding ravages.’

‘But for this faithful man,’ said Martin, turning towards Mark, ‘whom I first knew in this place, and who went away with me voluntarily, as a servant, but has been, throughout, my zealous and devoted friend; but for him, I must have died abroad. Far from home, far from any help or consolation; far from the probability even of my wretched fate being ever known to any one who cared to hear it—oh, that you would let me say, of being known to you!’

The old man looked at Mr Pecksniff. Mr Pecksniff looked at him. ‘Did you speak, my worthy sir?’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a smile. The old man answered in the negative. ‘I know what you thought,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with another smile. ‘Let him go on my friend. The development of self-interest in the human mind is always a curious study. Let him go on, sir.’

‘Go on!’ observed the old man; in a mechanical obedience, it appeared, to Mr Pecksniff’s suggestion.

‘I have been so wretched and so poor,’ said Martin, ‘that I am indebted to the charitable help of a stranger, in a land of strangers, for the means of returning here. All this tells against me in your mind, I know. I have given you cause to think I have been driven here wholly by want, and have not been led on, in any degree, by affection or regret. When I parted from you, Grandfather, I deserved that suspicion, but I do not now. I do not now.’

The Chorus put its hand in its waistcoat, and smiled. ‘Let him go on, my worthy sir,’ it said. ‘I know what you are thinking of, but don’t express it prematurely.’

Old Martin raised his eyes to Mr Pecksniff’s face, and appearing to derive renewed instruction from his looks and words, said, once again:

‘Go on!’

‘I have little more to say,’ returned Martin. ‘And as I say it now, with little or no hope, Grandfather; whatever dawn of hope I had on entering the room; believe it to be true. At least, believe it to be true.’

‘Beautiful Truth!’ exclaimed the Chorus, looking upward. ‘How is your name profaned by vicious persons! You don’t live in a well, my holy principle, but on the lips of false mankind. It is hard to bear with mankind, dear sir’—addressing the elder Mr Chuzzlewit; ‘but let us do so meekly. It is our duty so to do. Let us be among the Few who do their duty. If,’ pursued the Chorus, soaring up into a lofty flight, ‘as the poet informs us, England expects Every man to do his duty, England is the most sanguine country on the face of the earth, and will find itself continually disappointed.’

‘Upon that subject,’ said Martin, looking calmly at the old man as he spoke, but glancing once at Mary, whose face was now buried in her hands, upon the back of his easy-chair; ‘upon that subject which first occasioned a division between us, my mind and heart are incapable of change. Whatever influence they have undergone, since that unhappy time, has not been one to weaken but to strengthen me. I cannot profess sorrow for that, nor irresolution in that, nor shame in that. Nor would you wish me, I know. But that I might have trusted to your love, if I had thrown myself manfully upon it; that I might have won you over with ease, if I had been more yielding and more considerate; that I should have best remembered myself in forgetting myself, and recollecting you; reflection, solitude, and misery, have taught me. I came resolved to say this, and to ask your forgiveness; not so much in hope for the future, as in regret for the past; for all that I would ask of you is, that you would aid me to live. Help me to get honest work to do, and I would do it. My condition places me at the disadvantage of seeming to have only my selfish ends to serve, but try if that be so or not. Try if I be self-willed, obdurate, and haughty, as I was; or have been disciplined in a rough school. Let the voice of nature and association plead between us, Grandfather; and do not, for one fault, however thankless, quite reject me!’

As he ceased, the grey head of the old man drooped again; and he concealed his face behind his outspread fingers.

‘My dear sir,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, bending over him, ‘you must not give way to this. It is very natural, and very amiable, but you must not allow the shameless conduct of one whom you long ago cast off, to move you so far. Rouse yourself. Think,’ said Pecksniff, ‘think of Me, my friend.’

‘I will,’ returned old Martin, looking up into his face. ‘You recall me to myself. I will.’

‘Why, what,’ said Mr Pecksniff, sitting down beside him in a chair which he drew up for the purpose, and tapping him playfully on the arm, ‘what is the matter with my strong-minded compatriot, if I may venture to take the liberty of calling him by that endearing expression? Shall I have to scold my coadjutor, or to reason with an intellect like this? I think not.’

‘No, no. There is no occasion,’ said the old man. ‘A momentary feeling. Nothing more.’

‘Indignation,’ observed Mr Pecksniff, ‘WILL bring the scalding tear into the honest eye, I know’—he wiped his own elaborately. ‘But we have highest duties to perform than that. Rouse yourself, Mr Chuzzlewit. Shall I give expression to your thoughts, my friend?’

‘Yes,’ said old Martin, leaning back in his chair, and looking at him, half in vacancy and half in admiration, as if he were fascinated by the man. ‘Speak for me, Pecksniff, Thank you. You are true to me. Thank you!’

‘Do not unman me, sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, shaking his hand vigorously, ‘or I shall be unequal to the task. It is not agreeable to my feelings, my good sir, to address the person who is now before us, for when I ejected him from this house, after hearing of his unnatural conduct from your lips, I renounced communication with him for ever. But you desire it; and that is sufficient. Young man! The door is immediately behind the companion of your infamy. Blush if you can; begone without a blush, if you can’t.’

Martin looked as steadily at his grandfather as if there had been a dead silence all this time. The old man looked no less steadily at Mr Pecksniff.

‘When I ordered you to leave this house upon the last occasion of your being dismissed from it with disgrace,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘when, stung and stimulated beyond endurance by your shameless conduct to this extraordinarily noble-minded individual, I exclaimed “Go forth!” I told you that I wept for your depravity. Do not suppose that the tear which stands in my eye at this moment, is shed for you. It is shed for him, sir. It is shed for him.’

Here Mr Pecksniff, accidentally dropping the tear in question on a bald part of Mr Chuzzlewit’s head, wiped the place with his pocket-handkerchief, and begged pardon.

‘It is shed for him, sir, whom you seek to make the victim of your arts,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘whom you seek to plunder, to deceive, and to mislead. It is shed in sympathy with him, and admiration of him; not in pity for him, for happily he knows what you are. You shall not wrong him further, sir, in any way,’ said Mr Pecksniff, quite transported with enthusiasm, ‘while I have life. You may bestride my senseless corse, sir. That is very likely. I can imagine a mind like yours deriving great satisfaction from any measure of that kind. But while I continue to be called upon to exist, sir, you must strike at him through me. Awe!’ said Mr Pecksniff, shaking his head at Martin with indignant jocularity; ‘and in such a cause you will find me, my young sir, an Ugly Customer!’

Still Martin looked steadily and mildly at his grandfather. ‘Will you give me no answer,’ he said, at length, ‘not a word?’

‘You hear what has been said,’ replied the old man, without averting his eyes from the face of Mr Pecksniff; who nodded encouragingly.

‘I have not heard your voice. I have not heard your spirit,’ returned Martin.

‘Tell him again,’ said the old man, still gazing up in Mr Pecksniff’s face.

‘I only hear,’ replied Martin, strong in his purpose from the first, and stronger in it as he felt how Pecksniff winced and shrunk beneath his contempt; ‘I only hear what you say to me, grandfather.’

Perhaps it was well for Mr Pecksniff that his venerable friend found in his (Mr Pecksniff’s) features an exclusive and engrossing object of contemplation, for if his eyes had gone astray, and he had compared young Martin’s bearing with that of his zealous defender, the latter disinterested gentleman would scarcely have shown to greater advantage than on the memorable afternoon when he took Tom Pinch’s last receipt in full of all demands. One really might have thought there was some quality in Mr Pecksniff—an emanation from the brightness and purity within him perhaps—which set off and adorned his foes; they looked so gallant and so manly beside him.

‘Not a word?’ said Martin, for the second time.

‘I remember that I have a word to say, Pecksniff,’ observed the old man. ‘But a word. You spoke of being indebted to the charitable help of some stranger for the means of returning to England. Who is he? And what help in money did he render you?’

Although he asked this question of Martin, he did not look towards him, but kept his eyes on Mr Pecksniff as before. It appeared to have become a habit with him, both in a literal and figurative sense, to look to Mr Pecksniff alone.

Martin took out his pencil, tore a leaf from his pocket-book, and hastily wrote down the particulars of his debt to Mr Bevan. The old man stretched out his hand for the paper, and took it; but his eyes did not wander from Mr Pecksniff’s face.

‘It would be a poor pride and a false humility,’ said Martin, in a low voice, ‘to say, I do not wish that to be paid, or that I have any present hope of being able to pay it. But I never felt my poverty so deeply as I feel it now.’

‘Read it to me, Pecksniff,’ said the old man.

Mr Pecksniff, after approaching the perusal of the paper as if it were a manuscript confession of a murder, complied.

‘I think, Pecksniff,’ said old Martin, ‘I could wish that to be discharged. I should not like the lender, who was abroad, who had no opportunity of making inquiry, and who did (as he thought) a kind action, to suffer.’

‘An honourable sentiment, my dear sir. Your own entirely. But a dangerous precedent,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘permit me to suggest.’

‘It shall not be a precedent,’ returned the old man. ‘It is the only recognition of him. But we will talk of it again. You shall advise me. There is nothing else?’

‘Nothing else,’ said Mr Pecksniff buoyantly, ‘but for you to recover this intrusion—this cowardly and indefensible outrage on your feelings—with all possible dispatch, and smile again.’

‘You have nothing more to say?’ inquired the old man, laying his hand with unusual earnestness on Mr Pecksniff’s sleeve.

Mr Pecksniff would not say what rose to his lips. For reproaches he observed, were useless.

‘You have nothing at all to urge? You are sure of that! If you have, no matter what it is, speak freely. I will oppose nothing that you ask of me,’ said the old man.

The tears rose in such abundance to Mr Pecksniff’s eyes at this proof of unlimited confidence on the part of his friend, that he was fain to clasp the bridge of his nose convulsively before he could at all compose himself. When he had the power of utterance again, he said with great emotion, that he hoped he should live to deserve this; and added, that he had no other observation whatever to make.

For a few moments the old man sat looking at him, with that blank and motionless expression which is not uncommon in the faces of those whose faculties are on the wane, in age. But he rose up firmly too, and walked towards the door, from which Mark withdrew to make way for him.

The obsequious Mr Pecksniff proffered his arm. The old man took it. Turning at the door, he said to Martin, waving him off with his hand,

‘You have heard him. Go away. It is all over. Go!’

Mr Pecksniff murmured certain cheering expressions of sympathy and encouragement as they retired; and Martin, awakening from the stupor into which the closing portion of this scene had plunged him, to the opportunity afforded by their departure, caught the innocent cause of all in his embrace, and pressed her to his heart.

‘Dear girl!’ said Martin. ‘He has not changed you. Why, what an impotent and harmless knave the fellow is!’

‘You have restrained yourself so nobly! You have borne so much!’

‘Restrained myself!’ cried Martin, cheerfully. ‘You were by, and were unchanged, I knew. What more advantage did I want? The sight of me was such a bitterness to the dog, that I had my triumph in his being forced to endure it. But tell me, love—for the few hasty words we can exchange now are precious—what is this which has been rumoured to me? Is it true that you are persecuted by this knave’s addresses?’

‘I was, dear Martin, and to some extent am now; but my chief source of unhappiness has been anxiety for you. Why did you leave us in such terrible suspense?’

‘Sickness, distance; the dread of hinting at our real condition, the impossibility of concealing it except in perfect silence; the knowledge that the truth would have pained you infinitely more than uncertainty and doubt,’ said Martin, hurriedly; as indeed everything else was done and said, in those few hurried moments, ‘were the causes of my writing only once. But Pecksniff? You needn’t fear to tell me the whole tale; for you saw me with him face to face, hearing him speak, and not taking him by the throat; what is the history of his pursuit of you? Is it known to my grandfather?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he assists him in it?’

‘No,’ she answered eagerly.

‘Thank Heaven!’ cried Martin, ‘that it leaves his mind unclouded in that one respect!’

‘I do not think,’ said Mary, ‘it was known to him at first. When this man had sufficiently prepared his mind, he revealed it to him by degrees. I think so, but I only know it from my own impression: now from anything they told me. Then he spoke to me alone.’

‘My grandfather did?’ said Martin.

‘Yes—spoke to me alone, and told me—’

‘What the hound had said,’ cried Martin. ‘Don’t repeat it.’

‘And said I knew well what qualities he possessed; that he was moderately rich; in good repute; and high in his favour and confidence. But seeing me very much distressed, he said that he would not control or force my inclinations, but would content himself with telling me the fact. He would not pain me by dwelling on it, or reverting to it; nor has he ever done so since, but has truly kept his word.’

‘The man himself?—’ asked Martin.

‘He has had few opportunities of pursuing his suit. I have never walked out alone, or remained alone an instant in his presence. Dear Martin, I must tell you,’ she continued, ‘that the kindness of your grandfather to me remains unchanged. I am his companion still. An indescribable tenderness and compassion seem to have mingled themselves with his old regard; and if I were his only child, I could not have a gentler father. What former fancy or old habit survives in this, when his heart has turned so cold to you, is a mystery I cannot penetrate; but it has been, and it is, a happiness to me, that I remained true to him; that if he should wake from his delusion, even at the point of death, I am here, love, to recall you to his thoughts.’

Martin looked with admiration on her glowing face, and pressed his lips to hers.

‘I have sometimes heard, and read,’ she said, ‘that those whose powers had been enfeebled long ago, and whose lives had faded, as it were, into a dream, have been known to rouse themselves before death, and inquire for familiar faces once very dear to them; but forgotten, unrecognized, hated even, in the meantime. Think, if with his old impressions of this man, he should suddenly resume his former self, and find in him his only friend!’

‘I would not urge you to abandon him, dearest,’ said Martin, ‘though I could count the years we are to wear out asunder. But the influence this fellow exercises over him has steadily increased, I fear.’

She could not help admitting that. Steadily, imperceptibly, and surely, until it was paramount and supreme. She herself had none; and yet he treated her with more affection than at any previous time. Martin thought the inconsistency a part of his weakness and decay.

‘Does the influence extend to fear?’ said Martin. ‘Is he timid of asserting his own opinion in the presence of this infatuation? I fancied so just now.’

‘I have thought so, often. Often when we are sitting alone, almost as we used to do, and I have been reading a favourite book to him or he has been talking quite cheerfully, I have observed that the entrance of Mr Pecksniff has changed his whole demeanour. He has broken off immediately, and become what you have seen to-day. When we first came here he had his impetuous outbreaks, in which it was not easy for Mr Pecksniff with his utmost plausibility to appease him. But these have long since dwindled away. He defers to him in everything, and has no opinion upon any question, but that which is forced upon him by this treacherous man.’

Such was the account, rapidly furnished in whispers, and interrupted, brief as it was, by many false alarms of Mr Pecksniff’s return; which Martin received of his grandfather’s decline, and of that good gentleman’s ascendancy. He heard of Tom Pinch too, and Jonas too, with not a little about himself into the bargain; for though lovers are remarkable for leaving a great deal unsaid on all occasions, and very properly desiring to come back and say it, they are remarkable also for a wonderful power of condensation, and can, in one way or other, give utterance to more language—eloquent language—in any given short space of time, than all the six hundred and fifty-eight members in the Commons House of Parliament of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland; who are strong lovers no doubt, but of their country only, which makes all the difference; for in a passion of that kind (which is not always returned), it is the custom to use as many words as possible, and express nothing whatever.

A caution from Mr Tapley; a hasty interchange of farewells, and of something else which the proverb says must not be told of afterwards; a white hand held out to Mr Tapley himself, which he kissed with the devotion of a knight-errant; more farewells, more something else’s; a parting word from Martin that he would write from London and would do great things there yet (Heaven knows what, but he quite believed it); and Mark and he stood on the outside of the Pecksniffian halls.

‘A short interview after such an absence!’ said Martin, sorrowfully. ‘But we are well out of the house. We might have placed ourselves in a false position by remaining there, even so long, Mark.’

‘I don’t know about ourselves, sir,’ he returned; ‘but somebody else would have got into a false position, if he had happened to come back again, while we was there. I had the door all ready, sir. If Pecksniff had showed his head, or had only so much as listened behind it, I would have caught him like a walnut. He’s the sort of man,’ added Mr Tapley, musing, ‘as would squeeze soft, I know.’

A person who was evidently going to Mr Pecksniff’s house, passed them at this moment. He raised his eyes at the mention of the architect’s name; and when he had gone on a few yards, stopped and gazed at them. Mr Tapley, also, looked over his shoulder, and so did Martin; for the stranger, as he passed, had looked very sharply at them.

‘Who may that be, I wonder!’ said Martin. ‘The face seems familiar to me, but I don’t know the man.’

‘He seems to have a amiable desire that his face should be tolerable familiar to us,’ said Mr Tapley, ‘for he’s a-staring pretty hard. He’d better not waste his beauty, for he ain’t got much to spare.’

Coming in sight of the Dragon, they saw a travelling carriage at the door.

‘And a Salisbury carriage, eh?’ said Mr Tapley. ‘That’s what he came in depend upon it. What’s in the wind now? A new pupil, I shouldn’t wonder. P’raps it’s a order for another grammar-school, of the same pattern as the last.’

Before they could enter at the door, Mrs Lupin came running out; and beckoning them to the carriage showed them a portmanteau with the name of CHUZZLEWIT upon it.

‘Miss Pecksniff’s husband that was,’ said the good woman to Martin. ‘I didn’t know what terms you might be on, and was quite in a worry till you came back.’

‘He and I have never interchanged a word yet,’ observed Martin; ‘and as I have no wish to be better or worse acquainted with him, I will not put myself in his way. We passed him on the road, I have no doubt. I am glad he timed his coming as he did. Upon my word! Miss Pecksniff’s husband travels gayly!’

‘A very fine-looking gentleman with him—in the best room now,’ whispered Mrs Lupin, glancing up at the window as they went into the house. ‘He has ordered everything that can be got for dinner; and has the glossiest moustaches and whiskers ever you saw.’

‘Has he?’ cried Martin, ‘why then we’ll endeavour to avoid him too, in the hope that our self-denial may be strong enough for the sacrifice. It is only for a few hours,’ said Martin, dropping wearily into a chair behind the little screen in the bar. ‘Our visit has met with no success, my dear Mrs Lupin, and I must go to London.’

‘Dear, dear!’ cried the hostess.

‘Yes, one foul wind no more makes a winter, than one swallow makes a summer. I’ll try it again. Tom Pinch has succeeded. With his advice to guide me, I may do the same. I took Tom under my protection once, God save the mark!’ said Martin, with a melancholy smile; ‘and promised I would make his fortune. Perhaps Tom will take me under HIS protection now, and teach me how to earn my bread.’

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

FURTHER CONTINUATION OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND

It was a special quality, among the many admirable qualities possessed by Mr Pecksniff, that the more he was found out, the more hypocrisy he practised. Let him be discomfited in one quarter, and he refreshed and recompensed himself by carrying the war into another. If his workings and windings were detected by A, so much the greater reason was there for practicing without loss of time on B, if it were only to keep his hand in. He had never been such a saintly and improving spectacle to all about him, as after his detection by Thomas Pinch. He had scarcely ever been at once so tender in his humanity, and so dignified and exalted in his virtue, as when young Martin’s scorn was fresh and hot upon him.

Having this large stock of superfluous sentiment and morality on hand which must positively be cleared off at any sacrifice, Mr Pecksniff no sooner heard his son-in-law announced, than he regarded him as a kind of wholesale or general order, to be immediately executed. Descending, therefore, swiftly to the parlour, and clasping the young man in his arms, he exclaimed, with looks and gestures that denoted the perturbation of his spirit:

‘Jonas. My child—she is well! There is nothing the matter?’

‘What, you’re at it again, are you?’ replied his son-in-law. ‘Even with me? Get away with you, will you?’

‘Tell me she is well then,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Tell me she is well my boy!’

‘She’s well enough,’ retorted Jonas, disengaging himself. ‘There’s nothing the matter with HER.’

‘There is nothing the matter with her!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, sitting down in the nearest chair, and rubbing up his hair. ‘Fie upon my weakness! I cannot help it, Jonas. Thank you. I am better now. How is my other child; my eldest; my Cherrywerrychigo?’ said Mr Pecksniff, inventing a playful little name for her, in the restored lightness of his heart.

‘She’s much about the same as usual,’ returned Jonas. ‘She sticks pretty close to the vinegar-bottle. You know she’s got a sweetheart, I suppose?’

‘I have heard of it,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘from headquarters; from my child herself I will not deny that it moved me to contemplate the loss of my remaining daughter, Jonas—I am afraid we parents are selfish, I am afraid we are—but it has ever been the study of my life to qualify them for the domestic hearth; and it is a sphere which Cherry will adorn.’

‘She need adorn some sphere or other,’ observed the son-in-law, for she ain’t very ornamental in general.’

‘My girls are now provided for,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘They are now happily provided for, and I have not laboured in vain!’

This is exactly what Mr Pecksniff would have said, if one of his daughters had drawn a prize of thirty thousand pounds in the lottery, or if the other had picked up a valuable purse in the street, which nobody appeared to claim. In either of these cases he would have invoked a patriarchal blessing on the fortunate head, with great solemnity, and would have taken immense credit to himself, as having meant it from the infant’s cradle.

‘Suppose we talk about something else, now,’ observed Jonas, drily. ‘just for a change. Are you quite agreeable?’

‘Quite,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Ah, you wag, you naughty wag! You laugh at poor old fond papa. Well! He deserves it. And he don’t mind it either, for his feelings are their own reward. You have come to stay with me, Jonas?’

‘No. I’ve got a friend with me,’ said Jonas.

‘Bring your friend!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, in a gush of hospitality. ‘Bring any number of your friends!’

‘This ain’t the sort of man to be brought,’ said Jonas, contemptuously. ‘I think I see myself “bringing” him to your house, for a treat! Thank’ee all the same; but he’s a little too near the top of the tree for that, Pecksniff.’

The good man pricked up his ears; his interest was awakened. A position near the top of the tree was greatness, virtue, goodness, sense, genius; or, it should rather be said, a dispensation from all, and in itself something immeasurably better than all; with Mr Pecksniff. A man who was able to look down upon Mr Pecksniff could not be looked up at, by that gentleman, with too great an amount of deference, or from a position of too much humility. So it always is with great spirits.

‘I’ll tell you what you may do, if you like,’ said Jonas; ‘you may come and dine with us at the Dragon. We were forced to come down to Salisbury last night, on some business, and I got him to bring me over here this morning, in his carriage; at least, not his own carriage, for we had a breakdown in the night, but one we hired instead; it’s all the same. Mind what you’re about, you know. He’s not used to all sorts; he only mixes with the best!’

‘Some young nobleman who has been borrowing money of you at good interest, eh?’ said Mr Pecksniff, shaking his forefinger facetiously. ‘I shall be delighted to know the gay sprig.’

‘Borrowing!’ echoed Jonas. ‘Borrowing! When you’re a twentieth part as rich as he is, you may shut up shop! We should be pretty well off if we could buy his furniture, and plate, and pictures, by clubbing together. A likely man to borrow: Mr Montague! Why since I was lucky enough (come! and I’ll say, sharp enough, too) to get a share in the Assurance office that he’s President of, I’ve made—never mind what I’ve made,’ said Jonas, seeming to recover all at once his usual caution. ‘You know me pretty well, and I don’t blab about such things. But, Ecod, I’ve made a trifle.’

‘Really, my dear Jonas,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, with much warmth, ‘a gentleman like this should receive some attention. Would he like to see the church? or if he has a taste for the fine arts—which I have no doubt he has, from the description you give of his circumstances—I can send him down a few portfolios. Salisbury Cathedral, my dear Jonas,’ said Mr Pecksniff; the mention of the portfolios and his anxiety to display himself to advantage, suggesting his usual phraseology in that regard, ‘is an edifice replete with venerable associations, and strikingly suggestive of the loftiest emotions. It is here we contemplate the work of bygone ages. It is here we listen to the swelling organ, as we stroll through the reverberating aisles. We have drawings of this celebrated structure from the North, from the South, from the East, from the West, from the South-East, from the Nor’West—’

During this digression, and indeed during the whole dialogue, Jonas had been rocking on his chair, with his hands in his pockets and his head thrown cunningly on one side. He looked at Mr Pecksniff now with such shrewd meaning twinkling in his eyes, that Mr Pecksniff stopped, and asked him what he was going to say.

‘Ecod!’ he answered. ‘Pecksniff if I knew how you meant to leave your money, I could put you in the way of doubling it in no time. It wouldn’t be bad to keep a chance like this snug in the family. But you’re such a deep one!’

‘Jonas!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, much affected, ‘I am not a diplomatical character; my heart is in my hand. By far the greater part of the inconsiderable savings I have accumulated in the course of—I hope—a not dishonourable or useless career, is already given, devised, and bequeathed (correct me, my dear Jonas, if I am technically wrong), with expressions of confidence, which I will not repeat; and in securities which it is unnecessary to mention to a person whom I cannot, whom I will not, whom I need not, name.’ Here he gave the hand of his son-in-law a fervent squeeze, as if he would have added, ‘God bless you; be very careful of it when you get it!’

Mr Jonas only shook his head and laughed, and, seeming to think better of what he had had in his mind, said, ‘No. He would keep his own counsel.’ But as he observed that he would take a walk, Mr Pecksniff insisted on accompanying him, remarking that he could leave a card for Mr Montague, as they went along, by way of gentleman-usher to himself at dinner-time. Which he did.

In the course of their walk, Mr Jonas affected to maintain that close reserve which had operated as a timely check upon him during the foregoing dialogue. And as he made no attempt to conciliate Mr Pecksniff, but, on the contrary, was more boorish and rude to him than usual, that gentleman, so far from suspecting his real design, laid himself out to be attacked with advantage. For it is in the nature of a knave to think the tools with which he works indispensable to knavery; and knowing what he would do himself in such a case, Mr Pecksniff argued, ‘if this young man wanted anything of me for his own ends, he would be polite and deferential.’

The more Jonas repelled him in his hints and inquiries, the more solicitous, therefore, Mr Pecksniff became to be initiated into the golden mysteries at which he had obscurely glanced. Why should there be cold and worldly secrets, he observed, between relations? What was life without confidence? If the chosen husband of his daughter, the man to whom he had delivered her with so much pride and hope, such bounding and such beaming joy; if he were not a green spot in the barren waste of life, where was that oasis to be bound?

Little did Mr Pecksniff think on what a very green spot he planted one foot at that moment! Little did he foresee when he said, ‘All is but dust!’ how very shortly he would come down with his own!

Inch by inch, in his grudging and ill-conditioned way; sustained to the life, for the hope of making Mr Pecksniff suffer in that tender place, the pocket, where Jonas smarted so terribly himself, gave him an additional and malicious interest in the wiles he was set on to practise; inch by inch, and bit by bit, Jonas rather allowed the dazzling prospects of the Anglo-Bengalee establishment to escape him, than paraded them before his greedy listener. And in the same niggardly spirit, he left Mr Pecksniff to infer, if he chose (which he DID choose, of course), that a consciousness of not having any great natural gifts of speech and manner himself, rendered him desirous to have the credit of introducing to Mr Montague some one who was well endowed in those respects, and so atone for his own deficiencies. Otherwise, he muttered discontentedly, he would have seen his beloved father-in-law ‘far enough off,’ before he would have taken him into his confidence.

Primed in this artful manner, Mr Pecksniff presented himself at dinner-time in such a state of suavity, benevolence, cheerfulness, politeness, and cordiality, as even he had perhaps never attained before. The frankness of the country gentleman, the refinement of the artist, the good-humoured allowance of the man of the world; philanthropy, forbearance, piety, toleration, all blended together in a flexible adaptability to anything and everything; were expressed in Mr Pecksniff, as he shook hands with the great speculator and capitalist.

‘Welcome, respected sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘to our humble village! We are a simple people; primitive clods, Mr Montague; but we can appreciate the honour of your visit, as my dear son-in-law can testify. It is very strange,’ said Mr Pecksniff, pressing his hand almost reverentially, ‘but I seem to know you. That towering forehead, my dear Jonas,’ said Mr Pecksniff aside, ‘and those clustering masses of rich hair—I must have seen you, my dear sir, in the sparkling throng.’

Nothing was more probable, they all agreed.

‘I could have wished,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘to have had the honour of introducing you to an elderly inmate of our house: to the uncle of our friend. Mr Chuzzlewit, sir, would have been proud indeed to have taken you by the hand.’

‘Is the gentleman here now?’ asked Montague, turning deeply red. ‘He is,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘You said nothing about that, Chuzzlewit.’

‘I didn’t suppose you’d care to hear of it,’ returned Jonas. ‘You wouldn’t care to know him, I can promise you.’

‘Jonas! my dear Jonas!’ remonstrated Mr Pecksniff. ‘Really!’

‘Oh! it’s all very well for you to speak up for him,’ said Jonas. ‘You have nailed him. You’ll get a fortune by him.’

‘Oho! Is the wind in that quarter?’ cried Montague. ‘Ha, ha, ha!’ and here they all laughed—especially Mr Pecksniff.

‘No, no!’ said that gentleman, clapping his son-in-law playfully upon the shoulder. ‘You must not believe all that my young relative says, Mr Montague. You may believe him in official business, and trust him in official business, but you must not attach importance to his flights of fancy.’

‘Upon my life, Mr Pecksniff,’ cried Montague, ‘I attach the greatest importance to that last observation of his. I trust and hope it’s true. Money cannot be turned and turned again quickly enough in the ordinary course, Mr Pecksniff. There is nothing like building our fortune on the weaknesses of mankind.’

‘Oh fie! oh fie, for shame!’ cried Mr Pecksniff. But they all laughed again—especially Mr Pecksniff.

‘I give you my honour that WE do it,’ said Montague.

‘Oh fie, fie!’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘You are very pleasant. That I am sure you don’t! That I am sure you don’t! How CAN you, you know?’

Again they all laughed in concert; and again Mr Pecksniff laughed especially.

This was very agreeable indeed. It was confidential, easy, straight-forward; and still left Mr Pecksniff in the position of being in a gentle way the Mentor of the party. The greatest achievements in the article of cookery that the Dragon had ever performed, were set before them; the oldest and best wines in the Dragon’s cellar saw the light on that occasion; a thousand bubbles, indicative of the wealth and station of Mr Montague in the depths of his pursuits, were constantly rising to the surface of the conversation; and they were as frank and merry as three honest men could be. Mr Pecksniff thought it a pity (he said so) that Mr Montague should think lightly of mankind and their weaknesses. He was anxious upon this subject; his mind ran upon it; in one way or another he was constantly coming back to it; he must make a convert of him, he said. And as often as Mr Montague repeated his sentiment about building fortunes on the weaknesses of mankind, and added frankly, ‘WE do it!’ just as often Mr Pecksniff repeated ‘Oh fie! oh fie, for shame! I am sure you don’t. How CAN you, you know?’ laying a greater stress each time on those last words.

The frequent repetition of this playful inquiry on the part of Mr Pecksniff, led at last to playful answers on the part of Mr Montague; but after some little sharp-shooting on both sides, Mr Pecksniff became grave, almost to tears; observing that if Mr Montague would give him leave, he would drink the health of his young kinsman, Mr Jonas; congratulating him upon the valuable and distinguished friendship he had formed, but envying him, he would confess, his usefulness to his fellow-creatures. For, if he understood the objects of that Institution with which he was newly and advantageously connected—knowing them but imperfectly—they were calculated to do Good; and for his (Mr Pecksniff’s) part, if he could in any way promote them, he thought he would be able to lay his head upon his pillow every night, with an absolute certainty of going to sleep at once.

The transition from this accidental remark (for it was quite accidental and had fallen from Mr Pecksniff in the openness of his soul), to the discussion of the subject as a matter of business, was easy. Books, papers, statements, tables, calculations of various kinds, were soon spread out before them; and as they were all framed with one object, it is not surprising that they should all have tended to one end. But still, whenever Montague enlarged upon the profits of the office, and said that as long as there were gulls upon the wing it must succeed, Mr Pecksniff mildly said ‘Oh fie!’—and might indeed have remonstrated with him, but that he knew he was joking. Mr Pecksniff did know he was joking; because he said so.

There never had been before, and there never would be again, such an opportunity for the investment of a considerable sum (the rate of advantage increased in proportion to the amount invested), as at that moment. The only time that had at all approached it, was the time when Jonas had come into the concern; which made him ill-natured now, and inclined him to pick out a doubt in this place, and a flaw in that, and grumbling to advise Mr Pecksniff to think better of it. The sum which would complete the proprietorship in this snug concern, was nearly equal to Mr Pecksniff’s whole hoard; not counting Mr Chuzzlewit, that is to say, whom he looked upon as money in the Bank, the possession of which inclined him the more to make a dash with his own private sprats for the capture of such a whale as Mr Montague described. The returns began almost immediately, and were immense. The end of it was, that Mr Pecksniff agreed to become the last partner and proprietor in the Anglo-Bengalee, and made an appointment to dine with Mr Montague, at Salisbury, on the next day but one, then and there to complete the negotiation.

It took so long to bring the subject to this head, that it was nearly midnight when they parted. When Mr Pecksniff walked downstairs to the door, he found Mrs Lupin standing there, looking out.

‘Ah, my good friend!’ he said; ‘not a-bed yet! Contemplating the stars, Mrs Lupin?’

‘It’s a beautiful starlight night, sir.’

‘A beautiful starlight night,’ said Mr Pecksniff, looking up. ‘Behold the planets, how they shine! Behold the—those two persons who were here this morning have left your house, I hope, Mrs Lupin?’

‘Yes, sir. They are gone.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Behold the wonders of the firmament, Mrs Lupin! how glorious is the scene! When I look up at those shining orbs, I think that each of them is winking to the other to take notice of the vanity of men’s pursuits. My fellow-men!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, shaking his head in pity; ‘you are much mistaken; my wormy relatives, you are much deceived! The stars are perfectly contented (I suppose so) in their several spheres. Why are not you? Oh! do not strive and struggle to enrich yourselves, or to get the better of each other, my deluded friends, but look up there, with me!’

Mrs Lupin shook her head, and heaved a sigh. It was very affecting.

‘Look up there, with me!’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, stretching out his hand; ‘With me, a humble individual who is also an insect like yourselves. Can silver, gold, or precious stones, sparkle like those constellations! I think not. Then do not thirst for silver, gold, or precious stones; but look up there, with me!’

With those words, the good man patted Mrs Lupin’s hand between his own, as if he would have added ‘think of this, my good woman!’ and walked away in a sort of ecstasy or rapture, with his hat under his arm.

Jonas sat in the attitude in which Mr Pecksniff had left him, gazing moodily at his friend; who, surrounded by a heap of documents, was writing something on an oblong slip of paper.

‘You mean to wait at Salisbury over the day after to-morrow, do you, then?’ said Jonas.

‘You heard our appointment,’ returned Montague, without raising his eyes. ‘In any case I should have waited to see after the boy.’

They appeared to have changed places again; Montague being in high spirits; Jonas gloomy and lowering.

‘You don’t want me, I suppose?’ said Jonas.

‘I want you to put your name here,’ he returned, glancing at him with a smile, ‘as soon as I have filled up the stamp. I may as well have your note of hand for that extra capital. That’s all I want. If you wish to go home, I can manage Mr Pecksniff now, alone. There is a perfect understanding between us.’

Jonas sat scowling at him as he wrote, in silence. When he had finished his writing, and had dried it on the blotting paper in his travelling-desk; he looked up, and tossed the pen towards him.

‘What, not a day’s grace, not a day’s trust, eh?’ said Jonas bitterly. ‘Not after the pains I have taken with to-night’s work?’

‘To night’s work was a part of our bargain,’ replied Montague; ‘and so was this.’

‘You drive a hard bargain,’ said Jonas, advancing to the table. ‘You know best. Give it here!’

Montague gave him the paper. After pausing as if he could not make up his mind to put his name to it, Jonas dipped his pen hastily in the nearest inkstand, and began to write. But he had scarcely marked the paper when he started back, in a panic.

‘Why, what the devil’s this?’ he said. ‘It’s bloody!’

He had dipped the pen, as another moment showed, into red ink. But he attached a strange degree of importance to the mistake. He asked how it had come there, who had brought it, why it had been brought; and looked at Montague, at first, as if he thought he had put a trick upon him. Even when he used a different pen, and the right ink, he made some scratches on another paper first, as half believing they would turn red also.

‘Black enough, this time,’ he said, handing the note to Montague. ‘Good-bye.’

‘Going now! how do you mean to get away from here?’

‘I shall cross early in the morning to the high road, before you are out of bed; and catch the day-coach, going up. Good-bye!’

‘You are in a hurry!’

‘I have something to do,’ said Jonas. ‘Good-bye!’

His friend looked after him as he went out, in surprise, which gradually gave place to an air of satisfaction and relief.

‘It happens all the better. It brings about what I wanted, without any difficulty. I shall travel home alone.’

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

IN WHICH TOM PINCH AND HIS SISTER TAKE A LITTLE PLEASURE; BUT QUITE IN A DOMESTIC WAY, AND WITH NO CEREMONY ABOUT IT

Tom Pinch and his sister having to part, for the dispatch of the morning’s business, immediately after the dispersion of the other actors in the scene upon the wharf with which the reader has been already made acquainted, had no opportunity of discussing the subject at that time. But Tom, in his solitary office, and Ruth, in the triangular parlour, thought about nothing else all day; and, when their hour of meeting in the afternoon approached, they were very full of it, to be sure.

There was a little plot between them, that Tom should always come out of the Temple by one way; and that was past the fountain. Coming through Fountain Court, he was just to glance down the steps leading into Garden Court, and to look once all round him; and if Ruth had come to meet him, there he would see her; not sauntering, you understand (on account of the clerks), but coming briskly up, with the best little laugh upon her face that ever played in opposition to the fountain, and beat it all to nothing. For, fifty to one, Tom had been looking for her in the wrong direction, and had quite given her up, while she had been tripping towards him from the first; jingling that little reticule of hers (with all the keys in it) to attract his wandering observation.

Whether there was life enough left in the slow vegetation of Fountain Court for the smoky shrubs to have any consciousness of the brightest and purest-hearted little woman in the world, is a question for gardeners, and those who are learned in the loves of plants. But, that it was a good thing for that same paved yard to have such a delicate little figure flitting through it; that it passed like a smile from the grimy old houses, and the worn flagstones, and left them duller, darker, sterner than before; there is no sort of doubt. The Temple fountain might have leaped up twenty feet to greet the spring of hopeful maidenhood, that in her person stole on, sparkling, through the dry and dusty channels of the Law; the chirping sparrows, bred in Temple chinks and crannies, might have held their peace to listen to imaginary skylarks, as so fresh a little creature passed; the dingy boughs, unused to droop, otherwise than in their puny growth, might have bent down in a kindred gracefulness to shed their benedictions on her graceful head; old love letters, shut up in iron boxes in the neighbouring offices, and made of no account among the heaps of family papers into which they had strayed, and of which, in their degeneracy, they formed a part, might have stirred and fluttered with a moment’s recollection of their ancient tenderness, as she went lightly by. Anything might have happened that did not happen, and never will, for the love of Ruth.

Something happened, too, upon the afternoon of which the history treats. Not for her love. Oh no! quite by accident, and without the least reference to her at all.

Either she was a little too soon, or Tom was a little too late—she was so precise in general, that she timed it to half a minute—but no Tom was there. Well! But was anybody else there, that she blushed so deeply, after looking round, and tripped off down the steps with such unusual expedition?

Why, the fact is, that Mr Westlock was passing at that moment. The Temple is a public thoroughfare; they may write up on the gates that it is not, but so long as the gates are left open it is, and will be; and Mr Westlock had as good a right to be there as anybody else. But why did she run away, then? Not being ill dressed, for she was much too neat for that, why did she run away? The brown hair that had fallen down beneath her bonnet, and had one impertinent imp of a false flower clinging to it, boastful of its licence before all men, THAT could not have been the cause, for it looked charming. Oh! foolish, panting, frightened little heart, why did she run away!

Merrily the tiny fountain played, and merrily the dimples sparkled on its sunny face. John Westlock hurried after her. Softly the whispering water broke and fell; as roguishly the dimples twinkled, as he stole upon her footsteps.

Oh, foolish, panting, timid little heart, why did she feign to be unconscious of his coming! Why wish herself so far away, yet be so flutteringly happy there!

‘I felt sure it was you,’ said John, when he overtook her in the sanctuary of Garden Court. ‘I knew I couldn’t be mistaken.’

She was SO surprised.

‘You are waiting for your brother,’ said John. ‘Let me bear you company.’

So light was the touch of the coy little hand, that he glanced down to assure himself he had it on his arm. But his glance, stopping for an instant at the bright eyes, forgot its first design, and went no farther.

They walked up and down three or four times, speaking about Tom and his mysterious employment. Now that was a very natural and innocent subject, surely. Then why, whenever Ruth lifted up her eyes, did she let them fall again immediately, and seek the uncongenial pavement of the court? They were not such eyes as shun the light; they were not such eyes as require to be hoarded to enhance their value. They were much too precious and too genuine to stand in need of arts like those. Somebody must have been looking at them!

They found out Tom, though, quickly enough. This pair of eyes descried him in the distance, the moment he appeared. He was staring about him, as usual, in all directions but the right one; and was as obstinate in not looking towards them, as if he had intended it. As it was plain that, being left to himself, he would walk away home, John Westlock darted off to stop him.

This made the approach of poor little Ruth, by herself, one of the most embarrassing of circumstances. There was Tom, manifesting extreme surprise (he had no presence of mind, that Tom, on small occasions); there was John, making as light of it as he could, but explaining at the same time with most unnecessary elaboration; and here was she, coming towards them, with both of them looking at her, conscious of blushing to a terrible extent, but trying to throw up her eyebrows carelessly, and pout her rosy lips, as if she were the coolest and most unconcerned of little women.

Merrily the fountain plashed and plashed, until the dimples, merging into one another, swelled into a general smile, that covered the whole surface of the basin.

‘What an extraordinary meeting!’ said Tom. ‘I should never have dreamed of seeing you two together here.’

‘Quite accidental,’ John was heard to murmur.

‘Exactly,’ cried Tom; ‘that’s what I mean, you know. If it wasn’t accidental, there would be nothing remarkable in it.’

‘To be sure,’ said John.

‘Such an out-of-the-way place for you to have met in,’ pursued Tom, quite delighted. ‘Such an unlikely spot!’

John rather disputed that. On the contrary, he considered it a very likely spot, indeed. He was constantly passing to and fro there, he said. He shouldn’t wonder if it were to happen again. His only wonder was, that it had never happened before.

By this time Ruth had got round on the farther side of her brother, and had taken his arm. She was squeezing it now, as much as to say ‘Are you going to stop here all day, you dear, old, blundering Tom?’

Tom answered the squeeze as if it had been a speech. ‘John,’ he said, ‘if you’ll give my sister your arm, we’ll take her between us, and walk on. I have a curious circumstance to relate to you. Our meeting could not have happened better.’

Merrily the fountain leaped and danced, and merrily the smiling dimples twinkled and expanded more and more, until they broke into a laugh against the basin’s rim, and vanished.

‘Tom,’ said his friend, as they turned into the noisy street, ‘I have a proposition to make. It is, that you and your sister—if she will so far honour a poor bachelor’s dwelling—give me a great pleasure, and come and dine with me.’

‘What, to-day?’ cried Tom.

‘Yes, to-day. It’s close by, you know. Pray, Miss Pinch, insist upon it. It will be very disinterested, for I have nothing to give you.’

‘Oh! you must not believe that, Ruth,’ said Tom. ‘He is the most tremendous fellow, in his housekeeping, that I ever heard of, for a single man. He ought to be Lord Mayor. Well! what do you say? Shall we go?’

‘If you please, Tom,’ rejoined his dutiful little sister.

‘But I mean,’ said Tom, regarding her with smiling admiration; ‘is there anything you ought to wear, and haven’t got? I am sure I don’t know, John; she may not be able to take her bonnet off, for anything I can tell.’

There was a great deal of laughing at this, and there were divers compliments from John Westlock—not compliments HE said at least (and really he was right), but good, plain, honest truths, which no one could deny. Ruth laughed, and all that, but she made no objection; so it was an engagement.

‘If I had known it a little sooner,’ said John, ‘I would have tried another pudding. Not in rivalry; but merely to exalt that famous one. I wouldn’t on any account have had it made with suet.’

‘Why not?’ asked Tom.

‘Because that cookery-book advises suet,’ said John Westlock; ‘and ours was made with flour and eggs.’

‘Oh good gracious!’ cried Tom. ‘Ours was made with flour and eggs, was it? Ha, ha, ha! A beefsteak pudding made with flour and eggs! Why anybody knows better than that. I know better than that! Ha, ha, ha!’

It is unnecessary to say that Tom had been present at the making of the pudding, and had been a devoted believer in it all through. But he was so delighted to have this joke against his busy little sister and was tickled to that degree at having found her out, that he stopped in Temple Bar to laugh; and it was no more to Tom, that he was anathematized and knocked about by the surly passengers, than it would have been to a post; for he continued to exclaim with unabated good humour, ‘flour and eggs! A beefsteak pudding made with flour and eggs!’ until John Westlock and his sister fairly ran away from him, and left him to have his laugh out by himself; which he had, and then came dodging across the crowded street to them, with such sweet temper and tenderness (it was quite a tender joke of Tom’s) beaming in his face, God bless it, that it might have purified the air, though Temple Bar had been, as in the golden days gone by, embellished with a row of rotting human heads.

There are snug chambers in those Inns where the bachelors live, and, for the desolate fellows they pretend to be, it is quite surprising how well they get on. John was very pathetic on the subject of his dreary life, and the deplorable makeshifts and apologetic contrivances it involved, but he really seemed to make himself pretty comfortable. His rooms were the perfection of neatness and convenience at any rate; and if he were anything but comfortable, the fault was certainly not theirs.

He had no sooner ushered Tom and his sister into his best room (where there was a beautiful little vase of fresh flowers on the table, all ready for Ruth. Just as if he had expected her, Tom said), than, seizing his hat, he bustled out again, in his most energetically bustling, way; and presently came hurrying back, as they saw through the half-opened door, attended by a fiery-faced matron attired in a crunched bonnet, with particularly long strings to it hanging down her back; in conjunction with whom he instantly began to lay the cloth for dinner, polishing up the wine-glasses with his own hands, brightening the silver top of the pepper-caster on his coat-sleeve, drawing corks and filling decanters, with a skill and expedition that were quite dazzling. And as if, in the course of this rubbing and polishing, he had rubbed an enchanted lamp or a magic ring, obedient to which there were twenty thousand supernatural slaves at least, suddenly there appeared a being in a white waistcoat, carrying under his arm a napkin, and attended by another being with an oblong box upon his head, from which a banquet, piping hot, was taken out and set upon the table.

Salmon, lamb, peas, innocent young potatoes, a cool salad, sliced cucumber, a tender duckling, and a tart—all there. They all came at the right time. Where they came from, didn’t appear; but the oblong box was constantly going and coming, and making its arrival known to the man in the white waistcoat by bumping modestly against the outside of the door; for, after its first appearance, it entered the room no more. He was never surprised, this man; he never seemed to wonder at the extraordinary things he found in the box, but took them out with a face expressive of a steady purpose and impenetrable character, and put them on the table. He was a kind man; gentle in his manners, and much interested in what they ate and drank. He was a learned man, and knew the flavour of John Westlock’s private sauces, which he softly and feelingly described, as he handed the little bottles round. He was a grave man, and a noiseless; for dinner being done, and wine and fruit arranged upon the board, he vanished, box and all, like something that had never been.

‘Didn’t I say he was a tremendous fellow in his housekeeping?’ cried Tom. ‘Bless my soul! It’s wonderful.’

‘Ah, Miss Pinch,’ said John. ‘This is the bright side of the life we lead in such a place. It would be a dismal life, indeed, if it didn’t brighten up to-day’

‘Don’t believe a word he says,’ cried Tom. ‘He lives here like a monarch, and wouldn’t change his mode of life for any consideration. He only pretends to grumble.’

No, John really did not appear to pretend; for he was uncommonly earnest in his desire to have it understood that he was as dull, solitary, and uncomfortable on ordinary occasions as an unfortunate young man could, in reason, be. It was a wretched life, he said, a miserable life. He thought of getting rid of the chambers as soon as possible; and meant, in fact, to put a bill up very shortly.

‘Well’ said Tom Pinch, ‘I don’t know where you can go, John, to be more comfortable. That’s all I can say. What do YOU say, Ruth?’

Ruth trifled with the cherries on her plate, and said that she thought Mr Westlock ought to be quite happy, and that she had no doubt he was.

Ah, foolish, panting, frightened little heart, how timidly she said it!

‘But you are forgetting what you had to tell, Tom; what occurred this morning,’ she added in the same breath.

‘So I am,’ said Tom. ‘We have been so talkative on other topics that I declare I have not had time to think of it. I’ll tell it you at once, John, in case I should forget it altogether.’

On Tom’s relating what had passed upon the wharf, his friend was very much surprised, and took such a great interest in the narrative as Tom could not quite understand. He believed he knew the old lady whose acquaintance they had made, he said; and that he might venture to say, from their description of her, that her name was Gamp. But of what nature the communication could have been which Tom had borne so unexpectedly; why its delivery had been entrusted to him; how it happened that the parties were involved together; and what secret lay at the bottom of the whole affair; perplexed him very much. Tom had been sure of his taking some interest in the matter; but was not prepared for the strong interest he showed. It held John Westlock to the subject even after Ruth had left the room; and evidently made him anxious to pursue it further than as a mere subject of conversation.

‘I shall remonstrate with my landlord, of course,’ said Tom; ‘though he is a very singular secret sort of man, and not likely to afford me much satisfaction; even if he knew what was in the letter.’

‘Which you may swear he did,’ John interposed.

‘You think so?’

‘I am certain of it.’

‘Well!’ said Tom, ‘I shall remonstrate with him when I see him (he goes in and out in a strange way, but I will try to catch him tomorrow morning), on his having asked me to execute such an unpleasant commission. And I have been thinking, John, that if I went down to Mrs What’s-her-name’s in the City, where I was before, you know—Mrs Todgers’s—to-morrow morning, I might find poor Mercy Pecksniff there, perhaps, and be able to explain to her how I came to have any hand in the business.’

‘You are perfectly right, Tom,’ returned his friend, after a short interval of reflection. ‘You cannot do better. It is quite clear to me that whatever the business is, there is little good in it; and it is so desirable for you to disentangle yourself from any appearance of willful connection with it, that I would counsel you to see her husband, if you can, and wash your hands of it by a plain statement of the facts. I have a misgiving that there is something dark at work here, Tom. I will tell you why, at another time; when I have made an inquiry or two myself.’

All this sounded very mysterious to Tom Pinch. But as he knew he could rely upon his friend, he resolved to follow this advice.

Ah, but it would have been a good thing to have had a coat of invisibility, wherein to have watched little Ruth, when she was left to herself in John Westlock’s chambers, and John and her brother were talking thus, over their wine! The gentle way in which she tried to get up a little conversation with the fiery-faced matron in the crunched bonnet, who was waiting to attend her; after making a desperate rally in regard of her dress, and attiring herself in a washed-out yellow gown with sprigs of the same upon it, so that it looked like a tesselated work of pats of butter. That would have been pleasant. The grim and griffin-like inflexibility with which the fiery-faced matron repelled these engaging advances, as proceeding from a hostile and dangerous power, who could have no business there, unless it were to deprive her of a customer, or suggest what became of the self-consuming tea and sugar, and other general trifles. That would have been agreeable. The bashful, winning, glorious curiosity, with which little Ruth, when fiery-face was gone, peeped into the books and nick-nacks that were lying about, and had a particular interest in some delicate paper-matches on the chimney-piece; wondering who could have made them. That would have been worth seeing. The faltering hand with which she tied those flowers together; with which, almost blushing at her own fair self as imaged in the glass, she arranged them in her breast, and looking at them with her head aside, now half resolved to take them out again, now half resolved to leave them where they were. That would have been delightful!

John seemed to think it all delightful; for coming in with Tom to tea, he took his seat beside her like a man enchanted. And when the tea-service had been removed, and Tom, sitting down at the piano, became absorbed in some of his old organ tunes, he was still beside her at the open window, looking out upon the twilight.

There is little enough to see in Furnival’s Inn. It is a shady, quiet place, echoing to the footsteps of the stragglers who have business there; and rather monotonous and gloomy on summer evenings. What gave it such a charm to them, that they remained at the window as unconscious of the flight of time as Tom himself, the dreamer, while the melodies which had so often soothed his spirit were hovering again about him! What power infused into the fading light, the gathering darkness; the stars that here and there appeared; the evening air, the City’s hum and stir, the very chiming of the old church clocks; such exquisite enthrallment, that the divinest regions of the earth spread out before their eyes could not have held them captive in a stronger chain?

The shadows deepened, deepened, and the room became quite dark. Still Tom’s fingers wandered over the keys of the piano, and still the window had its pair of tenants. At length, her hand upon his shoulder, and her breath upon his forehead, roused Tom from his reverie.

‘Dear me!’ he cried, desisting with a start. ‘I am afraid I have been very inconsiderate and unpolite.’

Tom little thought how much consideration and politeness he had shown!

‘Sing something to us, my dear,’ said Tom, ‘let us hear your voice. Come!’

John Westlock added his entreaties with such earnestness that a flinty heart alone could have resisted them. Hers was not a flinty heart. Oh, dear no! Quite another thing.

So down she sat, and in a pleasant voice began to sing the ballads Tom loved well. Old rhyming stories, with here and there a pause for a few simple chords, such as a harper might have sounded in the ancient time while looking upward for the current of some half-remembered legend; words of old poets, wedded to such measures that the strain of music might have been the poet’s breath, giving utterance and expression to his thoughts; and now a melody so joyous and light-hearted, that the singer seemed incapable of sadness, until in her inconstancy (oh wicked little singer!) she relapsed, and broke the listeners’ hearts again; these were the simple means she used to please them. And that these simple means prevailed, and she DID please them, let the still darkened chamber, and its long-deferred illumination witness.

The candles came at last, and it was time for moving homeward. Cutting paper carefully, and rolling it about the stalks of those same flowers, occasioned some delay; but even this was done in time, and Ruth was ready.

‘Good night!’ said Tom. ‘A memorable and delightful visit, John! Good night!’

John thought he would walk with them.

‘No, no. Don’t!’ said Tom. ‘What nonsense! We can get home very well alone. I couldn’t think of taking you out.’

But John said he would rather.

‘Are you sure you would rather?’ said Tom. ‘I am afraid you only say so out of politeness.’

John being quite sure, gave his arm to Ruth, and led her out. Fiery-face, who was again in attendance, acknowledged her departure with so cold a curtsey that it was hardly visible; and cut Tom, dead.

Their host was bent on walking the whole distance, and would not listen to Tom’s dissuasions. Happy time, happy walk, happy parting, happy dreams! But there are some sweet day-dreams, so there are that put the visions of the night to shame.

Busily the Temple fountain murmured in the moonlight, while Ruth lay sleeping, with her flowers beside her; and John Westlock sketched a portrait—whose?—from memory.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

IN WHICH MISS PECKSNIFF MAKES LOVE, MR JONAS MAKES WRATH, MRS GAMP MAKES TEA, AND MR CHUFFEY MAKES BUSINESS

On the next day’s official duties coming to a close, Tom hurried home without losing any time by the way; and after dinner and a short rest sallied out again, accompanied by Ruth, to pay his projected visit to Todgers’s. Tom took Ruth with him, not only because it was a great pleasure to him to have her for his companion whenever he could, but because he wished her to cherish and comfort poor Merry; which she, for her own part (having heard the wretched history of that young wife from Tom), was all eagerness to do.

‘She was so glad to see me,’ said Tom, ‘that I am sure she will be glad to see you. Your sympathy is certain to be much more delicate and acceptable than mine.’

‘I am very far from being certain of that, Tom,’ she replied; ‘and indeed you do yourself an injustice. Indeed you do. But I hope she may like me, Tom.’

‘Oh, she is sure to do that!’ cried Tom, confidently.

‘What a number of friends I should have, if everybody was of your way of thinking. Shouldn’t I, Tom, dear?’ said his little sister pinching him upon the cheek.

Tom laughed, and said that with reference to this particular case he had no doubt at all of finding a disciple in Merry. ‘For you women,’ said Tom, ‘you women, my dear, are so kind, and in your kindness have such nice perception; you know so well how to be affectionate and full of solicitude without appearing to be; your gentleness of feeling is like your touch so light and easy, that the one enables you to deal with wounds of the mind as tenderly as the other enables you to deal with wounds of the body. You are such—’

‘My goodness, Tom!’ his sister interposed. ‘You ought to fall in love immediately.’

Tom put this observation off good humouredly, but somewhat gravely too; and they were soon very chatty again on some other subject.

As they were passing through a street in the City, not very far from Mrs Todgers’s place of residence, Ruth checked Tom before the window of a large Upholstery and Furniture Warehouse, to call his attention to something very magnificent and ingenious, displayed there to the best advantage, for the admiration and temptation of the public. Tom had hazarded some most erroneous and extravagantly wrong guess in relation to the price of this article, and had joined his sister in laughing heartily at his mistake, when he pressed her arm in his, and pointed to two persons at a little distance, who were looking in at the same window with a deep interest in the chests of drawers and tables.

‘Hush!’ Tom whispered. ‘Miss Pecksniff, and the young gentleman to whom she is going to be married.’

‘Why does he look as if he was going to be buried, Tom?’ inquired his little sister.

‘Why, he is naturally a dismal young gentleman, I believe,’ said Tom ‘but he is very civil and inoffensive.’

‘I suppose they are furnishing their house,’ whispered Ruth.

‘Yes, I suppose they are,’ replied Tom. ‘We had better avoid speaking to them.’

They could not very well avoid looking at them, however, especially as some obstruction on the pavement, at a little distance, happened to detain them where they were for a few moments. Miss Pecksniff had quite the air of having taken the unhappy Moddle captive, and brought him up to the contemplation of the furniture like a lamb to the altar. He offered no resistance, but was perfectly resigned and quiet. The melancholy depicted in the turn of his languishing head, and in his dejected attitude, was extreme; and though there was a full-sized four-post bedstead in the window, such a tear stood trembling in his eye as seemed to blot it out.

‘Augustus, my love,’ said Miss Pecksniff, ‘ask the price of the eight rosewood chairs, and the loo table.’

‘Perhaps they are ordered already,’ said Augustus. ‘Perhaps they are Another’s.’

‘They can make more like them, if they are,’ rejoined Miss Pecksniff.

‘No, no, they can’t,’ said Moddle. ‘It’s impossible!’

He appeared, for the moment, to be quite overwhelmed and stupefied by the prospect of his approaching happiness; but recovering, entered the shop. He returned immediately, saying in a tone of despair

‘Twenty-four pound ten!’

Miss Pecksniff, turning to receive this announcement, became conscious of the observation of Tom Pinch and his sister.

‘Oh, really!’ cried Miss Pecksniff, glancing about her, as if for some convenient means of sinking into the earth. ‘Upon my word, I—there never was such a—to think that one should be so very—Mr Augustus Moddle, Miss Pinch!’

Miss Pecksniff was quite gracious to Miss Pinch in this triumphant introduction; exceedingly gracious. She was more than gracious; she was kind and cordial. Whether the recollection of the old service Tom had rendered her in knocking Mr Jonas on the head had wrought this change in her opinions; or whether her separation from her parent had reconciled her to all human-kind, or to all that interesting portion of human-kind which was not friendly to him; or whether the delight of having some new female acquaintance to whom to communicate her interesting prospects was paramount to every other consideration; cordial and kind Miss Pecksniff was. And twice Miss Pecksniff kissed Miss Pinch upon the cheek.

‘Augustus—Mr Pinch, you know. My dear girl!’ said Miss Pecksniff, aside. ‘I never was so ashamed in my life.’

Ruth begged her not to think of it.

‘I mind your brother less than anybody else,’ simpered Miss Pecksniff. ‘But the indelicacy of meeting any gentleman under such circumstances! Augustus, my child, did you—’

Here Miss Pecksniff whispered in his ear. The suffering Moddle repeated:

‘Twenty-four pound ten!’

‘Oh, you silly man! I don’t mean them,’ said Miss Pecksniff. ‘I am speaking of the—’

Here she whispered him again.

‘If it’s the same patterned chintz as that in the window; thirty-two, twelve, six,’ said Moddle, with a sigh. ‘And very dear.’

Miss Pecksniff stopped him from giving any further explanation by laying her hand upon his lips, and betraying a soft embarrassment. She then asked Tom Pinch which way he was going.

‘I was going to see if I could find your sister,’ answered Tom, ‘to whom I wished to say a few words. We were going to Mrs Todgers’s, where I had the pleasure of seeing her before.’

‘It’s of no use your going on, then,’ said Cherry, ‘for we have not long left there; and I know she is not at home. But I’ll take you to my sister’s house, if you please. Augustus—Mr Moddle, I mean—and myself, are on our way to tea there, now. You needn’t think of HIM,’ she added, nodding her head as she observed some hesitation on Tom’s part. ‘He is not at home.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Tom.

‘Oh, I am quite sure of that. I don’t want any MORE revenge,’ said Miss Pecksniff, expressively. ‘But, really, I must beg you two gentlemen to walk on, and allow me to follow with Miss Pinch. My dear, I never was so taken by surprise!’

In furtherance of this bashful arrangement, Moddle gave his arm to Tom; and Miss Pecksniff linked her own in Ruth’s.

‘Of course, my love,’ said Miss Pecksniff, ‘it would be useless for me to disguise, after what you have seen, that I am about to be united to the gentleman who is walking with your brother. It would be in vain to conceal it. What do you think of him? Pray, let me have your candid opinion.’

Ruth intimated that, as far as she could judge, he was a very eligible swain.

‘I am curious to know,’ said Miss Pecksniff, with loquacious frankness, ‘whether you have observed, or fancied, in this very short space of time, that he is of a rather melancholy turn?’

‘So very short a time,’ Ruth pleaded.

‘No, no; but don’t let that interfere with your answer,’ returned Miss Pecksniff. ‘I am curious to hear what you say.’

Ruth acknowledged that he had impressed her at first sight as looking ‘rather low.’

‘No, really?’ said Miss Pecksniff. ‘Well! that is quite remarkable! Everybody says the same. Mrs Todgers says the same; and Augustus informs me that it is quite a joke among the gentlemen in the house. Indeed, but for the positive commands I have laid upon him, I believe it would have been the occasion of loaded fire-arms being resorted to more than once. What do you think is the cause of his appearance of depression?’

Ruth thought of several things; such as his digestion, his tailor, his mother, and the like. But hesitating to give utterance to any one of them, she refrained from expressing an opinion.

‘My dear,’ said Miss Pecksniff; ‘I shouldn’t wish it to be known, but I don’t mind mentioning it to you, having known your brother for so many years—I refused Augustus three times. He is of a most amiable and sensitive nature, always ready to shed tears if you look at him, which is extremely charming; and he has never recovered the effect of that cruelty. For it WAS cruel,’ said Miss Pecksniff, with a self-conviction candour that might have adorned the diadem of her own papa. ‘There is no doubt of it. I look back upon my conduct now with blushes. I always liked him. I felt that he was not to me what the crowd of young men who had made proposals had been, but something very different. Then what right had I to refuse him three times?’

‘It was a severe trial of his fidelity, no doubt,’ said Ruth.

‘My dear,’ returned Miss Pecksniff. ‘It was wrong. But such is the caprice and thoughtlessness of our sex! Let me be a warning to you. Don’t try the feelings of any one who makes you an offer, as I have tried the feelings of Augustus; but if you ever feel towards a person as I really felt towards him, at the very time when I was driving him to distraction, let that feeling find expression, if that person throws himself at your feet, as Augustus Moddle did at mine. Think,’ said Miss Pecksniff, ‘what my feelings would have been, if I had goaded him to suicide, and it had got into the papers!’

Ruth observed that she would have been full of remorse, no doubt.

‘Remorse!’ cried Miss Pecksniff, in a sort of snug and comfortable penitence. ‘What my remorse is at this moment, even after making reparation by accepting him, it would be impossible to tell you! Looking back upon my giddy self, my dear, now that I am sobered down and made thoughtful, by treading on the very brink of matrimony; and contemplating myself as I was when I was like what you are now; I shudder. I shudder. What is the consequence of my past conduct? Until Augustus leads me to the altar he is not sure of me. I have blighted and withered the affections of his heart to that extent that he is not sure of me. I see that preying on his mind and feeding on his vitals. What are the reproaches of my conscience, when I see this in the man I love!’

Ruth endeavoured to express some sense of her unbounded and flattering confidence; and presumed that she was going to be married soon.

‘Very soon indeed,’ returned Miss Pecksniff. ‘As soon as our house is ready. We are furnishing now as fast as we can.’

In the same vein of confidence Miss Pecksniff ran through a general inventory of the articles that were already bought with the articles that remained to be purchased; what garments she intended to be married in, and where the ceremony was to be performed; and gave Miss Pinch, in short (as she told her), early and exclusive information on all points of interest connected with the event.

While this was going forward in the rear, Tom and Mr Moddle walked on, arm in arm, in the front, in a state of profound silence, which Tom at last broke; after thinking for a long time what he could say that should refer to an indifferent topic, in respect of which he might rely, with some degree of certainty, on Mr Moddle’s bosom being unruffled.

‘I wonder,’ said Tom, ‘that in these crowded streets the foot-passengers are not oftener run over.’

Mr Moddle, with a dark look, replied:

‘The drivers won’t do it.’

‘Do you mean?’ Tom began—

‘That there are some men,’ interrupted Moddle, with a hollow laugh, ‘who can’t get run over. They live a charmed life. Coal waggons recoil from them, and even cabs refuse to run them down. Ah!’ said Augustus, marking Tom’s astonishment. ‘There are such men. One of ‘em is a friend of mine.’

‘Upon my word and honour,’ thought Tom, ‘this young gentleman is in a state of mind which is very serious indeed!’ Abandoning all idea of conversation, he did not venture to say another word, but he was careful to keep a tight hold upon Augustus’s arm, lest he should fly into the road, and making another and a more successful attempt, should get up a private little Juggernaut before the eyes of his betrothed. Tom was so afraid of his committing this rash act, that he had scarcely ever experienced such mental relief as when they arrived in safety at Mrs Jonas Chuzzlewit’s house.

‘Walk up, pray, Mr Pinch,’ said Miss Pecksniff. For Tom halted, irresolutely, at the door.

‘I am doubtful whether I should be welcome,’ replied Tom, ‘or, I ought rather to say, I have no doubt about it. I will send up a message, I think.’

‘But what nonsense that is!’ returned Miss Pecksniff, speaking apart to Tom. ‘He is not at home, I am certain. I know he is not; and Merry hasn’t the least idea that you ever—’

‘No,’ interrupted Tom. ‘Nor would I have her know it, on any account. I am not so proud of that scuffle, I assure you.’

‘Ah, but then you are so modest, you see,’ returned Miss Pecksniff, with a smile. ‘But pray walk up. If you don’t wish her to know it, and do wish to speak to her, pray walk up. Pray walk up, Miss Pinch. Don’t stand here.’

Tom still hesitated for he felt that he was in an awkward position. But Cherry passing him at this juncture, and leading his sister upstairs, and the house-door being at the same time shut behind them, he followed without quite knowing whether it was well or ill-judged so to do.

‘Merry, my darling!’ said the fair Miss Pecksniff, opening the door of the usual sitting-room. ‘Here are Mr Pinch and his sister come to see you! I thought we should find you here, Mrs Todgers! How do you do, Mrs Gamp? And how do you do, Mr Chuffey, though it’s of no use asking you the question, I am well aware.’

Honouring each of these parties, as she severally addressed them, with an acid smile, Miss Charity presented ‘Mr Moddle.’

‘I believe you have seen HIM before,’ she pleasantly observed. ‘Augustus, my sweet child, bring me a chair.’

The sweet child did as he was told; and was then about to retire into a corner to mourn in secret, when Miss Charity, calling him in an audible whisper a ‘little pet,’ gave him leave to come and sit beside her. It is to be hoped, for the general cheerfulness of mankind, that such a doleful little pet was never seen as Mr Moddle looked when he complied. So despondent was his temper, that he showed no outward thrill of ecstasy when Miss Pecksniff placed her lily hand in his, and concealed this mark of her favour from the vulgar gaze by covering it with a corner of her shawl. Indeed, he was infinitely more rueful then than he had been before; and, sitting uncomfortably upright in his chair, surveyed the company with watery eyes, which seemed to say, without the aid of language, ‘Oh, good gracious! look here! Won’t some kind Christian help me!’

But the ecstasies of Mrs Gamp were sufficient to have furnished forth a score of young lovers; and they were chiefly awakened by the sight of Tom Pinch and his sister. Mrs Gamp was a lady of that happy temperament which can be ecstatic without any other stimulating cause than a general desire to establish a large and profitable connection. She added daily so many strings to her bow, that she made a perfect harp of it; and upon that instrument she now began to perform an extemporaneous concerto.

‘Why, goodness me!’ she said, ‘Mrs Chuzzlewit! To think as I should see beneath this blessed ‘ouse, which well I know it, Miss Pecksniff, my sweet young lady, to be a ‘ouse as there is not a many like, worse luck, and wishin’ it were not so, which then this tearful walley would be changed into a flowerin’ guardian, Mr Chuffey; to think as I should see beneath this indiwidgle roof, identically comin’, Mr Pinch (I take the liberty, though almost unbeknown), and do assure you of it, sir, the smilinest and sweetest face as ever, Mrs Chuzzlewit, I see exceptin’ yourn, my dear good lady, and YOUR good lady’s too, sir, Mr Moddle, if I may make so bold as speak so plain of what is plain enough to them as needn’t look through millstones, Mrs Todgers, to find out wot is wrote upon the wall behind. Which no offence is meant, ladies and gentlemen; none bein’ took, I hope. To think as I should see that smilinest and sweetest face which me and another friend of mine, took notice of among the packages down London Bridge, in this promiscous place, is a surprige in-deed!’

Having contrived, in this happy manner, to invest every member of her audience with an individual share and immediate personal interest in her address, Mrs Gamp dropped several curtseys to Ruth, and smilingly shaking her head a great many times, pursued the thread of her discourse:

‘Now, ain’t we rich in beauty this here joyful arternoon, I’m sure. I knows a lady, which her name, I’ll not deceive you, Mrs Chuzzlewit, is Harris, her husband’s brother bein’ six foot three, and marked with a mad bull in Wellington boots upon his left arm, on account of his precious mother havin’ been worrited by one into a shoemaker’s shop, when in a sitiwation which blessed is the man as has his quiver full of sech, as many times I’ve said to Gamp when words has roge betwixt us on account of the expense—and often have I said to Mrs Harris, “Oh, Mrs Harris, ma’am! your countenance is quite a angel’s!” Which, but for Pimples, it would be. “No, Sairey Gamp,” says she, “you best of hard-working and industrious creeturs as ever was underpaid at any price, which underpaid you are, quite diff’rent. Harris had it done afore marriage at ten and six,” she says, “and wore it faithful next his heart till the colour run, when the money was declined to be give back, and no arrangement could be come to. But he never said it was a angel’s, Sairey, wotever he might have thought.” If Mrs Harris’s husband was here now,’ said Mrs Gamp, looking round, and chuckling as she dropped a general curtsey, ‘he’d speak out plain, he would, and his dear wife would be the last to blame him! For if ever a woman lived as know’d not wot it was to form a wish to pizon them as had good looks, and had no reagion give her by the best of husbands, Mrs Harris is that ev’nly dispogician!’

With these words the worthy woman, who appeared to have dropped in to take tea as a delicate little attention, rather than to have any engagement on the premises in an official capacity, crossed to Mr Chuffey, who was seated in the same corner as of old, and shook him by the shoulder.

‘Rouge yourself, and look up! Come!’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘Here’s company, Mr Chuffey.’

‘I am sorry for it,’ cried the old man, looking humbly round the room. ‘I know I’m in the way. I ask pardon, but I’ve nowhere else to go to. Where is she?’

Merry went to him.

‘Ah!’ said the old man, patting her on the check. ‘Here she is. Here she is! She’s never hard on poor old Chuffey. Poor old Chuff!’

As she took her seat upon a low chair by the old man’s side, and put herself within the reach of his hand, she looked up once at Tom. It was a sad look that she cast upon him, though there was a faint smile trembling on her face. It was a speaking look, and Tom knew what it said. ‘You see how misery has changed me. I can feel for a dependant NOW, and set some value on his attachment.’

‘Aye, aye!’ cried Chuffey in a soothing tone. ‘Aye, aye, aye! Never mind him. It’s hard to hear, but never mind him. He’ll die one day. There are three hundred and sixty-five days in the year—three hundred and sixty-six in leap year—and he may die on any one of ‘em.’

‘You’re a wearing old soul, and that’s the sacred truth,’ said Mrs Gamp, contemplating him from a little distance with anything but favour, as he continued to mutter to himself. ‘It’s a pity that you don’t know wot you say, for you’d tire your own patience out if you did, and fret yourself into a happy releage for all as knows you.’

‘His son,’ murmured the old man, lifting up his hand. ‘His son!’

‘Well, I’m sure!’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘you’re a-settlin’ of it, Mr Chuffey. To your satigefaction, sir, I hope. But I wouldn’t lay a new pincushion on it myself, sir, though you ARE so well informed. Drat the old creetur, he’s a-layin’ down the law tolerable confident, too! A deal he knows of sons! or darters either! Suppose you was to favour us with some remarks on twins, sir, WOULD you be so good!’

The bitter and indignant sarcasm which Mrs Gamp conveyed into these taunts was altogether lost on the unconscious Chuffey, who appeared to be as little cognizant of their delivery as of his having given Mrs Gamp offence. But that high-minded woman being sensitively alive to any invasion of her professional province, and imagining that Mr Chuffey had given utterance to some prediction on the subject of sons, which ought to have emanated in the first instance from herself as the only lawful authority, or which should at least have been on no account proclaimed without her sanction and concurrence, was not so easily appeased. She continued to sidle at Mr Chuffey with looks of sharp hostility, and to defy him with many other ironical remarks, uttered in that low key which commonly denotes suppressed indignation; until the entrance of the teaboard, and a request from Mrs Jonas that she would make tea at a side-table for the party that had unexpectedly assembled, restored her to herself. She smiled again, and entered on her ministration with her own particular urbanity.

‘And quite a family it is to make tea for,’ said Mrs Gamp; ‘and wot a happiness to do it! My good young ‘ooman’—to the servant-girl—‘p’raps somebody would like to try a new-laid egg or two, not biled too hard. Likeways, a few rounds o’ buttered toast, first cuttin’ off the crust, in consequence of tender teeth, and not too many of ‘em; which Gamp himself, Mrs Chuzzlewit, at one blow, being in liquor, struck out four, two single, and two double, as was took by Mrs Harris for a keepsake, and is carried in her pocket at this present hour, along with two cramp-bones, a bit o’ ginger, and a grater like a blessed infant’s shoe, in tin, with a little heel to put the nutmeg in; as many times I’ve seen and said, and used for candle when required, within the month.’

As the privileges of the side-table—besides including the small prerogatives of sitting next the toast, and taking two cups of tea to other people’s one, and always taking them at a crisis, that is to say, before putting fresh water into the tea-pot, and after it had been standing for some time—also comprehended a full view of the company, and an opportunity of addressing them as from a rostrum, Mrs Gamp discharged the functions entrusted to her with extreme good-humour and affability. Sometimes resting her saucer on the palm of her outspread hand, and supporting her elbow on the table, she stopped between her sips of tea to favour the circle with a smile, a wink, a roll of the head, or some other mark of notice; and at those periods her countenance was lighted up with a degree of intelligence and vivacity, which it was almost impossible to separate from the benignant influence of distilled waters.

But for Mrs Gamp, it would have been a curiously silent party. Miss Pecksniff only spoke to her Augustus, and to him in whispers. Augustus spoke to nobody, but sighed for every one, and occasionally gave himself such a sounding slap upon the forehead as would make Mrs Todgers, who was rather nervous, start in her chair with an involuntary exclamation. Mrs Todgers was occupied in knitting, and seldom spoke. Poor Merry held the hand of cheerful little Ruth between her own, and listening with evident pleasure to all she said, but rarely speaking herself, sometimes smiled, and sometimes kissed her on the cheek, and sometimes turned aside to hide the tears that trembled in her eyes. Tom felt this change in her so much, and was so glad to see how tenderly Ruth dealt with her, and how she knew and answered to it, that he had not the heart to make any movement towards their departure, although he had long since given utterance to all he came to say.

The old clerk, subsiding into his usual state, remained profoundly silent, while the rest of the little assembly were thus occupied, intent upon the dreams, whatever they might be, which hardly seemed to stir the surface of his sluggish thoughts. The bent of these dull fancies combining probably with the silent feasting that was going on about him, and some struggling recollection of the last approach to revelry he had witnessed, suggested a strange question to his mind. He looked round upon a sudden, and said:

‘Who’s lying dead upstairs?’

‘No one,’ said Merry, turning to him. ‘What is the matter? We are all here.’

‘All here!’ cried the old man. ‘All here! Where is he then—my old master, Mr Chuzzlewit, who had the only son? Where is he?’

‘Hush! Hush!’ said Merry, speaking kindly to him. ‘That happened long ago. Don’t you recollect?’

‘Recollect!’ rejoined the old man, with a cry of grief. ‘As if I could forget! As if I ever could forget!’

He put his hand up to his face for a moment; and then repeated turning round exactly as before:

‘Who’s lying dead upstairs?’

‘No one!’ said Merry.

At first he gazed angrily upon her, as upon a stranger who endeavoured to deceive him; but peering into her face, and seeing that it was indeed she, he shook his head in sorrowful compassion.

‘You think not. But they don’t tell you. No, no, poor thing! They don’t tell you. Who are these, and why are they merry-making here, if there is no one dead? Foul play! Go see who it is!’

She made a sign to them not to speak to him, which indeed they had little inclination to do; and remained silent herself. So did he for a short time; but then he repeated the same question with an eagerness that had a peculiar terror in it.

‘There’s some one dead,’ he said, ‘or dying; and I want to knows who it is. Go see, go see! Where’s Jonas?’

‘In the country,’ she replied.

The old man gazed at her as if he doubted what she said, or had not heard her; and, rising from his chair, walked across the room and upstairs, whispering as he went, ‘Foul play!’ They heard his footsteps overhead, going up into that corner of the room in which the bed stood (it was there old Anthony had died); and then they heard him coming down again immediately. His fancy was not so strong or wild that it pictured to him anything in the deserted bedchamber which was not there; for he returned much calmer, and appeared to have satisfied himself.

‘They don’t tell you,’ he said to Merry in his quavering voice, as he sat down again, and patted her upon the head. ‘They don’t tell me either; but I’ll watch, I’ll watch. They shall not hurt you; don’t be frightened. When you have sat up watching, I have sat up watching too. Aye, aye, I have!’ he piped out, clenching his weak, shrivelled hand. ‘Many a night I have been ready!’

He said this with such trembling gaps and pauses in his want of breath, and said it in his jealous secrecy so closely in her ear, that little or nothing of it was understood by the visitors. But they had heard and seen enough of the old man to be disquieted, and to have left their seats and gathered about him; thereby affording Mrs Gamp, whose professional coolness was not so easily disturbed, an eligible opportunity for concentrating the whole resources of her powerful mind and appetite upon the toast and butter, tea and eggs. She had brought them to bear upon those viands with such vigour that her face was in the highest state of inflammation, when she now (there being nothing left to eat or drink) saw fit to interpose.

‘Why, highty tighty, sir!’ cried Mrs Gamp, ‘is these your manners? You want a pitcher of cold water throw’d over you to bring you round; that’s my belief, and if you was under Betsey Prig you’d have it, too, I do assure you, Mr Chuffey. Spanish Flies is the only thing to draw this nonsense out of you; and if anybody wanted to do you a kindness, they’d clap a blister of ‘em on your head, and put a mustard poultige on your back. ‘Who’s dead, indeed! It wouldn’t be no grievous loss if some one was, I think!’

‘He’s quiet now, Mrs Gamp,’ said Merry. ‘Don’t disturb him.’

‘Oh, bother the old wictim, Mrs Chuzzlewit,’ replied that zealous lady, ‘I ain’t no patience with him. You give him his own way too much by half. A worritin’ wexagious creetur!’

No doubt with the view of carrying out the precepts she enforced, and ‘bothering the old wictim’ in practice as well as in theory, Mrs Gamp took him by the collar of his coat, and gave him some dozen or two of hearty shakes backward and forward in his chair; that exercise being considered by the disciples of the Prig school of nursing (who are very numerous among professional ladies) as exceedingly conducive to repose, and highly beneficial to the performance of the nervous functions. Its effect in this instance was to render the patient so giddy and addle-headed, that he could say nothing more; which Mrs Gamp regarded as the triumph of her art.

‘There!’ she said, loosening the old man’s cravat, in consequence of his being rather black in the face, after this scientific treatment. ‘Now, I hope, you’re easy in your mind. If you should turn at all faint we can soon rewive you, sir, I promige you. Bite a person’s thumbs, or turn their fingers the wrong way,’ said Mrs Gamp, smiling with the consciousness of at once imparting pleasure and instruction to her auditors, ‘and they comes to, wonderful, Lord bless you!’

As this excellent woman had been formerly entrusted with the care of Mr Chuffey on a previous occasion, neither Mrs Jonas nor anybody else had the resolution to interfere directly with her mode of treatment; though all present (Tom Pinch and his sister especially) appeared to be disposed to differ from her views. For such is the rash boldness of the uninitiated, that they will frequently set up some monstrous abstract principle, such as humanity, or tenderness, or the like idle folly, in obstinate defiance of all precedent and usage; and will even venture to maintain the same against the persons who have made the precedents and established the usage, and who must therefore be the best and most impartial judges of the subject.

‘Ah, Mr Pinch!’ said Miss Pecksniff. ‘It all comes of this unfortunate marriage. If my sister had not been so precipitate, and had not united herself to a Wretch, there would have been no Mr Chuffey in the house.’

‘Hush!’ cried Tom. ‘She’ll hear you.’

‘I should be very sorry if she did hear me, Mr Pinch,’ said Cherry, raising her voice a little; ‘for it is not in my nature to add to the uneasiness of any person; far less of my own sister. I know what a sister’s duties are, Mr Pinch, and I hope I always showed it in my practice. Augustus, my dear child, find my pocket-handkerchief, and give it to me.’

Augustus obeyed, and took Mrs Todgers aside to pour his griefs into her friendly bosom.

‘I am sure, Mr Pinch,’ said Charity, looking after her betrothed and glancing at her sister, ‘that I ought to be very grateful for the blessings I enjoy, and those which are yet in store for me. When I contrast Augustus’—here she was modest and embarrased—‘who, I don’t mind saying to you, is all softness, mildness, and devotion, with the detestable man who is my sister’s husband; and when I think, Mr Pinch, that in the dispensations of this world, our cases might have been reversed; I have much to be thankful for, indeed, and much to make me humble and contented.’

Contented she might have been, but humble she assuredly was not. Her face and manner experienced something so widely different from humility, that Tom could not help understanding and despising the base motives that were working in her breast. He turned away, and said to Ruth, that it was time for them to go.

‘I will write to your husband,’ said Tom to Merry, ‘and explain to him, as I would have done if I had met him here, that if he has sustained any inconvenience through my means, it is not my fault; a postman not being more innocent of the news he brings, than I was when I handed him that letter.’

‘I thank you!’ said Merry. ‘It may do some good.’

She parted tenderly from Ruth, who with her brother was in the act of leaving the room, when a key was heard in the lock of the door below, and immediately afterwards a quick footstep in the passage. Tom stopped, and looked at Merry.

It was Jonas, she said timidly.

‘I had better not meet him on the stairs, perhaps,’ said Tom, drawing his sister’s arm through his, and coming back a step or two. ‘I’ll wait for him here, a moment.’

He had scarcely said it when the door opened, and Jonas entered. His wife came forward to receive him; but he put her aside with his hand, and said in a surly tone:

‘I didn’t know you’d got a party.’

As he looked, at the same time, either by accident or design, towards Miss Pecksniff; and as Miss Pecksniff was only too delighted to quarrel with him, she instantly resented it.

‘Oh dear!’ she said, rising. ‘Pray don’t let us intrude upon your domestic happiness! That would be a pity. We have taken tea here, sir, in your absence; but if you will have the goodness to send us a note of the expense, receipted, we shall be happy to pay it. Augustus, my love, we will go, if you please. Mrs Todgers, unless you wish to remain here, we shall be happy to take you with us. It would be a pity, indeed, to spoil the bliss which this gentleman always brings with him, especially into his own home.’

‘Charity! Charity!’ remonstrated her sister, in such a heartfelt tone that she might have been imploring her to show the cardinal virtue whose name she bore.

‘Merry, my dear, I am much obliged to you for your advice,’ returned Miss Pecksniff, with a stately scorn—by the way, she had not been offered any—‘but I am not his slave—’

‘No, nor wouldn’t have been if you could,’ interrupted Jonas. ‘We know all about it.’

‘WHAT did you say, sir?’ cried Miss Pecksniff, sharply.

‘Didn’t you hear?’ retorted Jonas, lounging down upon a chair. ‘I am not a-going to say it again. If you like to stay, you may stay. If you like to go, you may go. But if you stay, please to be civil.’

‘Beast!’ cried Miss Pecksniff, sweeping past him. ‘Augustus! He is beneath your notice!’ Augustus had been making some faint and sickly demonstration of shaking his fist. ‘Come away, child,’ screamed Miss Pecksniff, ‘I command you!’

The scream was elicited from her by Augustus manifesting an intention to return and grapple with him. But Miss Pecksniff giving the fiery youth a pull, and Mrs Todgers giving him a push they all three tumbled out of the room together, to the music of Miss Pecksniff’s shrill remonstrances.

All this time Jonas had seen nothing of Tom and his sister; for they were almost behind the door when he opened it, and he had sat down with his back towards them, and had purposely kept his eyes upon the opposite side of the street during his altercation with Miss Pecksniff, in order that his seeming carelessness might increase the exasperation of that wronged young damsel. His wife now faltered out that Tom had been waiting to see him; and Tom advanced.

The instant he presented himself, Jonas got up from his chair, and swearing a great oath, caught it in his grasp, as if he would have felled Tom to the ground with it. As he most unquestionably would have done, but that his very passion and surprise made him irresolute, and gave Tom, in his calmness, an opportunity of being heard.

‘You have no cause to be violent, sir,’ said Tom. ‘Though what I wish to say relates to your own affairs, I know nothing of them, and desire to know nothing of them.’

Jonas was too enraged to speak. He held the door open; and stamping his foot upon the ground, motioned Tom away.

‘As you cannot suppose,’ said Tom, ‘that I am here with any view of conciliating you or pleasing myself, I am quite indifferent to your reception of me, or your dismissal of me. Hear what I have to say, if you are not a madman! I gave you a letter the other day, when you were about to go abroad.’

‘You Thief, you did!’ retorted Jonas. ‘I’ll pay you for the carriage of it one day, and settle an old score besides. I will!’

‘Tut, tut,’ said Tom, ‘you needn’t waste words or threats. I wish you to understand—plainly because I would rather keep clear of you and everything that concerns you: not because I have the least apprehension of your doing me any injury: which would be weak indeed—that I am no party to the contents of that letter. That I know nothing of it. That I was not even aware that it was to be delivered to you; and that I had it from—’

‘By the Lord!’ cried Jonas, fiercely catching up the chair, ‘I’ll knock your brains out, if you speak another word.’

Tom, nevertheless, persisting in his intention, and opening his lips to speak again, Jonas set upon him like a savage; and in the quickness and ferocity of his attack would have surely done him some grievous injury, defenceless as he was, and embarrassed by having his frightened sister clinging to his arm, if Merry had not run between them, crying to Tom for the love of Heaven to leave the house. The agony of this poor creature, the terror of his sister, the impossibility of making himself audible, and the equal impossibility of bearing up against Mrs Gamp, who threw herself upon him like a feather-bed, and forced him backwards down the stairs by the mere oppression of her dead weight, prevailed. Tom shook the dust of that house off his feet, without having mentioned Nadgett’s name.

If the name could have passed his lips; if Jonas, in the insolence of his vile nature, had never roused him to do that old act of manliness, for which (and not for his last offence) he hated him with such malignity; if Jonas could have learned, as then he could and would have learned, through Tom’s means, what unsuspected spy there was upon him; he would have been saved from the commission of a Guilty Deed, then drawing on towards its black accomplishment. But the fatality was of his own working; the pit was of his own digging; the gloom that gathered round him was the shadow of his own life.

His wife had closed the door, and thrown herself before it, on the ground, upon her knees. She held up her hands to him now, and besought him not to be harsh with her, for she had interposed in fear of bloodshed.

‘So, so!’ said Jonas, looking down upon her, as he fetched his breath. ‘These are your friends, are they, when I am away? You plot and tamper with this sort of people, do you?’

‘No, indeed! I have no knowledge of these secrets, and no clue to their meaning. I have never seen him since I left home but once—but twice—before to-day.’

‘Oh!’ sneered Jonas, catching at this correction. ‘But once, but twice, eh? Which do you mean? Twice and once, perhaps. Three times! How many more, you lying jade?’

As he made an angry motion with his hand, she shrunk down hastily. A suggestive action! Full of a cruel truth!

‘How many more times?’ he repeated.

‘No more. The other morning, and to-day, and once besides.’

He was about to retort upon her, when the clock struck. He started stopped, and listened; appearing to revert to some engagement, or to some other subject, a secret within his own breast, recalled to him by this record of the progress of the hours.

‘Don’t lie there! Get up!’

Having helped her to rise, or rather hauled her up by the arm, he went on to say:

‘Listen to me, young lady; and don’t whine when you have no occasion, or I may make some for you. If I find him in my house again, or find that you have seen him in anybody else’s house, you’ll repent it. If you are not deaf and dumb to everything that concerns me, unless you have my leave to hear and speak, you’ll repent it. If you don’t obey exactly what I order, you’ll repent it. Now, attend. What’s the time?’

‘It struck eight a minute ago.’

He looked towards her intently; and said, with a laboured distinctness, as if he had got the words off by heart:

‘I have been travelling day and night, and am tired. I have lost some money, and that don’t improve me. Put my supper in the little off-room below, and have the truckle-bed made. I shall sleep there to-night, and maybe to-morrow night; and if I can sleep all day to-morrow, so much the better, for I’ve got trouble to sleep off, if I can. Keep the house quiet, and don’t call me. Mind! Don’t call me. Don’t let anybody call me. Let me lie there.’

She said it should be done. Was that all?

‘All what? You must be prying and questioning!’ he angrily retorted. ‘What more do you want to know?’

‘I want to know nothing, Jonas, but what you tell me. All hope of confidence between us has long deserted me!’

‘Ecod, I should hope so!’ he muttered.

‘But if you will tell me what you wish, I will be obedient and will try to please you. I make no merit of that, for I have no friend in my father or my sister, but am quite alone. I am very humble and submissive. You told me you would break my spirit, and you have done so. Do not break my heart too!’

She ventured, as she said these words, to lay her hand upon his shoulder. He suffered it to rest there, in his exultation; and the whole mean, abject, sordid, pitiful soul of the man, looked at her, for the moment, through his wicked eyes.

For the moment only; for, with the same hurried return to something within himself, he bade her, in a surly tone, show her obedience by executing his commands without delay. When she had withdrawn he paced up and down the room several times; but always with his right hand clenched, as if it held something; which it did not, being empty. When he was tired of this, he threw himself into a chair, and thoughtfully turned up the sleeve of his right arm, as if he were rather musing about its strength than examining it; but, even then, he kept the hand clenched.

He was brooding in this chair, with his eyes cast down upon the ground, when Mrs Gamp came in to tell him that the little room was ready. Not being quite sure of her reception after interfering in the quarrel, Mrs Gamp, as a means of interesting and propitiating her patron, affected a deep solicitude in Mr Chuffey.

‘How is he now, sir?’ she said.

‘Who?’ cried Jonas, raising his head, and staring at her.

‘To be sure!’ returned the matron with a smile and a curtsey. ‘What am I thinking of! You wasn’t here, sir, when he was took so strange. I never see a poor dear creetur took so strange in all my life, except a patient much about the same age, as I once nussed, which his calling was the custom-’us, and his name was Mrs Harris’s own father, as pleasant a singer, Mr Chuzzlewit, as ever you heerd, with a voice like a Jew’s-harp in the bass notes, that it took six men to hold at sech times, foaming frightful.’

‘Chuffey, eh?’ said Jonas carelessly, seeing that she went up to the old, clerk, and looked at him. ‘Ha!’

‘The creetur’s head’s so hot,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘that you might heat a flat-iron at it. And no wonder I am sure, considerin’ the things he said!’

‘Said!’ cried Jonas. ‘What did he say?’

Mrs Gamp laid her hand upon her heart, to put some check upon its palpitations, and turning up her eyes replied in a faint voice:

‘The awfulest things, Mr Chuzzlewit, as ever I heerd! Which Mrs Harris’s father never spoke a word when took so, some does and some don’t, except sayin’ when he come round, “Where is Sairey Gamp?” But raly, sir, when Mr Chuffey comes to ask who’s lyin’ dead upstairs, and—’

‘Who’s lying dead upstairs!’ repeated Jonas, standing aghast.

Mrs Gamp nodded, made as if she were swallowing, and went on.

‘Who’s lying dead upstairs; sech was his Bible language; and where was Mr Chuzzlewit as had the only son; and when he goes upstairs a-looking in the beds and wandering about the rooms, and comes down again a-whisperin’ softly to his-self about foul play and that; it gives me sech a turn, I don’t deny it, Mr Chuzzlewit, that I never could have kep myself up but for a little drain o’ spirits, which I seldom touches, but could always wish to know where to find, if so dispoged, never knowin’ wot may happen next, the world bein’ so uncertain.’

‘Why, the old fool’s mad!’ cried Jonas, much disturbed.

‘That’s my opinion, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘and I will not deceive you. I believe as Mr Chuffey, sir, rekwires attention (if I may make so bold), and should not have his liberty to wex and worrit your sweet lady as he does.’

‘Why, who minds what he says?’ retorted Jonas.

‘Still he is worritin’ sir,’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘No one don’t mind him, but he IS a ill conwenience.’

‘Ecod you’re right,’ said Jonas, looking doubtfully at the subject of this conversation. ‘I have half a mind to shut him up.’

Mrs Gamp rubbed her hands, and smiled, and shook her head, and sniffed expressively, as scenting a job.

‘Could you—could you take care of such an idiot, now, in some spare room upstairs?’ asked Jonas.

‘Me and a friend of mine, one off, one on, could do it, Mr Chuzzlewit,’ replied the nurse; ‘our charges not bein’ high, but wishin’ they was lower, and allowance made considerin’ not strangers. Me and Betsey Prig, sir, would undertake Mr Chuffey reasonable,’ said Mrs Gamp, looking at him with her head on one side, as if he had been a piece of goods, for which she was driving a bargain; ‘and give every satigefaction. Betsey Prig has nussed a many lunacies, and well she knows their ways, which puttin’ ‘em right close afore the fire, when fractious, is the certainest and most compoging.’

While Mrs Gamp discoursed to this effect, Jonas was walking up and down the room again, glancing covertly at the old clerk, as he did so. He now made a stop, and said:

‘I must look after him, I suppose, or I may have him doing some mischief. What say you?’

‘Nothin’ more likely!’ Mrs Gamp replied. ‘As well I have experienged, I do assure you, sir.’

‘Well! Look after him for the present, and—let me see—three days from this time let the other woman come here, and we’ll see if we can make a bargain of it. About nine or ten o’clock at night, say. Keep your eye upon him in the meanwhile, and don’t talk about it. He’s as mad as a March hare!’

‘Madder!’ cried Mrs Gamp. ‘A deal madder!’

‘See to him, then; take care that he does no harm; and recollect what I have told you.’

Leaving Mrs Gamp in the act of repeating all she had been told, and of producing in support of her memory and trustworthiness, many commendations selected from among the most remarkable opinions of the celebrated Mrs Harris, he descended to the little room prepared for him, and pulling off his coat and his boots, put them outside the door before he locked it. In locking it, he was careful so to adjust the key as to baffle any curious person who might try to peep in through the key-hole; and when he had taken these precautions, he sat down to his supper.

‘Mr Chuff,’ he muttered, ‘it’ll be pretty easy to be even with YOU. It’s of no use doing things by halves, and as long as I stop here, I’ll take good care of you. When I’m off you may say what you please. But it’s a d—d strange thing,’ he added, pushing away his untouched plate, and striding moodily to and fro, ‘that his drivellings should have taken this turn just now.’

After pacing the little room from end to end several times, he sat down in another chair.

‘I say just now, but for anything I know, he may have been carrying on the same game all along. Old dog! He shall be gagged!’

He paced the room again in the same restless and unsteady way; and then sat down upon the bedstead, leaning his chin upon his hand, and looking at the table. When he had looked at it for a long time, he remembered his supper; and resuming the chair he had first occupied, began to eat with great rapacity; not like a hungry man, but as if he were determined to do it. He drank too, roundly; sometimes stopping in the middle of a draught to walk, and change his seat and walk again, and dart back to the table and fall to, in a ravenous hurry, as before.

It was now growing dark. As the gloom of evening, deepening into night, came on, another dark shade emerging from within him seemed to overspread his face, and slowly change it. Slowly, slowly; darker and darker; more and more haggard; creeping over him by little and little, until it was black night within him and without.

The room in which he had shut himself up, was on the ground floor, at the back of the house. It was lighted by a dirty skylight, and had a door in the wall, opening into a narrow covered passage or blind-alley, very little frequented after five or six o’clock in the evening, and not in much use as a thoroughfare at any hour. But it had an outlet in a neighbouring street.

The ground on which this chamber stood had, at one time, not within his recollection, been a yard; and had been converted to its present purpose for use as an office. But the occasion for it died with the man who built it; and saving that it had sometimes served as an apology for a spare bedroom, and that the old clerk had once held it (but that was years ago) as his recognized apartment, it had been little troubled by Anthony Chuzzlewit and Son. It was a blotched, stained, mouldering room, like a vault; and there were water-pipes running through it, which at unexpected times in the night, when other things were quiet, clicked and gurgled suddenly, as if they were choking.

The door into the court had not been open for a long, long time; but the key had always hung in one place, and there it hung now. He was prepared for its being rusty; for he had a little bottle of oil in his pocket and the feather of a pen, with which he lubricated the key and the lock too, carefully. All this while he had been without his coat, and had nothing on his feet but his stockings. He now got softly into bed in the same state, and tossed from side to side to tumble it. In his restless condition that was easily done.

When he arose, he took from his portmanteau, which he had caused to be carried into that place when he came home, a pair of clumsy shoes, and put them on his feet; also a pair of leather leggings, such as countrymen are used to wear, with straps to fasten them to the waistband. In these he dressed himself at leisure. Lastly, he took out a common frock of coarse dark jean, which he drew over his own under-clothing; and a felt hat—he had purposely left his own upstairs. He then sat himself down by the door, with the key in his hand, waiting.

He had no light; the time was dreary, long, and awful. The ringers were practicing in a neighbouring church, and the clashing of the bells was almost maddening. Curse the clamouring bells, they seemed to know that he was listening at the door, and to proclaim it in a crowd of voices to all the town! Would they never be still?

They ceased at last, and then the silence was so new and terrible that it seemed the prelude to some dreadful noise. Footsteps in the court! Two men. He fell back from the door on tiptoe, as if they could have seen him through its wooden panels.

They passed on, talking (he could make out) about a skeleton which had been dug up yesterday, in some work of excavation near at hand, and was supposed to be that of a murdered man. ‘So murder is not always found out, you see,’ they said to one another as they turned the corner.

Hush!

He put the key into the lock, and turned it. The door resisted for a while, but soon came stiffly open; mingling with the sense of fever in his mouth, a taste of rust, and dust, and earth, and rotting wood. He looked out; passed out; locked it after him.

All was clear and quiet, as he fled away.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CONCLUSION OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND

Did no men passing through the dim streets shrink without knowing why, when he came stealing up behind them? As he glided on, had no child in its sleep an indistinct perception of a guilty shadow falling on its bed, that troubled its innocent rest? Did no dog howl, and strive to break its rattling chain, that it might tear him; no burrowing rat, scenting the work he had in hand, essay to gnaw a passage after him, that it might hold a greedy revel at the feast of his providing? When he looked back, across his shoulder, was it to see if his quick footsteps still fell dry upon the dusty pavement, or were already moist and clogged with the red mire that stained the naked feet of Cain!

He shaped his course for the main western road, and soon reached it; riding a part of the way, then alighting and walking on again. He travelled for a considerable distance upon the roof of a stage-coach, which came up while he was afoot; and when it turned out of his road, bribed the driver of a return post-chaise to take him on with him; and then made across the country at a run, and saved a mile or two before he struck again into the road. At last, as his plan was, he came up with a certain lumbering, slow, night-coach, which stopped wherever it could, and was stopping then at a public-house, while the guard and coachman ate and drank within.

He bargained for a seat outside this coach, and took it. And he quitted it no more until it was within a few miles of its destination, but occupied the same place all night.

All night! It is a common fancy that nature seems to sleep by night. It is a false fancy, as who should know better than he?

The fishes slumbered in the cold, bright, glistening streams and rivers, perhaps; and the birds roosted on the branches of the trees; and in their stalls and pastures beasts were quiet; and human creatures slept. But what of that, when the solemn night was watching, when it never winked, when its darkness watched no less than its light! The stately trees, the moon and shining stars, the softly stirring wind, the over-shadowed lane, the broad, bright countryside, they all kept watch. There was not a blade of growing grass or corn, but watched; and the quieter it was, the more intent and fixed its watch upon him seemed to be.

And yet he slept. Riding on among those sentinels of God, he slept, and did not change the purpose of his journey. If he forgot it in his troubled dreams, it came up steadily, and woke him. But it never woke him to remorse, or to abandonment of his design.

He dreamed at one time that he was lying calmly in his bed, thinking of a moonlight night and the noise of wheels, when the old clerk put his head in at the door, and beckoned him. At this signal he arose immediately—being already dressed in the clothes he actually wore at that time—and accompanied him into a strange city, where the names of the streets were written on the walls in characters quite new to him; which gave him no surprise or uneasiness, for he remembered in his dream to have been there before. Although these streets were very precipitous, insomuch that to get from one to another it was necessary to descend great heights by ladders that were too short, and ropes that moved deep bells, and swung and swayed as they were clung to, the danger gave him little emotion beyond the first thrill of terror; his anxieties being concentrated on his dress which was quite unfitted for some festival that was about to be holden there, and in which he had come to take a part. Already, great crowds began to fill the streets, and in one direction myriads of people came rushing down an interminable perspective, strewing flowers and making way for others on white horses, when a terrible figure started from the throng, and cried out that it was the Last Day for all the world. The cry being spread, there was a wild hurrying on to Judgment; and the press became so great that he and his companion (who was constantly changing, and was never the same man two minutes together, though he never saw one man come or another go), stood aside in a porch, fearfully surveying the multitude; in which there were many faces that he knew, and many that he did not know, but dreamed he did; when all at once a struggling head rose up among the rest—livid and deadly, but the same as he had known it—and denounced him as having appointed that direful day to happen. They closed together. As he strove to free the hand in which he held a club, and strike the blow he had so often thought of, he started to the knowledge of his waking purpose and the rising of the sun.

The sun was welcome to him. There were life and motion, and a world astir, to divide the attention of Day. It was the eye of Night—of wakeful, watchful, silent, and attentive Night, with so much leisure for the observation of his wicked thoughts—that he dreaded most. There is no glare in the night. Even Glory shows to small advantage in the night, upon a crowded battle-field. How then shows Glory’s blood-relation, bastard Murder!

Aye! He made no compromise, and held no secret with himself now. Murder. He had come to do it.

‘Let me get down here’ he said

‘Short of the town, eh!’ observed the coachman.

‘I may get down where I please, I suppose?’

‘You got up to please yourself, and may get down to please yourself. It won’t break our hearts to lose you, and it wouldn’t have broken ‘em if we’d never found you. Be a little quicker. That’s all.’

The guard had alighted, and was waiting in the road to take his money. In the jealousy and distrust of what he contemplated, he thought this man looked at him with more than common curiosity.

‘What are you staring at?’ said Jonas.

‘Not at a handsome man,’ returned the guard. ‘If you want your fortune told, I’ll tell you a bit of it. You won’t be drowned. That’s a consolation for you.’

Before he could retort or turn away, the coachman put an end to the dialogue by giving him a cut with his whip, and bidding him get out for a surly dog. The guard jumped up to his seat at the same moment, and they drove off, laughing; leaving him to stand in the road and shake his fist at them. He was not displeased though, on second thoughts, to have been taken for an ill-conditioned common country fellow; but rather congratulated himself upon it as a proof that he was well disguised.

Wandering into a copse by the road-side—but not in that place; two or three miles off—he tore out from a fence a thick, hard, knotted stake; and, sitting down beneath a hayrick, spent some time in shaping it, in peeling off the bark, and fashioning its jagged head with his knife.

The day passed on. Noon, afternoon, evening. Sunset.

At that serene and peaceful time two men, riding in a gig, came out of the city by a road not much frequented. It was the day on which Mr Pecksniff had agreed to dine with Montague. He had kept his appointment, and was now going home. His host was riding with him for a short distance; meaning to return by a pleasant track, which Mr Pecksniff had engaged to show him, through some fields. Jonas knew their plans. He had hung about the inn-yard while they were at dinner and had heard their orders given.

They were loud and merry in their conversation, and might have been heard at some distance; far above the sound of their carriage wheels or horses’ hoofs. They came on noisily, to where a stile and footpath indicated their point of separation. Here they stopped.

‘It’s too soon. Much too soon,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘But this is the place, my dear sir. Keep the path, and go straight through the little wood you’ll come to. The path is narrower there, but you can’t miss it. When shall I see you again? Soon I hope?’

‘I hope so,’ replied Montague.

‘Good night!’

‘Good night. And a pleasant ride!’

So long as Mr Pecksniff was in sight, and turned his head at intervals to salute him, Montague stood in the road smiling, and waving his hand. But when his new partner had disappeared, and this show was no longer necessary, he sat down on the stile with looks so altered, that he might have grown ten years older in the meantime.

He was flushed with wine, but not gay. His scheme had succeeded, but he showed no triumph. The effort of sustaining his difficult part before his late companion had fatigued him, perhaps, or it may be that the evening whispered to his conscience, or it may be (as it HAS been) that a shadowy veil was dropping round him, closing out all thoughts but the presentiment and vague foreknowledge of impending doom.

If there be fluids, as we know there are, which, conscious of a coming wind, or rain, or frost, will shrink and strive to hide themselves in their glass arteries; may not that subtle liquor of the blood perceive, by properties within itself, that hands are raised to waste and spill it; and in the veins of men run cold and dull as his did, in that hour!

So cold, although the air was warm; so dull, although the sky was bright; that he rose up shivering from his seat, and hastily resumed his walk. He checked himself as hastily; undecided whether to pursue the footpath, which was lonely and retired, or to go back by the road.

He took the footpath.

The glory of the departing sun was on his face. The music of the birds was in his ears. Sweet wild flowers bloomed about him. Thatched roofs of poor men’s homes were in the distance; and an old grey spire, surmounted by a Cross, rose up between him and the coming night.

He had never read the lesson which these things conveyed; he had ever mocked and turned away from it; but, before going down into a hollow place, he looked round, once, upon the evening prospect, sorrowfully. Then he went down, down, down, into the dell.

It brought him to the wood; a close, thick, shadowy wood, through which the path went winding on, dwindling away into a slender sheep-track. He paused before entering; for the stillness of this spot almost daunted him.

The last rays of the sun were shining in, aslant, making a path of golden light along the stems and branches in its range, which, even as he looked, began to die away, yielding gently to the twilight that came creeping on. It was so very quiet that the soft and stealthy moss about the trunks of some old trees, seemed to have grown out of the silence, and to be its proper offspring. Those other trees which were subdued by blasts of wind in winter time, had not quite tumbled down, but being caught by others, lay all bare and scathed across their leafy arms, as if unwilling to disturb the general repose by the crash of their fall. Vistas of silence opened everywhere, into the heart and innermost recesses of the wood; beginning with the likeness of an aisle, a cloister, or a ruin open to the sky; then tangling off into a deep green rustling mystery, through which gnarled trunks, and twisted boughs, and ivy-covered stems, and trembling leaves, and bark-stripped bodies of old trees stretched out at length, were faintly seen in beautiful confusion.

As the sunlight died away, and evening fell upon the wood, he entered it. Moving, here and there a bramble or a drooping bough which stretched across his path, he slowly disappeared. At intervals a narrow opening showed him passing on, or the sharp cracking of some tender branch denoted where he went; then, he was seen or heard no more.

Never more beheld by mortal eye or heard by mortal ear; one man excepted. That man, parting the leaves and branches on the other side, near where the path emerged again, came leaping out soon afterwards.

What had he left within the wood, that he sprang out of it as if it were a hell!

The body of a murdered man. In one thick solitary spot, it lay among the last year’s leaves of oak and beech, just as it had fallen headlong down. Sopping and soaking in among the leaves that formed its pillow; oozing down into the boggy ground, as if to cover itself from human sight; forcing its way between and through the curling leaves, as if those senseless things rejected and forswore it and were coiled up in abhorrence; went a dark, dark stain that dyed the whole summer night from earth to heaven.

The doer of this deed came leaping from the wood so fiercely, that he cast into the air a shower of fragments of young boughs, torn away in his passage, and fell with violence upon the grass. But he quickly gained his feet again, and keeping underneath a hedge with his body bent, went running on towards the road. The road once reached, he fell into a rapid walk, and set on toward London.

And he was not sorry for what he had done. He was frightened when he thought of it—when did he not think of it!—but he was not sorry. He had had a terror and dread of the wood when he was in it; but being out of it, and having committed the crime, his fears were now diverted, strangely, to the dark room he had left shut up at home. He had a greater horror, infinitely greater, of that room than of the wood. Now that he was on his return to it, it seemed beyond comparison more dismal and more dreadful than the wood. His hideous secret was shut up in the room, and all its terrors were there; to his thinking it was not in the wood at all.

He walked on for ten miles; and then stopped at an ale-house for a coach, which he knew would pass through, on its way to London, before long; and which he also knew was not the coach he had travelled down by, for it came from another place. He sat down outside the door here, on a bench, beside a man who was smoking his pipe. Having called for some beer, and drunk, he offered it to this companion, who thanked him, and took a draught. He could not help thinking that, if the man had known all, he might scarcely have relished drinking out of the same cup with him.

‘A fine night, master!’ said this person. ‘And a rare sunset.’

‘I didn’t see it,’ was his hasty answer.

‘Didn’t see it?’ returned the man.

‘How the devil could I see it, if I was asleep?’

‘Asleep! Aye, aye.’ The man appeared surprised by his unexpected irritability, and saying no more, smoked his pipe in silence. They had not sat very long, when there was a knocking within.

‘What’s that?’ cried Jonas.

‘Can’t say, I’m sure,’ replied the man.

He made no further inquiry, for the last question had escaped him in spite of himself. But he was thinking, at the moment, of the closed-up room; of the possibility of their knocking at the door on some special occasion; of their being alarmed at receiving no answer; of their bursting it open; of their finding the room empty; of their fastening the door into the court, and rendering it impossible for him to get into the house without showing himself in the garb he wore, which would lead to rumour, rumour to detection, detection to death. At that instant, as if by some design and order of circumstances, the knocking had come.

It still continued; like a warning echo of the dread reality he had conjured up. As he could not sit and hear it, he paid for his beer and walked on again. And having slunk about, in places unknown to him all day; and being out at night, in a lonely road, in an unusual dress and in that wandering and unsettled frame of mind; he stopped more than once to look about him, hoping he might be in a dream.

Still he was not sorry. No. He had hated the man too much, and had been bent, too desperately and too long, on setting himself free. If the thing could have come over again, he would have done it again. His malignant and revengeful passions were not so easily laid. There was no more penitence or remorse within him now than there had been while the deed was brewing.

Dread and fear were upon him, to an extent he had never counted on, and could not manage in the least degree. He was so horribly afraid of that infernal room at home. This made him, in a gloomy murderous, mad way, not only fearful FOR himself, but OF himself; for being, as it were, a part of the room: a something supposed to be there, yet missing from it: he invested himself with its mysterious terrors; and when he pictured in his mind the ugly chamber, false and quiet, false and quiet, through the dark hours of two nights; and the tumbled bed, and he not in it, though believed to be; he became in a manner his own ghost and phantom, and was at once the haunting spirit and the haunted man.

When the coach came up, which it soon did, he got a place outside and was carried briskly onward towards home. Now, in taking his seat among the people behind, who were chiefly country people, he conceived a fear that they knew of the murder, and would tell him that the body had been found; which, considering the time and place of the commission of the crime, were events almost impossible to have happened yet, as he very well knew. But although he did know it, and had therefore no reason to regard their ignorance as anything but the natural sequence to the facts, still this very ignorance of theirs encouraged him. So far encouraged him, that he began to believe the body never would be found, and began to speculate on that probability. Setting off from this point, and measuring time by the rapid hurry of his guilty thoughts, and what had gone before the bloodshed, and the troops of incoherent and disordered images of which he was the constant prey; he came by daylight to regard the murder as an old murder, and to think himself comparatively safe because it had not been discovered yet. Yet! When the sun which looked into the wood, and gilded with its rising light a dead man’s lace, had seen that man alive, and sought to win him to a thought of Heaven, on its going down last night!

But here were London streets again. Hush!

It was but five o’clock. He had time enough to reach his own house unobserved, and before there were many people in the streets, if nothing had happened so far, tending to his discovery. He slipped down from the coach without troubling the driver to stop his horses; and hurrying across the road, and in and out of every by-way that lay near his course, at length approached his own dwelling. He used additional caution in his immediate neighbourhood; halting first to look all down the street before him; then gliding swiftly through that one, and stopping to survey the next, and so on.

The passage-way was empty when his murderer’s face looked into it. He stole on, to the door on tiptoe, as if he dreaded to disturb his own imaginary rest.

He listened. Not a sound. As he turned the key with a trembling hand, and pushed the door softly open with his knee, a monstrous fear beset his mind.

What if the murdered man were there before him!

He cast a fearful glance all round. But there was nothing there.

He went in, locked the door, drew the key through and through the dust and damp in the fire-place to sully it again, and hung it up as of old. He took off his disguise, tied it up in a bundle ready for carrying away and sinking in the river before night, and locked it up in a cupboard. These precautions taken, he undressed and went to bed.

The raging thirst, the fire that burnt within him as he lay beneath the clothes, the augmented horror of the room when they shut it out from his view; the agony of listening, in which he paid enforced regard to every sound, and thought the most unlikely one the prelude to that knocking which should bring the news; the starts with which he left his couch, and looking in the glass, imagined that his deed was broadly written in his face, and lying down and burying himself once more beneath the blankets, heard his own heart beating Murder, Murder, Murder, in the bed; what words can paint tremendous truths like these!

The morning advanced. There were footsteps in the house. He heard the blinds drawn up, and shutters opened; and now and then a stealthy tread outside his own door. He tried to call out, more than once, but his mouth was dry as if it had been filled with sand. At last he sat up in his bed, and cried:

‘Who’s there?’

It was his wife.

He asked her what it was o’clock? Nine.

‘Did—did no one knock at my door yesterday?’ he faltered. ‘Something disturbed me; but unless you had knocked the door down, you would have got no notice from me.’

‘No one,’ she replied. That was well. He had waited, almost breathless, for her answer. It was a relief to him, if anything could be.

‘Mr Nadgett wanted to see you,’ she said, ‘but I told him you were tired, and had requested not to be disturbed. He said it was of little consequence, and went away. As I was opening my window to let in the cool air, I saw him passing through the street this morning, very early; but he hasn’t been again.’

Passing through the street that morning? Very early! Jonas trembled at the thought of having had a narrow chance of seeing him himself; even him, who had no object but to avoid people, and sneak on unobserved, and keep his own secrets; and who saw nothing.

He called to her to get his breakfast ready, and prepared to go upstairs; attiring himself in the clothes he had taken off when he came into that room, which had been, ever since, outside the door. In his secret dread of meeting the household for the first time, after what he had done, he lingered at the door on slight pretexts that they might see him without looking in his face; and left it ajar while he dressed; and called out to have the windows opened, and the pavement watered, that they might become accustomed to his voice. Even when he had put off the time, by one means or other, so that he had seen or spoken to them all, he could not muster courage for a long while to go in among them, but stood at his own door listening to the murmur of their distant conversation.

He could not stop there for ever, and so joined them. His last glance at the glass had seen a tell-tale face, but that might have been because of his anxious looking in it. He dared not look at them to see if they observed him, but he thought them very silent.

And whatsoever guard he kept upon himself, he could not help listening, and showing that he listened. Whether he attended to their talk, or tried to think of other things, or talked himself, or held his peace, or resolutely counted the dull tickings of a hoarse clock at his back, he always lapsed, as if a spell were on him, into eager listening. For he knew it must come. And his present punishment, and torture and distraction, were, to listen for its coming.

Hush!

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

BEARS TIDINGS OF MARTIN AND OF MARK, AS WELL AS OF A THIRD PERSON NOT QUITE UNKNOWN TO THE READER. EXHIBITS FILIAL PIETY IN AN UGLY ASPECT; AND CASTS A DOUBTFUL RAY OF LIGHT UPON A VERY DARK PLACE

Tom Pinch and Ruth were sitting at their early breakfast, with the window open, and a row of the freshest little plants ranged before it on the inside by Ruth’s own hands; and Ruth had fastened a sprig of geranium in Tom’s button-hole, to make him very smart and summer-like for the day (it was obliged to be fastened in, or that dear old Tom was certain to lose it); and people were crying flowers up and down the street; and a blundering bee, who had got himself in between the two sashes of the window, was bruising his head against the glass, endeavouring to force himself out into the fine morning, and considering himself enchanted because he couldn’t do it; and the morning was as fine a morning as ever was seen; and the fragrant air was kissing Ruth and rustling about Tom, as if it said, ‘how are you, my dears; I came all this way on purpose to salute you;’ and it was one of those glad times when we form, or ought to form, the wish that every one on earth were able to be happy, and catching glimpses of the summer of the heart, to feel the beauty of the summer of the year.

It was even a pleasanter breakfast than usual; and it was always a pleasant one. For little Ruth had now two pupils to attend, each three times a week; and each two hours at a time; and besides this, she had painted some screens and card-racks, and, unknown to Tom (was there ever anything so delightful!), had walked into a certain shop which dealt in such articles, after often peeping through the window; and had taken courage to ask the Mistress of that shop whether she would buy them. And the mistress had not only bought them, but had ordered more, and that very morning Ruth had made confession of these facts to Tom, and had handed him the money in a little purse she had worked expressly for the purpose. They had been in a flutter about this, and perhaps had shed a happy tear or two for anything the history knows to the contrary; but it was all over now; and a brighter face than Tom’s, or a brighter face than Ruth’s, the bright sun had not looked on since he went to bed last night.

‘My dear girl,’ said Tom, coming so abruptly on the subject, that he interrupted himself in the act of cutting a slice of bread, and left the knife sticking in the loaf, ‘what a queer fellow our landlord is! I don’t believe he has been home once since he got me into that unsatisfactory scrape. I begin to think he will never come home again. What a mysterious life that man does lead, to be sure!’

‘Very strange. Is it not, Tom?’

‘Really,’ said Tom, ‘I hope it is only strange. I hope there may be nothing wrong in it. Sometimes I begin to be doubtful of that. I must have an explanation with him,’ said Tom, shaking his head as if this were a most tremendous threat, ‘when I can catch him!’

A short double knock at the door put Tom’s menacing looks to flight, and awakened an expression of surprise instead.

‘Heyday!’ said Tom. ‘An early hour for visitors! It must be John, I suppose.’

‘I—I—don’t think it was his knock, Tom,’ observed his little sister.

‘No?’ said Tom. ‘It surely can’t be my employer suddenly arrived in town; directed here by Mr Fips; and come for the key of the office. It’s somebody inquiring for me, I declare! Come in, if you please!’

But when the person came in, Tom Pinch, instead of saying, ‘Did you wish to speak with me, sir?’ or, ‘My name is Pinch, sir; what is your business, may I ask?’ or addressing him in any such distant terms; cried out, ‘Good gracious Heaven!’ and seized him by both hands, with the liveliest manifestations of astonishment and pleasure.

The visitor was not less moved than Tom himself, and they shook hands a great many times, without another word being spoken on either side. Tom was the first to find his voice.

‘Mark Tapley, too!’ said Tom, running towards the door, and shaking hands with somebody else. ‘My dear Mark, come in. How are you, Mark? He don’t look a day older than he used to do at the Dragon. How ARE you, Mark?’

‘Uncommonly jolly, sir, thank’ee,’ returned Mr Tapley, all smiles and bows. ‘I hope I see you well, sir.’

‘Good gracious me!’ cried Tom, patting him tenderly on the back. ‘How delightful it is to hear his old voice again! My dear Martin, sit down. My sister, Martin. Mr Chuzzlewit, my love. Mark Tapley from the Dragon, my dear. Good gracious me, what a surprise this is! Sit down. Lord, bless me!’

Tom was in such a state of excitement that he couldn’t keep himself still for a moment, but was constantly running between Mark and Martin, shaking hands with them alternately, and presenting them over and over again to his sister.

‘I remember the day we parted, Martin, as well as if it were yesterday,’ said Tom. ‘What a day it was! and what a passion you were in! And don’t you remember my overtaking you in the road that morning, Mark, when I was going to Salisbury in the gig to fetch him, and you were looking out for a situation? And don’t you recollect the dinner we had at Salisbury, Martin, with John Westlock, eh! Good gracious me! Ruth, my dear, Mr Chuzzlewit. Mark Tapley, my love, from the Dragon. More cups and saucers, if you please. Bless my soul, how glad I am to see you both!’

And then Tom (as John Westlock had done on his arrival) ran off to the loaf to cut some bread and butter for them; and before he had spread a single slice, remembered something else, and came running back again to tell it; and then he shook hands with them again; and then he introduced his sister again; and then he did everything he had done already all over again; and nothing Tom could do, and nothing Tom could say, was half sufficient to express his joy at their safe return.

Mr Tapley was the first to resume his composure. In a very short space of time he was discovered to have somehow installed himself in office as waiter, or attendant upon the party; a fact which was first suggested to them by his temporary absence in the kitchen, and speedy return with a kettle of boiling water, from which he replenished the tea-pot with a self-possession that was quite his own.

‘Sit down, and take your breakfast, Mark,’ said Tom. ‘Make him sit down and take his breakfast, Martin.’

‘Oh! I gave him up, long ago, as incorrigible,’ Martin replied. ‘He takes his own way, Tom. You would excuse him, Miss Pinch, if you knew his value.’

‘She knows it, bless you!’ said Tom. ‘I have told her all about Mark Tapley. Have I not, Ruth?’

‘Yes, Tom.’

‘Not all,’ returned Martin, in a low voice. ‘The best of Mark Tapley is only known to one man, Tom; and but for Mark he would hardly be alive to tell it!’

‘Mark!’ said Tom Pinch energetically; ‘if you don’t sit down this minute, I’ll swear at you!’

‘Well, sir,’ returned Mr Tapley, ‘sooner than you should do that, I’ll com-ply. It’s a considerable invasion of a man’s jollity to be made so partickler welcome, but a Werb is a word as signifies to be, to do, or to suffer (which is all the grammar, and enough too, as ever I wos taught); and if there’s a Werb alive, I’m it. For I’m always a-bein’, sometimes a-doin’, and continually a-sufferin’.’

‘Not jolly yet?’ asked Tom, with a smile.

‘Why, I was rather so, over the water, sir,’ returned Mr Tapley; ‘and not entirely without credit. But Human Natur’ is in a conspiracy again’ me; I can’t get on. I shall have to leave it in my will, sir, to be wrote upon my tomb: “He was a man as might have come out strong if he could have got a chance. But it was denied him.”’

Mr Tapley took this occasion of looking about him with a grin, and subsequently attacking the breakfast, with an appetite not at all expressive of blighted hopes, or insurmountable despondency.

In the meanwhile, Martin drew his chair a little nearer to Tom and his sister, and related to them what had passed at Mr Pecksniff’s house; adding in few words a general summary of the distresses and disappointments he had undergone since he left England.

‘For your faithful stewardship in the trust I left with you, Tom,’ he said, ‘and for all your goodness and disinterestedness, I can never thank you enough. When I add Mary’s thanks to mine—’

Ah, Tom! The blood retreated from his cheeks, and came rushing back, so violently, that it was pain to feel it; ease though, ease, compared with the aching of his wounded heart.

‘When I add Mary’s thanks to mine,’ said Martin, ‘I have made the only poor acknowledgment it is in our power to offer; but if you knew how much we feel, Tom, you would set some store by it, I am sure.’

And if they had known how much Tom felt—but that no human creature ever knew—they would have set some store by him. Indeed they would.

Tom changed the topic of discourse. He was sorry he could not pursue it, as it gave Martin pleasure; but he was unable, at that moment. No drop of envy or bitterness was in his soul; but he could not master the firm utterance of her name.

He inquired what Martin’s projects were.

‘No longer to make your fortune, Tom,’ said Martin, ‘but to try to live. I tried that once in London, Tom; and failed. If you will give me the benefit of your advice and friendly counsel, I may succeed better under your guidance. I will do anything Tom, anything, to gain a livelihood by my own exertions. My hopes do not soar above that, now.’

High-hearted, noble Tom! Sorry to find the pride of his old companion humbled, and to hear him speaking in this altered strain at once, at once, he drove from his breast the inability to contend with its deep emotions, and spoke out bravely.

‘Your hopes do not soar above that!’ cried Tom. ‘Yes they do. How can you talk so! They soar up to the time when you will be happy with her, Martin. They soar up to the time when you will be able to claim her, Martin. They soar up to the time when you will not be able to believe that you were ever cast down in spirit, or poor in pocket, Martin. Advice, and friendly counsel! Why, of course. But you shall have better advice and counsel (though you cannot have more friendly) than mine. You shall consult John Westlock. We’ll go there immediately. It is yet so early that I shall have time to take you to his chambers before I go to business; they are in my way; and I can leave you there, to talk over your affairs with him. So come along. Come along. I am a man of occupation now, you know,’ said Tom, with his pleasantest smile; ‘and have no time to lose. Your hopes don’t soar higher than that? I dare say they don’t. I know you, pretty well. They’ll be soaring out of sight soon, Martin, and leaving all the rest of us leagues behind.’

‘Aye! But I may be a little changed,’ said Martin, ‘since you knew me pretty well, Tom.’

‘What nonsense!’ exclaimed Tom. ‘Why should you be changed? You talk as if you were an old man. I never heard such a fellow! Come to John Westlock’s, come. Come along, Mark Tapley. It’s Mark’s doing, I have no doubt; and it serves you right for having such a grumbler for your companion.’

‘There’s no credit to be got through being jolly with YOU, Mr Pinch, anyways,’ said Mark, with his face all wrinkled up with grins. ‘A parish doctor might be jolly with you. There’s nothing short of goin’ to the U-nited States for a second trip, as would make it at all creditable to be jolly, arter seein’ you again!’

Tom laughed, and taking leave of his sister, hurried Mark and Martin out into the street, and away to John Westlock’s by the nearest road; for his hour of business was very near at hand, and he prided himself on always being exact to his time.

John Westlock was at home, but, strange to say, was rather embarrassed to see them; and when Tom was about to go into the room where he was breakfasting, said he had a stranger there. It appeared to be a mysterious stranger, for John shut that door as he said it, and led them into the next room.

He was very much delighted, though, to see Mark Tapley; and received Martin with his own frank courtesy. But Martin felt that he did not inspire John Westlock with any unusual interest; and twice or thrice observed that he looked at Tom Pinch doubtfully; not to say compassionately. He thought, and blushed to think, that he knew the cause of this.

‘I apprehend you are engaged,’ said Martin, when Tom had announced the purport of their visit. ‘If you will allow me to come again at your own time, I shall be glad to do so.’

‘I AM engaged,’ replied John, with some reluctance; ‘but the matter on which I am engaged is one, to say the truth, more immediately demanding your knowledge than mine.’

‘Indeed!’ cried Martin.

‘It relates to a member of your family, and is of a serious nature. If you will have the kindness to remain here, it will be a satisfaction to me to have it privately communicated to you, in order that you may judge of its importance for yourself.’

‘And in the meantime,’ said Tom, ‘I must really take myself off, without any further ceremony.’

‘Is your business so very particular,’ asked Martin, ‘that you cannot remain with us for half an hour? I wish you could. What IS your business, Tom?’

It was Tom’s turn to be embarrassed now; but he plainly said, after a little hesitation:

‘Why, I am not at liberty to say what it is, Martin; though I hope soon to be in a condition to do so, and am aware of no other reason to prevent my doing so now, than the request of my employer. It’s an awkward position to be placed in,’ said Tom, with an uneasy sense of seeming to doubt his friend, ‘as I feel every day; but I really cannot help it, can I, John?’

John Westlock replied in the negative; and Martin, expressing himself perfectly satisfied, begged them not to say another word; though he could not help wondering very much what curious office Tom held, and why he was so secret, and embarrassed, and unlike himself, in reference to it. Nor could he help reverting to it, in his own mind, several times after Tom went away, which he did as soon as this conversation was ended, taking Mr Tapley with him, who, as he laughingly said, might accompany him as far as Fleet Street without injury.

‘And what do you mean to do, Mark?’ asked Tom, as they walked on together.

‘Mean to do, sir?’ returned Mr Tapley.

‘Aye. What course of life do you mean to pursue?’

‘Well, sir,’ said Mr Tapley. ‘The fact is, that I have been a-thinking rather of the matrimonial line, sir.’

‘You don’t say so, Mark!’ cried Tom.

‘Yes, sir. I’ve been a-turnin’ of it over.’

‘And who is the lady, Mark?’

‘The which, sir?’ said Mr Tapley.

‘The lady. Come! You know what I said,’ replied Tom, laughing, ‘as well as I do!’

Mr Tapley suppressed his own inclination to laugh; and with one of his most whimsically-twisted looks, replied:

‘You couldn’t guess, I suppose, Mr Pinch?’

‘How is it possible?’ said Tom. ‘I don’t know any of your flames, Mark. Except Mrs Lupin, indeed.’

‘Well, sir!’ retorted Mr Tapley. ‘And supposing it was her!’

Tom stopping in the street to look at him, Mr Tapley for a moment presented to his view an utterly stolid and expressionless face; a perfect dead wall of countenance. But opening window after window in it with astonishing rapidity, and lighting them all up as for a general illumination, he repeated:

‘Supposin’, for the sake of argument, as it was her, sir!’

‘Why I thought such a connection wouldn’t suit you, Mark, on any terms!’ cried Tom.

‘Well, sir! I used to think so myself, once,’ said Mark. ‘But I ain’t so clear about it now. A dear, sweet creetur, sir!’

‘A dear, sweet creature? To be sure she is,’ cried Tom. ‘But she always was a dear, sweet creature, was she not?’

‘WAS she not!’ assented Mr Tapley.

‘Then why on earth didn’t you marry her at first, Mark, instead of wandering abroad, and losing all this time, and leaving her alone by herself, liable to be courted by other people?’

‘Why, sir,’ retorted Mr Tapley, in a spirit of unbounded confidence, ‘I’ll tell you how it come about. You know me, Mr Pinch, sir; there ain’t a gentleman alive as knows me better. You’re acquainted with my constitution, and you’re acquainted with my weakness. My constitution is, to be jolly; and my weakness is, to wish to find a credit in it. Wery good, sir. In this state of mind, I gets a notion in my head that she looks on me with a eye of—with what you may call a favourable sort of a eye in fact,’ said Mr Tapley, with modest hesitation.

‘No doubt,’ replied Tom. ‘We knew that perfectly well when we spoke on this subject long ago; before you left the Dragon.’

Mr Tapley nodded assent. ‘Well, sir! But bein’ at that time full of hopeful wisions, I arrives at the conclusion that no credit is to be got out of such a way of life as that, where everything agreeable would be ready to one’s hand. Lookin’ on the bright side of human life in short, one of my hopeful wisions is, that there’s a deal of misery awaitin’ for me; in the midst of which I may come out tolerable strong, and be jolly under circumstances as reflects some credit. I goes into the world, sir, wery boyant, and I tries this. I goes aboard ship first, and wery soon discovers (by the ease with which I’m jolly, mind you) as there’s no credit to be got THERE. I might have took warning by this, and gave it up; but I didn’t. I gets to the U-nited States; and then I DO begin, I won’t deny it, to feel some little credit in sustaining my spirits. What follows? Jest as I’m a-beginning to come out, and am a-treadin’ on the werge, my master deceives me.’

‘Deceives you!’ cried Tom.

‘Swindles me,’ retorted Mr Tapley with a beaming face. ‘Turns his back on everything as made his service a creditable one, and leaves me high and dry, without a leg to stand upon. In which state I returns home. Wery good. Then all my hopeful wisions bein’ crushed; and findin’ that there ain’t no credit for me nowhere; I abandons myself to despair, and says, “Let me do that as has the least credit in it of all; marry a dear, sweet creetur, as is wery fond of me; me bein’, at the same time, wery fond of her; lead a happy life, and struggle no more again’ the blight which settles on my prospects.”’

‘If your philosophy, Mark,’ said Tom, who laughed heartily at this speech, ‘be the oddest I ever heard of, it is not the least wise. Mrs Lupin has said “yes,” of course?’

‘Why, no, sir,’ replied Mr Tapley; ‘she hasn’t gone so far as that yet. Which I attribute principally to my not havin’ asked her. But we was wery agreeable together—comfortable, I may say—the night I come home. It’s all right, sir.’

‘Well!’ said Tom, stopping at the Temple Gate. ‘I wish you joy, Mark, with all my heart. I shall see you again to-day, I dare say. Good-bye for the present.’

‘Good-bye, sir! Good-bye, Mr Pinch!’ he added by way of soliloquy, as he stood looking after him. ‘Although you ARE a damper to a honourable ambition. You little think it, but you was the first to dash my hopes. Pecksniff would have built me up for life, but your sweet temper pulled me down. Good-bye, Mr Pinch!’

While these confidences were interchanged between Tom Pinch and Mark, Martin and John Westlock were very differently engaged. They were no sooner left alone together than Martin said, with an effort he could not disguise:

‘Mr Westlock, we have met only once before, but you have known Tom a long while, and that seems to render you familiar to me. I cannot talk freely with you on any subject unless I relieve my mind of what oppresses it just now. I see with pain that you so far mistrust me that you think me likely to impose on Tom’s regardlessness of himself, or on his kind nature, or some of his good qualities.’

‘I had no intention,’ replied John, ‘of conveying any such impression to you, and am exceedingly sorry to have done so.’

‘But you entertain it?’ said Martin.

‘You ask me so pointedly and directly,’ returned the other, ‘that I cannot deny the having accustomed myself to regard you as one who, not in wantonness but in mere thoughtlessness of character, did not sufficiently consider his nature and did not quite treat it as it deserves to be treated. It is much easier to slight than to appreciate Tom Pinch.’

This was not said warmly, but was energetically spoken too; for there was no subject in the world (but one) on which the speaker felt so strongly.

‘I grew into the knowledge of Tom,’ he pursued, ‘as I grew towards manhood; and I have learned to love him as something, infinitely better than myself. I did not think that you understood him when we met before. I did not think that you greatly cared to understand him. The instances of this which I observed in you were, like my opportunities for observation, very trivial—and were very harmless, I dare say. But they were not agreeable to me, and they forced themselves upon me; for I was not upon the watch for them, believe me. You will say,’ added John, with a smile, as he subsided into more of his accustomed manner, ‘that I am not by any means agreeable to you. I can only assure you, in reply, that I would not have originated this topic on any account.’

‘I originated it,’ said Martin; ‘and so far from having any complaint to make against you, highly esteem the friendship you entertain for Tom, and the very many proofs you have given him of it. Why should I endeavour to conceal from you’—he coloured deeply though—‘that I neither understood him nor cared to understand him when I was his companion; and that I am very truly sorry for it now!’

It was so sincerely said, at once so modestly and manfully, that John offered him his hand as if he had not done so before; and Martin giving his in the same open spirit, all constraint between the young men vanished.

‘Now pray,’ said John, ‘when I tire your patience very much in what I am going to say, recollect that it has an end to it, and that the end is the point of the story.’

With this preface, he related all the circumstances connected with his having presided over the illness and slow recovery of the patient at the Bull; and tacked on to the skirts of that narrative Tom’s own account of the business on the wharf. Martin was not a little puzzled when he came to an end, for the two stories seemed to have no connection with each other, and to leave him, as the phrase is, all abroad.

‘If you will excuse me for one moment,’ said John, rising, ‘I will beg you almost immediately to come into the next room.’

Upon that, he left Martin to himself, in a state of considerable astonishment; and soon came back again to fulfil his promise. Accompanying him into the next room, Martin found there a third person; no doubt the stranger of whom his host had spoken when Tom Pinch introduced him.

He was a young man; with deep black hair and eyes. He was gaunt and pale; and evidently had not long recovered from a severe illness. He stood as Martin entered, but sat again at John’s desire. His eyes were cast downward; and but for one glance at them both, half in humiliation and half in entreaty, he kept them so, and sat quite still and silent.

‘This person’s name is Lewsome,’ said John Westlock, ‘whom I have mentioned to you as having been seized with an illness at the inn near here, and undergone so much. He has had a very hard time of it, ever since he began to recover; but, as you see, he is now doing well.’

As he did not move or speak, and John Westlock made a pause, Martin, not knowing what to say, said that he was glad to hear it.

‘The short statement that I wish you to hear from his own lips, Mr Chuzzlewit,’ John pursued—looking attentively at him, and not at Martin—‘he made to me for the first time yesterday, and repeated to me this morning, without the least variation of any essential particular. I have already told you that he informed me before he was removed from the Inn, that he had a secret to disclose to me which lay heavy on his mind. But, fluctuating between sickness and health and between his desire to relieve himself of it, and his dread of involving himself by revealing it, he has, until yesterday, avoided the disclosure. I never pressed him for it (having no idea of its weight or import, or of my right to do so), until within a few days past; when, understanding from him, on his own voluntary avowal, in a letter from the country, that it related to a person whose name was Jonas Chuzzlewit; and thinking that it might throw some light on that little mystery which made Tom anxious now and then; I urged the point upon him, and heard his statement, as you will now, from his own lips. It is due to him to say, that in the apprehension of death, he committed it to writing sometime since, and folded it in a sealed paper, addressed to me; which he could not resolve, however, to place of his own act in my hands. He has the paper in his breast, I believe, at this moment.’

The young man touched it hastily; in corroboration of the fact.

‘It will be well to leave that in our charge, perhaps,’ said John. ‘But do not mind it now.’

As he said this, he held up his hand to bespeak Martin’s attention. It was already fixed upon the man before him, who, after a short silence said, in a low, weak, hollow voice:

‘What relation was Mr Anthony Chuzzlewit, who—’

‘—Who died—to me?’ said Martin. ‘He was my grandfather’s brother.’

‘I fear he was made away with. Murdered!’

‘My God!’ said Martin. ‘By whom?’

The young man, Lewsome, looked up in his face, and casting down his eyes again, replied:

‘I fear, by me.’

‘By you?’ cried Martin.

‘Not by my act, but I fear by my means.’

‘Speak out!’ said Martin, ‘and speak the truth.’

‘I fear this IS the truth.’

Martin was about to interrupt him again, but John Westlock saying softly, ‘Let him tell his story in his own way,’ Lewsome went on thus:

‘I have been bred a surgeon, and for the last few years have served a general practitioner in the City, as his assistant. While I was in his employment I became acquainted with Jonas Chuzzlewit. He is the principal in this deed.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Martin, sternly. ‘Do you know he is the son of the old man of whom you have spoken?’

‘I do,’ he answered.

He remained silent for some moments, when he resumed at the point where he had left off.

‘I have reason to know it; for I have often heard him wish his old father dead, and complain of his being wearisome to him, and a drag upon him. He was in the habit of doing so, at a place of meeting we had—three or four of us—at night. There was no good in the place you may suppose, when you hear that he was the chief of the party. I wish I had died myself, and never seen it!’

He stopped again; and again resumed as before.

‘We met to drink and game; not for large sums, but for sums that were large to us. He generally won. Whether or no, he lent money at interest to those who lost; and in this way, though I think we all secretly hated him, he came to be the master of us. To propitiate him we made a jest of his father; it began with his debtors; I was one; and we used to toast a quicker journey to the old man, and a swift inheritance to the young one.’

He paused again.

‘One night he came there in a very bad humour. He had been greatly tried, he said, by the old man that day. He and I were alone together; and he angrily told me, that the old man was in his second childhood; that he was weak, imbecile, and drivelling; as unbearable to himself as he was to other people; and that it would be a charity to put him out of the way. He swore that he had often thought of mixing something with the stuff he took for his cough, which should help him to die easily. People were sometimes smothered who were bitten by mad dogs, he said; and why not help these lingering old men out of their troubles too? He looked full at me as he said so, and I looked full at him; but it went no farther that night.’

He stopped once more, and was silent for so long an interval that John Westlock said ‘Go on.’ Martin had never removed his eyes from his face, but was so absorbed in horror and astonishment that he could not speak.

‘It may have been a week after that, or it may have been less or more—the matter was in my mind all the time, but I cannot recollect the time, as I should any other period—when he spoke to me again. We were alone then, too; being there before the usual hour of assembling. There was no appointment between us; but I think I went there to meet him, and I know he came there to meet me. He was there first. He was reading a newspaper when I went in, and nodded to me without looking up, or leaving off reading. I sat down opposite and close to him. He said, immediately, that he wanted me to get him some of two sorts of drugs. One that was instantaneous in its effect; of which he wanted very little. One that was slow and not suspicious in appearance; of which he wanted more. While he was speaking to me he still read the newspaper. He said “Drugs,” and never used any other word. Neither did I.’

‘This all agrees with what I have heard before,’ observed John Westlock.

‘I asked him what he wanted the drugs for? He said for no harm; to physic cats; what did it matter to me? I was going out to a distant colony (I had recently got the appointment, which, as Mr Westlock knows, I have since lost by my sickness, and which was my only hope of salvation from ruin), and what did it matter to me? He could get them without my aid at half a hundred places, but not so easily as he could get them of me. This was true. He might not want them at all, he said, and he had no present idea of using them; but he wished to have them by him. All this time he still read the newspaper. We talked about the price. He was to forgive me a small debt—I was quite in his power—and to pay me five pounds; and there the matter dropped, through others coming in. But, next night, under exactly similar circumstances, I gave him the drugs, on his saying I was a fool to think that he should ever use them for any harm; and he gave me the money. We have never met since. I only know that the poor old father died soon afterwards, just as he would have died from this cause; and that I have undergone, and suffer now, intolerable misery. Nothing’ he added, stretching out his hands, ‘can paint my misery! It is well deserved, but nothing can paint it.’

With that he hung his head, and said no more, wasted and wretched, he was not a creature upon whom to heap reproaches that were unavailing.

‘Let him remain at hand,’ said Martin, turning from him; ‘but out of sight, in Heaven’s name!’

‘He will remain here,’ John whispered. ‘Come with me!’ Softly turning the key upon him as they went out, he conducted Martin into the adjoining room, in which they had been before.

Martin was so amazed, so shocked, and confounded by what he had heard that it was some time before he could reduce it to any order in his mind, or could sufficiently comprehend the bearing of one part upon another, to take in all the details at one view. When he, at length, had the whole narrative clearly before him, John Westlock went on to point out the great probability of the guilt of Jonas being known to other people, who traded in it for their own benefit, and who were, by such means, able to exert that control over him which Tom Pinch had accidentally witnessed, and unconsciously assisted. This appeared so plain, that they agreed upon it without difficulty; but instead of deriving the least assistance from this source, they found that it embarrassed them the more.

They knew nothing of the real parties who possessed this power. The only person before them was Tom’s landlord. They had no right to question Tom’s landlord, even if they could find him, which, according to Tom’s account, it would not be easy to do. And granting that they did question him, and he answered (which was taking a good deal for granted), he had only to say, with reference to the adventure on the wharf, that he had been sent from such and such a place to summon Jonas back on urgent business, and there was an end of it.

Besides, there was the great difficulty and responsibility of moving at all in the matter. Lewsome’s story might be false; in his wretched state it might be greatly heightened by a diseased brain; or admitting it to be entirely true, the old man might have died a natural death. Mr Pecksniff had been there at the time; as Tom immediately remembered, when he came back in the afternoon, and shared their counsels; and there had been no secrecy about it. Martin’s grandfather was of right the person to decide upon the course that should be taken; but to get at his views would be impossible, for Mr Pecksniff’s views were certain to be his. And the nature of Mr Pecksniff’s views in reference to his own son-in-law might be easily reckoned upon.

Apart from these considerations, Martin could not endure the thought of seeming to grasp at this unnatural charge against his relative, and using it as a stepping-stone to his grandfather’s favour. But that he would seem to do so, if he presented himself before his grandfather in Mr Pecksniff’s house again, for the purpose of declaring it; and that Mr Pecksniff, of all men, would represent his conduct in that despicable light, he perfectly well knew. On the other hand to be in possession of such a statement, and take no measures of further inquiry in reference to it, was tantamount to being a partner in the guilt it professed to disclose.

In a word, they were wholly unable to discover any outlet from this maze of difficulty, which did not lie through some perplexed and entangled thicket. And although Mr Tapley was promptly taken into their confidence; and the fertile imagination of that gentleman suggested many bold expedients, which, to do him justice, he was quite ready to carry into instant operation on his own personal responsibility; still ‘bating the general zeal of Mr Tapley’s nature, nothing was made particularly clearer by these offers of service.

It was in this position of affairs that Tom’s account of the strange behaviour of the decayed clerk, on the night of the tea-party, became of great moment, and finally convinced them that to arrive at a more accurate knowledge of the workings of that old man’s mind and memory, would be to take a most important stride in their pursuit of the truth. So, having first satisfied themselves that no communication had ever taken place between Lewsome and Mr Chuffey (which would have accounted at once for any suspicions the latter might entertain), they unanimously resolved that the old clerk was the man they wanted.

But, like the unanimous resolution of a public meeting, which will oftentimes declare that this or that grievance is not to be borne a moment longer, which is nevertheless borne for a century or two afterwards, without any modification, they only reached in this the conclusion that they were all of one mind. For it was one thing to want Mr Chuffey, and another thing to get at him; and to do that without alarming him, or without alarming Jonas, or without being discomfited by the difficulty of striking, in an instrument so out of tune and so unused, the note they sought, was an end as far from their reach as ever.

The question then became, who of those about the old clerk had had most influence with him that night? Tom said his young mistress clearly. But Tom and all of them shrunk from the thought of entrapping her, and making her the innocent means of bringing retribution on her cruel husband. Was there nobody else? Why yes. In a very different way, Tom said, he was influenced by Mrs Gamp, the nurse; who had once had the control of him, as he understood, for some time.

They caught at this immediately. Here was a new way out, developed in a quarter until then overlooked. John Westlock knew Mrs Gamp; he had given her employment; he was acquainted with her place of residence: for that good lady had obligingly furnished him, at parting, with a pack of her professional cards for general distribution. It was decided that Mrs Gamp should be approached with caution, but approached without delay; and that the depths of that discreet matron’s knowledge of Mr Chuffey, and means of bringing them, or one of them, into communication with him, should be carefully sounded.

On this service, Martin and John Westlock determined to proceed that night; waiting on Mrs Gamp first, at her lodgings; and taking their chance of finding her in the repose of private life, or of having to seek her out, elsewhere, in the exercise of her professional duties. Tom returned home, that he might lose no opportunity of having an interview with Nadgett, by being absent in the event of his reappearance. And Mr Tapley remained (by his own particular desire) for the time being in Furnival’s Inn, to look after Lewsome; who might safely have been left to himself, however, for any thought he seemed to entertain of giving them the slip.

Before they parted on their several errands, they caused him to read aloud, in the presence of them all, the paper which he had about him, and the declaration he had attached to it, which was to the effect that he had written it voluntarily, in the fear of death and in the torture of his mind. And when he had done so, they all signed it, and taking it from him, of his free will, locked it in a place of safety.

Martin also wrote, by John’s advice, a letter to the trustees of the famous Grammar School, boldly claiming the successful design as his, and charging Mr Pecksniff with the fraud he had committed. In this proceeding also, John was hotly interested; observing, with his usual irreverance, that Mr Pecksniff had been a successful rascal all his life through, and that it would be a lasting source of happiness to him (John) if he could help to do him justice in the smallest particular.

A busy day! But Martin had no lodgings yet; so when these matters were disposed of, he excused himself from dining with John Westlock and was fain to wander out alone, and look for some. He succeeded, after great trouble, in engaging two garrets for himself and Mark, situated in a court in the Strand, not far from Temple Bar. Their luggage, which was waiting for them at a coach-office, he conveyed to this new place of refuge; and it was with a glow of satisfaction, which as a selfish man he never could have known and never had, that, thinking how much pains and trouble he had saved Mark, and how pleased and astonished Mark would be, he afterwards walked up and down, in the Temple, eating a meat-pie for his dinner.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

IN WHICH MRS HARRIS ASSISTED BY A TEAPOT, IS THE CAUSE OF A DIVISION BETWEEN FRIENDS

Mrs Gamp’s apartment in Kingsgate Street, High Holborn, wore, metaphorically speaking, a robe of state. It was swept and garnished for the reception of a visitor. That visitor was Betsey Prig; Mrs Prig, of Bartlemy’s; or as some said Barklemy’s, or as some said Bardlemy’s; for by all these endearing and familiar appellations, had the hospital of Saint Bartholomew become a household word among the sisterhood which Betsey Prig adorned.

Mrs Gamp’s apartment was not a spacious one, but, to a contented mind, a closet is a palace; and the first-floor front at Mr Sweedlepipe’s may have been, in the imagination of Mrs Gamp, a stately pile. If it were not exactly that, to restless intellects, it at least comprised as much accommodation as any person, not sanguine to insanity, could have looked for in a room of its dimensions. For only keep the bedstead always in your mind; and you were safe. That was the grand secret. Remembering the bedstead, you might even stoop to look under the little round table for anything you had dropped, without hurting yourself much against the chest of drawers, or qualifying as a patient of Saint Bartholomew, by falling into the fire.

Visitors were much assisted in their cautious efforts to preserve an unflagging recollection of this piece of furniture, by its size; which was great. It was not a turn-up bedstead, nor yet a French bedstead, nor yet a four-post bedstead, but what is poetically called a tent; the sacking whereof was low and bulgy, insomuch that Mrs Gamp’s box would not go under it, but stopped half-way, in a manner which, while it did violence to the reason, likewise endangered the legs of a stranger. The frame too, which would have supported the canopy and hangings if there had been any, was ornamented with divers pippins carved in timber, which on the slightest provocation, and frequently on none at all, came tumbling down; harassing the peaceful guest with inexplicable terrors.

The bed itself was decorated with a patchwork quilt of great antiquity; and at the upper end, upon the side nearest to the door, hung a scanty curtain of blue check, which prevented the Zephyrs that were abroad in Kingsgate Street, from visiting Mrs Gamp’s head too roughly. Some rusty gowns and other articles of that lady’s wardrobe depended from the posts; and these had so adapted themselves by long usage to her figure, that more than one impatient husband coming in precipitately, at about the time of twilight, had been for an instant stricken dumb by the supposed discovery that Mrs Gamp had hanged herself. One gentleman, coming on the usual hasty errand, had said indeed, that they looked like guardian angels ‘watching of her in her sleep.’ But that, as Mrs Gamp said, ‘was his first;’ and he never repeated the sentiment, though he often repeated his visit.

The chairs in Mrs Gamp’s apartment were extremely large and broad-backed, which was more than a sufficient reason for there being but two in number. They were both elbow-chairs, of ancient mahogany; and were chiefly valuable for the slippery nature of their seats, which had been originally horsehair, but were now covered with a shiny substance of a bluish tint, from which the visitor began to slide away with a dismayed countenance, immediately after sitting down. What Mrs Gamp wanted in chairs she made up in bandboxes; of which she had a great collection, devoted to the reception of various miscellaneous valuables, which were not, however, as well protected as the good woman, by a pleasant fiction, seemed to think; for, though every bandbox had a carefully closed lid, not one among them had a bottom; owing to which cause the property within was merely, as it were, extinguished. The chest of drawers having been originally made to stand upon the top of another chest, had a dwarfish, elfin look, alone; but in regard of its security it had a great advantage over the bandboxes, for as all the handles had been long ago pulled off, it was very difficult to get at its contents. This indeed was only to be done by one or two devices; either by tilting the whole structure forward until all the drawers fell out together, or by opening them singly with knives, like oysters.

Mrs Gamp stored all her household matters in a little cupboard by the fire-place; beginning below the surface (as in nature) with the coals, and mounting gradually upwards to the spirits, which, from motives of delicacy, she kept in a teapot. The chimney-piece was ornamented with a small almanack, marked here and there in Mrs Gamp’s own hand with a memorandum of the date at which some lady was expected to fall due. It was also embellished with three profiles: one, in colours, of Mrs Gamp herself in early life; one, in bronze, of a lady in feathers, supposed to be Mrs Harris, as she appeared when dressed for a ball; and one, in black, of Mr Gamp, deceased. The last was a full length, in order that the likeness might be rendered more obvious and forcible by the introduction of the wooden leg.

A pair of bellows, a pair of pattens, a toasting-fork, a kettle, a pap-boat, a spoon for the administration of medicine to the refractory, and lastly, Mrs Gamp’s umbrella, which as something of great price and rarity, was displayed with particular ostentation, completed the decorations of the chimney-piece and adjacent wall. Towards these objects Mrs Gamp raised her eyes in satisfaction when she had arranged the tea-board, and had concluded her arrangements for the reception of Betsey Prig, even unto the setting forth of two pounds of Newcastle salmon, intensely pickled.

‘There! Now drat you, Betsey, don’t be long!’ said Mrs Gamp, apostrophizing her absent friend. ‘For I can’t abear to wait, I do assure you. To wotever place I goes, I sticks to this one mortar, “I’m easy pleased; it is but little as I wants; but I must have that little of the best, and to the minute when the clock strikes, else we do not part as I could wish, but bearin’ malice in our arts.”’

Her own preparations were of the best, for they comprehended a delicate new loaf, a plate of fresh butter, a basin of fine white sugar, and other arrangements on the same scale. Even the snuff with which she now refreshed herself, was so choice in quality that she took a second pinch.

‘There’s the little bell a-ringing now,’ said Mrs Gamp, hurrying to the stair-head and looking over. ‘Betsey Prig, my—why it’s that there disapintin’ Sweedlepipes, I do believe.’

‘Yes, it’s me,’ said the barber in a faint voice; ‘I’ve just come in.’

‘You’re always a-comin’ in, I think,’ muttered Mrs Gamp to herself, ‘except wen you’re a-goin’ out. I ha’n’t no patience with that man!’

‘Mrs Gamp,’ said the barber. ‘I say! Mrs Gamp!’

‘Well,’ cried Mrs Gamp, impatiently, as she descended the stairs. ‘What is it? Is the Thames a-fire, and cooking its own fish, Mr Sweedlepipes? Why wot’s the man gone and been a-doin’ of to himself? He’s as white as chalk!’

She added the latter clause of inquiry, when she got downstairs, and found him seated in the shaving-chair, pale and disconsolate.

‘You recollect,’ said Poll. ‘You recollect young—’

‘Not young Wilkins!’ cried Mrs Gamp. ‘Don’t say young Wilkins, wotever you do. If young Wilkins’s wife is took—’

‘It isn’t anybody’s wife,’ exclaimed the little barber. ‘Bailey, young Bailey!’

‘Why, wot do you mean to say that chit’s been a-doin’ of?’ retorted Mrs Gamp, sharply. ‘Stuff and nonsense, Mrs Sweedlepipes!’

‘He hasn’t been a-doing anything!’ exclaimed poor Poll, quite desperate. ‘What do you catch me up so short for, when you see me put out to that extent that I can hardly speak? He’ll never do anything again. He’s done for. He’s killed. The first time I ever see that boy,’ said Poll, ‘I charged him too much for a red-poll. I asked him three-halfpence for a penny one, because I was afraid he’d beat me down. But he didn’t. And now he’s dead; and if you was to crowd all the steam-engines and electric fluids that ever was, into this shop, and set ‘em every one to work their hardest, they couldn’t square the account, though it’s only a ha’penny!’

Mr Sweedlepipe turned aside to the towel, and wiped his eyes with it.

‘And what a clever boy he was!’ he said. ‘What a surprising young chap he was! How he talked! and what a deal he know’d! Shaved in this very chair he was; only for fun; it was all his fun; he was full of it. Ah! to think that he’ll never be shaved in earnest! The birds might every one have died, and welcome,’ cried the little barber, looking round him at the cages, and again applying to the towel, ‘sooner than I’d have heard this news!’

‘How did you ever come to hear it?’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘who told you?’

‘I went out,’ returned the little barber, ‘into the City, to meet a sporting gent upon the Stock Exchange, that wanted a few slow pigeons to practice at; and when I’d done with him, I went to get a little drop of beer, and there I heard everybody a-talking about it. It’s in the papers.’

‘You are in a nice state of confugion, Mr Sweedlepipes, you are!’ said Mrs Gamp, shaking her head; ‘and my opinion is, as half-a-dudgeon fresh young lively leeches on your temples, wouldn’t be too much to clear your mind, which so I tell you. Wot were they a-talkin’ on, and wot was in the papers?’

‘All about it!’ cried the barber. ‘What else do you suppose? Him and his master were upset on a journey, and he was carried to Salisbury, and was breathing his last when the account came away. He never spoke afterwards. Not a single word. That’s the worst of it to me; but that ain’t all. His master can’t be found. The other manager of their office in the city, Crimple, David Crimple, has gone off with the money, and is advertised for, with a reward, upon the walls. Mr Montague, poor young Bailey’s master (what a boy he was!) is advertised for, too. Some say he’s slipped off, to join his friend abroad; some say he mayn’t have got away yet; and they’re looking for him high and low. Their office is a smash; a swindle altogether. But what’s a Life Assurance office to a Life! And what a Life Young Bailey’s was!’

‘He was born into a wale,’ said Mrs Gamp, with philosophical coolness. ‘and he lived in a wale; and he must take the consequences of sech a sitiwation. But don’t you hear nothink of Mr Chuzzlewit in all this?’

‘No,’ said Poll, ‘nothing to speak of. His name wasn’t printed as one of the board, though some people say it was just going to be. Some believe he was took in, and some believe he was one of the takers-in; but however that may be, they can’t prove nothing against him. This morning he went up of his own accord afore the Lord Mayor or some of them City big-wigs, and complained that he’d been swindled, and that these two persons had gone off and cheated him, and that he had just found out that Montague’s name wasn’t even Montague, but something else. And they do say that he looked like Death, owing to his losses. But, Lord forgive me,’ cried the barber, coming back again to the subject of his individual grief, ‘what’s his looks to me! He might have died and welcome, fifty times, and not been such a loss as Bailey!’

At this juncture the little bell rang, and the deep voice of Mrs Prig struck into the conversation.

‘Oh! You’re a-talkin’ about it, are you!’ observed that lady. ‘Well, I hope you’ve got it over, for I ain’t interested in it myself.’

‘My precious Betsey,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘how late you are!’

The worthy Mrs Prig replied, with some asperity, ‘that if perwerse people went off dead, when they was least expected, it warn’t no fault of her’n.’ And further, ‘that it was quite aggrawation enough to be made late when one was dropping for one’s tea, without hearing on it again.’

Mrs Gamp, deriving from this exhibition of repartee some clue to the state of Mrs Prig’s feelings, instantly conducted her upstairs; deeming that the sight of pickled salmon might work a softening change.

But Betsey Prig expected pickled salmon. It was obvious that she did; for her first words, after glancing at the table, were:

‘I know’d she wouldn’t have a cowcumber!’

Mrs Gamp changed colour, and sat down upon the bedstead.

‘Lord bless you, Betsey Prig, your words is true. I quite forgot it!’

Mrs Prig, looking steadfastly at her friend, put her hand in her pocket, and with an air of surly triumph drew forth either the oldest of lettuces or youngest of cabbages, but at any rate, a green vegetable of an expansive nature, and of such magnificent proportions that she was obliged to shut it up like an umbrella before she could pull it out. She also produced a handful of mustard and cress, a trifle of the herb called dandelion, three bunches of radishes, an onion rather larger than an average turnip, three substantial slices of beetroot, and a short prong or antler of celery; the whole of this garden-stuff having been publicly exhibited, but a short time before, as a twopenny salad, and purchased by Mrs Prig on condition that the vendor could get it all into her pocket. Which had been happily accomplished, in High Holborn, to the breathless interest of a hackney-coach stand. And she laid so little stress on this surprising forethought, that she did not even smile, but returning her pocket into its accustomed sphere, merely recommended that these productions of nature should be sliced up, for immediate consumption, in plenty of vinegar.

‘And don’t go a-droppin’ none of your snuff in it,’ said Mrs Prig. ‘In gruel, barley-water, apple-tea, mutton-broth, and that, it don’t signify. It stimulates a patient. But I don’t relish it myself.’

‘Why, Betsey Prig!’ cried Mrs Gamp, ‘how CAN you talk so!’

‘Why, ain’t your patients, wotever their diseases is, always asneezin’ their wery heads off, along of your snuff?’ said Mrs Prig.

‘And wot if they are!’ said Mrs Gamp

‘Nothing if they are,’ said Mrs Prig. ‘But don’t deny it, Sairah.’

‘Who deniges of it?’ Mrs Gamp inquired.

Mrs Prig returned no answer.

‘WHO deniges of it, Betsey?’ Mrs Gamp inquired again. Then Mrs Gamp, by reversing the question, imparted a deeper and more awful character of solemnity to the same. ‘Betsey, who deniges of it?’

It was the nearest possible approach to a very decided difference of opinion between these ladies; but Mrs Prig’s impatience for the meal being greater at the moment than her impatience of contradiction, she replied, for the present, ‘Nobody, if you don’t, Sairah,’ and prepared herself for tea. For a quarrel can be taken up at any time, but a limited quantity of salmon cannot.

Her toilet was simple. She had merely to ‘chuck’ her bonnet and shawl upon the bed; give her hair two pulls, one upon the right side and one upon the left, as if she were ringing a couple of bells; and all was done. The tea was already made, Mrs Gamp was not long over the salad, and they were soon at the height of their repast.

The temper of both parties was improved, for the time being, by the enjoyments of the table. When the meal came to a termination (which it was pretty long in doing), and Mrs Gamp having cleared away, produced the teapot from the top shelf, simultaneously with a couple of wine-glasses, they were quite amiable.

‘Betsey,’ said Mrs Gamp, filling her own glass and passing the teapot, ‘I will now propoge a toast. My frequent pardner, Betsey Prig!’

‘Which, altering the name to Sairah Gamp; I drink,’ said Mrs Prig, ‘with love and tenderness.’

From this moment symptoms of inflammation began to lurk in the nose of each lady; and perhaps, notwithstanding all appearances to the contrary, in the temper also.

‘Now, Sairah,’ said Mrs Prig, ‘joining business with pleasure, wot is this case in which you wants me?’

Mrs Gamp betraying in her face some intention of returning an evasive answer, Betsey added:

‘IS it Mrs Harris?’

‘No, Betsey Prig, it ain’t,’ was Mrs Gamp’s reply.

‘Well!’ said Mrs Prig, with a short laugh. ‘I’m glad of that, at any rate.’

‘Why should you be glad of that, Betsey?’ Mrs Gamp retorted, warmly. ‘She is unbeknown to you except by hearsay, why should you be glad? If you have anythink to say contrairy to the character of Mrs Harris, which well I knows behind her back, afore her face, or anywheres, is not to be impeaged, out with it, Betsey. I have know’d that sweetest and best of women,’ said Mrs Gamp, shaking her head, and shedding tears, ‘ever since afore her First, which Mr Harris who was dreadful timid went and stopped his ears in a empty dog-kennel, and never took his hands away or come out once till he was showed the baby, wen bein’ took with fits, the doctor collared him and laid him on his back upon the airy stones, and she was told to ease her mind, his owls was organs. And I have know’d her, Betsey Prig, when he has hurt her feelin’ art by sayin’ of his Ninth that it was one too many, if not two, while that dear innocent was cooin’ in his face, which thrive it did though bandy, but I have never know’d as you had occagion to be glad, Betsey, on accounts of Mrs Harris not requiring you. Require she never will, depend upon it, for her constant words in sickness is, and will be, “Send for Sairey?”’

During this touching address, Mrs Prig adroitly feigning to be the victim of that absence of mind which has its origin in excessive attention to one topic, helped herself from the teapot without appearing to observe it. Mrs Gamp observed it, however, and came to a premature close in consequence.

‘Well, it ain’t her, it seems,’ said Mrs Prig, coldly; ‘who is it then?’

‘You have heerd me mention, Betsey,’ Mrs Gamp replied, after glancing in an expressive and marked manner at the tea-pot, ‘a person as I took care on at the time as you and me was pardners off and on, in that there fever at the Bull?’

‘Old Snuffey,’ Mrs Prig observed.

Sarah Gamp looked at her with an eye of fire, for she saw in this mistake of Mrs Prig, another willful and malignant stab at that same weakness or custom of hers, an ungenerous allusion to which, on the part of Betsey, had first disturbed their harmony that evening. And she saw it still more clearly, when, politely but firmly correcting that lady by the distinct enunciation of the word ‘Chuffey,’ Mrs Prig received the correction with a diabolical laugh.

The best among us have their failings, and it must be conceded of Mrs Prig, that if there were a blemish in the goodness of her disposition, it was a habit she had of not bestowing all its sharp and acid properties upon her patients (as a thoroughly amiable woman would have done), but of keeping a considerable remainder for the service of her friends. Highly pickled salmon, and lettuces chopped up in vinegar, may, as viands possessing some acidity of their own, have encouraged and increased this failing in Mrs Prig; and every application to the teapot certainly did; for it was often remarked of her by her friends, that she was most contradictory when most elevated. It is certain that her countenance became about this time derisive and defiant, and that she sat with her arms folded, and one eye shut up, in a somewhat offensive, because obstrusively intelligent, manner.

Mrs Gamp observing this, felt it the more necessary that Mrs Prig should know her place, and be made sensible of her exact station in society, as well as of her obligations to herself. She therefore assumed an air of greater patronage and importance, as she went on to answer Mrs Prig a little more in detail.

‘Mr Chuffey, Betsey,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘is weak in his mind. Excuge me if I makes remark, that he may neither be so weak as people thinks, nor people may not think he is so weak as they pretends, and what I knows, I knows; and what you don’t, you don’t; so do not ask me, Betsey. But Mr Chuffey’s friends has made propojals for his bein’ took care on, and has said to me, “Mrs Gamp, WILL you undertake it? We couldn’t think,” they says, “of trusting him to nobody but you, for, Sairey, you are gold as has passed the furnage. Will you undertake it, at your own price, day and night, and by your own self?” “No,” I says, “I will not. Do not reckon on it. There is,” I says, “but one creetur in the world as I would undertake on sech terms, and her name is Harris. But,” I says, “I am acquainted with a friend, whose name is Betsey Prig, that I can recommend, and will assist me. Betsey,” I says, “is always to be trusted under me, and will be guided as I could desire.”’

Here Mrs Prig, without any abatement of her offensive manner again counterfeited abstraction of mind, and stretched out her hand to the teapot. It was more than Mrs Gamp could bear. She stopped the hand of Mrs Prig with her own, and said, with great feeling:

‘No, Betsey! Drink fair, wotever you do!’

Mrs Prig, thus baffled, threw herself back in her chair, and closing the same eye more emphatically, and folding her arms tighter, suffered her head to roll slowly from side to side, while she surveyed her friend with a contemptuous smile.

Mrs Gamp resumed:

‘Mrs Harris, Betsey—’

‘Bother Mrs Harris!’ said Betsey Prig.

Mrs Gamp looked at her with amazement, incredulity, and indignation; when Mrs Prig, shutting her eye still closer, and folding her arms still tighter, uttered these memorable and tremendous words:

‘I don’t believe there’s no sich a person!’

After the utterance of which expressions, she leaned forward, and snapped her fingers once, twice, thrice; each time nearer to the face of Mrs Gamp, and then rose to put on her bonnet, as one who felt that there was now a gulf between them, which nothing could ever bridge across.

The shock of this blow was so violent and sudden, that Mrs Gamp sat staring at nothing with uplifted eyes, and her mouth open as if she were gasping for breath, until Betsey Prig had put on her bonnet and her shawl, and was gathering the latter about her throat. Then Mrs Gamp rose—morally and physically rose—and denounced her.

‘What!’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘you bage creetur, have I know’d Mrs Harris five and thirty year, to be told at last that there ain’t no sech a person livin’! Have I stood her friend in all her troubles, great and small, for it to come at last to sech a end as this, which her own sweet picter hanging up afore you all the time, to shame your Bragian words! But well you mayn’t believe there’s no sech a creetur, for she wouldn’t demean herself to look at you, and often has she said, when I have made mention of your name, which, to my sinful sorrow, I have done, “What, Sairey Gamp! debage yourself to HER!” Go along with you!’

‘I’m a-goin’, ma’am, ain’t I?’ said Mrs Prig, stopping as she said it.

‘You had better, ma’am,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘Do you know who you’re talking to, ma’am?’ inquired her visitor.

‘Aperiently,’ said Mrs Gamp, surveying her with scorn from head to foot, ‘to Betsey Prig. Aperiently so. I know her. No one better. Go along with you!’

‘And YOU was a-goin’ to take me under you!’ cried Mrs Prig, surveying Mrs Gamp from head to foot in her turn. ‘YOU was, was you? Oh, how kind! Why, deuce take your imperence,’ said Mrs Prig, with a rapid change from banter to ferocity, ‘what do you mean?’

‘Go along with you!’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘I blush for you.’

‘You had better blush a little for yourself, while you ARE about it!’ said Mrs Prig. ‘You and your Chuffeys! What, the poor old creetur isn’t mad enough, isn’t he? Aha!’

‘He’d very soon be mad enough, if you had anything to do with him,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘And that’s what I was wanted for, is it?’ cried Mrs Prig, triumphantly. ‘Yes. But you’ll find yourself deceived. I won’t go near him. We shall see how you get on without me. I won’t have nothink to do with him.’

‘You never spoke a truer word than that!’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘Go along with you!’

She was prevented from witnessing the actual retirement of Mrs Prig from the room, notwithstanding the great desire she had expressed to behold it, by that lady, in her angry withdrawal, coming into contact with the bedstead, and bringing down the previously mentioned pippins; three or four of which came rattling on the head of Mrs Gamp so smartly, that when she recovered from this wooden shower-bath, Mrs Prig was gone.

She had the satisfaction, however, of hearing the deep voice of Betsey, proclaiming her injuries and her determination to have nothing to do with Mr Chuffey, down the stairs, and along the passage, and even out in Kingsgate Street. Likewise of seeing in her own apartment, in the place of Mrs Prig, Mr Sweedlepipe and two gentlemen.

‘Why, bless my life!’ exclaimed the little barber, ‘what’s amiss? The noise you ladies have been making, Mrs Gamp! Why, these two gentlemen have been standing on the stairs, outside the door, nearly all the time, trying to make you hear, while you were pelting away, hammer and tongs! It’ll be the death of the little bullfinch in the shop, that draws his own water. In his fright, he’s been a-straining himself all to bits, drawing more water than he could drink in a twelvemonth. He must have thought it was Fire!’

Mrs Gamp had in the meanwhile sunk into her chair, from whence, turning up her overflowing eyes, and clasping her hands, she delivered the following lamentation:

‘Oh, Mr Sweedlepipes, which Mr Westlock also, if my eyes do not deceive, and a friend not havin’ the pleasure of bein’ beknown, wot I have took from Betsey Prig this blessed night, no mortial creetur knows! If she had abuged me, bein’ in liquor, which I thought I smelt her wen she come, but could not so believe, not bein’ used myself’—Mrs Gamp, by the way, was pretty far gone, and the fragrance of the teapot was strong in the room—‘I could have bore it with a thankful art. But the words she spoke of Mrs Harris, lambs could not forgive. No, Betsey!’ said Mrs Gamp, in a violent burst of feeling, ‘nor worms forget!’

The little barber scratched his head, and shook it, and looked at the teapot, and gradually got out of the room. John Westlock, taking a chair, sat down on one side of Mrs Gamp. Martin, taking the foot of the bed, supported her on the other.

‘You wonder what we want, I daresay,’ observed John. ‘I’ll tell you presently, when you have recovered. It’s not pressing, for a few minutes or so. How do you find yourself? Better?’

Mrs Gamp shed more tears, shook her head and feebly pronounced Mrs Harris’s name.

‘Have a little—’ John was at a loss what to call it.

‘Tea,’ suggested Martin.

‘It ain’t tea,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘Physic of some sort, I suppose,’ cried John. ‘Have a little.’

Mrs Gamp was prevailed upon to take a glassful. ‘On condition,’ she passionately observed, ‘as Betsey never has another stroke of work from me.’

‘Certainly not,’ said John. ‘She shall never help to nurse ME.’

‘To think,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘as she should ever have helped to nuss that friend of yourn, and been so near of hearing things that—Ah!’

John looked at Martin.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That was a narrow escape, Mrs Gamp.’

‘Narrer, in-deed!’ she returned. ‘It was only my having the night, and hearin’ of him in his wanderins; and her the day, that saved it. Wot would she have said and done, if she had know’d what I know; that perfeejus wretch! Yet, oh good gracious me!’ cried Mrs Gamp, trampling on the floor, in the absence of Mrs Prig, ‘that I should hear from that same woman’s lips what I have heerd her speak of Mrs Harris!’

‘Never mind,’ said John. ‘You know it is not true.’

‘Isn’t true!’ cried Mrs Gamp. ‘True! Don’t I know as that dear woman is expecting of me at this minnit, Mr Westlock, and is a-lookin’ out of window down the street, with little Tommy Harris in her arms, as calls me his own Gammy, and truly calls, for bless the mottled little legs of that there precious child (like Canterbury Brawn his own dear father says, which so they are) his own I have been, ever since I found him, Mr Westlock, with his small red worsted shoe a-gurglin’ in his throat, where he had put it in his play, a chick, wile they was leavin’ of him on the floor a-lookin’ for it through the ouse and him a-choakin’ sweetly in the parlour! Oh, Betsey Prig, what wickedness you’ve showed this night, but never shall you darken Sairey’s doors agen, you twining serpiant!’

‘You were always so kind to her, too!’ said John, consolingly.

‘That’s the cutting part. That’s where it hurts me, Mr Westlock,’ Mrs Gamp replied; holding out her glass unconsciously, while Martin filled it.

‘Chosen to help you with Mr Lewsome!’ said John. ‘Chosen to help you with Mr Chuffey!’

‘Chose once, but chose no more,’ cried Mrs Gamp. ‘No pardnership with Betsey Prig agen, sir!’

‘No, no,’ said John. ‘That would never do.’

‘I don’t know as it ever would have done, sir,’ Mrs Gamp replied, with a solemnity peculiar to a certain stage of intoxication. ‘Now that the marks,’ by which Mrs Gamp is supposed to have meant mask, ‘is off that creetur’s face, I do not think it ever would have done. There are reagions in families for keeping things a secret, Mr Westlock, and havin’ only them about you as you knows you can repoge in. Who could repoge in Betsey Prig, arter her words of Mrs Harris, setting in that chair afore my eyes!’

‘Quite true,’ said John; ‘quite. I hope you have time to find another assistant, Mrs Gamp?’

Between her indignation and the teapot, her powers of comprehending what was said to her began to fail. She looked at John with tearful eyes, and murmuring the well-remembered name which Mrs Prig had challenged—as if it were a talisman against all earthly sorrows—seemed to wander in her mind.

‘I hope,’ repeated John, ‘that you have time to find another assistant?’

‘Which short it is, indeed,’ cried Mrs Gamp, turning up her languid eyes, and clasping Mr Westlock’s wrist with matronly affection. ‘To-morrow evenin’, sir, I waits upon his friends. Mr Chuzzlewit apinted it from nine to ten.’

‘From nine to ten,’ said John, with a significant glance at Martin. ‘and then Mr Chuffey retires into safe keeping, does he?’

‘He needs to be kep safe, I do assure you,’ Mrs Gamp replied with a mysterious air. ‘Other people besides me has had a happy deliverance from Betsey Prig. I little know’d that woman. She’d have let it out!’

‘Let HIM out, you mean,’ said John.

‘Do I!’ retorted Mrs Gamp. ‘Oh!’

The severely ironical character of this reply was strengthened by a very slow nod, and a still slower drawing down of the corners of Mrs Gamp’s mouth. She added with extreme stateliness of manner after indulging in a short doze:

‘But I am a-keepin’ of you gentlemen, and time is precious.’

Mingling with that delusion of the teapot which inspired her with the belief that they wanted her to go somewhere immediately, a shrewd avoidance of any further reference to the topics into which she had lately strayed, Mrs Gamp rose; and putting away the teapot in its accustomed place, and locking the cupboard with much gravity proceeded to attire herself for a professional visit.

This preparation was easily made, as it required nothing more than the snuffy black bonnet, the snuffy black shawl, the pattens and the indispensable umbrella, without which neither a lying-in nor a laying-out could by any possibility be attempted. When Mrs Gamp had invested herself with these appendages she returned to her chair, and sitting down again, declared herself quite ready.

‘It’s a ‘appiness to know as one can benefit the poor sweet creetur,’ she observed, ‘I’m sure. It isn’t all as can. The torters Betsey Prig inflicts is frightful!’

Closing her eyes as she made this remark, in the acuteness of her commiseration for Betsey’s patients, she forgot to open them again until she dropped a patten. Her nap was also broken at intervals like the fabled slumbers of Friar Bacon, by the dropping of the other patten, and of the umbrella. But when she had got rid of those incumbrances, her sleep was peaceful.

The two young men looked at each other, ludicrously enough; and Martin, stifling his disposition to laugh, whispered in John Westlock’s ear,

‘What shall we do now?’

‘Stay here,’ he replied.

Mrs Gamp was heard to murmur ‘Mrs Harris’ in her sleep.

‘Rely upon it,’ whispered John, looking cautiously towards her, ‘that you shall question this old clerk, though you go as Mrs Harris herself. We know quite enough to carry her our own way now, at all events; thanks to this quarrel, which confirms the old saying that when rogues fall out, honest people get what they want. Let Jonas Chuzzlewit look to himself; and let her sleep as long as she likes. We shall gain our end in good time.’

CHAPTER FIFTY

SURPRISES TOM PINCH VERY MUCH, AND SHOWS HOW CERTAIN CONFIDENCES PASSED BETWEEN HIM AND HIS SISTER

It was the next evening; and Tom and his sister were sitting together before tea, talking, in their usual quiet way, about a great many things, but not at all about Lewsome’s story or anything connected with it; for John Westlock—really John, for so young a man, was one of the most considerate fellows in the world—had particularly advised Tom not to mention it to his sister just yet, in case it should disquiet her. ‘And I wouldn’t, Tom,’ he said, with a little hesitation, ‘I wouldn’t have a shadow on her happy face, or an uneasy thought in her gentle heart, for all the wealth and honours of the universe!’ Really John was uncommonly kind; extraordinarily kind. If he had been her father, Tom said, he could not have taken a greater interest in her.

But although Tom and his sister were extremely conversational, they were less lively, and less cheerful, than usual. Tom had no idea that this originated with Ruth, but took it for granted that he was rather dull himself. In truth he was; for the lightest cloud upon the Heaven of her quiet mind, cast its shadow upon Tom.

And there was a cloud on little Ruth that evening. Yes, indeed. When Tom was looking in another direction, her bright eyes, stealing on towards his face, would sparkle still more brightly than their custom was, and then grow dim. When Tom was silent, looking out upon the summer weather, she would sometimes make a hasty movement, as if she were about to throw herself upon his neck; then check the impulse, and when he looked round, show a laughing face, and speak to him very merrily; when she had anything to give Tom, or had any excuse for coming near him, she would flutter about him, and lay her bashful hand upon his shoulder, and not be willing to withdraw it; and would show by all such means that there was something on her heart which in her great love she longed to say to him, but had not the courage to utter.

So they were sitting, she with her work before her, but not working, and Tom with his book beside him, but not reading, when Martin knocked at the door. Anticipating who it was, Tom went to open it; and he and Martin came back into the room together. Tom looked surprised, for in answer to his cordial greeting Martin had hardly spoken a word.

Ruth also saw that there was something strange in the manner of their visitor, and raised her eyes inquiringly to Tom’s face, as if she were seeking an explanation there. Tom shook his head, and made the same mute appeal to Martin.

Martin did not sit down but walked up to the window, and stood there looking out. He turned round after a few moments to speak, but hastily averted his head again, without doing so.

‘What has happened, Martin?’ Tom anxiously inquired. ‘My dear fellow, what bad news do you bring?’

‘Oh, Tom!’ replied Martin, in a tone of deep reproach. ‘To hear you feign that interest in anything that happens to me, hurts me even more than your ungenerous dealing.’

‘My ungenerous dealing! Martin! My—’ Tom could say no more.

‘How could you, Tom, how could you suffer me to thank you so fervently and sincerely for your friendship; and not tell me, like a man, that you had deserted me! Was it true, Tom! Was it honest! Was it worthy of what you used to be—of what I am sure you used to be—to tempt me, when you had turned against me, into pouring out my heart! Oh, Tom!’

His tone was one of such strong injury and yet of so much grief for the loss of a friend he had trusted in—it expressed such high past love for Tom, and so much sorrow and compassion for his supposed unworthiness—that Tom, for a moment, put his hand before his face, and had no more power of justifying himself, than if he had been a monster of deceit and falsehood.

‘I protest, as I must die,’ said Martin, ‘that I grieve over the loss of what I thought you; and have no anger in the recollection of my own injuries. It is only at such a time, and after such a discovery, that we know the full measure of our old regard for the subject of it. I swear, little as I showed it—little as I know I showed it—that when I had the least consideration for you, Tom, I loved you like a brother.’

Tom was composed by this time, and might have been the Spirit of Truth, in a homely dress—it very often wears a homely dress, thank God!—when he replied to him.

‘Martin,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what is in your mind, or who has abused it, or by what extraordinary means. But the means are false. There is no truth whatever in the impression under which you labour. It is a delusion from first to last; and I warn you that you will deeply regret the wrong you do me. I can honestly say that I have been true to you, and to myself. You will be very sorry for this. Indeed, you will be very sorry for it, Martin.’

‘I AM sorry,’ returned Martin, shaking his head. ‘I think I never knew what it was to be sorry in my heart, until now.’

‘At least,’ said Tom, ‘if I had always been what you charge me with being now, and had never had a place in your regard, but had always been despised by you, and had always deserved it, you should tell me in what you have found me to be treacherous; and on what grounds you proceed. I do not intreat you, therefore, to give me that satisfaction as a favour, Martin, but I ask it of you as a right.’

‘My own eyes are my witnesses,’ returned Martin. ‘Am I to believe them?’

‘No,’ said Tom, calmly. ‘Not if they accuse me.’

‘Your own words. Your own manner,’ pursued Martin. ‘Am I to believe THEM?’

‘No,’ replied Tom, calmly. ‘Not if they accuse me. But they never have accused me. Whoever has perverted them to such a purpose, has wronged me almost as cruelly’—his calmness rather failed him here—‘as you have done.’

‘I came here,’ said Martin; ‘and I appeal to your good sister to hear me—’

‘Not to her,’ interrupted Tom. ‘Pray, do not appeal to her. She will never believe you.’

He drew her arm through his own, as he said it.

‘I believe it, Tom!’

‘No, no,’ cried Tom, ‘of course not. I said so. Why, tut, tut, tut. What a silly little thing you are!’

‘I never meant,’ said Martin, hastily, ‘to appeal to you against your brother. Do not think me so unmanly and unkind. I merely appealed to you to hear my declaration, that I came here for no purpose of reproach—I have not one reproach to vent—but in deep regret. You could not know in what bitterness of regret, unless you knew how often I have thought of Tom; how long in almost hopeless circumstances, I have looked forward to the better estimation of his friendship; and how steadfastly I have believed and trusted in him.’

‘Tut, tut,’ said Tom, stopping her as she was about to speak. ‘He is mistaken. He is deceived. Why should you mind? He is sure to be set right at last.’

‘Heaven bless the day that sets me right!’ cried Martin, ‘if it could ever come!’

‘Amen!’ said Tom. ‘And it will!’

Martin paused, and then said in a still milder voice:

‘You have chosen for yourself, Tom, and will be relieved by our parting. It is not an angry one. There is no anger on my side—’

‘There is none on mine,’ said Tom.

‘—It is merely what you have brought about, and worked to bring about. I say again, you have chosen for yourself. You have made the choice that might have been expected in most people situated as you are, but which I did not expect in you. For that, perhaps, I should blame my own judgment more than you. There is wealth and favour worth having, on one side; and there is the worthless friendship of an abandoned, struggling fellow, on the other. You were free to make your election, and you made it; and the choice was not difficult. But those who have not the courage to resist such temptations, should have the courage to avow what they have yielded to them; and I DO blame you for this, Tom: that you received me with a show of warmth, encouraged me to be frank and plain-spoken, tempted me to confide in you, and professed that you were able to be mine; when you had sold yourself to others. I do not believe,’ said Martin, with emotion—‘hear me say it from my heart—I CANNOT believe, Tom, now that I am standing face to face with you, that it would have been in your nature to do me any serious harm, even though I had not discovered, by chance, in whose employment you were. But I should have encumbered you; I should have led you into more double-dealing; I should have hazarded your retaining the favour for which you have paid so high a price, bartering away your former self; and it is best for both of us that I have found out what you so much desired to keep secret.’

‘Be just,’ said Tom; who, had not removed his mild gaze from Martin’s face since the commencement of this last address; ‘be just even in your injustice, Martin. You forget. You have not yet told me what your accusation is!’

‘Why should I?’ returned Martin, waving his hand, and moving towards the door. ‘You could not know it the better for my dwelling on it, and though it would be really none the worse, it might seem to me to be. No, Tom. Bygones shall be bygones between us. I can take leave of you at this moment, and in this place—in which you are so amiable and so good—as heartily, if not as cheerfully, as ever I have done since we first met. All good go with you, Tom!—I—’

‘You leave me so? You can leave me so, can you?’ said Tom.

‘I—you—you have chosen for yourself, Tom! I—I hope it was a rash choice,’ Martin faltered. ‘I think it was. I am sure it was! Good-bye!’

And he was gone.

Tom led his little sister to her chair, and sat down in his own. He took his book, and read, or seemed to read. Presently he said aloud, turning a leaf as he spoke: ‘He will be very sorry for this.’ And a tear stole down his face, and dropped upon the page.

Ruth nestled down beside him on her knees, and clasped her arms about his neck.

‘No, Tom! No, no! Be comforted! Dear Tom!’

‘I am quite—comforted,’ said Tom. ‘It will be set right.’

‘Such a cruel, bad return!’ cried Ruth.

‘No, no,’ said Tom. ‘He believes it. I cannot imagine why. But it will be set right.’

More closely yet, she nestled down about him; and wept as if her heart would break.

‘Don’t. Don’t,’ said Tom. ‘Why do you hide your face, my dear!’

Then in a burst of tears, it all broke out at last.

‘Oh Tom, dear Tom, I know your secret heart. I have found it out; you couldn’t hide the truth from me. Why didn’t you tell me? I am sure I could have made you happier, if you had! You love her, Tom, so dearly!’

Tom made a motion with his hand as if he would have put his sister hurriedly away; but it clasped upon hers, and all his little history was written in the action. All its pathetic eloquence was in the silent touch.

‘In spite of that,’ said Ruth, ‘you have been so faithful and so good, dear; in spite of that, you have been so true and self-denying, and have struggled with yourself; in spite of that, you have been so gentle, and so kind, and even-tempered, that I have never seen you give a hasty look, or heard you say one irritable word. In spite of all, you have been so cruelly mistaken. Oh Tom, dear Tom, will THIS be set right too! Will it, Tom? Will you always have this sorrow in your breast; you who deserve to be so happy; or is there any hope?’

And still she hid her face from Tom, and clasped him round the neck, and wept for him, and poured out all her woman’s heart and soul in the relief and pain of this disclosure.

It was not very long before she and Tom were sitting side by side, and she was looking with an earnest quietness in Tom’s face. Then Tom spoke to her thus, cheerily, though gravely:

‘I am very glad, my dear, that this has passed between us. Not because it assures me of your tender affection (for I was well assured of that before), but because it relieves my mind of a great weight.’

Tom’s eyes glistened when he spoke of her affection; and he kissed her on the cheek.

‘My dear girl,’ said Tom; ‘with whatever feeling I regard her’—they seemed to avoid the name by mutual consent—‘I have long ago—I am sure I may say from the very first—looked upon it as a dream. As something that might possibly have happened under very different circumstances, but which can never be. Now, tell me. What would you have set right?’

She gave Tom such a significant little look, that he was obliged to take it for an answer whether he would or no; and to go on.

‘By her own choice and free consent, my love, she is betrothed to Martin; and was, long before either of them knew of my existence. You would have her betrothed to me?’

‘Yes,’ she said directly.

‘Yes,’ rejoined Tom, ‘but that might be setting it wrong, instead of right. Do you think,’ said Tom, with a grave smile, ‘that even if she had never seen him, it is very likely she would have fallen in love with Me?’

‘Why not, dear Tom?’

Tom shook his head, and smiled again.

‘You think of me, Ruth,’ said Tom, ‘and it is very natural that you should, as if I were a character in a book; and you make it a sort of poetical justice that I should, by some impossible means or other, come, at last, to marry the person I love. But there is a much higher justice than poetical justice, my dear, and it does not order events upon the same principle. Accordingly, people who read about heroes in books, and choose to make heroes of themselves out of books, consider it a very fine thing to be discontented and gloomy, and misanthropical, and perhaps a little blasphemous, because they cannot have everything ordered for their individual accommodation. Would you like me to become one of that sort of people?’

‘No, Tom. But still I know,’ she added timidly, ‘that this is a sorrow to you in your own better way.’

Tom thought of disputing the position. But it would have been mere folly, and he gave it up.

‘My dear,’ said Tom, ‘I will repay your affection with the Truth and all the Truth. It is a sorrow to me. I have proved it to be so sometimes, though I have always striven against it. But somebody who is precious to you may die, and you may dream that you are in heaven with the departed spirit, and you may find it a sorrow to wake to the life on earth, which is no harder to be borne than when you fell asleep. It is sorrowful to me to contemplate my dream which I always knew was a dream, even when it first presented itself; but the realities about me are not to blame. They are the same as they were. My sister, my sweet companion, who makes this place so dear, is she less devoted to me, Ruth, than she would have been, if this vision had never troubled me? My old friend John, who might so easily have treated me with coldness and neglect, is he less cordial to me? The world about me, is there less good in that? Are my words to be harsh and my looks to be sour, and is my heart to grow cold, because there has fallen in my way a good and beautiful creature, who but for the selfish regret that I cannot call her my own, would, like all other good and beautiful creatures, make me happier and better! No, my dear sister. No,’ said Tom stoutly. ‘Remembering all my means of happiness, I hardly dare to call this lurking something a sorrow; but whatever name it may justly bear, I thank Heaven that it renders me more sensible of affection and attachment, and softens me in fifty ways. Not less happy. Not less happy, Ruth!’

She could not speak to him, but she loved him, as he well deserved. Even as he deserved, she loved him.

‘She will open Martin’s eyes,’ said Tom, with a glow of pride, ‘and that (which is indeed wrong) will be set right. Nothing will persuade her, I know, that I have betrayed him. It will be set right through her, and he will be very sorry for it. Our secret, Ruth, is our own, and lives and dies with us. I don’t believe I ever could have told it you,’ said Tom, with a smile, ‘but how glad I am to think you have found it out!’

They had never taken such a pleasant walk as they took that night. Tom told her all so freely and so simply, and was so desirous to return her tenderness with his fullest confidence, that they prolonged it far beyond their usual hour, and sat up late when they came home. And when they parted for the night there was such a tranquil, beautiful expression in Tom’s face, that she could not bear to shut it out, but going back on tiptoe to his chamber-door, looked in and stood there till he saw her, and then embracing him again, withdrew. And in her prayers and in her sleep—good times to be remembered with such fervour, Tom!—his name was uppermost.

When he was left alone, Tom pondered very much on this discovery of hers, and greatly wondered what had led her to it. ‘Because,’ thought Tom, ‘I have been so very careful. It was foolish and unnecessary in me, as I clearly see now, when I am so relieved by her knowing it; but I have been so very careful to conceal it from her. Of course I knew that she was intelligent and quick, and for that reason was more upon my guard; but I was not in the least prepared for this. I am sure her discovery has been sudden too. Dear me!’ said Tom. ‘It’s a most singular instance of penetration!’

Tom could not get it out of his head. There it was, when his head was on his pillow.

‘How she trembled when she began to tell me she knew it!’ thought Tom, recalling all the little incidents and circumstances; ‘and how her face flushed! But that was natural! Oh, quite natural! That needs no accounting for.’

Tom little thought how natural it was. Tom little knew that there was that in Ruth’s own heart, but newly set there, which had helped her to the reading of his mystery. Ah, Tom! He didn’t understand the whispers of the Temple Fountain, though he passed it every day.

Who so lively and cheerful as busy Ruth next morning! Her early tap at Tom’s door, and her light foot outside, would have been music to him though she had not spoken. But she said it was the brightest morning ever seen; and so it was; and if it had been otherwise, she would have made it so to Tom.

She was ready with his neat breakfast when he went downstairs, and had her bonnet ready for the early walk, and was so full of news, that Tom was lost in wonder. She might have been up all night, collecting it for his entertainment. There was Mr Nadgett not come home yet, and there was bread down a penny a loaf, and there was twice as much strength in this tea as in the last, and the milk-woman’s husband had come out of the hospital cured, and the curly-headed child over the way had been lost all yesterday, and she was going to make all sorts of preserves in a desperate hurry, and there happened to be a saucepan in the house which was the very saucepan for the purpose; and she knew all about the last book Tom had brought home, all through, though it was a teaser to read; and she had so much to tell him that she had finished breakfast first. Then she had her little bonnet on, and the tea and sugar locked up, and the keys in her reticule, and the flower, as usual, in Tom’s coat, and was in all respects quite ready to accompany him, before Tom knew she had begun to prepare. And in short, as Tom said, with a confidence in his own assertion which amounted to a defiance of the public in general, there never was such a little woman.

She made Tom talkative. It was impossible to resist her. She put such enticing questions to him; about books, and about dates of churches, and about organs and about the Temple, and about all kinds of things. Indeed, she lightened the way (and Tom’s heart with it) to that degree, that the Temple looked quite blank and solitary when he parted from her at the gate.

‘No Mr Fips’s friend to-day, I suppose,’ thought Tom, as he ascended the stairs.

Not yet, at any rate, for the door was closed as usual, and Tom opened it with his key. He had got the books into perfect order now, and had mended the torn leaves, and had pasted up the broken backs, and substituted neat labels for the worn-out letterings. It looked a different place, it was so orderly and neat. Tom felt some pride in comtemplating the change he had wrought, though there was no one to approve or disapprove of it.

He was at present occupied in making a fair copy of his draught of the catalogue; on which, as there was no hurry, he was painfully concentrating all the ingenious and laborious neatness he had ever expended on map or plan in Mr Pecksniff’s workroom. It was a very marvel of a catalogue; for Tom sometimes thought he was really getting his money too easily, and he had determined within himself that this document should take a little of his superfluous leisure out of him.

So with pens and ruler, and compasses and india-rubber, and pencil, and black ink, and red ink, Tom worked away all the morning. He thought a good deal about Martin, and their interview of yesterday, and would have been far easier in his mind if he could have resolved to confide it to his friend John, and to have taken his opinion on the subject. But besides that he knew what John’s boiling indignation would be, he bethought himself that he was helping Martin now in a matter of great moment, and that to deprive the latter of his assistance at such a crisis of affairs, would be to inflict a serious injury upon him.

‘So I’ll keep it to myself,’ said Tom, with a sigh. ‘I’ll keep it to myself.’

And to work he went again, more assiduously than ever, with the pens, and the ruler, and the india-rubber, and the pencils, and the red ink, that he might forget it.

He had laboured away another hour or more, when he heard a footstep in the entry, down below.

‘Ah!’ said Tom, looking towards the door; ‘time was, not long ago either, when that would have set me wondering and expecting. But I have left off now.’

The footstep came on, up the stairs.

‘Thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight,’ said Tom, counting. ‘Now you’ll stop. Nobody ever comes past the thirty-eighth stair.’

The person did, certainly, but only to take breath; for up the footstep came again. Forty, forty-one, forty-two, and so on.

The door stood open. As the tread advanced, Tom looked impatiently and eagerly towards it. When a figure came upon the landing, and arriving in the doorway, stopped and gazed at him, he rose up from his chair, and half believed he saw a spirit.

Old Martin Chuzzlewit! The same whom he had left at Mr Pecksniff’s, weak and sinking!

The same? No, not the same, for this old man, though old, was strong, and leaned upon his stick with a vigorous hand, while with the other he signed to Tom to make no noise. One glance at the resolute face, the watchful eye, the vigorous hand upon the staff, the triumphant purpose in the figure, and such a light broke in on Tom as blinded him.

‘You have expected me,’ said Martin, ‘a long time.’

‘I was told that my employer would arrive soon,’ said Tom; ‘but—’

‘I know. You were ignorant who he was. It was my desire. I am glad it has been so well observed. I intended to have been with you much sooner. I thought the time had come. I thought I could know no more, and no worse, of him, than I did on that day when I saw you last. But I was wrong.’

He had by this time come up to Tom, and now he grasped his hand.

‘I have lived in his house, Pinch, and had him fawning on me days and weeks and months. You know it. I have suffered him to treat me like his tool and instrument. You know it; you have seen me there. I have undergone ten thousand times as much as I could have endured if I had been the miserable weak old man he took me for. You know it. I have seen him offer love to Mary. You know it; who better—who better, my true heart! I have had his base soul bare before me, day by day, and have not betrayed myself once. I never could have undergone such torture but for looking forward to this time.’

He stopped, even in the passion of his speech—if that can be called passion which was so resolute and steady—to press Tom’s hand again. Then he said, in great excitement:

‘Close the door, close the door. He will not be long after me, but may come too soon. The time now drawing on,’ said the old man, hurriedly—his eyes and whole face brightening as he spoke—‘will make amends for all. I wouldn’t have him die or hang himself, for millions of golden pieces! Close the door!’

Tom did so; hardly knowing yet whether he was awake or in a dream.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

SHEDS NEW AND BRIGHTER LIGHT UPON THE VERY DARK PLACE; AND CONTAINS THE SEQUEL OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND

The night had now come, when the old clerk was to be delivered over to his keepers. In the midst of his guilty distractions, Jonas had not forgotten it.

It was a part of his guilty state of mind to remember it; for on his persistence in the scheme depended one of his precautions for his own safety. A hint, a word, from the old man, uttered at such a moment in attentive ears, might fire the train of suspicion, and destroy him. His watchfulness of every avenue by which the discovery of his guilt might be approached, sharpened with his sense of the danger by which he was encompassed. With murder on his soul, and its innumerable alarms and terrors dragging at him night and day, he would have repeated the crime, if he had seen a path of safety stretching out beyond. It was in his punishment; it was in his guilty condition. The very deed which his fears rendered insupportable, his fears would have impelled him to commit again.

But keeping the old man close, according to his design, would serve his turn. His purpose was to escape, when the first alarm and wonder had subsided; and when he could make the attempt without awakening instant suspicion. In the meanwhile these women would keep him quiet; and if the talking humour came upon him, would not be easily startled. He knew their trade.

Nor had he spoken idly when he said the old man should be gagged. He had resolved to ensure his silence; and he looked to the end, not the means. He had been rough and rude and cruel to the old man all his life; and violence was natural to his mind in connection with him. ‘He shall be gagged if he speaks, and pinioned if he writes,’ said Jonas, looking at him; for they sat alone together. ‘He is mad enough for that; I’ll go through with it!’

Hush!

Still listening! To every sound. He had listened ever since, and it had not come yet. The exposure of the Assurance office; the flight of Crimple and Bullamy with the plunder, and among the rest, as he feared, with his own bill, which he had not found in the pocket-book of the murdered man, and which with Mr Pecksniff’s money had probably been remitted to one or other of those trusty friends for safe deposit at the banker’s; his immense losses, and peril of being still called to account as a partner in the broken firm; all these things rose in his mind at one time and always, but he could not contemplate them. He was aware of their presence, and of the rage, discomfiture, and despair, they brought along with them; but he thought—of his own controlling power and direction he thought—of the one dread question only. When they would find the body in the wood.

He tried—he had never left off trying—not to forget it was there, for that was impossible, but to forget to weary himself by drawing vivid pictures of it in his fancy; by going softly about it and about it among the leaves, approaching it nearer and nearer through a gap in the boughs, and startling the very flies that were thickly sprinkled all over it, like heaps of dried currants. His mind was fixed and fastened on the discovery, for intelligence of which he listened intently to every cry and shout; listened when any one came in or went out; watched from the window the people who passed up and down the street; mistrusted his own looks and words. And the more his thoughts were set upon the discovery, the stronger was the fascination which attracted them to the thing itself; lying alone in the wood. He was for ever showing and presenting it, as it were, to every creature whom he saw. ‘Look here! Do you know of this? Is it found? Do you suspect ME?’ If he had been condemned to bear the body in his arms, and lay it down for recognition at the feet of every one he met, it could not have been more constantly with him, or a cause of more monotonous and dismal occupation than it was in this state of his mind.

Still he was not sorry. It was no contrition or remorse for what he had done that moved him; it was nothing but alarm for his own security. The vague consciousness he possessed of having wrecked his fortune in the murderous venture, intensified his hatred and revenge, and made him set the greater store by what he had gained The man was dead; nothing could undo that. He felt a triumph yet, in the reflection.

He had kept a jealous watch on Chuffey ever since the deed; seldom leaving him but on compulsion, and then for as short intervals as possible. They were alone together now. It was twilight, and the appointed time drew near at hand. Jonas walked up and down the room. The old man sat in his accustomed corner.

The slightest circumstance was matter of disquiet to the murderer, and he was made uneasy at this time by the absence of his wife, who had left home early in the afternoon, and had not returned yet. No tenderness for her was at the bottom of this; but he had a misgiving that she might have been waylaid, and tempted into saying something that would criminate him when the news came. For anything he knew, she might have knocked at the door of his room, while he was away, and discovered his plot. Confound her, it was like her pale face to be wandering up and down the house! Where was she now?

‘She went to her good friend, Mrs Todgers,’ said the old man, when he asked the question with an angry oath.

Aye! To be sure! Always stealing away into the company of that woman. She was no friend of his. Who could tell what devil’s mischief they might hatch together! Let her be fetched home directly.

The old man, muttering some words softly, rose as if he would have gone himself, but Jonas thrust him back into his chair with an impatient imprecation, and sent a servant-girl to fetch her. When he had charged her with her errand he walked to and fro again, and never stopped till she came back, which she did pretty soon; the way being short, and the woman having made good haste.

Well! Where was she? Had she come?

No. She had left there, full three hours.

‘Left there! Alone?’

The messenger had not asked; taking that for granted.

‘Curse you for a fool. Bring candles!’

She had scarcely left the room when the old clerk, who had been unusually observant of him ever since he had asked about his wife, came suddenly upon him.

‘Give her up!’ cried the old man. ‘Come! Give her up to me! Tell me what you have done with her. Quick! I have made no promises on that score. Tell me what you have done with her.’

He laid his hands upon his collar as he spoke, and grasped it; tightly too.

‘You shall not leave me!’ cried the old man. ‘I am strong enough to cry out to the neighbours, and I will, unless you give her up. Give her up to me!’

Jonas was so dismayed and conscience-stricken, that he had not even hardihood enough to unclench the old man’s hands with his own; but stood looking at him as well as he could in the darkness, without moving a finger. It was as much as he could do to ask him what he meant.

‘I will know what you have done with her!’ retorted Chuffey. ‘If you hurt a hair of her head, you shall answer it. Poor thing! Poor thing! Where is she?’

‘Why, you old madman!’ said Jonas, in a low voice, and with trembling lips. ‘What Bedlam fit has come upon you now?’

‘It is enough to make me mad, seeing what I have seen in this house!’ cried Chuffey. ‘Where is my dear old master! Where is his only son that I have nursed upon my knee, a child! Where is she, she who was the last; she that I’ve seen pining day by day, and heard weeping in the dead of night! She was the last, the last of all my friends! Heaven help me, she was the very last!’

Seeing that the tears were stealing down his face, Jonas mustered courage to unclench his hands, and push him off before he answered:

‘Did you hear me ask for her? Did you hear me send for her? How can I give you up what I haven’t got, idiot! Ecod, I’d give her up to you and welcome, if I could; and a precious pair you’d be!’

‘If she has come to any harm,’ cried Chuffey, ‘mind! I’m old and silly; but I have my memory sometimes; and if she has come to any harm—’

‘Devil take you,’ interrupted Jonas, but in a suppressed voice still; ‘what harm do you suppose she has come to? I know no more where she is than you do; I wish I did. Wait till she comes home, and see; she can’t be long. Will that content you?’

‘Mind!’ exclaimed the old man. ‘Not a hair of her head! not a hair of her head ill-used! I won’t bear it. I—I—have borne it too long Jonas. I am silent, but I—I—I can speak. I—I—I can speak—’ he stammered, as he crept back to his chair, and turned a threatening, though a feeble, look upon him.

‘You can speak, can you!’ thought Jonas. ‘So, so, we’ll stop your speaking. It’s well I knew of this in good time. Prevention is better than cure.’

He had made a poor show of playing the bully and evincing a desire to conciliate at the same time, but was so afraid of the old man that great drops had started out upon his brow; and they stood there yet. His unusual tone of voice and agitated manner had sufficiently expressed his fear; but his face would have done so now, without that aid, as he again walked to and fro, glancing at him by the candelight.

He stopped at the window to think. An opposite shop was lighted up; and the tradesman and a customer were reading some printed bill together across the counter. The sight brought him back, instantly, to the occupation he had forgotten. ‘Look here! Do you know of this? Is it found? Do you suspect ME?’

A hand upon the door. ‘What’s that!’

‘A pleasant evenin’,’ said the voice of Mrs Gamp, ‘though warm, which, bless you, Mr Chuzzlewit, we must expect when cowcumbers is three for twopence. How does Mr Chuffey find his self to-night, sir?’

Mrs Gamp kept particularly close to the door in saying this, and curtseyed more than usual. She did not appear to be quite so much at her ease as she generally was.

‘Get him to his room,’ said Jonas, walking up to her, and speaking in her ear. ‘He has been raving to-night—stark mad. Don’t talk while he’s here, but come down again.’

‘Poor sweet dear!’ cried Mrs Gamp, with uncommon tenderness. ‘He’s all of a tremble.’

‘Well he may be,’ said Jonas, ‘after the mad fit he has had. Get him upstairs.’

She was by this time assisting him to rise.

‘There’s my blessed old chick!’ cried Mrs Gamp, in a tone that was at once soothing and encouraging. ‘There’s my darlin’ Mr Chuffey! Now come up to your own room, sir, and lay down on your bed a bit; for you’re a-shakin’ all over, as if your precious jints was hung upon wires. That’s a good creetur! Come with Sairey!’

‘Is she come home?’ inquired the old man.

‘She’ll be here directly minit,’ returned Mrs Gamp. ‘Come with Sairey, Mr Chuffey. Come with your own Sairey!’

The good woman had no reference to any female in the world in promising this speedy advent of the person for whom Mr Chuffey inquired, but merely threw it out as a means of pacifying the old man. It had its effect, for he permitted her to lead him away; and they quitted the room together.

Jonas looked out of the window again. They were still reading the printed paper in the shop opposite, and a third man had joined in the perusal. What could it be, to interest them so?’

A dispute or discussion seemed to arise among them, for they all looked up from their reading together, and one of the three, who had been glancing over the shoulder of another, stepped back to explain or illustrate some action by his gestures.

Horror! How like the blow he had struck in the wood!

It beat him from the window as if it had lighted on himself. As he staggered into a chair, he thought of the change in Mrs Gamp exhibited in her new-born tenderness to her charge. Was that because it was found?—because she knew of it?—because she suspected him?

‘Mr Chuffey is a-lyin’ down,’ said Mrs Gamp, returning, ‘and much good may it do him, Mr Chuzzlewit, which harm it can’t and good it may; be joyful!’

‘Sit down,’ said Jonas, hoarsely, ‘and let us get this business done. Where is the other woman?’

‘The other person’s with him now,’ she answered.

‘That’s right,’ said Jonas. ‘He is not fit to be left to himself. Why, he fastened on me to-night; here, upon my coat; like a savage dog. Old as he is, and feeble as he is usually, I had some trouble to shake him off. You—Hush!—It’s nothing. You told me the other woman’s name. I forget it.’

‘I mentioned Betsey Prig,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘She is to be trusted, is she?’

‘That she ain’t!’ said Mrs Gamp; ‘nor have I brought her, Mr Chuzzlewit. I’ve brought another, which engages to give every satigefaction.’

‘What is her name?’ asked Jonas.

Mrs Gamp looked at him in an odd way without returning any answer, but appeared to understand the question too.

‘What is her name?’ repeated Jonas.

‘Her name,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘is Harris.’

It was extraordinary how much effort it cost Mrs Gamp to pronounce the name she was commonly so ready with. She made some three or four gasps before she could get it out; and, when she had uttered it, pressed her hand upon her side, and turned up her eyes, as if she were going to faint away. But, knowing her to labour under a complication of internal disorders, which rendered a few drops of spirits indispensable at certain times to her existence, and which came on very strong when that remedy was not at hand, Jonas merely supposed her to be the victim of one of these attacks.

‘Well!’ he said, hastily, for he felt how incapable he was of confining his wandering attention to the subject. ‘You and she have arranged to take care of him, have you?’

Mrs Gamp replied in the affirmative, and softly discharged herself of her familiar phrase, ‘Turn and turn about; one off, one on.’ But she spoke so tremulously that she felt called upon to add, ‘which fiddle-strings is weakness to expredge my nerves this night!’

Jonas stopped to listen. Then said, hurriedly:

‘We shall not quarrel about terms. Let them be the same as they were before. Keep him close, and keep him quiet. He must be restrained. He has got it in his head to-night that my wife’s dead, and has been attacking me as if I had killed her. It’s—it’s common with mad people to take the worst fancies of those they like best. Isn’t it?’

Mrs Gamp assented with a short groan.

‘Keep him close, then, or in one of his fits he’ll be doing me a mischief. And don’t trust him at any time; for when he seems most rational, he’s wildest in his talk. But that you know already. Let me see the other.’

‘The t’other person, sir?’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘Aye! Go you to him and send the other. Quick! I’m busy.’

Mrs Gamp took two or three backward steps towards the door, and stopped there.

‘It is your wishes, Mr Chuzzlewit,’ she said, in a sort of quavering croak, ‘to see the t’other person. Is it?’

But the ghastly change in Jonas told her that the other person was already seen. Before she could look round towards the door, she was put aside by old Martin’s hand; and Chuffey and John Westlock entered with him.

‘Let no one leave the house,’ said Martin. ‘This man is my brother’s son. Ill-met, ill-trained, ill-begotten. If he moves from the spot on which he stands, or speaks a word above his breath to any person here, open the window, and call for help!’

‘What right have you to give such directions in this house?’ asked Jonas faintly.

‘The right of your wrong-doing. Come in there!’

An irrepressible exclamation burst from the lips of Jonas, as Lewsome entered at the door. It was not a groan, or a shriek, or a word, but was wholly unlike any sound that had ever fallen on the ears of those who heard it, while at the same time it was the most sharp and terrible expression of what was working in his guilty breast, that nature could have invented.

He had done murder for this! He had girdled himself about with perils, agonies of mind, innumerable fears, for this! He had hidden his secret in the wood; pressed and stamped it down into the bloody ground; and here it started up when least expected, miles upon miles away; known to many; proclaiming itself from the lips of an old man who had renewed his strength and vigour as by a miracle, to give it voice against him!

He leaned his hand on the back of a chair, and looked at them. It was in vain to try to do so scornfully, or with his usual insolence. He required the chair for his support. But he made a struggle for it.

‘I know that fellow,’ he said, fetching his breath at every word, and pointing his trembling finger towards Lewsome. ‘He’s the greatest liar alive. What’s his last tale? Ha, ha! You’re rare fellows, too! Why, that uncle of mine is childish; he’s even a greater child than his brother, my father, was, in his old age; or than Chuffey is. What the devil do you mean,’ he added, looking fiercely at John Westlock and Mark Tapley (the latter had entered with Lewsome), ‘by coming here, and bringing two idiots and a knave with you to take my house by storm? Hallo, there! Open the door! Turn these strangers out!’

‘I tell you what,’ cried Mr Tapley, coming forward, ‘if it wasn’t for your name, I’d drag you through the streets of my own accord, and single-handed I would! Ah, I would! Don’t try and look bold at me. You can’t do it! Now go on, sir,’ this was to old Martin. ‘Bring the murderin’ wagabond upon his knees! If he wants noise, he shall have enough of it; for as sure as he’s a shiverin’ from head to foot I’ll raise a uproar at this winder that shall bring half London in. Go on, sir! Let him try me once, and see whether I’m a man of my word or not.’

With that, Mark folded his arms, and took his seat upon the window-ledge, with an air of general preparation for anything, which seemed to imply that he was equally ready to jump out himself, or to throw Jonas out, upon receiving the slightest hint that it would be agreeable to the company.

Old Martin turned to Lewsome:

‘This is the man,’ he said, extending his hand towards Jonas. ‘Is it?’

‘You need do no more than look at him to be sure of that, or of the truth of what I have said,’ was the reply. ‘He is my witness.’

‘Oh, brother!’ cried old Martin, clasping his hands and lifting up his eyes. ‘Oh, brother, brother! Were we strangers half our lives that you might breed a wretch like this, and I make life a desert by withering every flower that grew about me! Is it the natural end of your precepts and mine, that this should be the creature of your rearing, training, teaching, hoarding, striving for; and I the means of bringing him to punishment, when nothing can repair the wasted past!’

He sat down upon a chair as he spoke, and turning away his face, was silent for a few moments. Then with recovered energy he proceeded:

‘But the accursed harvest of our mistaken lives shall be trodden down. It is not too late for that. You are confronted with this man, you monster there; not to be spared, but to be dealt with justly. Hear what he says! Reply, be silent, contradict, repeat, defy, do what you please. My course will be the same. Go on! And you,’ he said to Chuffey, ‘for the love of your old friend, speak out, good fellow!’

‘I have been silent for his love!’ cried the old man. ‘He urged me to it. He made me promise it upon his dying bed. I never would have spoken, but for your finding out so much. I have thought about it ever since; I couldn’t help that; and sometimes I have had it all before me in a dream; but in the day-time, not in sleep. Is there such a kind of dream?’ said Chuffey, looking anxiously in old Martin’s face.

As Martin made him an encouraging reply, he listened attentively to his voice, and smiled.

‘Ah, aye!’ he cried. ‘He often spoke to me like that. We were at school together, he and I. I couldn’t turn against his son, you know—his only son, Mr Chuzzlewit!’

‘I would to Heaven you had been his son!’ said Martin.

‘You speak so like my dear old master,’ cried the old man with a childish delight, ‘that I almost think I hear him. I can hear you quite as well as I used to hear him. It makes me young again. He never spoke unkindly to me, and I always understood him. I could always see him too, though my sight was dim. Well, well! He’s dead, he’s dead. He was very good to me, my dear old master!’

He shook his head mournfully over the brother’s hand. At this moment Mark, who had been glancing out of the window, left the room.

‘I couldn’t turn against his only son, you know,’ said Chuffey. ‘He has nearly driven me to do it sometimes; he very nearly did tonight. Ah!’ cried the old man, with a sudden recollection of the cause. ‘Where is she? She’s not come home!’

‘Do you mean his wife?’ said Mr Chuzzlewit.

‘Yes.’

‘I have removed her. She is in my care, and will be spared the present knowledge of what is passing here. She has known misery enough, without that addition.’

Jonas heard this with a sinking heart. He knew that they were on his heels, and felt that they were resolute to run him to destruction. Inch by inch the ground beneath him was sliding from his feet; faster and faster the encircling ruin contracted and contracted towards himself, its wicked centre, until it should close in and crush him.

And now he heard the voice of his accomplice stating to his face, with every circumstance of time and place and incident; and openly proclaiming, with no reserve, suppression, passion, or concealment; all the truth. The truth, which nothing would keep down; which blood would not smother, and earth would not hide; the truth, whose terrible inspiration seemed to change dotards into strong men; and on whose avenging wings, one whom he had supposed to be at the extremest corner of the earth came swooping down upon him.

He tried to deny it, but his tongue would not move. He conceived some desperate thought of rushing away, and tearing through the streets; but his limbs would as little answer to his will as his stark, stiff staring face. All this time the voice went slowly on, denouncing him. It was as if every drop of blood in the wood had found a voice to jeer him with.

When it ceased, another voice took up the tale, but strangely; for the old clerk, who had watched, and listened to the whole, and had wrung his hands from time to time, as if he knew its truth and could confirm it, broke in with these words:

‘No, no, no! you’re wrong; you’re wrong—all wrong together! Have patience, for the truth is only known to me!’

‘How can that be,’ said his old master’s brother, ‘after what you have heard? Besides, you said just now, above-stairs, when I told you of the accusation against him, that you knew he was his father’s murderer.’

‘Aye, yes! and so he was!’ cried Chuffey, wildly. ‘But not as you suppose—not as you suppose. Stay! Give me a moment’s time. I have it all here—all here! It was foul, foul, cruel, bad; but not as you suppose. Stay, stay!’

He put his hands up to his head, as if it throbbed or pained him. After looking about him in a wandering and vacant manner for some moments, his eyes rested upon Jonas, when they kindled up with sudden recollection and intelligence.

‘Yes!’ cried old Chuffey, ‘yes! That’s how it was. It’s all upon me now. He—he got up from his bed before he died, to be sure, to say that he forgave him; and he came down with me into this room; and when he saw him—his only son, the son he loved—his speech forsook him; he had no speech for what he knew—and no one understood him except me. But I did—I did!’

Old Martin regarded him in amazement; so did his companions. Mrs Gamp, who had said nothing yet; but had kept two-thirds of herself behind the door, ready for escape, and one-third in the room, ready for siding with the strongest party; came a little further in and remarked, with a sob, that Mr Chuffey was ‘the sweetest old creetur goin’.’

‘He bought the stuff,’ said Chuffey, stretching out his arm towards Jonas while an unwonted fire shone in his eye, and lightened up his face; ‘he bought the stuff, no doubt, as you have heard, and brought it home. He mixed the stuff—look at him!—with some sweetmeat in a jar, exactly as the medicine for his father’s cough was mixed, and put it in a drawer; in that drawer yonder in the desk; he knows which drawer I mean! He kept it there locked up. But his courage failed him or his heart was touched—my God! I hope it was his heart! He was his only son!—and he did not put it in the usual place, where my old master would have taken it twenty times a day.’

The trembling figure of the old man shook with the strong emotions that possessed him. But, with the same light in his eye, and with his arm outstretched, and with his grey hair stirring on his head, he seemed to grow in size, and was like a man inspired. Jonas shrunk from looking at him, and cowered down into the chair by which he had held. It seemed as if this tremendous Truth could make the dumb speak.

‘I know it every word now!’ cried Chuffey. ‘Every word! He put it in that drawer, as I have said. He went so often there, and was so secret, that his father took notice of it; and when he was out, had it opened. We were there together, and we found the mixture—Mr Chuzzlewit and I. He took it into his possession, and made light of it at the time; but in the night he came to my bedside, weeping, and told me that his own son had it in his mind to poison him. “Oh, Chuff,” he said, “oh, dear old Chuff! a voice came into my room to-night, and told me that this crime began with me. It began when I taught him to be too covetous of what I have to leave, and made the expectation of it his great business!” Those were his words; aye, they are his very words! If he was a hard man now and then, it was for his only son. He loved his only son, and he was always good to me!’

Jonas listened with increased attention. Hope was breaking in upon him.

‘“He shall not weary for my death, Chuff;” that was what he said next,’ pursued the old clerk, as he wiped his eyes; ‘that was what he said next, crying like a little child: “He shall not weary for my death, Chuff. He shall have it now; he shall marry where he has a fancy, Chuff, although it don’t please me; and you and I will go away and live upon a little. I always loved him; perhaps he’ll love me then. It’s a dreadful thing to have my own child thirsting for my death. But I might have known it. I have sown, and I must reap. He shall believe that I am taking this; and when I see that he is sorry, and has all he wants, I’ll tell him that I found it out, and I’ll forgive him. He’ll make a better man of his own son, and be a better man himself, perhaps, Chuff!”’

Poor Chuffey paused to dry his eyes again. Old Martin’s face was hidden in his hands. Jonas listened still more keenly, and his breast heaved like a swollen water, but with hope. With growing hope.

‘My dear old master made believe next day,’ said Chuffey, ‘that he had opened the drawer by mistake with a key from the bunch, which happened to fit it (we had one made and hung upon it); and that he had been surprised to find his fresh supply of cough medicine in such a place, but supposed it had been put there in a hurry when the drawer stood open. We burnt it; but his son believed that he was taking it—he knows he did. Once Mr Chuzzlewit, to try him, took heart to say it had a strange taste; and he got up directly, and went out.’

Jonas gave a short, dry cough; and, changing his position for an easier one, folded his arms without looking at them, though they could now see his face.

‘Mr Chuzzlewit wrote to her father; I mean the father of the poor thing who’s his wife,’ said Chuffey; ‘and got him to come up, intending to hasten on the marriage. But his mind, like mine, went a little wrong through grief, and then his heart broke. He sank and altered from the time when he came to me in the night; and never held up his head again. It was only a few days, but he had never changed so much in twice the years. “Spare him, Chuff!” he said, before he died. They were the only words he could speak. “Spare him, Chuff!” I promised him I would. I’ve tried to do it. He’s his only son.’

On his recollection of the last scene in his old friend’s life, poor Chuffey’s voice, which had grown weaker and weaker, quite deserted him. Making a motion with his hand, as if he would have said that Anthony had taken it, and had died with it in his, he retreated to the corner where he usually concealed his sorrows; and was silent.

Jonas could look at his company now, and vauntingly too. ‘Well!’ he said, after a pause. ‘Are you satisfied? or have you any more of your plots to broach? Why that fellow, Lewsome, can invent ‘em for you by the score. Is this all? Have you nothing else?’

Old Martin looked at him steadily.

‘Whether you are what you seemed to be at Pecksniff’s, or are something else and a mountebank, I don’t know and I don’t care,’ said Jonas, looking downward with a smile, ‘but I don’t want you here. You were here so often when your brother was alive, and were always so fond of him (your dear, dear brother, and you would have been cuffing one another before this, ecod!), that I am not surprised at your being attached to the place; but the place is not attached to you, and you can’t leave it too soon, though you may leave it too late. And for my wife, old man, send her home straight, or it will be the worse for her. Ha, ha! You carry it with a high hand, too! But it isn’t hanging yet for a man to keep a penn’orth of poison for his own purposes, and have it taken from him by two old crazy jolter-heads who go and act a play about it. Ha, ha! Do you see the door?’

His base triumph, struggling with his cowardice, and shame, and guilt, was so detestable, that they turned away from him, as if he were some obscene and filthy animal, repugnant to the sight. And here that last black crime was busy with him too; working within him to his perdition. But for that, the old clerk’s story might have touched him, though never so lightly; but for that, the sudden removal of so great a load might have brought about some wholesome change even in him. With that deed done, however; with that unnecessary wasteful danger haunting him; despair was in his very triumph and relief; wild, ungovernable, raging despair, for the uselessness of the peril into which he had plunged; despair that hardened him and maddened him, and set his teeth a-grinding in a moment of his exultation.

‘My good friend!’ said old Martin, laying his hand on Chuffey’s sleeve. ‘This is no place for you to remain in. Come with me.’

‘Just his old way!’ cried Chuffey, looking up into his face. ‘I almost believe it’s Mr Chuzzlewit alive again. Yes! Take me with you! Stay, though, stay.’

‘For what?’ asked old Martin.

‘I can’t leave her, poor thing!’ said Chuffey. ‘She has been very good to me. I can’t leave her, Mr Chuzzlewit. Thank you kindly. I’ll remain here. I haven’t long to remain; it’s no great matter.’

As he meekly shook his poor, grey head, and thanked old Martin in these words, Mrs Gamp, now entirely in the room, was affected to tears.

‘The mercy as it is!’ she said, ‘as sech a dear, good, reverend creetur never got into the clutches of Betsey Prig, which but for me he would have done, undoubted; facts bein’ stubborn and not easy drove!’

‘You heard me speak to you just now, old man,’ said Jonas to his uncle. ‘I’ll have no more tampering with my people, man or woman. Do you see the door?’

‘Do YOU see the door?’ returned the voice of Mark, coming from that direction. ‘Look at it!’

He looked, and his gaze was nailed there. Fatal, ill-omened blighted threshold, cursed by his father’s footsteps in his dying hour, cursed by his young wife’s sorrowing tread, cursed by the daily shadow of the old clerk’s figure, cursed by the crossing of his murderer’s feet—what men were standing in the door way!

Nadgett foremost.

Hark! It came on, roaring like a sea! Hawkers burst into the street, crying it up and down; windows were thrown open that the inhabitants might hear it; people stopped to listen in the road and on the pavement; the bells, the same bells, began to ring; tumbling over one another in a dance of boisterous joy at the discovery (that was the sound they had in his distempered thoughts), and making their airy play-ground rock.

‘That is the man,’ said Nadgett. ‘By the window!’

Three others came in, laid hands upon him, and secured him. It was so quickly done, that he had not lost sight of the informer’s face for an instant when his wrists were manacled together.

‘Murder,’ said Nadgett, looking round on the astonished group. ‘Let no one interfere.’

The sounding street repeated Murder; barbarous and dreadful Murder. Murder, Murder, Murder. Rolling on from house to house, and echoing from stone to stone, until the voices died away into the distant hum, which seemed to mutter the same word!

They all stood silent: listening, and gazing in each other’s faces, as the noise passed on.

Old Martin was the first to speak. ‘What terrible history is this?’ he demanded.

‘Ask HIM,’ said Nadgett. ‘You’re his friend, sir. He can tell you, if he will. He knows more of it than I do, though I know much.’

‘How do you know much?’

‘I have not been watching him so long for nothing,’ returned Nadgett. ‘I never watched a man so close as I have watched him.’

Another of the phantom forms of this terrific Truth! Another of the many shapes in which it started up about him, out of vacancy. This man, of all men in the world, a spy upon him; this man, changing his identity; casting off his shrinking, purblind, unobservant character, and springing up into a watchful enemy! The dead man might have come out of his grave, and not confounded and appalled him more.

The game was up. The race was at an end; the rope was woven for his neck. If, by a miracle, he could escape from this strait, he had but to turn his face another way, no matter where, and there would rise some new avenger front to front with him; some infant in an hour grown old, or old man in an hour grown young, or blind man with his sight restored, or deaf man with his hearing given him. There was no chance. He sank down in a heap against the wall, and never hoped again from that moment.

‘I am not his friend, although I have the honour to be his relative,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit. ‘You may speak to me. Where have you watched, and what have you seen?’

‘I have watched in many places,’ returned Nadgett, ‘night and day. I have watched him lately, almost without rest or relief;’ his anxious face and bloodshot eyes confirmed it. ‘I little thought to what my watching was to lead. As little as he did when he slipped out in the night, dressed in those clothes which he afterwards sunk in a bundle at London Bridge!’

Jonas moved upon the ground like a man in bodily torture. He uttered a suppressed groan, as if he had been wounded by some cruel weapon; and plucked at the iron band upon his wrists, as though (his hands being free) he would have torn himself.

‘Steady, kinsman!’ said the chief officer of the party. ‘Don’t be violent.’

‘Whom do you call kinsman?’ asked old Martin sternly.

‘You,’ said the man, ‘among others.’

Martin turned his scrutinizing gaze upon him. He was sitting lazily across a chair with his arms resting on the back; eating nuts, and throwing the shells out of window as he cracked them, which he still continued to do while speaking.

‘Aye,’ he said, with a sulky nod. ‘You may deny your nephews till you die; but Chevy Slyme is Chevy Slyme still, all the world over. Perhaps even you may feel it some disgrace to your own blood to be employed in this way. I’m to be bought off.’

‘At every turn!’ cried Martin. ‘Self, self, self. Every one among them for himself!’

‘You had better save one or two among them the trouble then and be for them as well as YOURself,’ replied his nephew. ‘Look here at me! Can you see the man of your family who has more talent in his little finger than all the rest in their united brains, dressed as a police officer without being ashamed? I took up with this trade on purpose to shame you. I didn’t think I should have to make a capture in the family, though.’

‘If your debauchery, and that of your chosen friends, has really brought you to this level,’ returned the old man, ‘keep it. You are living honestly, I hope, and that’s something.’

‘Don’t be hard upon my chosen friends,’ returned Slyme, ‘for they were sometimes your chosen friends too. Don’t say you never employed my friend Tigg, for I know better. We quarrelled upon it.’

‘I hired the fellow,’ retorted Mr Chuzzlewit, ‘and I paid him.’

‘It’s well you paid him,’ said his nephew, ‘for it would be too late to do so now. He has given his receipt in full; or had it forced from him rather.’

The old man looked at him as if he were curious to know what he meant, but scorned to prolong the conversation.

‘I have always expected that he and I would be brought together again in the course of business,’ said Slyme, taking a fresh handful of nuts from his pocket; ‘but I thought he would be wanted for some swindling job; it never entered my head that I should hold a warrant for the apprehension of his murderer.’

‘HIS murderer!’ cried Mr Chuzzlewit, looking from one to another.

‘His or Mr Montague’s,’ said Nadgett. ‘They are the same, I am told. I accuse him yonder of the murder of Mr Montague, who was found last night, killed, in a wood. You will ask me why I accuse him as you have already asked me how I know so much. I’ll tell you. It can’t remain a secret long.’

The ruling passion of the man expressed itself even then, in the tone of regret in which he deplored the approaching publicity of what he knew.

‘I told you I had watched him,’ he proceeded. ‘I was instructed to do so by Mr Montague, in whose employment I have been for some time. We had our suspicions of him; and you know what they pointed at, for you have been discussing it since we have been waiting here, outside the room. If you care to hear, now it’s all over, in what our suspicions began, I’ll tell you plainly: in a quarrel (it first came to our ears through a hint of his own) between him and another office in which his father’s life was insured, and which had so much doubt and distrust upon the subject, that he compounded with them, and took half the money; and was glad to do it. Bit by bit, I ferreted out more circumstances against him, and not a few. It required a little patience, but it’s my calling. I found the nurse—here she is to confirm me; I found the doctor, I found the undertaker, I found the undertaker’s man. I found out how the old gentleman there, Mr Chuffey, had behaved at the funeral; and I found out what this man,’ touching Lewsome on the arm, ‘had talked about in his fever. I found out how he conducted himself before his father’s death, and how since and how at the time; and writing it all down, and putting it carefully together, made case enough for Mr Montague to tax him with the crime, which (as he himself believed until to-night) he had committed. I was by when this was done. You see him now. He is only worse than he was then.’

Oh, miserable, miserable fool! oh, insupportable, excruciating torture! To find alive and active—a party to it all—the brain and right-hand of the secret he had thought to crush! In whom, though he had walled the murdered man up, by enchantment in a rock, the story would have lived and walked abroad! He tried to stop his ears with his fettered arms, that he might shut out the rest.

As he crouched upon the floor, they drew away from him as if a pestilence were in his breath. They fell off, one by one, from that part of the room, leaving him alone upon the ground. Even those who had him in their keeping shunned him, and (with the exception of Slyme, who was still occupied with his nuts) kept apart.

‘From that garret-window opposite,’ said Nadgett, pointing across the narrow street, ‘I have watched this house and him for days and nights. From that garret-window opposite I saw him return home, alone, from a journey on which he had set out with Mr Montague. That was my token that Mr Montague’s end was gained; and I might rest easy on my watch, though I was not to leave it until he dismissed me. But, standing at the door opposite, after dark that same night, I saw a countryman steal out of this house, by a side-door in the court, who had never entered it. I knew his walk, and that it was himself, disguised. I followed him immediately. I lost him on the western road, still travelling westward.’

Jonas looked up at him for an instant, and muttered an oath.

‘I could not comprehend what this meant,’ said Nadgett; ‘but, having seen so much, I resolved to see it out, and through. And I did. Learning, on inquiry at his house from his wife, that he was supposed to be sleeping in the room from which I had seen him go out, and that he had given strict orders not to be disturbed, I knew that he was coming back; and for his coming back I watched. I kept my watch in the street—in doorways, and such places—all that night; at the same window, all next day; and when night came on again, in the street once more. For I knew he would come back, as he had gone out, when this part of the town was empty. He did. Early in the morning, the same countryman came creeping, creeping, creeping home.’

‘Look sharp!’ interposed Slyme, who had now finished his nuts. ‘This is quite irregular, Mr Nadgett.’

‘I kept at the window all day,’ said Nadgett, without heeding him. ‘I think I never closed my eyes. At night, I saw him come out with a bundle. I followed him again. He went down the steps at London Bridge, and sunk it in the river. I now began to entertain some serious fears, and made a communication to the Police, which caused that bundle to be—’

‘To be fished up,’ interrupted Slyme. ‘Be alive, Mr Nadgett.’

‘It contained the dress I had seen him wear,’ said Nadgett; ‘stained with clay, and spotted with blood. Information of the murder was received in town last night. The wearer of that dress is already known to have been seen near the place; to have been lurking in that neighbourhood; and to have alighted from a coach coming from that part of the country, at a time exactly tallying with the very minute when I saw him returning home. The warrant has been out, and these officers have been with me, some hours. We chose our time; and seeing you come in, and seeing this person at the window—’

‘Beckoned to him,’ said Mark, taking up the thread of the narrative, on hearing this allusion to himself, ‘to open the door; which he did with a deal of pleasure.’

‘That’s all at present,’ said Nadgett, putting up his great pocketbook, which from mere habit he had produced when he began his revelation, and had kept in his hand all the time; ‘but there is plenty more to come. You asked me for the facts, so far I have related them, and need not detain these gentlemen any longer. Are you ready, Mr Slyme?’

‘And something more,’ replied that worthy, rising. ‘If you walk round to the office, we shall be there as soon as you. Tom! Get a coach!’

The officer to whom he spoke departed for that purpose. Old Martin lingered for a few moments, as if he would have addressed some words to Jonas; but looking round, and seeing him still seated on the floor, rocking himself in a savage manner to and fro, took Chuffey’s arm, and slowly followed Nadgett out. John Westlock and Mark Tapley accompanied them. Mrs Gamp had tottered out first, for the better display of her feelings, in a kind of walking swoon; for Mrs Gamp performed swoons of different sorts, upon a moderate notice, as Mr Mould did Funerals.

‘Ha!’ muttered Slyme, looking after them. ‘Upon my soul! As insensible of being disgraced by having such a nephew as myself, in such a situation, as he was of my being an honour and a credit to the family! That’s the return I get for having humbled my spirit—such a spirit as mine—to earn a livelihood, is it?’

He got up from his chair, and kicked it away indignantly.

‘And such a livelihood too! When there are hundreds of men, not fit to hold a candle to me, rolling in carriages and living on their fortunes. Upon my soul it’s a nice world!’

His eyes encountered Jonas, who looked earnestly towards him, and moved his lips as if he were whispering.

‘Eh?’ said Slyme.

Jonas glanced at the attendant whose back was towards him, and made a clumsy motion with his bound hands towards the door.

‘Humph!’ said Slyme, thoughtfully. ‘I couldn’t hope to disgrace him into anything when you have shot so far ahead of me though. I forgot that.’

Jonas repeated the same look and gesture.

‘Jack!’ said Slyme.

‘Hallo!’ returned his man.

‘Go down to the door, ready for the coach. Call out when it comes. I’d rather have you there. Now then,’ he added, turning hastily to Jonas, when the man was gone. ‘What’s the matter?’

Jonas essayed to rise.

‘Stop a bit,’ said Slyme. ‘It’s not so easy when your wrists are tight together. Now then! Up! What is it?’

‘Put your hand in my pocket. Here! The breast pocket, on the left!’ said Jonas.

He did so; and drew out a purse.

‘There’s a hundred pound in it,’ said Jonas, whose words were almost unintelligible; as his face, in its pallor and agony, was scarcely human.

Slyme looked at him; gave it into his hands; and shook his head.

‘I can’t. I daren’t. I couldn’t if I dared. Those fellows below—’

‘Escape’s impossible,’ said Jonas. ‘I know it. One hundred pound for only five minutes in the next room!’

‘What to do?’ he asked.

The face of his prisoner as he advanced to whisper in his ear, made him recoil involuntarily. But he stopped and listened to him. The words were few, but his own face changed as he heard them.

‘I have it about me,’ said Jonas, putting his hands to his throat, as though whatever he referred to were hidden in his neckerchief. ‘How should you know of it? How could you know? A hundred pound for only five minutes in the next room! The time’s passing. Speak!’

‘It would be more—more creditable to the family,’ observed Slyme, with trembling lips. ‘I wish you hadn’t told me half so much. Less would have served your purpose. You might have kept it to yourself.’

‘A hundred pound for only five minutes in the next room! Speak!’ cried Jonas, desperately.

He took the purse. Jonas, with a wild unsteady step, retreated to the door in the glass partition.

‘Stop!’ cried Slyme, catching at his skirts. ‘I don’t know about this. Yet it must end so at last. Are you guilty?’

‘Yes!’ said Jonas.

‘Are the proofs as they were told just now?’

‘Yes!’ said Jonas.

‘Will you—will you engage to say a—a Prayer, now, or something of that sort?’ faltered Slyme.

Jonas broke from him without replying, and closed the door between them.

Slyme listened at the keyhole. After that, he crept away on tiptoe, as far off as he could; and looked awfully towards the place. He was roused by the arrival of the coach, and their letting down the steps.

‘He’s getting a few things together,’ he said, leaning out of window, and speaking to the two men below, who stood in the full light of a street-lamp. ‘Keep your eye upon the back, one of you, for form’s sake.’

One of the men withdrew into the court. The other, seating himself self on the steps of the coach, remained in conversation with Slyme at the window who perhaps had risen to be his superior, in virtue of his old propensity (one so much lauded by the murdered man) of being always round the corner. A useful habit in his present calling.

‘Where is he?’ asked the man.

Slyme looked into the room for an instant and gave his head a jerk as much as to say, ‘Close at hand. I see him.’

‘He’s booked,’ observed the man.

‘Through,’ said Slyme.

They looked at each other, and up and down the street. The man on the coach-steps took his hat off, and put it on again, and whistled a little.

‘I say! He’s taking his time!’ he remonstrated.

‘I allowed him five minutes,’ said Slyme. ‘Time’s more than up, though. I’ll bring him down.’

He withdrew from the window accordingly, and walked on tiptoe to the door in the partition. He listened. There was not a sound within. He set the candles near it, that they might shine through the glass.

It was not easy, he found, to make up his mind to the opening of the door. But he flung it wide open suddenly, and with a noise; then retreated. After peeping in and listening again, he entered.

He started back as his eyes met those of Jonas, standing in an angle of the wall, and staring at him. His neckerchief was off; his face was ashy pale.

‘You’re too soon,’ said Jonas, with an abject whimper. ‘I’ve not had time. I have not been able to do it. I—five minutes more—two minutes more!—only one!’

Slyme gave him no reply, but thrusting the purse upon him and forcing it back into his pocket, called up his men.

He whined, and cried, and cursed, and entreated them, and struggled, and submitted, in the same breath, and had no power to stand. They got him away and into the coach, where they put him on a seat; but he soon fell moaning down among the straw at the bottom, and lay there.

The two men were with him. Slyme being on the box with the driver; and they let him lie. Happening to pass a fruiterer’s on their way; the door of which was open, though the shop was by this time shut; one of them remarked how faint the peaches smelled.

The other assented at the moment, but presently stooped down in quick alarm, and looked at the prisoner.

‘Stop the coach! He has poisoned himself! The smell comes from this bottle in his hand!’

The hand had shut upon it tight. With that rigidity of grasp with which no living man, in the full strength and energy of life, can clutch a prize he has won.

They dragged him out into the dark street; but jury, judge, and hangman, could have done no more, and could do nothing now. Dead, dead, dead.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

IN WHICH THE TABLES ARE TURNED, COMPLETELY UPSIDE DOWN

Old Martin’s cherished projects, so long hidden in his own breast, so frequently in danger of abrupt disclosure through the bursting forth of the indignation he had hoarded up during his residence with Mr Pecksniff, were retarded, but not beyond a few hours, by the occurrences just now related. Stunned, as he had been at first by the intelligence conveyed to him through Tom Pinch and John Westlock, of the supposed manner of his brother’s death; overwhelmed as he was by the subsequent narratives of Chuffey and Nadgett, and the forging of that chain of circumstances ending in the death of Jonas, of which catastrophe he was immediately informed; scattered as his purposes and hopes were for the moment, by the crowding in of all these incidents between him and his end; still their very intensity and the tumult of their assemblage nerved him to the rapid and unyielding execution of his scheme. In every single circumstance, whether it were cruel, cowardly, or false, he saw the flowering of the same pregnant seed. Self; grasping, eager, narrow-ranging, overreaching self; with its long train of suspicions, lusts, deceits, and all their growing consequences; was the root of the vile tree. Mr Pecksniff had so presented his character before the old man’s eyes, that he—the good, the tolerant, enduring Pecksniff—had become the incarnation of all selfishness and treachery; and the more odious the shapes in which those vices ranged themselves before him now, the sterner consolation he had in his design of setting Mr Pecksniff right and Mr Pecksniff’s victims too.

To this work he brought, not only the energy and determination natural to his character (which, as the reader may have observed in the beginning of his or her acquaintance with this gentleman, was remarkable for the strong development of those qualities), but all the forced and unnaturally nurtured energy consequent upon their long suppression. And these two tides of resolution setting into one and sweeping on, became so strong and vigorous, that, to prevent themselves from being carried away before it, Heaven knows where, was as much as John Westlock and Mark Tapley together (though they were tolerably energetic too) could manage to effect.

He had sent for John Westlock immediately on his arrival; and John, under the conduct of Tom Pinch, had waited on him. Having a lively recollection of Mr Tapley, he had caused that gentleman’s attendance to be secured, through John’s means, without delay; and thus, as we have seen, they had all repaired together to the City. But his grandson he had refused to see until to-morrow, when Mr Tapley was instructed to summon him to the Temple at ten o’clock in the forenoon. Tom he would not allow to be employed in anything, lest he should be wrongfully suspected; but he was a party to all their proceedings, and was with them until late at night—until after they knew of the death of Jonas; when he went home to tell all these wonders to little Ruth, and to prepare her for accompanying him to the Temple in the morning, agreeably to Mr Chuzzlewit’s particular injunction.

It was characteristic of old Martin, and his looking on to something which he had distinctly before him, that he communicated to them nothing of his intentions, beyond such hints of reprisal on Mr Pecksniff as they gathered from the game he had played in that gentleman’s house, and the brightening of his eyes whenever his name was mentioned. Even to John Westlock, in whom he was evidently disposed to place great confidence (which may indeed be said of every one of them), he gave no explanation whatever. He merely requested him to return in the morning; and with this for their utmost satisfaction, they left him, when the night was far advanced, alone.

The events of such a day might have worn out the body and spirit of a much younger man than he, but he sat in deep and painful meditation until the morning was bright. Nor did he even then seek any prolonged repose, but merely slumbered in his chair, until seven o’clock, when Mr Tapley had appointed to come to him by his desire; and came—as fresh and clean and cheerful as the morning itself.

‘You are punctual,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit, opening the door to him in reply to his light knock, which had roused him instantly.

‘My wishes, sir,’ replied Mr Tapley, whose mind would appear from the context to have been running on the matrimonial service, ‘is to love, honour, and obey. The clock’s a-striking now, sir.’

‘Come in!’

‘Thank’ee, sir,’ rejoined Mr Tapley, ‘what could I do for you first, sir?’

‘You gave my message to Martin?’ said the old man, bending his eyes upon him.

‘I did, sir,’ returned Mark; ‘and you never see a gentleman more surprised in all your born days than he was.’

‘What more did you tell him?’ Mr Chuzzlewit inquired.

‘Why, sir,’ said Mr Tapley, smiling, ‘I should have liked to tell him a deal more, but not being able, sir, I didn’t tell it him.’

‘You told him all you knew?’

‘But it was precious little, sir,’ retorted Mr Tapley. ‘There was very little respectin’ you that I was able to tell him, sir. I only mentioned my opinion that Mr Pecksniff would find himself deceived, sir, and that you would find yourself deceived, and that he would find himself deceived, sir.’

‘In what?’ asked Mr Chuzzlewit.

‘Meaning him, sir?’

‘Meaning both him and me.’

‘Well, sir,’ said Mr Tapley. ‘In your old opinions of each other. As to him, sir, and his opinions, I know he’s a altered man. I know it. I know’d it long afore he spoke to you t’other day, and I must say it. Nobody don’t know half as much of him as I do. Nobody can’t. There was always a deal of good in him, but a little of it got crusted over, somehow. I can’t say who rolled the paste of that ‘ere crust myself, but—’

‘Go on,’ said Martin. ‘Why do you stop?’

‘But it—well! I beg your pardon, but I think it may have been you, sir. Unintentional I think it may have been you. I don’t believe that neither of you gave the other quite a fair chance. There! Now I’ve got rid on it,’ said Mr Tapley in a fit of desperation: ‘I can’t go a-carryin’ it about in my own mind, bustin’ myself with it; yesterday was quite long enough. It’s out now. I can’t help it. I’m sorry for it. Don’t wisit on him, sir, that’s all.’

It was clear that Mark expected to be ordered out immediately, and was quite prepared to go.

‘So you think,’ said Martin, ‘that his old faults are, in some degree, of my creation, do you?’

‘Well, sir,’ retorted Mr Tapley, ‘I’m werry sorry, but I can’t unsay it. It’s hardly fair of you, sir, to make a ignorant man conwict himself in this way, but I DO think so. I am as respectful disposed to you, sir, as a man can be; but I DO think so.’

The light of a faint smile seemed to break through the dull steadiness of Martin’s face, as he looked attentively at him, without replying.

‘Yet you are an ignorant man, you say,’ he observed after a long pause.

‘Werry much so,’ Mr Tapley replied.

‘And I a learned, well-instructed man, you think?’

‘Likewise wery much so,’ Mr Tapley answered.

The old man, with his chin resting on his hand, paced the room twice or thrice before he added:

‘You have left him this morning?’

‘Come straight from him now, sir.’

‘For what does he suppose?’

‘He don’t know what to suppose, sir, no more than myself. I told him jest wot passed yesterday, sir, and that you had said to me, “Can you be here by seven in the morning?” and that you had said to him, through me, “Can you be here by ten in the morning?” and that I had said “Yes” to both. That’s all, sir.’

His frankness was so genuine that it plainly WAS all.

‘Perhaps,’ said Martin, ‘he may think you are going to desert him, and to serve me?’

‘I have served him in that sort of way, sir,’ replied Mark, without the loss of any atom of his self-possession; ‘and we have been that sort of companions in misfortune, that my opinion is, he don’t believe a word on it. No more than you do, sir.’

‘Will you help me to dress, and get me some breakfast from the hotel?’ asked Martin.

‘With pleasure, sir,’ said Mark.

‘And by-and-bye,’ said Martin, ‘remaining in the room, as I wish you to do, will you attend to the door yonder—give admission to visitors, I mean, when they knock?’

‘Certainly, sir,’ said Mr Tapley.

‘You will not find it necessary to express surprise at their appearance,’ Martin suggested.

‘Oh dear no, sir!’ said Mr Tapley, ‘not at all.’

Although he pledged himself to this with perfect confidence, he was in a state of unbounded astonishment even now. Martin appeared to observe it, and to have some sense of the ludicrous bearing of Mr Tapley under these perplexing circumstances; for, in spite of the composure of his voice and the gravity of his face, the same indistinct light flickered on the latter several times. Mark bestirred himself, however, to execute the offices with which he was entrusted; and soon lost all tendency to any outward expression of his surprise, in the occupation of being brisk and busy.

But when he had put Mr Chuzzlewit’s clothes in good order for dressing, and when that gentleman was dressed and sitting at his breakfast, Mr Tapley’s feelings of wonder began to return upon him with great violence; and, standing beside the old man with a napkin under his arm (it was as natural and easy to joke to Mark to be a butler in the Temple, as it had been to volunteer as cook on board the Screw), he found it difficult to resist the temptation of casting sidelong glances at him very often. Nay, he found it impossible; and accordingly yielded to this impulse so often, that Martin caught him in the fact some fifty times. The extraordinary things Mr Tapley did with his own face when any of these detections occurred; the sudden occasions he had to rub his eyes or his nose or his chin; the look of wisdom with which he immediately plunged into the deepest thought, or became intensely interested in the habits and customs of the flies upon the ceiling, or the sparrows out of doors; or the overwhelming politeness with which he endeavoured to hide his confusion by handing the muffin; may not unreasonably be assumed to have exercised the utmost power of feature that even Martin Chuzzlewit the elder possessed.

But he sat perfectly quiet and took his breakfast at his leisure, or made a show of doing so, for he scarcely ate or drank, and frequently lapsed into long intervals of musing. When he had finished, Mark sat down to his breakfast at the same table; and Mr Chuzzlewit, quite silent still, walked up and down the room.

Mark cleared away in due course, and set a chair out for him, in which, as the time drew on towards ten o’clock, he took his seat, leaning his hands upon his stick, and clenching them upon the handle, and resting his chin on them again. All his impatience and abstraction of manner had vanished now; and as he sat there, looking, with his keen eyes, steadily towards the door, Mark could not help thinking what a firm, square, powerful face it was; or exulting in the thought that Mr Pecksniff, after playing a pretty long game of bowls with its owner, seemed to be at last in a very fair way of coming in for a rubber or two.

Mark’s uncertainty in respect of what was going to be done or said, and by whom to whom, would have excited him in itself. But knowing for a certainty besides, that young Martin was coming, and in a very few minutes must arrive, he found it by no means easy to remain quiet and silent. But, excepting that he occasionally coughed in a hollow and unnatural manner to relieve himself, he behaved with great decorum through the longest ten minutes he had ever known.

A knock at the door. Mr Westlock. Mr Tapley, in admitting him, raised his eyebrows to the highest possible pitch, implying thereby that he considered himself in an unsatisfactory position. Mr Chuzzlewit received him very courteously.

Mark waited at the door for Tom Pinch and his sister, who were coming up the stairs. The old man went to meet them; took their hands in his; and kissed her on the cheek. As this looked promising, Mr Tapley smiled benignantly.

Mr Chuzzlewit had resumed his chair before young Martin, who was close behind them, entered. The old man, scarcely looking at him, pointed to a distant seat. This was less encouraging; and Mr Tapley’s spirits fell again.

He was quickly summoned to the door by another knock. He did not start, or cry, or tumble down, at sight of Miss Graham and Mrs Lupin, but he drew a very long breath, and came back perfectly resigned, looking on them and on the rest with an expression which seemed to say that nothing could surprise him any more; and that he was rather glad to have done with that sensation for ever.

The old man received Mary no less tenderly than he had received Tom Pinch’s sister. A look of friendly recognition passed between himself and Mrs Lupin, which implied the existence of a perfect understanding between them. It engendered no astonishment in Mr Tapley; for, as he afterwards observed, he had retired from the business, and sold off the stock.

Not the least curious feature in this assemblage was, that everybody present was so much surprised and embarrassed by the sight of everybody else, that nobody ventured to speak. Mr Chuzzlewit alone broke silence.

‘Set the door open, Mark!’ he said; ‘and come here.’

Mark obeyed.

The last appointed footstep sounded now upon the stairs. They all knew it. It was Mr Pecksniff’s; and Mr Pecksniff was in a hurry too, for he came bounding up with such uncommon expedition that he stumbled twice or thrice.

‘Where is my venerable friend?’ he cried upon the upper landing; and then with open arms came darting in.

Old Martin merely looked at him; but Mr Pecksniff started back as if he had received the charge from an electric battery.

‘My venerable friend is well?’ cried Mr Pecksniff.

‘Quite well.’

It seemed to reassure the anxious inquirer. He clasped his hands and, looking upwards with a pious joy, silently expressed his gratitude. He then looked round on the assembled group, and shook his head reproachfully. For such a man severely, quite severely.

‘Oh, vermin!’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Oh, bloodsuckers! Is it not enough that you have embittered the existence of an individual wholly unparalleled in the biographical records of amiable persons, but must you now, even now, when he has made his election, and reposed his trust in a Numble, but at least sincere and disinterested relative; must you now, vermin and swarmers (I regret to make use of these strong expressions, my dear sir, but there are times when honest indignation will not be controlled), must you now, vermin and swarmers (for I WILL repeat it), take advantage of his unprotected state, assemble round him from all quarters, as wolves and vultures, and other animals of the feathered tribe assemble round—I will not say round carrion or a carcass, for Mr Chuzzlewit is quite the contrary—but round their prey; their prey; to rifle and despoil; gorging their voracious maws, and staining their offensive beaks, with every description of carnivorous enjoyment!’

As he stopped to fetch his breath, he waved them off, in a solemn manner, with his hand.

‘Horde of unnatural plunderers and robbers!’ he continued; ‘leave him! leave him, I say! Begone! Abscond! You had better be off! Wander over the face of the earth, young sirs, like vagabonds as you are, and do not presume to remain in a spot which is hallowed by the grey hairs of the patriarchal gentleman to whose tottering limbs I have the honour to act as an unworthy, but I hope an unassuming, prop and staff. And you, my tender sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, addressing himself in a tone of gentle remonstrance to the old man, ‘how could you ever leave me, though even for this short period! You have absented yourself, I do not doubt, upon some act of kindness to me; bless you for it; but you must not do it; you must not be so venturesome. I should really be angry with you if I could, my friend!’

He advanced with outstretched arms to take the old man’s hand. But he had not seen how the hand clasped and clutched the stick within its grasp. As he came smiling on, and got within his reach, old Martin, with his burning indignation crowded into one vehement burst, and flashing out of every line and wrinkle in his face, rose up, and struck him down upon the ground.

With such a well-directed nervous blow, that down he went, as heavily and true as if the charge of a Life-Guardsman had tumbled him out of a saddle. And whether he was stunned by the shock, or only confused by the wonder and novelty of this warm reception, he did not offer to get up again; but lay there, looking about him with a disconcerted meekness in his face so enormously ridiculous, that neither Mark Tapley nor John Westlock could repress a smile, though both were actively interposing to prevent a repetition of the blow; which the old man’s gleaming eyes and vigorous attitude seemed to render one of the most probable events in the world.

‘Drag him away! Take him out of my reach!’ said Martin; ‘or I can’t help it. The strong restraint I have put upon my hands has been enough to palsy them. I am not master of myself while he is within their range. Drag him away!’

Seeing that he still did not rise, Mr Tapley, without any compromise about it, actually did drag him away, and stick him up on the floor, with his back against the opposite wall.

‘Hear me, rascal!’ said Mr Chuzzlewit. ‘I have summoned you here to witness your own work. I have summoned you here to witness it, because I know it will be gall and wormwood to you! I have summoned you here to witness it, because I know the sight of everybody here must be a dagger in your mean, false heart! What! do you know me as I am, at last!’

Mr Pecksniff had cause to stare at him, for the triumph in his face and speech and figure was a sight to stare at.

‘Look there!’ said the old man, pointing at him, and appealing to the rest. ‘Look there! And then—come hither, my dear Martin—look here! here! here!’ At every repetition of the word he pressed his grandson closer to his breast.

‘The passion I felt, Martin, when I dared not do this,’ he said, ‘was in the blow I struck just now. Why did we ever part! How could we ever part! How could you ever fly from me to him!’

Martin was about to answer, but he stopped him, and went on.

‘The fault was mine no less than yours. Mark has told me so today, and I have known it long; though not so long as I might have done. Mary, my love, come here.’

As she trembled and was very pale, he sat her in his own chair, and stood beside it with her hand in his; and Martin standing by him.

‘The curse of our house,’ said the old man, looking kindly down upon her, ‘has been the love of self; has ever been the love of self. How often have I said so, when I never knew that I had wrought it upon others.’

He drew one hand through Martin’s arm, and standing so, between them, proceeded thus:

‘You all know how I bred this orphan up, to tend me. None of you can know by what degrees I have come to regard her as a daughter; for she has won upon me, by her self-forgetfulness, her tenderness, her patience, all the goodness of her nature, when Heaven is her witness that I took but little pains to draw it forth. It blossomed without cultivation, and it ripened without heat. I cannot find it in my heart to say that I am sorry for it now, or yonder fellow might be holding up his head.’

Mr Pecksniff put his hand into his waistcoat, and slightly shook that part of him to which allusion had been made; as if to signify that it was still uppermost.

‘There is a kind of selfishness,’ said Martin—‘I have learned it in my own experience of my own breast—which is constantly upon the watch for selfishness in others; and holding others at a distance, by suspicions and distrusts, wonders why they don’t approach, and don’t confide, and calls that selfishness in them. Thus I once doubted those about me—not without reason in the beginning—and thus I once doubted you, Martin.’

‘Not without reason,’ Martin answered, ‘either.’

‘Listen, hypocrite! Listen, smooth-tongued, servile, crawling knave!’ said Martin. ‘Listen, you shallow dog. What! When I was seeking him, you had already spread your nets; you were already fishing for him, were ye? When I lay ill in this good woman’s house and your meek spirit pleaded for my grandson, you had already caught him, had ye? Counting on the restoration of the love you knew I bore him, you designed him for one of your two daughters did ye? Or failing that, you traded in him as a speculation which at any rate should blind me with the lustre of your charity, and found a claim upon me! Why, even then I knew you, and I told you so. Did I tell you that I knew you, even then?’

‘I am not angry, sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, softly. ‘I can bear a great deal from you. I will never contradict you, Mr Chuzzlewit.’

‘Observe!’ said Martin, looking round. ‘I put myself in that man’s hands on terms as mean and base, and as degrading to himself, as I could render them in words. I stated them at length to him, before his own children, syllable by syllable, as coarsely as I could, and with as much offence, and with as plain an exposition of my contempt, as words—not looks and manner merely—could convey. If I had only called the angry blood into his face, I would have wavered in my purpose. If I had only stung him into being a man for a minute I would have abandoned it. If he had offered me one word of remonstrance, in favour of the grandson whom he supposed I had disinherited; if he had pleaded with me, though never so faintly, against my appeal to him to abandon him to misery and cast him from his house; I think I could have borne with him for ever afterwards. But not a word, not a word. Pandering to the worst of human passions was the office of his nature; and faithfully he did his work!’

‘I am not angry,’ observed Mr Pecksniff. ‘I am hurt, Mr Chuzzlewit; wounded in my feelings; but I am not angry, my good sir.’

Mr Chuzzlewit resumed.

‘Once resolved to try him, I was resolute to pursue the trial to the end; but while I was bent on fathoming the depth of his duplicity, I made a sacred compact with myself that I would give him credit on the other side for any latent spark of goodness, honour, forbearance—any virtue—that might glimmer in him. For first to last there has been no such thing. Not once. He cannot say I have not given him opportunity. He cannot say I have ever led him on. He cannot say I have not left him freely to himself in all things; or that I have not been a passive instrument in his hands, which he might have used for good as easily as evil. Or if he can, he Lies! And that’s his nature, too.’

‘Mr Chuzzlewit,’ interrupted Pecksniff, shedding tears. ‘I am not angry, sir. I cannot be angry with you. But did you never, my dear sir, express a desire that the unnatural young man who by his wicked arts has estranged your good opinion from me, for the time being; only for the time being; that your grandson, Mr Chuzzlewit, should be dismissed my house? Recollect yourself, my Christian friend.’

‘I have said so, have I not?’ retorted the old man, sternly. ‘I could not tell how far your specious hypocrisy had deceived him, knave; and knew no better way of opening his eyes than by presenting you before him in your own servile character. Yes. I did express that desire. And you leaped to meet it; and you met it; and turning in an instant on the hand you had licked and beslavered, as only such hounds can, you strengthened, and confirmed, and justified me in my scheme.’

Mr Pecksniff made a bow; a submissive, not to say a grovelling and an abject bow. If he had been complimented on his practice of the loftiest virtues, he never could have bowed as he bowed then.

‘The wretched man who has been murdered,’ Mr Chuzzlewit went on to say; ‘then passing by the name of—’

‘Tigg,’ suggested Mark.

‘Of Tigg; brought begging messages to me on behalf of a friend of his, and an unworthy relative of mine; and finding him a man well enough suited to my purpose, I employed him to glean some news of you, Martin, for me. It was from him I learned that you had taken up your abode with yonder fellow. It was he, who meeting you here in town, one evening—you remember where?’

‘At the pawnbroker’s shop,’ said Martin.

‘Yes; watched you to your lodging, and enabled me to send you a bank-note.’

‘I little thought,’ said Martin, greatly moved, ‘that it had come from you; I little thought that you were interested in my fate. If I had—’

‘If you had,’ returned the old man, sorrowfully, ‘you would have shown less knowledge of me as I seemed to be, and as I really was. I hoped to bring you back, Martin, penitent and humbled. I hoped to distress you into coming back to me. Much as I loved you, I had that to acknowledge which I could not reconcile it to myself to avow, then, unless you made submission to me first. Thus it was I lost you. If I have had, indirectly, any act or part in the fate of that unhappy man, by putting means, however small, within his reach, Heaven forgive me! I might have known, perhaps, that he would misuse money; that it was ill-bestowed upon him; and that sown by his hands it could engender mischief only. But I never thought of him at that time as having the disposition or ability to be a serious impostor, or otherwise than as a thoughtless, idle-humoured, dissipated spendthrift, sinning more against himself than others, and frequenting low haunts and indulging vicious tastes, to his own ruin only.’

‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir,’ said Mr Tapley, who had Mrs Lupin on his arm by this time, quite agreeably; ‘if I may make so bold as say so, my opinion is, as you was quite correct, and that he turned out perfectly nat’ral for all that. There’s surprisin’ number of men sir, who as long as they’ve only got their own shoes and stockings to depend upon, will walk down hill, along the gutters quiet enough and by themselves, and not do much harm. But set any on ‘em up with a coach and horses, sir; and it’s wonderful what a knowledge of drivin’ he’ll show, and how he’ll fill his wehicle with passengers, and start off in the middle of the road, neck or nothing, to the Devil! Bless your heart, sir, there’s ever so many Tiggs a-passin’ this here Temple-gate any hour in the day, that only want a chance to turn out full-blown Montagues every one!’

‘Your ignorance, as you call it, Mark,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit, ‘is wiser than some men’s enlightenment, and mine among them. You are right; not for the first time to-day. Now hear me out, my dears. And hear me, you, who, if what I have been told be accurately stated, are Bankrupt in pocket no less than in good name! And when you have heard me, leave this place, and poison my sight no more!’

Mr Pecksniff laid his hand upon his breast, and bowed again.

‘The penance I have done in this house,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit, ‘has earned this reflection with it constantly, above all others. That if it had pleased Heaven to visit such infirmity on my old age as really had reduced me to the state in which I feigned to be, I should have brought its misery upon myself. Oh, you whose wealth, like mine, has been a source of continual unhappiness, leading you to distrust the nearest and dearest, and to dig yourself a living grave of suspicion and reserve; take heed that, having cast off all whom you might have bound to you, and tenderly, you do not become in your decay the instrument of such a man as this, and waken in another world to the knowledge of such wrong as would embitter Heaven itself, if wrong or you could ever reach it!’

And then he told them how he had sometimes thought, in the beginning, that love might grow up between Mary and Martin; and how he had pleased his fancy with the picture of observing it when it was new, and taking them to task, apart, in counterfeited doubt, and then confessing to them that it had been an object dear to his heart; and by his sympathy with them, and generous provision for their young fortunes, establishing a claim on their affection and regard which nothing should wither, and which should surround his old age with means of happiness. How in the first dawn of this design, and when the pleasure of such a scheme for the happiness of others was new and indistinct within him, Martin had come to tell him that he had already chosen for himself; knowing that he, the old man, had some faint project on that head, but ignorant whom it concerned. How it was little comfort to him to know that Martin had chosen Her, because the grace of his design was lost, and because finding that she had returned his love, he tortured himself with the reflection that they, so young, to whom he had been so kind a benefactor, were already like the world, and bent on their own selfish, stealthy ends. How in the bitterness of this impression, and of his past experience, he had reproached Martin so harshly (forgetting that he had never invited his confidence on such a point, and confounding what he had meant to do with what he had done), that high words sprung up between them, and they separated in wrath. How he loved him still, and hoped he would return. How on the night of his illness at the Dragon, he had secretly written tenderly of him, and made him his heir, and sanctioned his marriage with Mary; and how, after his interview with Mr Pecksniff, he had distrusted him again, and burnt the paper to ashes, and had lain down in his bed distracted by suspicions, doubts, and regrets.

And then he told them how, resolved to probe this Pecksniff, and to prove the constancy and truth of Mary (to himself no less than Martin), he had conceived and entered on his plan; and how, beneath her gentleness and patience, he had softened more and more; still more and more beneath the goodness and simplicity, the honour and the manly faith of Tom. And when he spoke of Tom, he said God bless him; and the tears were in his eyes; for he said that Tom, mistrusted and disliked by him at first, had come like summer rain upon his heart; and had disposed it to believe in better things. And Martin took him by the hand, and Mary too, and John, his old friend, stoutly too; and Mark, and Mrs Lupin, and his sister, little Ruth. And peace of mind, deep, tranquil peace of mind, was in Tom’s heart.

The old man then related how nobly Mr Pecksniff had performed the duty in which he stood indebted to society, in the matter of Tom’s dismissal; and how, having often heard disparagement of Mr Westlock from Pecksniffian lips, and knowing him to be a friend to Tom, he had used, through his confidential agent and solicitor, that little artifice which had kept him in readiness to receive his unknown friend in London. And he called on Mr Pecksniff (by the name of Scoundrel) to remember that there again he had not trapped him to do evil, but that he had done it of his own free will and agency; nay, that he had cautioned him against it. And once again he called on Mr Pecksniff (by the name of Hang-dog) to remember that when Martin coming home at last, an altered man, had sued for the forgiveness which awaited him, he, Pecksniff, had rejected him in language of his own, and had remorsely stepped in between him and the least touch of natural tenderness. ‘For which,’ said the old man, ‘if the bending of my finger would remove a halter from your neck, I wouldn’t bend it!’

‘Martin,’ he added, ‘your rival has not been a dangerous one, but Mrs Lupin here has played duenna for some weeks; not so much to watch your love as to watch her lover. For that Ghoul’—his fertility in finding names for Mr Pecksniff was astonishing—‘would have crawled into her daily walks otherwise, and polluted the fresh air. What’s this? Her hand is trembling strangely. See if you can hold it.’

Hold it! If he clasped it half as tightly as he did her waist. Well, well!

But it was good in him that even then, in his high fortune and happiness, with her lips nearly printed on his own, and her proud young beauty in his close embrace, he had a hand still left to stretch out to Tom Pinch.

‘Oh, Tom! Dear Tom! I saw you, accidentally, coming here. Forgive me!’

‘Forgive!’ cried Tom. ‘I’ll never forgive you as long as I live, Martin, if you say another syllable about it. Joy to you both! Joy, my dear fellow, fifty thousand times.’

Joy! There is not a blessing on earth that Tom did not wish them. There is not a blessing on earth that Tom would not have bestowed upon them, if he could.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Mr Tapley, stepping forward, ‘but yow was mentionin’, just now, a lady of the name of Lupin, sir.’

‘I was,’ returned old Martin

‘Yes, sir. It’s a pretty name, sir?’

‘A very good name,’ said Martin.

‘It seems a’most a pity to change such a name into Tapley. Don’t it, sir?’ said Mark.

‘That depends upon the lady. What is HER opinion?’

‘Why, sir,’ said Mr Tapley, retiring, with a bow, towards the buxom hostess, ‘her opinion is as the name ain’t a change for the better, but the indiwidual may be, and, therefore, if nobody ain’t acquainted with no jest cause or impediment, et cetrer, the Blue Dragon will be con-werted into the Jolly Tapley. A sign of my own inwention, sir. Wery new, conwivial, and expressive!’

The whole of these proceedings were so agreeable to Mr Pecksniff that he stood with his eyes fixed upon the floor and his hands clasping one another alternately, as if a host of penal sentences were being passed upon him. Not only did his figure appear to have shrunk, but his discomfiture seemed to have extended itself even to his dress. His clothes seemed to have grown shabbier, his linen to have turned yellow, his hair to have become lank and frowsy; his very boots looked villanous and dim, as if their gloss had departed with his own.

Feeling, rather than seeing, that the old man now pointed to the door, he raised his eyes, picked up his hat, and thus addressed him:

‘Mr Chuzzlewit, sir! you have partaken of my hospitality.’

‘And paid for it,’ he observed.

‘Thank you. That savours,’ said Mr Pecksniff, taking out his pocket-handkerchief, ‘of your old familiar frankness. You have paid for it. I was about to make the remark. You have deceived me, sir. Thank you again. I am glad of it. To see you in the possession of your health and faculties on any terms, is, in itself, a sufficient recompense. To have been deceived implies a trusting nature. Mine is a trusting nature. I am thankful for it. I would rather have a trusting nature, do you know, sir, than a doubting one!’

Here Mr Pecksniff, with a sad smile, bowed, and wiped his eyes.

‘There is hardly any person present, Mr Chuzzlewit,’ said Pecksniff, ‘by whom I have not been deceived. I have forgiven those persons on the spot. That was my duty; and, of course, I have done it. Whether it was worthy of you to partake of my hospitality, and to act the part you did act in my house, that, sir, is a question which I leave to your own conscience. And your conscience does not acquit you. No, sir, no!’

Pronouncing these last words in a loud and solemn voice, Mr Pecksniff was not so absolutely lost in his own fervour as to be unmindful of the expediency of getting a little nearer to the door.

‘I have been struck this day,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘with a walking stick (which I have every reason to believe has knobs upon it), on that delicate and exquisite portion of the human anatomy—the brain. Several blows have been inflicted, sir, without a walking-stick, upon that tenderer portion of my frame—my heart. You have mentioned, sir, my being bankrupt in my purse. Yes, sir, I am. By an unfortunate speculation, combined with treachery, I find myself reduced to poverty; at a time, sir, when the child of my bosom is widowed, and affliction and disgrace are in my family.’

Here Mr Pecksniff wiped his eyes again, and gave himself two or three little knocks upon the breast, as if he were answering two or three other little knocks from within, given by the tinkling hammer of his conscience, to express ‘Cheer up, my boy!’

‘I know the human mind, although I trust it. That is my weakness. Do I not know, sir’—here he became exceedingly plaintive and was observed to glance towards Tom Pinch—‘that my misfortunes bring this treatment on me? Do I not know, sir, that but for them I never should have heard what I have heard to-day? Do I not know that in the silence and the solitude of night, a little voice will whisper in your ear, Mr Chuzzlewit, “This was not well. This was not well, sir!” Think of this, sir (if you will have the goodness), remote from the impulses of passion, and apart from the specialities, if I may use that strong remark, of prejudice. And if you ever contemplate the silent tomb, sir, which you will excuse me for entertaining some doubt of your doing, after the conduct into which you have allowed yourself to be betrayed this day; if you ever contemplate the silent tomb sir, think of me. If you find yourself approaching to the silent tomb, sir, think of me. If you should wish to have anything inscribed upon your silent tomb, sir, let it be, that I—ah, my remorseful sir! that I—the humble individual who has now the honour of reproaching you, forgave you. That I forgave you when my injuries were fresh, and when my bosom was newly wrung. It may be bitterness to you to hear it now, sir, but you will live to seek a consolation in it. May you find a consolation in it when you want it, sir! Good morning!’

With this sublime address, Mr Pecksniff departed. But the effect of his departure was much impaired by his being immediately afterwards run against, and nearly knocked down, by a monstrously excited little man in velveteen shorts and a very tall hat; who came bursting up the stairs, and straight into the chambers of Mr Chuzzlewit, as if he were deranged.

‘Is there anybody here that knows him?’ cried the little man. ‘Is there anybody here that knows him? Oh, my stars, is there anybody here that knows him?’

They looked at each other for an explanation; but nobody knew anything more than that here was an excited little man with a very tall hat on, running in and out of the room as hard as he could go; making his single pair of bright blue stockings appear at least a dozen; and constantly repeating in a shrill voice, ‘IS there anybody here that knows him?’

‘If your brains is not turned topjy turjey, Mr Sweedlepipes!’ exclaimed another voice, ‘hold that there nige of yourn, I beg you, sir.’

At the same time Mrs Gamp was seen in the doorway; out of breath from coming up so many stairs, and panting fearfully; but dropping curtseys to the last.

‘Excuge the weakness of the man,’ said Mrs Gamp, eyeing Mr Sweedlepipe with great indignation; ‘and well I might expect it, as I should have know’d, and wishin’ he was drownded in the Thames afore I had brought him here, which not a blessed hour ago he nearly shaved the noge off from the father of as lovely a family as ever, Mr Chuzzlewit, was born three sets of twins, and would have done it, only he see it a-goin’ in the glass, and dodged the rager. And never, Mr Sweedlepipes, I do assure you, sir, did I so well know what a misfortun it was to be acquainted with you, as now I do, which so I say, sir, and I don’t deceive you!’

‘I ask your pardon, ladies and gentlemen all,’ cried the little barber, taking off his hat, ‘and yours too, Mrs Gamp. But—but,’ he added this half laughing and half crying, ‘IS there anybody here that knows him?’

As the barber said these words, a something in top-boots, with its head bandaged up, staggered into the room, and began going round and round and round, apparently under the impression that it was walking straight forward.

‘Look at him!’ cried the excited little barber. ‘Here he is! That’ll soon wear off, and then he’ll be all right again. He’s no more dead than I am. He’s all alive and hearty. Aint you, Bailey?’

‘R—r—reether so, Poll!’ replied that gentleman.

‘Look here!’ cried the little barber, laughing and crying in the same breath. ‘When I steady him he comes all right. There! He’s all right now. Nothing’s the matter with him now, except that he’s a little shook and rather giddy; is there, Bailey?’

‘R—r—reether shook, Poll—reether so!’ said Mr Bailey. ‘What, my lovely Sairey! There you air!’

‘What a boy he is!’ cried the tender-hearted Poll, actually sobbing over him. ‘I never see sech a boy! It’s all his fun. He’s full of it. He shall go into the business along with me. I am determined he shall. We’ll make it Sweedlepipe and Bailey. He shall have the sporting branch (what a one he’ll be for the matches!) and me the shavin’. I’ll make over the birds to him as soon as ever he’s well enough. He shall have the little bullfinch in the shop, and all. He’s sech a boy! I ask your pardon, ladies and gentlemen, but I thought there might be some one here that know’d him!’

Mrs Gamp had observed, not without jealousy and scorn, that a favourable impression appeared to exist in behalf of Mr Sweedlepipe and his young friend; and that she had fallen rather into the background in consequence. She now struggled to the front, therefore, and stated her business.

‘Which, Mr Chuzzlewit,’ she said, ‘is well beknown to Mrs Harris as has one sweet infant (though she DO not wish it known) in her own family by the mother’s side, kep in spirits in a bottle; and that sweet babe she see at Greenwich Fair, a-travelling in company with a pink-eyed lady, Prooshan dwarf, and livin’ skelinton, which judge her feelings when the barrel organ played, and she was showed her own dear sister’s child, the same not bein’ expected from the outside picter, where it was painted quite contrairy in a livin’ state, a many sizes larger, and performing beautiful upon the Arp, which never did that dear child know or do; since breathe it never did, to speak on in this wale! And Mrs Harris, Mr Chuzzlewit, has knowed me many year, and can give you information that the lady which is widdered can’t do better and may do worse, than let me wait upon her, which I hope to do. Permittin’ the sweet faces as I see afore me.’

‘Oh!’ said Mr Chuzzlewit. ‘Is that your business? Was this good person paid for the trouble we gave her?’

‘I paid her, sir,’ returned Mark Tapley; ‘liberal.’

‘The young man’s words is true,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘and thank you kindly.’

‘Then here we will close our acquaintance, Mrs Gamp,’ retorted Mr Chuzzlewit. ‘And Mr Sweedlepipe—is that your name?’

‘That is my name, sir,’ replied Poll, accepting with a profusion of gratitude, some chinking pieces which the old man slipped into his hand.

‘Mr Sweedlepipe, take as much care of your lady-lodger as you can, and give her a word or two of good advice now and then. Such,’ said old Martin, looking gravely at the astonished Mrs Gamp, ‘as hinting at the expediency of a little less liquor, and a little more humanity, and a little less regard for herself, and a little more regard for her patients, and perhaps a trifle of additional honesty. Or when Mrs Gamp gets into trouble, Mr Sweedlepipe, it had better not be at a time when I am near enough to the Old Bailey to volunteer myself as a witness to her character. Endeavour to impress that upon her at your leisure, if you please.’

Mrs Gamp clasped her hands, turned up her eyes until they were quite invisible, threw back her bonnet for the admission of fresh air to her heated brow; and in the act of saying faintly—‘Less liquor!—Sairey Gamp—Bottle on the chimney-piece, and let me put my lips to it, when I am so dispoged!’—fell into one of the walking swoons; in which pitiable state she was conducted forth by Mr Sweedlepipe, who, between his two patients, the swooning Mrs Gamp and the revolving Bailey, had enough to do, poor fellow.

The old man looked about him, with a smile, until his eyes rested on Tom Pinch’s sister; when he smiled the more.

‘We will all dine here together,’ he said; ‘and as you and Mary have enough to talk of, Martin, you shall keep house for us until the afternoon, with Mr and Mrs Tapley. I must see your lodgings in the meanwhile, Tom.’

Tom was quite delighted. So was Ruth. She would go with them.

‘Thank you, my love,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit. ‘But I am afraid I must take Tom a little out of the way, on business. Suppose you go on first, my dear?’

Pretty little Ruth was equally delighted to do that.

‘But not alone,’ said Martin, ‘not alone. Mr Westlock, I dare say, will escort you.’

Why, of course he would: what else had Mr Westlock in his mind? How dull these old men are!

‘You are sure you have no engagement?’ he persisted.

Engagement! As if he could have any engagement!

So they went off arm-in-arm. When Tom and Mr Chuzzlewit went off arm-in-arm a few minutes after them, the latter was still smiling; and really, for a gentleman of his habits, in rather a knowing manner.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

WHAT JOHN WESTLOCK SAID TO TOM PINCH’S SISTER; WHAT TOM PINCH’S SISTER SAID TO JOHN WESTLOCK; WHAT TOM PINCH SAID TO BOTH OF THEM; AND HOW THEY ALL PASSED THE REMAINDER OF THE DAY

Brilliantly the Temple Fountain sparkled in the sun, and laughingly its liquid music played, and merrily the idle drops of water danced and danced, and peeping out in sport among the trees, plunged lightly down to hide themselves, as little Ruth and her companion came toward it.

And why they came toward the Fountain at all is a mystery; for they had no business there. It was not in their way. It was quite out of their way. They had no more to do with the Fountain, bless you, than they had with—with Love, or any out-of-the-way thing of that sort.

It was all very well for Tom and his sister to make appointments by the Fountain, but that was quite another affair. Because, of course, when she had to wait a minute or two, it would have been very awkward for her to have had to wait in any but a tolerably quiet spot; but that was as quiet a spot, everything considered, as they could choose. But when she had John Westlock to take care of her, and was going home with her arm in his (home being in a different direction altogether), their coming anywhere near that Fountain was quite extraordinary.

However, there they found themselves. And another extraordinary part of the matter was, that they seemed to have come there, by a silent understanding. Yet when they got there, they were a little confused by being there, which was the strangest part of all; because there is nothing naturally confusing in a Fountain. We all know that.

‘What a good old place it was!’ John said. With quite an earnest affection for it.

‘A pleasant place indeed,’ said little Ruth. ‘So shady!’

Oh wicked little Ruth!

They came to a stop when John began to praise it. The day was exquisite; and stopping at all, it was quite natural—nothing could be more so—that they should glance down Garden Court; because Garden Court ends in the Garden, and the Garden ends in the River, and that glimpse is very bright and fresh and shining on a summer’s day. Then, oh, little Ruth, why not look boldly at it! Why fit that tiny, precious, blessed little foot into the cracked corner of an insensible old flagstone in the pavement; and be so very anxious to adjust it to a nicety!

If the Fiery-faced matron in the crunched bonnet could have seen them as they walked away, how many years’ purchase might Fiery Face have been disposed to take for her situation in Furnival’s Inn as laundress to Mr Westlock!

They went away, but not through London’s streets! Through some enchanted city, where the pavements were of air; where all the rough sounds of a stirring town were softened into gentle music; where everything was happy; where there was no distance, and no time. There were two good-tempered burly draymen letting down big butts of beer into a cellar, somewhere; and when John helped her—almost lifted her—the lightest, easiest, neatest thing you ever saw—across the rope, they said he owed them a good turn for giving him the chance. Celestial draymen!

Green pastures in the summer tide, deep-littered straw yards in the winter, no start of corn and clover, ever, to that noble horse who WOULD dance on the pavement with a gig behind him, and who frightened her, and made her clasp his arm with both hands (both hands meeting one upon the another so endearingly!), and caused her to implore him to take refuge in the pastry-cook’s, and afterwards to peep out at the door so shrinkingly; and then, looking at him with those eyes, to ask him was he sure—now was he sure—they might go safely on! Oh for a string of rampant horses! For a lion, for a bear, for a mad bull, for anything to bring the little hands together on his arm again!

They talked, of course. They talked of Tom, and all these changes and the attachment Mr Chuzzlewit had conceived for him, and the bright prospects he had in such a friend, and a great deal more to the same purpose. The more they talked, the more afraid this fluttering little Ruth became of any pause; and sooner than have a pause she would say the same things over again; and if she hadn’t courage or presence of mind enough for that (to say the truth she very seldom had), she was ten thousand times more charming and irresistible than she had been before.

‘Martin will be married very soon now, I suppose?’ said John.

She supposed he would. Never did a bewitching little woman suppose anything in such a faint voice as Ruth supposed that.

But seeing that another of those alarming pauses was approaching, she remarked that he would have a beautiful wife. Didn’t Mr Westlock think so?

‘Ye—yes,’ said John, ‘oh, yes.’

She feared he was rather hard to please, he spoke so coldly.

‘Rather say already pleased,’ said John. ‘I have scarcely seen her. I had no care to see her. I had no eyes for HER, this morning.’

Oh, good gracious!

It was well they had reached their destination. She never could have gone any further. It would have been impossible to walk in such a tremble.

Tom had not come in. They entered the triangular parlour together, and alone. Fiery Face, Fiery Face, how many years’ purchase NOW!

She sat down on the little sofa, and untied her bonnet-strings. He sat down by her side, and very near her; very, very near her. Oh rapid, swelling, bursting little heart, you knew that it would come to this, and hoped it would. Why beat so wildly, heart!

‘Dear Ruth! Sweet Ruth! If I had loved you less, I could have told you that I loved you, long ago. I have loved you from the first. There never was a creature in the world more truly loved than you, dear Ruth, by me!’

She clasped her little hands before her face. The gushing tears of joy, and pride, and hope, and innocent affection, would not be restrained. Fresh from her full young heart they came to answer him.

‘My dear love! If this is—I almost dare to hope it is, now—not painful or distressing to you, you make me happier than I can tell, or you imagine. Darling Ruth! My own good, gentle, winning Ruth! I hope I know the value of your heart, I hope I know the worth of your angel nature. Let me try and show you that I do; and you will make me happier, Ruth—’

‘Not happier,’ she sobbed, ‘than you make me. No one can be happier, John, than you make me!’

Fiery Face, provide yourself! The usual wages or the usual warning. It’s all over, Fiery Face. We needn’t trouble you any further.

The little hands could meet each other now, without a rampant horse to urge them. There was no occasion for lions, bears, or mad bulls. It could all be done, and infinitely better, without their assistance. No burly drayman or big butts of beer, were wanted for apologies. No apology at all was wanted. The soft light touch fell coyly, but quite naturally, upon the lover’s shoulder; the delicate waist, the drooping head, the blushing cheek, the beautiful eyes, the exquisite mouth itself, were all as natural as possible. If all the horses in Araby had run away at once, they couldn’t have improved upon it.

They soon began to talk of Tom again.

‘I hope he will be glad to hear of it!’ said John, with sparkling eyes.

Ruth drew the little hands a little tighter when he said it, and looked up seriously into his face.

‘I am never to leave him, AM I, dear? I could never leave Tom. I am sure you know that.’

‘Do you think I would ask you?’ he returned, with a—well! Never mind with what.

‘I am sure you never would,’ she answered, the bright tears standing in her eyes.

‘And I will swear it, Ruth, my darling, if you please. Leave Tom! That would be a strange beginning. Leave Tom, dear! If Tom and we be not inseparable, and Tom (God bless him) have not all honour and all love in our home, my little wife, may that home never be! And that’s a strong oath, Ruth.’

Shall it be recorded how she thanked him? Yes, it shall. In all simplicity and innocence and purity of heart, yet with a timid, graceful, half-determined hesitation, she set a little rosy seal upon the vow, whose colour was reflected in her face, and flashed up to the braiding of her dark brown hair.

‘Tom will be so happy, and so proud, and glad,’ she said, clasping her little hands. ‘But so surprised! I am sure he had never thought of such a thing.’

Of course John asked her immediately—because you know they were in that foolish state when great allowances must be made—when SHE had begun to think of such a thing, and this made a little diversion in their talk; a charming diversion to them, but not so interesting to us; at the end of which, they came back to Tom again.

‘Ah! dear Tom!’ said Ruth. ‘I suppose I ought to tell you everything now. I should have no secrets from you. Should I, John, love?’

It is of no use saying how that preposterous John answered her, because he answered in a manner which is untranslatable on paper though highly satisfactory in itself. But what he conveyed was, No no no, sweet Ruth; or something to that effect.

Then she told him Tom’s great secret; not exactly saying how she had found it out, but leaving him to understand it if he liked; and John was sadly grieved to hear it, and was full of sympathy and sorrow. But they would try, he said, only the more, on this account to make him happy, and to beguile him with his favourite pursuits. And then, in all the confidence of such a time, he told her how he had a capital opportunity of establishing himself in his old profession in the country; and how he had been thinking, in the event of that happiness coming upon him which had actually come—there was another slight diversion here—how he had been thinking that it would afford occupation to Tom, and enable them to live together in the easiest manner, without any sense of dependence on Tom’s part; and to be as happy as the day was long. And Ruth receiving this with joy, they went on catering for Tom to that extent that they had already purchased him a select library and built him an organ, on which he was performing with the greatest satisfaction, when they heard him knocking at the door.

Though she longed to tell him what had happened, poor little Ruth was greatly agitated by his arrival; the more so because she knew that Mr Chuzzlewit was with him. So she said, all in a tremble:

‘What shall I do, dear John! I can’t bear that he should hear it from any one but me, and I could not tell him, unless we were alone.’

‘Do, my love,’ said John, ‘whatever is natural to you on the impulse of the moment, and I am sure it will be right.’

He had hardly time to say thus much, and Ruth had hardly time to—just to get a little farther off—upon the sofa, when Tom and Mr Chuzzlewit came in. Mr Chuzzlewit came first, and Tom was a few seconds behind him.

Now Ruth had hastily resolved that she would beckon Tom upstairs after a short time, and would tell him in his little bedroom. But when she saw his dear old face come in, her heart was so touched that she ran into his arms, and laid her head down on his breast and sobbed out, ‘Bless me, Tom! My dearest brother!’

Tom looked up, in surprise, and saw John Westlock close beside him, holding out his hand.

‘John!’ cried Tom. ‘John!’

‘Dear Tom,’ said his friend, ‘give me your hand. We are brothers, Tom.’

Tom wrung it with all his force, embraced his sister fervently, and put her in John Westlock’s arms.

‘Don’t speak to me, John. Heaven is very good to us. I—’ Tom could find no further utterance, but left the room; and Ruth went after him.

And when they came back, which they did by-and-bye, she looked more beautiful, and Tom more good and true (if that were possible) than ever. And though Tom could not speak upon the subject even now; being yet too newly glad, he put both his hands in both of John’s with emphasis sufficient for the best speech ever spoken.

‘I am glad you chose to-day,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit to John; with the same knowing smile as when they had left him. ‘I thought you would. I hoped Tom and I lingered behind a discreet time. It’s so long since I had any practical knowledge of these subjects, that I have been anxious, I assure you.’

‘Your knowledge is still pretty accurate, sir,’ returned John, laughing, ‘if it led you to foresee what would happen to-day.’

‘Why, I am not sure, Mr Westlock,’ said the old man, ‘that any great spirit of prophecy was needed, after seeing you and Ruth together. Come hither, pretty one. See what Tom and I purchased this morning, while you were dealing in exchange with that young merchant there.’

The old man’s way of seating her beside him, and humouring his voice as if she were a child, was whimsical enough, but full of tenderness, and not ill adapted, somehow, to little Ruth.

‘See here!’ he said, taking a case from his pocket, ‘what a beautiful necklace. Ah! How it glitters! Earrings, too, and bracelets, and a zone for your waist. This set is yours, and Mary has another like it. Tom couldn’t understand why I wanted two. What a short-sighted Tom! Earrings and bracelets, and a zone for your waist! Ah! Beautiful! Let us see how brave they look. Ask Mr Westlock to clasp them on.’

It was the prettiest thing to see her holding out her round, white arm; and John (oh deep, deep John!) pretending that the bracelet was very hard to fasten; it was the prettiest thing to see her girding on the precious little zone, and yet obliged to have assistance because her fingers were in such terrible perplexity; it was the prettiest thing to see her so confused and bashful, with the smiles and blushes playing brightly on her face, like the sparkling light upon the jewels; it was the prettiest thing that you would see, in the common experiences of a twelvemonth, rely upon it.

‘The set of jewels and the wearer are so well matched,’ said the old man, ‘that I don’t know which becomes the other most. Mr Westlock could tell me, I have no doubt, but I’ll not ask him, for he is bribed. Health to wear them, my dear, and happiness to make you forgetful of them, except as a remembrance from a loving friend!’

He patted her upon the cheek, and said to Tom:

‘I must play the part of a father here, Tom, also. There are not many fathers who marry two such daughters on the same day; but we will overlook the improbability for the gratification of an old man’s fancy. I may claim that much indulgence,’ he added, ‘for I have gratified few fancies enough in my life tending to the happiness of others, Heaven knows!’

These various proceedings had occupied so much time, and they fell into such a pleasant conversation now, that it was within a quarter of an hour of the time appointed for dinner before any of them thought about it. A hackney-coach soon carried them to the Temple, however; and there they found everything prepared for their reception.

Mr Tapley having been furnished with unlimited credentials relative to the ordering of dinner, had so exerted himself for the honour of the party, that a prodigious banquet was served, under the joint direction of himself and his Intended. Mr Chuzzlewit would have had them of the party, and Martin urgently seconded his wish, but Mark could by no means be persuaded to sit down at table; observing, that in having the honour of attending to their comforts, he felt himself, indeed, the landlord of the Jolly Tapley, and could almost delude himself into the belief that the entertainment was actually being held under the Jolly Tapley’s roof.

For the better encouragement of himself in this fable, Mr Tapley took it upon him to issue divers general directions to the waiters from the hotel, relative to the disposal of the dishes and so forth; and as they were usually in direct opposition to all precedent, and were always issued in his most facetious form of thought and speech, they occasioned great merriment among those attendants; in which Mr Tapley participated, with an infinite enjoyment of his own humour. He likewise entertained them with short anecdotes of his travels appropriate to the occasion; and now and then with some comic passage or other between himself and Mrs Lupin; so that explosive laughs were constantly issuing from the side-board, and from the backs of chairs; and the head-waiter (who wore powder, and knee-smalls, and was usually a grave man) got to be a bright scarlet in the face, and broke his waistcoat-strings audibly.

Young Martin sat at the head of the table, and Tom Pinch at the foot; and if there were a genial face at that board, it was Tom’s. They all took their tone from Tom. Everybody drank to him, everybody looked to him, everybody thought of him, everybody loved him. If he so much as laid down his knife and fork, somebody put out a hand to shake with him. Martin and Mary had taken him aside before dinner, and spoken to him so heartily of the time to come, laying such fervent stress upon the trust they had in his completion of their felicity, by his society and closest friendship, that Tom was positively moved to tears. He couldn’t bear it. His heart was full, he said, of happiness. And so it was. Tom spoke the honest truth. It was. Large as thy heart was, dear Tom Pinch, it had no room that day for anything but happiness and sympathy!

And there was Fips, old Fips of Austin Friars, present at the dinner, and turning out to be the jolliest old dog that ever did violence to his convivial sentiments by shutting himself up in a dark office. ‘Where is he?’ said Fips, when he came in. And then he pounced on Tom, and told him that he wanted to relieve himself of all his old constraint; and in the first place shook him by one hand, and in the second place shook him by the other, and in the third place nudged him in the waistcoat, and in the fourth place said, ‘How are you?’ and in a great many other places did a great many other things to show his friendliness and joy. And he sang songs, did Fips; and made speeches, did Fips; and knocked off his wine pretty handsomely, did Fips; and in short, he showed himself a perfect Trump, did Fips, in all respects.

But ah! the happiness of strolling home at night—obstinate little Ruth, she wouldn’t hear of riding!—as they had done on that dear night, from Furnival’s Inn! The happiness of being able to talk about it, and to confide their happiness to each other! The happiness of stating all their little plans to Tom, and seeing his bright face grow brighter as they spoke!

When they reached home, Tom left John and his sister in the parlour, and went upstairs into his own room, under pretence of seeking a book. And Tom actually winked to himself when he got upstairs; he thought it such a deep thing to have done.

‘They like to be by themselves, of course,’ said Tom; ‘and I came away so naturally, that I have no doubt they are expecting me, every moment, to return. That’s capital!’

But he had not sat reading very long, when he heard a tap at his door.

‘May I come in?’ said John.

‘Oh, surely!’ Tom replied.

‘Don’t leave us, Tom. Don’t sit by yourself. We want to make you merry; not melancholy.’

‘My dear friend,’ said Tom, with a cheerful smile.

‘Brother, Tom. Brother.’

‘My dear brother,’ said Tom; ‘there is no danger of my being melancholy, how can I be melancholy, when I know that you and Ruth are so blest in each other! I think I can find my tongue tonight, John,’ he added, after a moment’s pause. ‘But I never can tell you what unutterable joy this day has given me. It would be unjust to you to speak of your having chosen a portionless girl, for I feel that you know her worth; I am sure you know her worth. Nor will it diminish in your estimation, John, which money might.’

‘Which money would, Tom,’ he returned. ‘Her worth! Oh, who could see her here, and not love her! Who could know her, Tom, and not honour her! Who could ever stand possessed of such a heart as hers, and grow indifferent to the treasure! Who could feel the rapture that I feel to-day, and love as I love her, Tom, without knowing something of her worth! Your joy unutterable! No, no, Tom. It’s mine, it’s mine.

‘No, no, John,’ said Tom. ‘It’s mine, it’s mine.’

Their friendly contention was brought to a close by little Ruth herself, who came peeping in at the door. And oh, the look, the glorious, half-proud, half-timid look she gave Tom, when her lover drew her to his side! As much as to say, ‘Yes, indeed, Tom, he will do it. But then he has a right, you know. Because I AM fond of him, Tom.’

As to Tom, he was perfectly delighted. He could have sat and looked at them, just as they were, for hours.

‘I have told Tom, love, as we agreed, that we are not going to permit him to run away, and that we cannot possibly allow it. The loss of one person, and such a person as Tom, too, out of our small household of three, is not to be endured; and so I have told him. Whether he is considerate, or whether he is only selfish, I don’t know. But he needn’t be considerate, for he is not the least restraint upon us. Is he, dearest Ruth?’

Well! He really did not seem to be any particular restraint upon them. Judging from what ensued.

Was it folly in Tom to be so pleased by their remembrance of him at such a time? Was their graceful love a folly, were their dear caresses follies, was their lengthened parting folly? Was it folly in him to watch her window from the street, and rate its scantiest gleam of light above all diamonds; folly in her to breathe his name upon her knees, and pour out her pure heart before that Being from whom such hearts and such affections come?

If these be follies, then Fiery Face go on and prosper! If they be not, then Fiery Face avaunt! But set the crunched bonnet at some other single gentleman, in any case, for one is lost to thee for ever!

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

GIVES THE AUTHOR GREAT CONCERN. FOR IT IS THE LAST IN THE BOOK

Todger’s was in high feather, and mighty preparations for a late breakfast were astir in its commercial bowers. The blissful morning had arrived when Miss Pecksniff was to be united in holy matrimony, to Augustus.

Miss Pecksniff was in a frame of mind equally becoming to herself and the occasion. She was full of clemency and conciliation. She had laid in several caldrons of live coals, and was prepared to heap them on the heads of her enemies. She bore no spite nor malice in her heart. Not the least.

Quarrels, Miss Pecksniff said, were dreadful things in families; and though she never could forgive her dear papa, she was willing to receive her other relations. They had been separated, she observed, too long. It was enough to call down a judgment upon the family. She believed the death of Jonas WAS a judgment on them for their internal dissensions. And Miss Pecksniff was confirmed in this belief, by the lightness with which the visitation had fallen on herself.

By way of doing sacrifice—not in triumph; not, of course, in triumph, but in humiliation of spirit—this amiable young person wrote, therefore, to her kinswoman of the strong mind, and informed her that her nuptials would take place on such a day. That she had been much hurt by the unnatural conduct of herself and daughters, and hoped they might not have suffered in their consciences. That, being desirous to forgive her enemies, and make her peace with the world before entering into the most solemn of covenants with the most devoted of men, she now held out the hand of friendship. That if the strong-minded women took that hand, in the temper in which it was extended to her, she, Miss Pecksniff, did invite her to be present at the ceremony of her marriage, and did furthermore invite the three red-nosed spinsters, her daughters (but Miss Pecksniff did not particularize their noses), to attend as bridesmaids.

The strong-minded women returned for answer, that herself and daughters were, as regarded their consciences, in the enjoyment of robust health, which she knew Miss Pecksniff would be glad to hear. That she had received Miss Pecksniff’s note with unalloyed delight, because she never had attached the least importance to the paltry and insignificant jealousies with which herself and circle had been assailed; otherwise than as she had found them, in the contemplation, a harmless source of innocent mirth. That she would joyfully attend Miss Pecksniff’s bridal; and that her three dear daughters would be happy to assist, on so interesting, and SO VERY UNEXPECTED—which the strong-minded woman underlined—SO VERY UNEXPECTED an occasion.

On the receipt of this gracious reply, Miss Pecksniff extended her forgiveness and her invitations to Mr and Mrs Spottletoe; to Mr George Chuzzlewit the bachelor cousin; to the solitary female who usually had the toothache; and to the hairy young gentleman with the outline of a face; surviving remnants of the party that had once assembled in Mr Pecksniff’s parlour. After which Miss Pecksniff remarked that there was a sweetness in doing our duty, which neutralized the bitter in our cups.

The wedding guests had not yet assembled, and indeed it was so early that Miss Pecksniff herself was in the act of dressing at her leisure, when a carriage stopped near the Monument; and Mark, dismounting from the rumble, assisted Mr Chuzzlewit to alight. The carriage remained in waiting; so did Mr Tapley. Mr Chuzzlewit betook himself to Todger’s.

He was shown, by the degenerate successor of Mr Bailey, into the dining-parlour; where—for his visit was expected—Mrs Todgers immediately appeared.

‘You are dressed, I see, for the wedding,’ he said.

Mrs Todgers, who was greatly flurried by the preparations, replied in the affirmative.

‘It goes against my wishes to have it in progress just now, I assure you, sir,’ said Mrs Todgers; ‘but Miss Pecksniff’s mind was set upon it, and it really is time that Miss Pecksniff was married. That cannot be denied, sir.’

‘No,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit, ‘assuredly not. Her sister takes no part in the proceedings?’

‘Oh, dear no, sir. Poor thing!’ said Mrs Todgers, shaking her head, and dropping her voice. ‘Since she has known the worst, she has never left my room; the next room.’

‘Is she prepared to see me?’ he inquired.

‘Quite prepared, sir.’

‘Then let us lose no time.’

Mrs Todgers conducted him into the little back chamber commanding the prospect of the cistern; and there, sadly different from when it had first been her lodging, sat poor Merry, in mourning weeds. The room looked very dark and sorrowful; and so did she; but she had one friend beside her, faithful to the last. Old Chuffey.

When Mr Chuzzlewit sat down at her side, she took his hand and put it to her lips. She was in great grief. He too was agitated; for he had not seen her since their parting in the churchyard.

‘I judged you hastily,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘I fear I judged you cruelly. Let me know that I have your forgiveness.’

She kissed his hand again; and retaining it in hers, thanked him in a broken voice, for all his kindness to her since.

‘Tom Pinch,’ said Martin, ‘has faithfully related to me all that you desired him to convey; at a time when he deemed it very improbable that he would ever have an opportunity of delivering your message. Believe me, that if I ever deal again with an ill-advised and unawakened nature, hiding the strength it thinks its weakness, I will have long and merciful consideration for it.’

‘You had for me; even for me,’ she answered. ‘I quite believe it. I said the words you have repeated, when my distress was very sharp and hard to bear; I say them now for others; but I cannot urge them for myself. You spoke to me after you had seen and watched me day by day. There was great consideration in that. You might have spoken, perhaps, more kindly; you might have tried to invite my confidence by greater gentleness; but the end would have been the same.’

He shook his head in doubt, and not without some inward self-reproach.

‘How can I hope,’ she said, ‘that your interposition would have prevailed with me, when I know how obdurate I was! I never thought at all; dear Mr Chuzzlewit, I never thought at all; I had no thought, no heart, no care to find one; at that time. It has grown out of my trouble. I have felt it in my trouble. I wouldn’t recall my trouble such as it is and has been—and it is light in comparison with trials which hundreds of good people suffer every day, I know—I wouldn’t recall it to-morrow, if I could. It has been my friend, for without it no one could have changed me; nothing could have changed me. Do not mistrust me because of these tears; I cannot help them. I am grateful for it, in my soul. Indeed I am!’

‘Indeed she is!’ said Mrs Todgers. ‘I believe it, sir.’

‘And so do I!’ said Mr Chuzzlewit. ‘Now, attend to me, my dear. Your late husband’s estate, if not wasted by the confession of a large debt to the broken office (which document, being useless to the runaways, has been sent over to England by them; not so much for the sake of the creditors as for the gratification of their dislike to him, whom they suppose to be still living), will be seized upon by law; for it is not exempt, as I learn, from the claims of those who have suffered by the fraud in which he was engaged. Your father’s property was all, or nearly all, embarked in the same transaction. If there be any left, it will be seized on, in like manner. There is no home THERE.’

‘I couldn’t return to him,’ she said, with an instinctive reference to his having forced her marriage on. ‘I could not return to him.’

‘I know it,’ Mr Chuzzlewit resumed; ‘and I am here because I know it. Come with me! From all who are about me, you are certain (I have ascertained it) of a generous welcome. But until your health is re-established, and you are sufficiently composed to bear that welcome, you shall have your abode in any quiet retreat of your own choosing, near London; not so far removed but that this kind-hearted lady may still visit you as often as she pleases. You have suffered much; but you are young, and have a brighter and a better future stretching out before you. Come with me. Your sister is careless of you, I know. She hurries on and publishes her marriage, in a spirit which (to say no more of it) is barely decent, is unsisterly, and bad. Leave the house before her guests arrive. She means to give you pain. Spare her the offence, and come with me!’

Mrs Todgers, though most unwilling to part with her, added her persuasions. Even poor old Chuffey (of course included in the project) added his. She hurriedly attired herself, and was ready to depart, when Miss Pecksniff dashed into the room.

Miss Pecksniff dashed in so suddenly, that she was placed in an embarrassing position. For though she had completed her bridal toilette as to her head, on which she wore a bridal bonnet with orange flowers, she had not completed it as to her skirts, which displayed no choicer decoration than a dimity bedgown. She had dashed in, in fact, about half-way through, to console her sister, in her affliction, with a sight of the aforesaid bonnet; and being quite unconscious of the presence of a visitor, until she found Mr Chuzzlewit standing face to face with her, her surprise was an uncomfortable one.

‘So, young lady!’ said the old man, eyeing her with strong disfavour. ‘You are to be married to-day!’

‘Yes, sir,’ returned Miss Pecksniff, modestly. ‘I am. I—my dress is rather—really, Mrs Todgers!’

‘Your delicacy,’ said old Martin, ‘is troubled, I perceive. I am not surprised to find it so. You have chosen the period of your marriage unfortunately.’

‘I beg your pardon, Mr Chuzzlewit,’ retorted Cherry; very red and angry in a moment; ‘but if you have anything to say on that subject, I must beg to refer you to Augustus. You will scarcely think it manly, I hope, to force an argument on me, when Augustus is at all times ready to discuss it with you. I have nothing to do with any deceptions that may have been practiced on my parent,’ said Miss Pecksniff, pointedly; ‘and as I wish to be on good terms with everybody at such a time, I should have been glad if you would have favoured us with your company at breakfast. But I will not ask you as it is; seeing that you have been prepossessed and set against me in another quarter. I hope I have my natural affections for another quarter, and my natural pity for another quarter; but I cannot always submit to be subservient to it, Mr Chuzzlewit. That would be a little too much. I trust I have more respect for myself, as well as for the man who claims me as his Bride.’

‘Your sister, meeting—as I think; not as she says, for she has said nothing about it—with little consideration from you, is going away with me,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit.

‘I am very happy to find that she has some good fortune at last,’ returned Miss Pecksniff, tossing her head. ‘I congratulate her, I am sure. I am not surprised that this event should be painful to her—painful to her—but I can’t help that, Mr Chuzzlewit. It’s not my fault.’

‘Come, Miss Pecksniff!’ said the old man, quietly. ‘I should like to see a better parting between you. I should like to see a better parting on your side, in such circumstances. It would make me your friend. You may want a friend one day or other.’

‘Every relation of life, Mr Chuzzlewit, begging your pardon; and every friend in life,’ returned Miss Pecksniff, with dignity, ‘is now bound up and cemented in Augustus. So long as Augustus is my own, I cannot want a friend. When you speak of friends, sir, I must beg, once for all, to refer you to Augustus. That is my impression of the religious ceremony in which I am so soon to take a part at that altar to which Augustus will conduct me. I bear no malice at any time, much less in a moment of triumph, towards any one; much less towards my sister. On the contrary, I congratulate her. If you didn’t hear me say so, I am not to blame. And as I owe it to Augustus, to be punctual on an occasion when he may naturally be supposed to be—to be impatient—really, Mrs Todgers!—I must beg your leave, sir, to retire.’

After these words the bridal bonnet disappeared; with as much state as the dimity bedgown left in it.

Old Martin gave his arm to the younger sister without speaking; and led her out. Mrs Todgers, with her holiday garments fluttering in the wind, accompanied them to the carriage, clung round Merry’s neck at parting, and ran back to her own dingy house, crying the whole way. She had a lean, lank body, Mrs Todgers, but a well-conditioned soul within. Perhaps the good Samaritan was lean and lank, and found it hard to live. Who knows!

Mr Chuzzlewit followed her so closely with his eyes, that, until she had shut her own door, they did not encounter Mr Tapley’s face.

‘Why, Mark!’ he said, as soon as he observed it, ‘what’s the matter?’

‘The wonderfulest ewent, sir!’ returned Mark, pumping at his voice in a most laborious manner, and hardly able to articulate with all his efforts. ‘A coincidence as never was equalled! I’m blessed if here ain’t two old neighbours of ourn, sir!’

‘What neighbours?’ cried old Martin, looking out of window. ‘Where?’

‘I was a-walkin’ up and down not five yards from this spot,’ said Mr Tapley, breathless, ‘and they come upon me like their own ghosts, as I thought they was! It’s the wonderfulest ewent that ever happened. Bring a feather, somebody, and knock me down with it!’

‘What do you mean!’ exclaimed old Martin, quite as much excited by the spectacle of Mark’s excitement as that strange person was himself. ‘Neighbours, where?’

‘Here, sir!’ replied Mr Tapley. ‘Here in the city of London! Here upon these very stones! Here they are, sir! Don’t I know ‘em? Lord love their welcome faces, don’t I know ‘em!’

With which ejaculations Mr Tapley not only pointed to a decent-looking man and woman standing by, but commenced embracing them alternately, over and over again, in Monument Yard.

‘Neighbours, WHERE? old Martin shouted; almost maddened by his ineffectual efforts to get out at the coach-door.

‘Neighbours in America! Neighbours in Eden!’ cried Mark. ‘Neighbours in the swamp, neighbours in the bush, neighbours in the fever. Didn’t she nurse us! Didn’t he help us! Shouldn’t we both have died without ‘em! Haven’t they come a-strugglin’ back, without a single child for their consolation! And talk to me of neighbours!’

Away he went again, in a perfectly wild state, hugging them, and skipping round them, and cutting in between them, as if he were performing some frantic and outlandish dance.

Mr Chuzzlewit no sooner gathered who these people were, than he burst open the coach-door somehow or other, and came tumbling out among them; and as if the lunacy of Mr Tapley were contagious, he immediately began to shake hands too, and exhibit every demonstration of the liveliest joy.

‘Get up, behind!’ he said. ‘Get up in the rumble. Come along with me! Go you on the box, Mark. Home! Home!’

‘Home!’ cried Mr Tapley, seizing the old man’s hand in a burst of enthusiasm. ‘Exactly my opinion, sir. Home for ever! Excuse the liberty, sir, I can’t help it. Success to the Jolly Tapley! There’s nothin’ in the house they shan’t have for the askin’ for, except a bill. Home to be sure! Hurrah!’

Home they rolled accordingly, when he had got the old man in again, as fast as they could go; Mark abating nothing of his fervour by the way, by allowing it to vent itself as unrestrainedly as if he had been on Salisbury Plain.

And now the wedding party began to assemble at Todgers’s. Mr Jinkins, the only boarder invited, was on the ground first. He wore a white favour in his button-hole, and a bran new extra super double-milled blue saxony dress coat (that was its description in the bill), with a variety of tortuous embellishments about the pockets, invented by the artist to do honour to the day. The miserable Augustus no longer felt strongly even on the subject of Jinkins. He hadn’t strength of mind enough to do it. ‘Let him come!’ he had said, in answer to Miss Pecksniff, when she urged the point. ‘Let him come! He has ever been my rock ahead through life. ‘Tis meet he should be there. Ha, ha! Oh, yes! let Jinkins come!’

Jinkins had come with all the pleasure in life, and there he was. For some few minutes he had no companion but the breakfast, which was set forth in the drawing-room, with unusual taste and ceremony. But Mrs Todgers soon joined him; and the bachelor cousin, the hairy young gentleman, and Mr and Mrs Spottletoe, arrived in quick succession.

Mr Spottletoe honoured Jinkins with an encouraging bow. ‘Glad to know you, sir,’ he said. ‘Give you joy!’ Under the impression that Jinkins was the happy man.

Mr Jinkins explained. He was merely doing the honours for his friend Moddle, who had ceased to reside in the house, and had not yet arrived.

‘Not arrived, sir!’ exclaimed Spottletoe, in a great heat.

‘Not yet,’ said Mr Jinkins.

‘Upon my soul!’ cried Spottletoe. ‘He begins well! Upon my life and honour this young man begins well! But I should very much like to know how it is that every one who comes into contact with this family is guilty of some gross insult to it. Death! Not arrived yet. Not here to receive us!’

The nephew with the outline of a countenance, suggested that perhaps he had ordered a new pair of boots, and they hadn’t come home.

‘Don’t talk to me of Boots, sir!’ retorted Spottletoe, with immense indignation. ‘He is bound to come here in his slippers then; he is bound to come here barefoot. Don’t offer such a wretched and evasive plea to me on behalf of your friend, as Boots, sir.’

‘He is not MY friend,’ said the nephew. ‘I never saw him.’

‘Very well, sir,’ returned the fiery Spottletoe. ‘Then don’t talk to me!’

The door was thrown open at this juncture, and Miss Pecksniff entered, tottering, and supported by her three bridesmaids. The strong-minded woman brought up the rear; having waited outside until now, for the purpose of spoiling the effect.

‘How do you do, ma’am!’ said Spottletoe to the strong-minded woman in a tone of defiance. ‘I believe you see Mrs Spottletoe, ma’am?’

The strong-minded woman with an air of great interest in Mrs Spottletoe’s health, regretted that she was not more easily seen. Nature erring, in that lady’s case, upon the slim side.

‘Mrs Spottletoe is at least more easily seen than the bridegroom, ma’am,’ returned that lady’s husband. ‘That is, unless he has confined his attentions to any particular part or branch of this family, which would be quite in keeping with its usual proceedings.’

‘If you allude to me, sir—’ the strong-minded woman began.

‘Pray,’ interposed Miss Pecksniff, ‘do not allow Augustus, at this awful moment of his life and mine, to be the means of disturbing that harmony which it is ever Augustus’s and my wish to maintain. Augustus has not been introduced to any of my relations now present. He preferred not.’

‘Why, then, I venture to assert,’ cried Mr Spottletoe, ‘that the man who aspires to join this family, and “prefers not” to be introduced to its members, is an impertinent Puppy. That is my opinion of HIM!’

The strong-minded woman remarked with great suavity, that she was afraid he must be. Her three daughters observed aloud that it was ‘Shameful!’

‘You do not know Augustus,’ said Miss Pecksniff, tearfully, ‘indeed you do not know him. Augustus is all mildness and humility. Wait till you see Augustus, and I am sure he will conciliate your affections.’

‘The question arises,’ said Spottletoe, folding his arms: ‘How long we are to wait. I am not accustomed to wait; that’s the fact. And I want to know how long we are expected to wait.’

‘Mrs Todgers!’ said Charity, ‘Mr Jinkins! I am afraid there must be some mistake. I think Augustus must have gone straight to the Altar!’

As such a thing was possible, and the church was close at hand, Mr Jinkins ran off to see, accompanied by Mr George Chuzzlewit the bachelor cousin, who preferred anything to the aggravation of sitting near the breakfast, without being able to eat it. But they came back with no other tidings than a familiar message from the clerk, importing that if they wanted to be married that morning they had better look sharp, as the curate wasn’t going to wait there all day.

The bride was now alarmed; seriously alarmed. Good Heavens, what could have happened! Augustus! Dear Augustus!

Mr Jinkins volunteered to take a cab, and seek him at the newly-furnished house. The strong-minded woman administered comfort to Miss Pecksniff. ‘It was a specimen of what she had to expect. It would do her good. It would dispel the romance of the affair.’ The red-nosed daughters also administered the kindest comfort. ‘Perhaps he’d come,’ they said. The sketchy nephew hinted that he might have fallen off a bridge. The wrath of Mr Spottletoe resisted all the entreaties of his wife. Everybody spoke at once, and Miss Pecksniff, with clasped hands, sought consolation everywhere and found it nowhere, when Jinkins, having met the postman at the door, came back with a letter, which he put into her hand.

Miss Pecksniff opened it, uttered a piercing shriek, threw it down upon the ground, and fainted away.

They picked it up; and crowding round, and looking over one another’s shoulders, read, in the words and dashes following, this communication:

‘OFF GRAVESEND.

‘CLIPPER SCHOONER, CUPID

‘Wednesday night

‘EVER INJURED MISS PECKSNIFF—Ere this reaches you, the undersigned will be—if not a corpse—on the way to Van Dieman’s Land. Send not in pursuit. I never will be taken alive!

‘The burden—300 tons per register—forgive, if in my distraction, I allude to the ship—on my mind—has been truly dreadful. Frequently—when you have sought to soothe my brow with kisses—has self-destruction flashed across me. Frequently—incredible as it may seem—have I abandoned the idea.

‘I love another. She is Another’s. Everything appears to be somebody else’s. Nothing in the world is mine—not even my Situation—which I have forfeited—by my rash conduct—in running away.

‘If you ever loved me, hear my last appeal! The last appeal of a miserable and blighted exile. Forward the inclosed—it is the key of my desk—to the office—by hand. Please address to Bobbs and Cholberry—I mean to Chobbs and Bolberry—but my mind is totally unhinged. I left a penknife—with a buckhorn handle—in your work-box. It will repay the messenger. May it make him happier than ever it did me!

‘Oh, Miss Pecksniff, why didn’t you leave me alone! Was it not cruel, CRUEL! Oh, my goodness, have you not been a witness of my feelings—have you not seen them flowing from my eyes—did you not, yourself, reproach me with weeping more than usual on that dreadful night when last we met—in that house—where I once was peaceful—though blighted—in the society of Mrs Todgers!

‘But it was written—in the Talmud—that you should involve yourself in the inscrutable and gloomy Fate which it is my mission to accomplish, and which wreathes itself—e’en now—about in temples. I will not reproach, for I have wronged you. May the Furniture make some amends!

‘Farewell! Be the proud bride of a ducal coronet, and forget me! Long may it be before you know the anguish with which I now subscribe myself—amid the tempestuous howlings of the—sailors,

‘Unalterably,

‘Never yours,

‘AUGUSTUS.’

They thought as little of Miss Pecksniff, while they greedily perused this letter, as if she were the very last person on earth whom it concerned. But Miss Pecksniff really had fainted away. The bitterness of her mortification; the bitterness of having summoned witnesses, and such witnesses, to behold it; the bitterness of knowing that the strong-minded women and the red-nosed daughters towered triumphant in this hour of their anticipated overthrow; was too much to be borne. Miss Pecksniff had fainted away in earnest.

What sounds are these that fall so grandly on the ear! What darkening room is this!

And that mild figure seated at an organ, who is he! Ah Tom, dear Tom, old friend!

Thy head is prematurely grey, though Time has passed thee and our old association, Tom. But, in those sounds with which it is thy wont to bear the twilight company, the music of thy heart speaks out—the story of thy life relates itself.

Thy life is tranquil, calm, and happy, Tom. In the soft strain which ever and again comes stealing back upon the ear, the memory of thine old love may find a voice perhaps; but it is a pleasant, softened, whispering memory, like that in which we sometimes hold the dead, and does not pain or grieve thee, God be thanked.

Touch the notes lightly, Tom, as lightly as thou wilt, but never will thine hand fall half so lightly on that Instrument as on the head of thine old tyrant brought down very, very low; and never will it make as hollow a response to any touch of thine, as he does always.

For a drunken, begging, squalid, letter-writing man, called Pecksniff, with a shrewish daughter, haunts thee, Tom; and when he makes appeals to thee for cash, reminds thee that he built thy fortunes better than his own; and when he spends it, entertains the alehouse company with tales of thine ingratitude and his munificence towards thee once upon a time; and then he shows his elbows worn in holes, and puts his soleless shoes up on a bench, and begs his auditors look there, while thou art comfortably housed and clothed. All known to thee, and yet all borne with, Tom!

So, with a smile upon thy face, thou passest gently to another measure—to a quicker and more joyful one—and little feet are used to dance about thee at the sound, and bright young eyes to glance up into thine. And there is one slight creature, Tom—her child; not Ruth’s—whom thine eyes follow in the romp and dance; who, wondering sometimes to see thee look so thoughtful, runs to climb up on thy knee, and put her cheek to thine; who loves thee, Tom, above the rest, if that can be; and falling sick once, chose thee for her nurse, and never knew impatience, Tom, when thou wert by her side.

Thou glidest, now, into a graver air; an air devoted to old friends and bygone times; and in thy lingering touch upon the keys, and the rich swelling of the mellow harmony, they rise before thee. The spirit of that old man dead, who delighted to anticipate thy wants, and never ceased to honour thee, is there, among the rest; repeating, with a face composed and calm, the words he said to thee upon his bed, and blessing thee!

And coming from a garden, Tom, bestrewn with flowers by children’s hands, thy sister, little Ruth, as light of foot and heart as in old days, sits down beside thee. From the Present, and the Past, with which she is so tenderly entwined in all thy thoughts, thy strain soars onward to the Future. As it resounds within thee and without, the noble music, rolling round ye both, shuts out the grosser prospect of an earthly parting, and uplifts ye both to Heaven!

CHAPTER ONE

INTRODUCTORY, CONCERNING THE PEDIGREE OF THE CHUZZLEWIT FAMILY

As no lady or gentleman, with any claims to polite breeding, can possibly sympathize with the Chuzzlewit Family without being first assured of the extreme antiquity of the race, it is a great satisfaction to know that it undoubtedly descended in a direct line from Adam and Eve; and was, in the very earliest times, closely connected with the agricultural interest. If it should ever be urged by grudging and malicious persons, that a Chuzzlewit, in any period of the family history, displayed an overweening amount of family pride, surely the weakness will be considered not only pardonable but laudable, when the immense superiority of the house to the rest of mankind, in respect of this its ancient origin, is taken into account.

It is remarkable that as there was, in the oldest family of which we have any record, a murderer and a vagabond, so we never fail to meet, in the records of all old families, with innumerable repetitions of the same phase of character. Indeed, it may be laid down as a general principle, that the more extended the ancestry, the greater the amount of violence and vagabondism; for in ancient days those two amusements, combining a wholesome excitement with a promising means of repairing shattered fortunes, were at once the ennobling pursuit and the healthful recreation of the Quality of this land.

Consequently, it is a source of inexpressible comfort and happiness to find, that in various periods of our history, the Chuzzlewits were actively connected with divers slaughterous conspiracies and bloody frays. It is further recorded of them, that being clad from head to heel in steel of proof, they did on many occasions lead their leather-jerkined soldiers to the death with invincible courage, and afterwards return home gracefully to their relations and friends.

There can be no doubt that at least one Chuzzlewit came over with William the Conqueror. It does not appear that this illustrious ancestor ‘came over’ that monarch, to employ the vulgar phrase, at any subsequent period; inasmuch as the Family do not seem to have been ever greatly distinguished by the possession of landed estate. And it is well known that for the bestowal of that kind of property upon his favourites, the liberality and gratitude of the Norman were as remarkable as those virtues are usually found to be in great men when they give away what belongs to other people.

Perhaps in this place the history may pause to congratulate itself upon the enormous amount of bravery, wisdom, eloquence, virtue, gentle birth, and true nobility, that appears to have come into England with the Norman Invasion: an amount which the genealogy of every ancient family lends its aid to swell, and which would beyond all question have been found to be just as great, and to the full as prolific in giving birth to long lines of chivalrous descendants, boastful of their origin, even though William the Conqueror had been William the Conquered; a change of circumstances which, it is quite certain, would have made no manner of difference in this respect.

There was unquestionably a Chuzzlewit in the Gunpowder Plot, if indeed the arch-traitor, Fawkes himself, were not a scion of this remarkable stock; as he might easily have been, supposing another Chuzzlewit to have emigrated to Spain in the previous generation, and there intermarried with a Spanish lady, by whom he had issue, one olive-complexioned son. This probable conjecture is strengthened, if not absolutely confirmed, by a fact which cannot fail to be interesting to those who are curious in tracing the progress of hereditary tastes through the lives of their unconscious inheritors. It is a notable circumstance that in these later times, many Chuzzlewits, being unsuccessful in other pursuits, have, without the smallest rational hope of enriching themselves, or any conceivable reason, set up as coal-merchants; and have, month after month, continued gloomily to watch a small stock of coals, without in any one instance negotiating with a purchaser. The remarkable similarity between this course of proceeding and that adopted by their Great Ancestor beneath the vaults of the Parliament House at Westminster, is too obvious and too full of interest, to stand in need of comment.

It is also clearly proved by the oral traditions of the Family, that there existed, at some one period of its history which is not distinctly stated, a matron of such destructive principles, and so familiarized to the use and composition of inflammatory and combustible engines, that she was called ‘The Match Maker;’ by which nickname and byword she is recognized in the Family legends to this day. Surely there can be no reasonable doubt that this was the Spanish lady, the mother of Chuzzlewit Fawkes.

But there is one other piece of evidence, bearing immediate reference to their close connection with this memorable event in English History, which must carry conviction, even to a mind (if such a mind there be) remaining unconvinced by these presumptive proofs.

There was, within a few years, in the possession of a highly respectable and in every way credible and unimpeachable member of the Chuzzlewit Family (for his bitterest enemy never dared to hint at his being otherwise than a wealthy man), a dark lantern of undoubted antiquity; rendered still more interesting by being, in shape and pattern, extremely like such as are in use at the present day. Now this gentleman, since deceased, was at all times ready to make oath, and did again and again set forth upon his solemn asseveration, that he had frequently heard his grandmother say, when contemplating this venerable relic, ‘Aye, aye! This was carried by my fourth son on the fifth of November, when he was a Guy Fawkes.’ These remarkable words wrought (as well they might) a strong impression on his mind, and he was in the habit of repeating them very often. The just interpretation which they bear, and the conclusion to which they lead, are triumphant and irresistible. The old lady, naturally strong-minded, was nevertheless frail and fading; she was notoriously subject to that confusion of ideas, or, to say the least, of speech, to which age and garrulity are liable. The slight, the very slight, confusion apparent in these expressions is manifest, and is ludicrously easy of correction. ‘Aye, aye,’ quoth she, and it will be observed that no emendation whatever is necessary to be made in these two initiative remarks, ‘Aye, aye! This lantern was carried by my forefather’—not fourth son, which is preposterous—‘on the fifth of November. And HE was Guy Fawkes.’ Here we have a remark at once consistent, clear, natural, and in strict accordance with the character of the speaker. Indeed the anecdote is so plainly susceptible of this meaning and no other, that it would be hardly worth recording in its original state, were it not a proof of what may be (and very often is) affected not only in historical prose but in imaginative poetry, by the exercise of a little ingenious labour on the part of a commentator.

CAPITOLO PRIMO

Introduzione sulla genealogia della famiglia Chuzzlewit

Poiché nessuna signora o gentiluomo, che si prenda alcun disturbo per le buone maniere, potrebbe mai provare simpatia per la Famiglia Chuzzlewit senza prima essere assicurato dell’estrema antichità di questa stirpe, è davvero una grande soddisfazione sapere che essa discende senza dubbio in linea diretta da Adamo ed Eva; e che, fin dai tempi più remoti, era strettamente legata alle attività agricole. Se mai persone invidiose e malizievoli dovessero sostenere che un membro della Famiglia Chuzzlewit, in qualche periodo della sua storia, abbia mostrato un’eccessiva vanità di famiglia, certamente questa debolezza verrà considerata non solo perdonabile ma anche lodevole, quando si tiene conto dell’enorme superiorità di questa stirpe rispetto al resto dell’umanità, proprio a causa delle sue antiche origini.

È degno di nota che, poiché nella più antica famiglia di cui abbiamo documenti esistevano sia un assassino che un vagabondo, nelle cronache di tutte le antiche famiglie si riscontrano innumerevoli ripetizioni della stessa caratteristica. Infatti, si può affermare come principio generale che più lunga è l’ascendenza, maggiore è la frequenza di atti di violenza e vagabondaggio; poiché nell’antichità questi due comportamenti, combinando un’emozione stimolante con un mezzo efficace per ripristinare fortune distrutte, rappresentavano allo stesso tempo l’attività nobile e il divertimento salutare tipici di questa cultura.

Pertanto, rappresenta una fonte di conforto e felicità inesprimibile scoprire che, in diversi periodi della nostra storia, i Chuzzlewits furono attivamente coinvolti in varie cospirazioni sanguinose e lotte cruenti. Si registra inoltre che, essendo vestiti dalla testa ai piedi con armature indistruttibili, in molte occasioni guidarono i loro soldati verso la morte con un coraggio invincibile, per poi tornare tranquillamente a casa tra le loro famiglie e amici.

Non può esserci alcun >dubbio che almeno un membro della famiglia Chuzzlewit abbia accompagnato Guglielmo il Conquistatore. Non sembra che questo illustre antenato abbia mai “seguito” quel monarca, per usare un’espressione volgare, in alcun periodo successivo; infatti, la famiglia non sembrò mai essere particolarmente distinta per la possesso di proprietà terriere. È ben noto, inoltre, che per quanto riguarda l’attribuzione di tale tipo di patrimonio ai suoi favoriti, la generosità e la riconoscenza dei Normanni fossero altrettanto straordinarie quante queste virtù si trovino solitamente in grandi uomini quando donano ciò che appartiene ad altri.

Forse in questo luogo la storia potrebbe fermarsi un attimo per congratularsi dell’enorme quantità di coraggio, saggezza, eloquenza, virtù, nascita nobile e vera nobiltà che sembra essere arrivata in Inghilterra con l’invasione normanna: una quantità che anche la genealogia di ogni antica famiglia contribuisce ad aumentare, e che senza dubbio sarebbe risultata altrettanto grande e produttiva nel generare lunghe linee di discendenti cavalieri, orgogliosi della propria origine. Anche se Guglielmo il Conquistatore fosse stato in realtà Guglielmo il Conquistato. Un cambiamento di circostanze che, con ogni certezza, non avrebbe fatto alcuna differenza in questo senso.

Indubbiamente c’era un membro della famiglia Chuzzlewit coinvolto nella Conspirazione del Polvere da Sparo; anzi, se l’architraditore stesso, Fawkes, non fosse stato discendente di questa straordinaria stirpe. Ciò sarebbe stato del tutto plausibile, se un altro Chuzzlewit avesse emigrato in Spagna nella generazione precedente e vi si fosse unito in matrimonio con una signora spagnola, dalla quale avrebbe avuto un figlio dal colorito olivastro. Questa ipotesi, se non del tutto confermata, viene comunque rafforzata da un fatto che sicuramente interesserà chi desidera seguire l’evoluzione dei gusti ereditari attraverso le vite dei loro discendenti inconsapevoli. È degno di nota il fatto che, in tempi più recenti, molti membri della famiglia Chuzzlewit, non riuscendo in altre attività, si siano dedicati al commercio del carbone, senza alcuna reale speranza di arricchirsi o alcun motivo concreto per farlo. Mese dopo mese, hanno continuato a osservare con malinconia le loro scarse riserve di carbone, senza mai negoziare con nessuno. La notevole somiglianza tra questo comportamento e quello adottato dal loro antenato sotto le volte della Camera dei Comuni a Westminster è troppo evidente e interessante per richiedere commenti.

È anche chiaramente dimostrato dalle tradizioni orali della Famiglia che, in un certo periodo della sua storia (che non è stato specificato con precisione), esisteva una donna i cui principi erano estremamente distruttivi; essa era così esperta nell’uso e nella costruzione di macchinari infiammabili e combustibili che veniva chiamata “La Creatrice di Disastri”. Con questo soprannome è ancora riconosciuta nelle leggende della Famiglia fino ad oggi. Sicuramente non può esserci alcun dubbio ragionevole sul fatto che si tratti proprio di quella signora spagnola, la madre di Chuzzlewit Fawkes.

Ma c’è un altro elemento di prova che riguarda direttamente il loro stretto legame con questo evento memorabile della storia inglese; tale elemento deve essere sufficiente a convincere anche chi, forse, non fosse già persuaso da queste prove presunte.

Nel giro di pochi anni, il possesso di una lanterna antica e senza dubbio autentica finì nelle mani di un membro molto rispettabile e sotto ogni aspetto credibile e irreprensibile della famiglia Chuzzlewit; nemmeno il suo più acerrimo nemico avrebbe mai osato insinuare che potesse essere diversamente da un uomo ricco. Questa lanterna, per forma e disegno estremamente simile a quelle ancora in uso oggi, risultava ancora più interessante. Il signore in questione, ormai defunto, era sempre pronto a giurare sulle proprie parole, sostenendo ripetutamente di aver spesso sentito sua nonna dire, mentre ammirava questo venerabile reperto: “Sì, sì! Questa lanterna fu portata dal mio quarto figlio il 5 novembre, quando era Guy Fawkes”. Queste parole ebbero un forte impatto sulla sua mente, e lui aveva l’abitudine di ripeterle spesso. L’interpretazione corretta di tali affermazioni conduce inevitabilmente a una conclusione inequivocabile. La vecchia signora, pur essendo di indole decisa, era ormai fragile e in declino; soffriva spesso di confusione mentale, o per lo meno di difficoltà nel parlare, fenomeno tipico dell’età avanzata e della chiacchiericcia eccessiva. La leggera confusione presente nelle sue parole è evidente e facilmente correggibile. “Sì, sì”, diceva lei. E non è necessario apportare alcuna correzione a queste affermazioni: “Sì, sì! Questa lanterna fu portata dal mio antenato il 5 novembre. E LUI era Guy Fawkes”. Qui abbiamo un’affermazione coerente, chiara, naturale e perfettamente in linea con il carattere della persona che l’ha pronunciata. In effetti, questa aneddota può assumere soltanto questo significato; altrimenti non varrebbe nemmeno la pena registrarla nella sua forma originale. Se non fosse una prova di come, sia nella prosa storica che nella poesia immaginativa, il commento di un interprete possa influenzare notevolmente il significato delle parole.

It has been said that there is no instance, in modern times, of a Chuzzlewit having been found on terms of intimacy with the Great. But here again the sneering detractors who weave such miserable figments from their malicious brains, are stricken dumb by evidence. For letters are yet in the possession of various branches of the family, from which it distinctly appears, being stated in so many words, that one Diggory Chuzzlewit was in the habit of perpetually dining with Duke Humphrey. So constantly was he a guest at that nobleman’s table, indeed; and so unceasingly were His Grace’s hospitality and companionship forced, as it were, upon him; that we find him uneasy, and full of constraint and reluctance; writing his friends to the effect that if they fail to do so and so by bearer, he will have no choice but to dine again with Duke Humphrey; and expressing himself in a very marked and extraordinary manner as one surfeited of High Life and Gracious Company.

It has been rumoured, and it is needless to say the rumour originated in the same base quarters, that a certain male Chuzzlewit, whose birth must be admitted to be involved in some obscurity, was of very mean and low descent. How stands the proof? When the son of that individual, to whom the secret of his father’s birth was supposed to have been communicated by his father in his lifetime, lay upon his deathbed, this question was put to him in a distinct, solemn, and formal way: ‘Toby Chuzzlewit, who was your grandfather?’ To which he, with his last breath, no less distinctly, solemnly, and formally replied: and his words were taken down at the time, and signed by six witnesses, each with his name and address in full: ‘The Lord No Zoo.’ It may be said—it HAS been said, for human wickedness has no limits—that there is no Lord of that name, and that among the titles which have become extinct, none at all resembling this, in sound even, is to be discovered. But what is the irresistible inference? Rejecting a theory broached by some well-meaning but mistaken persons, that this Mr Toby Chuzzlewit’s grandfather, to judge from his name, must surely have been a Mandarin (which is wholly insupportable, for there is no pretence of his grandmother ever having been out of this country, or of any Mandarin having been in it within some years of his father’s birth; except those in the tea-shops, which cannot for a moment be regarded as having any bearing on the question, one way or other), rejecting this hypothesis, is it not manifest that Mr Toby Chuzzlewit had either received the name imperfectly from his father, or that he had forgotten it, or that he had mispronounced it? and that even at the recent period in question, the Chuzzlewits were connected by a bend sinister, or kind of heraldic over-the-left, with some unknown noble and illustrious House?

From documentary evidence, yet preserved in the family, the fact is clearly established that in the comparatively modern days of the Diggory Chuzzlewit before mentioned, one of its members had attained to very great wealth and influence. Throughout such fragments of his correspondence as have escaped the ravages of the moths (who, in right of their extensive absorption of the contents of deeds and papers, may be called the general registers of the Insect World), we find him making constant reference to an uncle, in respect of whom he would seem to have entertained great expectations, as he was in the habit of seeking to propitiate his favour by presents of plate, jewels, books, watches, and other valuable articles. Thus, he writes on one occasion to his brother in reference to a gravy-spoon, the brother’s property, which he (Diggory) would appear to have borrowed or otherwise possessed himself of: ‘Do not be angry, I have parted with it—to my uncle.’ On another occasion he expresses himself in a similar manner with regard to a child’s mug which had been entrusted to him to get repaired. On another occasion he says, ‘I have bestowed upon that irresistible uncle of mine everything I ever possessed.’ And that he was in the habit of paying long and constant visits to this gentleman at his mansion, if, indeed, he did not wholly reside there, is manifest from the following sentence: ‘With the exception of the suit of clothes I carry about with me, the whole of my wearing apparel is at present at my uncle’s.’ This gentleman’s patronage and influence must have been very extensive, for his nephew writes, ‘His interest is too high’—‘It is too much’—‘It is tremendous’—and the like. Still it does not appear (which is strange) to have procured for him any lucrative post at court or elsewhere, or to have conferred upon him any other distinction than that which was necessarily included in the countenance of so great a man, and the being invited by him to certain entertainment’s, so splendid and costly in their nature, that he calls them ‘Golden Balls.’

It is needless to multiply instances of the high and lofty station, and the vast importance of the Chuzzlewits, at different periods. If it came within the scope of reasonable probability that further proofs were required, they might be heaped upon each other until they formed an Alps of testimony, beneath which the boldest scepticism should be crushed and beaten flat. As a goodly tumulus is already collected, and decently battened up above the Family grave, the present chapter is content to leave it as it is: merely adding, by way of a final spadeful, that many Chuzzlewits, both male and female, are proved to demonstration, on the faith of letters written by their own mothers, to have had chiselled noses, undeniable chins, forms that might have served the sculptor for a model, exquisitely-turned limbs and polished foreheads of so transparent a texture that the blue veins might be seen branching off in various directions, like so many roads on an ethereal map. This fact in itself, though it had been a solitary one, would have utterly settled and clenched the business in hand; for it is well known, on the authority of all the books which treat of such matters, that every one of these phenomena, but especially that of the chiselling, are invariably peculiar to, and only make themselves apparent in, persons of the very best condition.

This history having, to its own perfect satisfaction, (and, consequently, to the full contentment of all its readers,) proved the Chuzzlewits to have had an origin, and to have been at one time or other of an importance which cannot fail to render them highly improving and acceptable acquaintance to all right-minded individuals, may now proceed in earnest with its task. And having shown that they must have had, by reason of their ancient birth, a pretty large share in the foundation and increase of the human family, it will one day become its province to submit, that such of its members as shall be introduced in these pages, have still many counterparts and prototypes in the Great World about us. At present it contents itself with remarking, in a general way, on this head: Firstly, that it may be safely asserted, and yet without implying any direct participation in the Manboddo doctrine touching the probability of the human race having once been monkeys, that men do play very strange and extraordinary tricks. Secondly, and yet without trenching on the Blumenbach theory as to the descendants of Adam having a vast number of qualities which belong more particularly to swine than to any other class of animals in the creation, that some men certainly are remarkable for taking uncommon good care of themselves.

Si dice che nei tempi moderni non esista alcun caso di un membro della famiglia Chuzzlewit che abbia avuto rapporti intimi con il Duca Humphrey. Ma ancora una volta, coloro che diffondono queste infondate calunnie, partendo dalle loro intenzioni malvagie, rimangono senza parole di fronte alle prove concrete. Infatti, lettere appartenenti a vari rami della famiglia dimostrano chiaramente che un certo Diggory Chuzzlewit aveva l’abitudine di pranzare regolarmente con il Duca Humphrey. Era davvero un ospite costante alla sua tavola; tanto che la gentilezza e l’ospitalità del duca sembravano quasi costringerlo ad accettare tali inviti. A tal punto, Diggory scriveva ai suoi amici esprimendo il proprio disagio, riluttanza e persino avversione per queste frequentazioni; minacciava addirittura che, se loro non avessero risposto alle sue richieste, non gli sarebbe rimasto altro da fare se non pranzare di nuovo con il Duca Humphrey. Si esprimeva in modo molto chiaro e deciso, definendo la vita aristocratica e le compagnie nobili “troppo opprimenti”.

Si sono diffuse voci – e non c’è bisogno di dire che queste voci provenivano dagli stessi ambienti in cui viveva quel signor Chuzzlewit – secondo cui egli avesse origini molto umili e meschine. Ma quali prove esistono a sostegno di questa ipotesi? Quando il figlio di quell’uomo, a cui si diceva che il segreto delle sue origini fosse stato rivelato dal padre in vita sua, giunse al letto di morte, gli fu posta questa domanda in modo chiaro, solenne e formale: “Toby Chuzzlewit, chi era tuo nonno?” E lui, con l’ultimo respiro, rispose altrettanto chiaramente, solennemente e formalmente. Le sue parole furono messe per iscritto sul momento stesso e firmate da sei testimoni, ognuno dei quali indicò nome e indirizzo completo: “Il Signor No Zoo”. Si potrebbe dire – anzi, si è detto – che non esista alcun signore con quel nome; tra i titoli nobiliari estinti, nessuno ne presenta nemmeno una somiglianza, nemmeno nel suono. Ma quale conclusione si può trarre da tutto ciò? Rifiutando l’ipotesi avanzata da alcune persone ben intenzionate ma errate, secondo cui il nonno di quel signor Chuzzlewit dovesse essere stato un mandarino, una supposizione del tutto infondata, visto che né la nonna di Toby aveva mai lasciato questo paese, né esisteva alcun mandarino in vita nel periodo della nascita di suo padre, rimane evidente che o Toby abbia ricevuto quel nome in modo impreciso dal padre, oppure l’abbia dimenticato o pronunciato male. E anche nel recente passato, non è forse possibile che i Chuzzlewit fossero collegati, in qualche modo oscuro e misterioso, a una nobile e illustre famiglia sconosciuta?

Secondo prove documentarie ancora conservate nella famiglia, è chiaramente dimostrato che negli anni relativamente moderni della dinastia Diggory Chuzzlewit, uno dei suoi membri raggiunse una grande ricchezza e influenza. Nei frammenti della sua corrispondenza sopravvissuti alle devastazioni dei insetti – i quali, per la loro vasta capacità di consumare contenuti di atti legali e documenti, potrebbero essere considerati i “registri generali del mondo degli insetti” – si trova che faceva spesso riferimento a un zio, verso il quale sembrava nutrire grandi aspettative. Era solito cercare di guadagnarsi la sua simpatia regalandogli argenterie, gioielli, libri, orologi e altri oggetti di valore. Ad esempio, in una lettera scrive al fratello riguardo a una cucchiaiata da sugo, proprietà del fratello stesso, che lui aveva preso in prestito o comunque si era procurato: “Non arrabbiarti, l’ho data al mio zio”. In un’altra occasione si esprime in modo simile riguardo a una tazza affidatogli per essere riparata. Inoltre afferma: “Ho donato a quel mio irresistibile zio tutto ciò che ho mai posseduto”. È evidente anche che aveva l’abitudine di fare frequenti visite a questa persona nella sua residenza; sebbene probabilmente non vi risiedesse completamente, si evince da questa frase: “Ad eccezione dell’abbigliamento che porto con me, tutto il mio vestiario si trova attualmente presso mio zio”. Il sostegno e l’influenza di questo gentiluomo dovevano essere molto vasti, poiché suo nipote scriveva: “Il suo potere è troppo grande. È enorme. È tremendo”, e simili espressioni. Tuttavia, stranamente, non sembra che sia riuscito a procurargli alcuna posizione redditizia alla corte o altrove, né che gli abbia concesso altre onorificenze oltre a quelle che erano inevitabili per una persona di tale rilievo; inoltre, non è stato invitato ad eventi così lussuosi e costosi da essere definiti “Feste d’Oro”.

Non è necessario ripetere all’infinito quanto sia elevata la posizione sociale dei Chuzzlewits e quanto sia enorme la loro importanza nei diversi periodi storici. Se fosse possibile che servissero ulteriori prove, queste potrebbero accumularsi una sull’altra fino a formare un “monte di testimonianze” tale da schiacciare qualsiasi forma di scetticismo. Poiché già esiste un solido insieme di prove, opportunamente raccolte e sistemate sopra la tomba della famiglia Chuzzlewit, questo capitolo si limita a aggiungere, come ultima considerazione, che molti membri della famiglia, sia maschi che femmine, sono stati dimostratamente, sulla base di lettere scritte dalle loro stesse madri, di possedere nasi ben definiti, menti pronunciate, lineamenti perfetti che avrebbero potuto servire da modelli per lo scultore, articolazioni agili e fronti lisci e trasparenti al punto che si potevano vedere le vene azzurre diramarsi in varie direzioni, come tante strade su una mappa eterea. Questo fatto, anche se isolato, sarebbe già stato sufficiente a risolvere definitivamente la questione; poiché è ben noto, secondo quanto affermato da tutti i libri che trattano di queste materie, che ognuno di questi fenomeni, soprattutto quello legato alla struttura fisica delle persone, è caratteristico esclusivamente di individui di estrema salute e benessere.

Questa storia, avendo dimostrato, a piena soddisfazione propria (e, di conseguenza, anche di tutti i suoi lettori), che i Chuzzlewits avevano un’origine e, in un certo momento del passato, avevano raggiunto un’importanza tale da renderli compagni assai interessanti e gradevoli per tutte le persone di buon senso, può ora proseguire seriamente nel suo compito. Dopo aver dimostrato che, a causa della loro antica origine, i Chuzzlewits hanno sicuramente avuto un ruolo importante nella fondazione e nell’espansione della famiglia umana, un giorno sarà possibile stabilire che molti dei loro membri presentati in queste pagine hanno ancora numerosi omologhi e prototipi nel mondo reale che ci circonda. Per ora ci limitiamo a osservare, in modo generale: innanzitutto, si può affermare con certezza – senza per questo implicare alcuna partecipazione diretta alla dottrina di Manboddo riguardo alla possibilità che la razza umana sia un tempo stata formata da scimmie – che gli esseri umani sono davvero capaci di compiere azioni strane e insolite. In secondo luogo, senza entrare troppo nel dettaglio della teoria di Blumenbach secondo cui i discendenti di Adamo possiedono molte caratteristiche tipiche dei maiali piuttosto che di qualsiasi altra classe di animali creati da Dio, si può dire con certezza che alcuni esseri umani sono davvero eccezionalmente attenti a prendersi cura di se stessi.

CHAPTER TWO

WHEREIN CERTAIN PERSONS ARE PRESENTED TO THE READER, WITH WHOM HE MAY, IF HE PLEASE, BECOME BETTER ACQUAINTED

It was pretty late in the autumn of the year, when the declining sun struggling through the mist which had obscured it all day, looked brightly down upon a little Wiltshire village, within an easy journey of the fair old town of Salisbury.

Like a sudden flash of memory or spirit kindling up the mind of an old man, it shed a glory upon the scene, in which its departed youth and freshness seemed to live again. The wet grass sparkled in the light; the scanty patches of verdure in the hedges—where a few green twigs yet stood together bravely, resisting to the last the tyranny of nipping winds and early frosts—took heart and brightened up; the stream which had been dull and sullen all day long, broke out into a cheerful smile; the birds began to chirp and twitter on the naked boughs, as though the hopeful creatures half believed that winter had gone by, and spring had come already. The vane upon the tapering spire of the old church glistened from its lofty station in sympathy with the general gladness; and from the ivy-shaded windows such gleams of light shone back upon the glowing sky, that it seemed as if the quiet buildings were the hoarding-place of twenty summers, and all their ruddiness and warmth were stored within.

Even those tokens of the season which emphatically whispered of the coming winter, graced the landscape, and, for the moment, tinged its livelier features with no oppressive air of sadness. The fallen leaves, with which the ground was strewn, gave forth a pleasant fragrance, and subduing all harsh sounds of distant feet and wheels created a repose in gentle unison with the light scattering of seed hither and thither by the distant husbandman, and with the noiseless passage of the plough as it turned up the rich brown earth, and wrought a graceful pattern in the stubbled fields. On the motionless branches of some trees, autumn berries hung like clusters of coral beads, as in those fabled orchards where the fruits were jewels; others stripped of all their garniture, stood, each the centre of its little heap of bright red leaves, watching their slow decay; others again, still wearing theirs, had them all crunched and crackled up, as though they had been burnt; about the stems of some were piled, in ruddy mounds, the apples they had borne that year; while others (hardy evergreens this class) showed somewhat stern and gloomy in their vigour, as charged by nature with the admonition that it is not to her more sensitive and joyous favourites she grants the longest term of life. Still athwart their darker boughs, the sunbeams struck out paths of deeper gold; and the red light, mantling in among their swarthy branches, used them as foils to set its brightness off, and aid the lustre of the dying day.

A moment, and its glory was no more. The sun went down beneath the long dark lines of hill and cloud which piled up in the west an airy city, wall heaped on wall, and battlement on battlement; the light was all withdrawn; the shining church turned cold and dark; the stream forgot to smile; the birds were silent; and the gloom of winter dwelt on everything.

An evening wind uprose too, and the slighter branches cracked and rattled as they moved, in skeleton dances, to its moaning music. The withering leaves no longer quiet, hurried to and fro in search of shelter from its chill pursuit; the labourer unyoked his horses, and with head bent down, trudged briskly home beside them; and from the cottage windows lights began to glance and wink upon the darkening fields.

Then the village forge came out in all its bright importance. The lusty bellows roared Ha ha! to the clear fire, which roared in turn, and bade the shining sparks dance gayly to the merry clinking of the hammers on the anvil. The gleaming iron, in its emulation, sparkled too, and shed its red-hot gems around profusely. The strong smith and his men dealt such strokes upon their work, as made even the melancholy night rejoice, and brought a glow into its dark face as it hovered about the door and windows, peeping curiously in above the shoulders of a dozen loungers. As to this idle company, there they stood, spellbound by the place, and, casting now and then a glance upon the darkness in their rear, settled their lazy elbows more at ease upon the sill, and leaned a little further in: no more disposed to tear themselves away than if they had been born to cluster round the blazing hearth like so many crickets.

Out upon the angry wind! how from sighing, it began to bluster round the merry forge, banging at the wicket, and grumbling in the chimney, as if it bullied the jolly bellows for doing anything to order. And what an impotent swaggerer it was too, for all its noise; for if it had any influence on that hoarse companion, it was but to make him roar his cheerful song the louder, and by consequence to make the fire burn the brighter, and the sparks to dance more gayly yet; at length, they whizzed so madly round and round, that it was too much for such a surly wind to bear; so off it flew with a howl giving the old sign before the ale-house door such a cuff as it went, that the Blue Dragon was more rampant than usual ever afterwards, and indeed, before Christmas, reared clean out of its crazy frame.

It was small tyranny for a respectable wind to go wreaking its vengeance on such poor creatures as the fallen leaves, but this wind happening to come up with a great heap of them just after venting its humour on the insulted Dragon, did so disperse and scatter them that they fled away, pell-mell, some here, some there, rolling over each other, whirling round and round upon their thin edges, taking frantic flights into the air, and playing all manner of extraordinary gambols in the extremity of their distress. Nor was this enough for its malicious fury; for not content with driving them abroad, it charged small parties of them and hunted them into the wheel wright’s saw-pit, and below the planks and timbers in the yard, and, scattering the sawdust in the air, it looked for them underneath, and when it did meet with any, whew! how it drove them on and followed at their heels!

CAPITOLO DUE

In cui vengono presentati al lettore alcune persone, con le quali egli può, se lo desidera, entrare in un rapporto di maggiore conoscenza.

Era già tardi nell’autunno di quell’anno; il sole al tramonto, lottando contro la nebbia che lo aveva oscurato per tutta la giornata, illuminava con un bagliore intenso un piccolo villaggio del Wiltshire, situato a soli pochi minuti di viaggio dalla bella e antica città di Salisbury.

Come un improvviso lampo di memoria o come uno spirito che ravviva la mente di un anziano, tutto ciò conferì alla scena una luce particolare; la gioventù e la freschezza passate sembravano rivivere. L’erba umida brillava al sole; i rari fili d’erba nei cespugli – dove ancora alcune foglie verdi resistevano coraggiosamente alla furia dei venti gelidi e delle prime gelate – si ravvivarono; il ruscello, fino ad allora cupo e silenzioso, iniziò a scorrere gioiosamente; gli uccelli presero a cantare sugli alberi spogli, come se quelle creature speranzose credessero davvero che l’inverno fosse già passato e l’primavera fosse arrivata. La banderuola sulla torre della vecchia chiesa brillava, riflettendo la gioia generale; dai vetri ombreggiati dall’edera provenivano raggi di luce che illuminavano il cielo splendente, dando l’impressione che quegli edifici tranquilli fossero un deposito di venti estati, e che tutta la loro rossore e calore vi fossero racchiusi.

Anche quei segni della stagione che indicavano con forza l’arrivo dell’—inverno abbellivano il paesaggio e, per il momento, donavano alle sue caratteristiche più vivaci un tocco di serenità, senza alcun senso di tristezza opprimente. Le foglie cadute, sparse sul terreno, diffondevano un piacevole profumo; i suoni lontani di passi e ruote si mescolavano armoniosamente con il silenzio, creando un’atmosfera di tranquillità. Su alcuni rami immobili degli alberi, le bacche autunnali pendevano come grappoli di perle coralline, proprio come in quegli mitici orti dove i frutti sembravano gioielli; altri alberi, privati di ogni ornamento, mostravano soltanto mucchietti di foglie rosse brillanti che assistevano al loro lento appassire; ancora altri, con le foglie intatte, presentavano tracce di danni causati dal gelo, come se fossero state bruciate. Intorno ai tronchi di alcuni alberi si accumulavano mucchi di mele raccolte in quell’anno; altri, essendo piante sempreverdi, apparivano più rigidi e cupi nel loro vigore, come se la natura volesse ricordare che non è proprio ai suoi favoriti più sensibili e gioiosi che concede la vita più lunga. Nonostante ciò, i raggi del sole illuminavano i loro rami più scuri con strisce d’oro intenso; il rosso bagliore che si diffondeva tra le loro foglie nere ne esaltava ancora di più lo splendore, contribuendo al fascino dell’ultimo momento della giornata.

In un attimo, tutta la sua gloria scomparve. Il sole tramontò dietro le lunghe linee scure delle colline e delle nuvole che si accumulavano a ovest, formando una sorta di “città” aerea, con mura sovrapposte l’una all’altra e merlature che si intrecciavano; tutta la luce svanì; la chiesa scintillante divenne fredda e buia; il ruscello smise di “sorridere”; gli uccelli tacevano; e l’oscurità dell’inverno avvolgeva ogni cosa.

Anche una sera di vento si alzò; i rami più sottili si spezzavano e scricchiolavano mentre si muovevano, seguendo il ritmo lamentoso di quel vento, in danze simili a quelle di uno scheletro. Le foglie appassite non erano più tranquille; si muovevano avanti e indietro freneticamente, cercando riparo dal freddo che le inseguiva. Il contadino sciolse i cavalli e, con la testa bassa, camminò velocemente verso casa al loro fianco; dalle finestre delle capanne iniziarono a filtrare luci che lampeggiavano sulle campagne ormai immerse nell’oscurità.

Allora, la fucina del villaggio si rivelò nella sua intera maestosità. I potenti mantici ruggivano “Ha ha!” accanto al chiaro fuoco, che a sua volta rimbombava, invitando le scintille brillanti a danzare gioiosamente al ritmo del tintinnio dei martelli sull’incudine. Anche il ferro lucente, come se volesse competere con loro, scintillava intensamente, sprigionando gemme roventi ovunque. Il robusto fabbro e i suoi assistenti colpivano il metallo con tanta forza che persino la triste notte sembrava gioire, illuminandosi leggermente mentre si posava intorno alle porte e alle finestre, spiando curiosamente sopra le spalle di una dozzina di persone sedute pigramente. Quanto a quelle persone oziose, lì stavano, incantate da quel luogo; di tanto in tanto gettavano uno sguardo verso l’oscurità alle loro spalle, poi appoggiavano più comodamente i gomiti sul davanzale e si sporgevano ancora di più in avanti. Non avevano alcuna voglia di allontanarsi da lì, come se fossero nate proprio per radunarsi intorno al fuoco ardente, come tanti grilli.

Fuori, nel furioso vento! Inizialmente sospirava, poi prese ad ululare intorno alla allegra fucina, battendo contro il portone e borbottando nel camino, come se volesse costringere il gioioso mantice a obbedire ai suoi ordini. Eppure, nonostante tutto quel rumore, era davvero impotente: se mai aveva qualche influenza su quel suo “compagno” rauco, era solo quella di far sì che questi cantasse ancora più forte la sua allegra canzone, facendo così bruciare il fuoco ancora più intensamente e le scintille danzare ancora più gioiosamente. Alla fine, il vento iniziò a vorticare così freneticamente che non riuscì più a sopportarlo. E se ne andò urlando, dando un colpo violento alla vecchia insegna davanti alla porta della taverna; a causa di questo, il “Drago Blu” divenne ancora più selvaggio del solito. E prima di Natale, uscì completamente dal suo “guscio” folle e distrutto.

Era una piccola tirannia da parte di un rispettabile vento che andasse a vendicarsi su creature così povere come le foglie cadute. Ma questo )vento, dopo aver sfogato il proprio «umorismo» sull’offeso Drago, si ritrovò con un gran mucchio di foglie davanti a sé; le disperse così tanto che queste fuggirono in tutte le direzioni, rotolando l’una sull’altra, vorticando su se stesse lungo i loro bordi sottili, lanciandosi disperatamente nell’aria e compiendo ogni sorta di gesti stravaganti nel mezzo della loro angoscia. E non si accontentò nemmeno di questo: invece di limitarsi a scacciarle via, inseguì alcuni gruppi di foglie fino alla fossa dove veniva tagliata la legna, e anche sotto le assi e i tronchi nel cortile. Spargendo polvere di segatura in aria, cercò le foglie lì sotto; e quando ne trovava qualcuna, ahimè, come le inseguiva senza sosta!

The scared leaves only flew the faster for all this, and a giddy chase it was; for they got into unfrequented places, where there was no outlet, and where their pursuer kept them eddying round and round at his pleasure; and they crept under the eaves of houses, and clung tightly to the sides of hay-ricks, like bats; and tore in at open chamber windows, and cowered close to hedges; and, in short, went anywhere for safety. But the oddest feat they achieved was, to take advantage of the sudden opening of Mr Pecksniff’s front-door, to dash wildly into his passage; whither the wind following close upon them, and finding the back-door open, incontinently blew out the lighted candle held by Miss Pecksniff, and slammed the front-door against Mr Pecksniff who was at that moment entering, with such violence, that in the twinkling of an eye he lay on his back at the bottom of the steps. Being by this time weary of such trifling performances, the boisterous rover hurried away rejoicing, roaring over moor and meadow, hill and flat, until it got out to sea, where it met with other winds similarly disposed, and made a night of it.

In the meantime Mr Pecksniff, having received from a sharp angle in the bottom step but one, that sort of knock on the head which lights up, for the patient’s entertainment, an imaginary general illumination of very bright short-sixes, lay placidly staring at his own street door. And it would seem to have been more suggestive in its aspect than street doors usually are; for he continued to lie there, rather a lengthy and unreasonable time, without so much as wondering whether he was hurt or no; neither, when Miss Pecksniff inquired through the key-hole in a shrill voice, which might have belonged to a wind in its teens, ‘Who’s there’ did he make any reply; nor, when Miss Pecksniff opened the door again, and shading the candle with her hand, peered out, and looked provokingly round him, and about him, and over him, and everywhere but at him, did he offer any remark, or indicate in any manner the least hint of a desire to be picked up.

‘I see you,’ cried Miss Pecksniff, to the ideal inflicter of a runaway knock. ‘You’ll catch it, sir!’

Still Mr Pecksniff, perhaps from having caught it already, said nothing.

‘You’re round the corner now,’ cried Miss Pecksniff. She said it at a venture, but there was appropriate matter in it too; for Mr Pecksniff, being in the act of extinguishing the candles before mentioned pretty rapidly, and of reducing the number of brass knobs on his street door from four or five hundred (which had previously been juggling of their own accord before his eyes in a very novel manner) to a dozen or so, might in one sense have been said to be coming round the corner, and just turning it.

With a sharply delivered warning relative to the cage and the constable, and the stocks and the gallows, Miss Pecksniff was about to close the door again, when Mr Pecksniff (being still at the bottom of the steps) raised himself on one elbow, and sneezed.

‘That voice!’ cried Miss Pecksniff. ‘My parent!’

At this exclamation, another Miss Pecksniff bounced out of the parlour; and the two Miss Pecksniffs, with many incoherent expressions, dragged Mr Pecksniff into an upright posture.

‘Pa!’ they cried in concert. ‘Pa! Speak, Pa! Do not look so wild my dearest Pa!’

But as a gentleman’s looks, in such a case of all others, are by no means under his own control, Mr Pecksniff continued to keep his mouth and his eyes very wide open, and to drop his lower jaw, somewhat after the manner of a toy nut-cracker; and as his hat had fallen off, and his face was pale, and his hair erect, and his coat muddy, the spectacle he presented was so very doleful, that neither of the Miss Pecksniffs could repress an involuntary screech.

‘That’ll do,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘I’m better.’

‘He’s come to himself!’ cried the youngest Miss Pecksniff.

‘He speaks again!’ exclaimed the eldest.

With these joyful words they kissed Mr Pecksniff on either cheek; and bore him into the house. Presently, the youngest Miss Pecksniff ran out again to pick up his hat, his brown paper parcel, his umbrella, his gloves, and other small articles; and that done, and the door closed, both young ladies applied themselves to tending Mr Pecksniff’s wounds in the back parlour.

They were not very serious in their nature; being limited to abrasions on what the eldest Miss Pecksniff called ‘the knobby parts’ of her parent’s anatomy, such as his knees and elbows, and to the development of an entirely new organ, unknown to phrenologists, on the back of his head. These injuries having been comforted externally, with patches of pickled brown paper, and Mr Pecksniff having been comforted internally, with some stiff brandy-and-water, the eldest Miss Pecksniff sat down to make the tea, which was all ready. In the meantime the youngest Miss Pecksniff brought from the kitchen a smoking dish of ham and eggs, and, setting the same before her father, took up her station on a low stool at his feet; thereby bringing her eyes on a level with the teaboard.

It must not be inferred from this position of humility, that the youngest Miss Pecksniff was so young as to be, as one may say, forced to sit upon a stool, by reason of the shortness of her legs. Miss Pecksniff sat upon a stool because of her simplicity and innocence, which were very great, very great. Miss Pecksniff sat upon a stool because she was all girlishness, and playfulness, and wildness, and kittenish buoyancy. She was the most arch and at the same time the most artless creature, was the youngest Miss Pecksniff, that you can possibly imagine. It was her great charm. She was too fresh and guileless, and too full of child-like vivacity, was the youngest Miss Pecksniff, to wear combs in her hair, or to turn it up, or to frizzle it, or braid it. She wore it in a crop, a loosely flowing crop, which had so many rows of curls in it, that the top row was only one curl. Moderately buxom was her shape, and quite womanly too; but sometimes—yes, sometimes—she even wore a pinafore; and how charming THAT was! Oh! she was indeed ‘a gushing thing’ (as a young gentleman had observed in verse, in the Poet’s Corner of a provincial newspaper), was the youngest Miss Pecksniff!

Le spaventate farfalle volavano ancora più velocemente a causa di tutto ciò; era una vera e propria caccia frenetica: si rifugiavano in luoghi poco frequentati, senza via d’uscita, dove il loro inseguitore le costringeva a girare in tondo a suo piacimento. Si nascondevano sotto i tetti delle case, si aggrappavano saldamente ai muri dei mucchi di paglia, come pipistrelli, sfondavano le finestre aperte e si rannicchiavano vicino ai recinti. Insomma, andavano ovunque pur di trovare sicurezza. Ma la cosa più strana che riuscirono a fare fu approfittare dell’improvvisa apertura della porta d’ingresso del signor Pecksniff per precipitarsi nel suo corridoio; il vento, che le seguiva da vicino, trovando la porta posteriore aperta, spense immediatamente la candela accesa in mano alla signorina Pecksniff e sbatté la porta d’ingresso con tale forza che il signor Pecksniff, che in quel momento stava entrando, finì a terra sulle scale. Ormai stanco di queste buffonate, il turbolento “viaggiatore notturno” se ne andò felice, urlando attraverso campi e praterie, su colline e pianure, fino a raggiungere il mare. Lì incontrò altri venti simili a lui e insieme fecero una vera e propria “notte di follia”.

Nel frattempo, il signor Pecksniff, avendo ricevuto da un angolo particolarmente acuto della scala uno di quei colpi alla testa che, per divertimento del paziente, fanno “accendere” un’immaginaria illuminazione molto intensa e improvvisa, giaceva tranquillamente a fissare la propria porta d’ingresso. Quella porta sembrava avere un aspetto particolarmente suggestivo rispetto alle normali porte di strada; infatti il signor Pecksniff rimase lì disteso per un periodo piuttosto lungo e irragionevole, senza nemmeno chiedersi se fosse ferito o meno. Quando la signorina Pecksniff chiese attraverso la serratura con una voce stridula che avrebbe potuto appartenere a un “vento” di quattordici anni, “Chi è là?”, lui non rispose affatto; e quando lei aprì di nuovo la porta, schermò la candela con la mano, guardò fuori in modo provocatorio intorno a sé, sopra di sé, ma ovunque tranne che verso di lui, ancora non disse nulla né mostrò il minimo segno di voler essere “raccogliuto” o aiutato.

“Vi vedo,” gridò la signorina Pecksniff, rivolta all’autore ideale di quel colpo violento alla porta. “Ve ne pentirete, signore!”

Ancora una volta, il signor Pecksniff, forse perché l’aveva già preso, non disse nulla.

“Ormai sei quasi arrivato,” gridò la signorina Pecksniff. Lo disse un po’ a caso, ma c’era del vero nelle sue parole; infatti il signor Pecksniff, che in quel momento stava spegnendo le candele con notevole rapidità e riducendo il numero dei pomelli di ottone sulla porta di casa sua da quattro o cinquecento (che prima si muovevano da soli davanti ai suoi occhi in modo davvero molto stravagante), a una dozzina circa, poteva in un certo senso essere considerato “quasi arrivato”, anzi, proprio arrivato.

Con un avvertimento pronunciato con fermezza riguardo alla gabbia, al poliziotto, alle catene e alla forca, la signorina Pecksniff stava per chiudere di nuovo la porta, quando il signor Pecksniff (che si trovava ancora in fondo alle scale) si sollevò su un gomito e starnutì.

“Quella voce!” esclamò la signorina Pecksniff. “Mio genitore!”

Alla sua esclamazione, un’altra signorina Pecksniff uscì di corsa dal salotto; e le due signorine Pecksniff, con molte espressioni incoerenti, aiutarono il signor Pecksniff a riprendere una posizione eretta.

“Papà!”, gridarono all’unisono. “Papà! Parla, papà! Non guardare così, mio carissimo papà!”

Ma poiché l’aspetto di un gentiluomo, in una situazione del genere, non è affatto sotto il suo controllo, il signor Pecksniff continuò a tenere la bocca e gli occhi ben aperti, lasciando pendere la mandibola in modo piuttosto simile a quello di un giocattolo per spezzare noci; inoltre, poiché il suo cappello era caduto, il viso era pallido, i capelli erano dritti e il mantello era sporco di fango, l’immagine che offriva era così tragica che nessuna delle signorine Pecksniff riuscì a trattenersi dal lanciare un grido involontario.

“Basta così,” disse il signor Pecksniff. “Ora sto meglio.”

“Si è ripreso!” gridò la più giovane delle signorine Pecksniff.

“Parla di nuovo!” esclamò il maggiore.

Con queste parole gioiose baciarono il signor Pecksniff su entrambe le guance e lo portarono dentro la casa. Poco dopo, la più giovane delle signorine Pecksniff uscì di nuovo per prendere il suo cappello, il pacchetto di carta marrone, l’ombrello, i guanti e altri piccoli oggetti; una volta fatto ciò e chiusa la porta, entrambe le giovani donne si misero all’opera per curare le ferite del signor Pecksniff nella stanza sul retro.

Non erano ferite molto gravi; si limitavano ad abrasioni su quelle che la maggiore signorina Pecksniff definiva “le parti nodose” dell’anatomia dei suoi genitori, come ginocchia e gomiti, oltre alla formazione di un organo completamente nuovo, sconosciuto ai frenologi, sulla parte posteriore della sua testa. Dopo aver alleviato esteriormente queste ferite con strisce di carta marrone conservata in salamoia, e aver consolato interiormente il signor Pecksniff con un po’ di brandy mescolato a acqua, la maggiore signorina Pecksniff si sedette per preparare il tè, che era già pronto. Nel frattempo, la più giovane signorina Pecksniff portò dalla cucina un piatto fumante con prosciutto e uova; lo posizionò davanti a suo padre e si mise in piedi su uno sgabello basso ai suoi piedi, in modo che i suoi occhi fossero allo stesso livello del tavolino da tè.

Non si deve dedurre da questa posizione di umiltà che la più giovane signorina Pecksniff fosse così piccola da essere, per così dire, costretta a sedersi su uno sgabello a causa dell’altezza ridotta delle sue gambe. La signorina Pecksniff sedeva su uno sgabello a causa della sua semplicità e innocenza, che erano davvero grandi, molto grandi. Sedeva su uno sgabello perché era tutta grazia infantile, giocosità, vivacità. Era la creatura più naturale e allo stesso tempo la meno artificiosa che si possa immaginare; era davvero la più giovane signorina Pecksniff possibile. Questo era il suo grande fascino: era troppo fresca, ingenua e piena di vivacità infantile per usare pettini nei capelli, né per acconciarli in modo elaborato. Li portava tagliati corti, con tante onde che la fila superiore ne conteneva soltanto una. La sua figura era moderatamente formosa e decisamente femminile; ma a volte, sì, a volte indossava persino un grembiule. E quanto era incantevole! Oh, davvero era “una creatura piena di grazia” (come aveva osservato un giovane gentiluomo in versi, nella sezione dedicata alla poesia di un giornale provinciale): era davvero la più giovane signorina Pecksniff possibile.

Mr Pecksniff was a moral man—a grave man, a man of noble sentiments and speech—and he had had her christened Mercy. Mercy! oh, what a charming name for such a pure-souled Being as the youngest Miss Pecksniff! Her sister’s name was Charity. There was a good thing! Mercy and Charity! And Charity, with her fine strong sense and her mild, yet not reproachful gravity, was so well named, and did so well set off and illustrate her sister! What a pleasant sight was that the contrast they presented; to see each loved and loving one sympathizing with, and devoted to, and leaning on, and yet correcting and counter-checking, and, as it were, antidoting, the other! To behold each damsel in her very admiration of her sister, setting up in business for herself on an entirely different principle, and announcing no connection with over-the-way, and if the quality of goods at that establishment don’t please you, you are respectfully invited to favour ME with a call! And the crowning circumstance of the whole delightful catalogue was, that both the fair creatures were so utterly unconscious of all this! They had no idea of it. They no more thought or dreamed of it than Mr Pecksniff did. Nature played them off against each other; THEY had no hand in it, the two Miss Pecksniffs.

It has been remarked that Mr Pecksniff was a moral man. So he was. Perhaps there never was a more moral man than Mr Pecksniff, especially in his conversation and correspondence. It was once said of him by a homely admirer, that he had a Fortunatus’s purse of good sentiments in his inside. In this particular he was like the girl in the fairy tale, except that if they were not actual diamonds which fell from his lips, they were the very brightest paste, and shone prodigiously. He was a most exemplary man; fuller of virtuous precept than a copy book. Some people likened him to a direction-post, which is always telling the way to a place, and never goes there; but these were his enemies, the shadows cast by his brightness; that was all. His very throat was moral. You saw a good deal of it. You looked over a very low fence of white cravat (whereof no man had ever beheld the tie for he fastened it behind), and there it lay, a valley between two jutting heights of collar, serene and whiskerless before you. It seemed to say, on the part of Mr Pecksniff, ‘There is no deception, ladies and gentlemen, all is peace, a holy calm pervades me.’ So did his hair, just grizzled with an iron-grey which was all brushed off his forehead, and stood bolt upright, or slightly drooped in kindred action with his heavy eyelids. So did his person, which was sleek though free from corpulency. So did his manner, which was soft and oily. In a word, even his plain black suit, and state of widower and dangling double eye-glass, all tended to the same purpose, and cried aloud, ‘Behold the moral Pecksniff!’

The brazen plate upon the door (which being Mr Pecksniff’s, could not lie) bore this inscription, ‘PECKSNIFF, ARCHITECT,’ to which Mr Pecksniff, on his cards of business, added, AND LAND SURVEYOR.’ In one sense, and only one, he may be said to have been a Land Surveyor on a pretty large scale, as an extensive prospect lay stretched out before the windows of his house. Of his architectural doings, nothing was clearly known, except that he had never designed or built anything; but it was generally understood that his knowledge of the science was almost awful in its profundity.

Mr Pecksniff’s professional engagements, indeed, were almost, if not entirely, confined to the reception of pupils; for the collection of rents, with which pursuit he occasionally varied and relieved his graver toils, can hardly be said to be a strictly architectural employment. His genius lay in ensnaring parents and guardians, and pocketing premiums. A young gentleman’s premium being paid, and the young gentleman come to Mr Pecksniff’s house, Mr Pecksniff borrowed his case of mathematical instruments (if silver-mounted or otherwise valuable); entreated him, from that moment, to consider himself one of the family; complimented him highly on his parents or guardians, as the case might be; and turned him loose in a spacious room on the two-pair front; where, in the company of certain drawing-boards, parallel rulers, very stiff-legged compasses, and two, or perhaps three, other young gentlemen, he improved himself, for three or five years, according to his articles, in making elevations of Salisbury Cathedral from every possible point of sight; and in constructing in the air a vast quantity of Castles, Houses of Parliament, and other Public Buildings. Perhaps in no place in the world were so many gorgeous edifices of this class erected as under Mr Pecksniff’s auspices; and if but one-twentieth part of the churches which were built in that front room, with one or other of the Miss Pecksniffs at the altar in the act of marrying the architect, could only be made available by the parliamentary commissioners, no more churches would be wanted for at least five centuries.

‘Even the worldly goods of which we have just disposed,’ said Mr Pecksniff, glancing round the table when he had finished, ‘even cream, sugar, tea, toast, ham—’

‘And eggs,’ suggested Charity in a low voice.

‘And eggs,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘even they have their moral. See how they come and go! Every pleasure is transitory. We can’t even eat, long. If we indulge in harmless fluids, we get the dropsy; if in exciting liquids, we get drunk. What a soothing reflection is that!’

‘Don’t say WE get drunk, Pa,’ urged the eldest Miss Pecksniff.

‘When I say we, my dear,’ returned her father, ‘I mean mankind in general; the human race, considered as a body, and not as individuals. There is nothing personal in morality, my love. Even such a thing as this,’ said Mr Pecksniff, laying the fore-finger of his left hand upon the brown paper patch on the top of his head, ‘slight casual baldness though it be, reminds us that we are but’—he was going to say ‘worms,’ but recollecting that worms were not remarkable for heads of hair, he substituted ‘flesh and blood.’

Il signor Pecksniff era un uomo morale – un uomo serio, dotato di nobili sentimenti e parole – ed aveva fatto battezzare la ragazza Mercy. Mercy. Oh, che nome incantevole per una creatura dal cuore così puro come la giovane Miss Pecksniff! Il nome di sua sorella era Charity. Che bella combinazione: Mercy e Charity! E Charity, con il suo sano giudizio, la sua dolcezza e al contempo la sua serietà senza rimproveri, era davvero un nome perfetto per lei. E come si abbinava bene a sua sorella! Che piacevole contrasto rappresentavano: entrambe amavano profondamente l’una l’altra, si sostenevano a vicenda, ma al contempo si correggevano a vicenda. Era davvero un esempio di armonia. Vedere ciascuna delle due ragazze, pur ammirando molto la sorella, impegnarsi in attività completamente diverse e dichiarare apertamente di non voler avere nulla a che fare con quelle della sorella. E se i prodotti offerti da queste ultime non vi piacevano, vi veniva gentilmente invitato a provare i miei! La ciliegina sulla torta di tutta questa situazione incantevole era il fatto che entrambe le ragazze erano completamente all’oscuro di tutto ciò. Non ne avevano la minima idea. Non ci pensavano nemmeno, proprio come il signor Pecksniff. La Natura le aveva messe una contro l’altra. Ma loro due, le Miss Pecksniff, non c’entravano affatto in tutto questo.

Si è detto che il signor Pecksniff fosse un uomo morale. Ed effettivamente lo era. Forse non esisteva mai stato un uomo più morale del signor Pecksniff, soprattutto nel suo modo di parlare e nella sua corrispondenza. Un suo ammiratore lo definì una volta “un portafoglio pieno di buoni sentimenti”. In questo particolare aspetto, assomigliava alla ragazza della favola; solo che, se ciò che usciva dalle sue labbra non erano diamanti veri, allora erano sicuramente i brillantini più splendenti, che scintillavano intensamente. Era davvero un uomo esemplare: pieno di precetti morali quanto un libro di testo. Alcuni lo paragonavano a un cartello indicatore, che indica sempre la strada verso un luogo, ma senza mai raggiungerlo; tuttavia, questi erano i suoi nemici: le ombre proiettate dalla sua luce, nient’altro. Anche il suo collo era “morale”: si poteva vedere chiaramente la sua integrità morale attraverso quel colletto bianco. Si trattava di una sorta di “valle” tra due “creste” di colletti rigidi, serena e priva di difetti. Sembrava dire, da parte del signor Pecksniff: “Signore e signori, non c’è alcuna inganno, tutto è pace; una tranquillità sacra pervade me”. Lo stesso valeva per i suoi capelli, appena grigiastri, ma sempre ben pettinati; si ergevano dritti o pendevano leggermente, in armonia con le sue palpebre pesanti. Anche il suo aspetto fisico era curato, senza essere corpulento; il suo modo di comportarsi era dolce e untuoso. In breve, anche il suo semplice abito nero, lo stato di vedovo e gli occhiali da vista contribuivano tutti allo stesso scopo: gridavano ad alta voce: “Ecco il morale Pecksniff!”

La lastra di rame appesa sulla porta (che, essendo di proprietà del signor Pecksniff, non poteva mentire) recava questa iscrizione: “PECKSNIFF, ARCHITETTO”; sulle sue carte da visita aggiungeva inoltre: “E PERIZIATORE DI TERRE”. In un certo senso, e solo in quel senso, si può dire che fosse davvero un periziatore di terre su larga scala, poiché davanti alle finestre della sua housecasa si estendeva un vasto territorio. Per quanto riguarda le sue attività architettoniche, non si sapeva nulla di certo, se non che non aveva mai progettato o costruito nulla; tuttavia si riteneva generalmente che la sua conoscenza in questo campo fosse estremamente profonda.

Gli impegni professionali del signor Pecksniff si limitavano quasi interamente, se non del tutto, all’accettazione di studenti; poiché la riscossione degli affitti, attività con cui occasionalmente variava e alleviava i propri compiti più gravosi, difficilmente può essere considerata un’attività strettamente legata all’architettura. Il suo vero talento consisteva nel ingannare genitori e tutori per intascare le somme versate come premi. Una volta pagato il premio da parte di un giovane gentiluomo, questi veniva invitato nella casa del signor Pecksniff, dove quest’ultimo gli prestava la propria scatola contenente strumenti matematici (se montati in argento o comunque di valore); lo trattava come un membro della famiglia, gli faceva grandi complimenti sui suoi genitori o tutori a seconda dei casi, e poi lo lasciava libero in una stanza spaziosa situata sul lato anteriore dell’edificio. Lì, insieme ad altri giovani gentiluomini, si dedicava per tre o cinque anni alla realizzazione di progetti della cattedrale di Salisbury da ogni possibile angolazione visiva, nonché alla costruzione in aria di numerosi castelli, palazzi del parlamento e altri edifici pubblici. Forse in nessun altro luogo al mondo venivano eretti così tanti magnifici edifici di questo genere sotto la guida del signor Pecksniff; e se solo un ventesimo delle chiese costruite in quella stanza, con una delle signorine Pecksniff all’altare durante le cerimonie di matrimonio con l’architetto, potesse essere realizzato grazie ai finanziamenti dei comitati parlamentari, non sarebbero necessarie altre chiese per almeno cinque secoli.

“Anche i beni materiali di cui ci siamo appena disfatti,” disse il signor Pecksniff, guardandosi intorno al tavolo dopo aver finito di parlare, “anche la panna, lo zucchero, il tè, il pane tostato, la carne di maiale, ”

“E le uova,” suggerì Charity a bassa voce.

“E le uova,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “anche queste hanno la loro morale. Guardate come vengono e vanno. Ogni piacere è effimero. Non possiamo nemmeno mangiare per molto tempo. Se ci abbandoniamo a bevande inoffensive, sviluppiamo l’idropisia; se beviamo liquidi eccitanti, diventiamo ubriachi. Che riflessione consolante è questa!”

“Non dire che SIAMO ubriachi, papà,” insistette la maggiore delle signorine Pecksniff.

“Quando dico ‘noi’, mia cara”, rispose suo padre, “intendo l’umanità in generale; la razza umana considerata come un corpo, e non come individui. Nella moralità non c’è nulla di personale, mio amore. Anche qualcosa del genere”, disse il signor Pecksniff, posando l’indice della mano sinistra sulla macchia di carta marrone sulla sommità della sua testa, “come questa leggera calvizie occasionale, anche se lo è, ci ricorda che siamo soltanto, ” stava per dire “vermi”, ma ricordandosi che i vermi non sono noti per avere capelli, sostituì la frase con “carne e %sangue”.

‘Which,’ cried Mr Pecksniff after a pause, during which he seemed to have been casting about for a new moral, and not quite successfully, ‘which is also very soothing. Mercy, my dear, stir the fire and throw up the cinders.’

The young lady obeyed, and having done so, resumed her stool, reposed one arm upon her father’s knee, and laid her blooming cheek upon it. Miss Charity drew her chair nearer the fire, as one prepared for conversation, and looked towards her father.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Pecksniff, after a short pause, during which he had been silently smiling, and shaking his head at the fire—‘I have again been fortunate in the attainment of my object. A new inmate will very shortly come among us.’

‘A youth, papa?’ asked Charity.

‘Ye-es, a youth,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘He will avail himself of the eligible opportunity which now offers, for uniting the advantages of the best practical architectural education with the comforts of a home, and the constant association with some who (however humble their sphere, and limited their capacity) are not unmindful of their moral responsibilities.’

‘Oh Pa!’ cried Mercy, holding up her finger archly. ‘See advertisement!’

‘Playful—playful warbler,’ said Mr Pecksniff. It may be observed in connection with his calling his daughter a ‘warbler,’ that she was not at all vocal, but that Mr Pecksniff was in the frequent habit of using any word that occurred to him as having a good sound, and rounding a sentence well without much care for its meaning. And he did this so boldly, and in such an imposing manner, that he would sometimes stagger the wisest people with his eloquence, and make them gasp again.

His enemies asserted, by the way, that a strong trustfulness in sounds and forms was the master-key to Mr Pecksniff’s character.

‘Is he handsome, Pa?’ inquired the younger daughter.

‘Silly Merry!’ said the eldest: Merry being fond for Mercy. ‘What is the premium, Pa? tell us that.’

‘Oh, good gracious, Cherry!’ cried Miss Mercy, holding up her hands with the most winning giggle in the world, ‘what a mercenary girl you are! oh you naughty, thoughtful, prudent thing!’

It was perfectly charming, and worthy of the Pastoral age, to see how the two Miss Pecksniffs slapped each other after this, and then subsided into an embrace expressive of their different dispositions.

‘He is well looking,’ said Mr Pecksniff, slowly and distinctly; ‘well looking enough. I do not positively expect any immediate premium with him.’

Notwithstanding their different natures, both Charity and Mercy concurred in opening their eyes uncommonly wide at this announcement, and in looking for the moment as blank as if their thoughts had actually had a direct bearing on the main chance.

‘But what of that!’ said Mr Pecksniff, still smiling at the fire. ‘There is disinterestedness in the world, I hope? We are not all arrayed in two opposite ranks; the OFfensive and the DEfensive. Some few there are who walk between; who help the needy as they go; and take no part with either side. Umph!’

There was something in these morsels of philanthropy which reassured the sisters. They exchanged glances, and brightened very much.

‘Oh! let us not be for ever calculating, devising, and plotting for the future,’ said Mr Pecksniff, smiling more and more, and looking at the fire as a man might, who was cracking a joke with it: ‘I am weary of such arts. If our inclinations are but good and open-hearted, let us gratify them boldly, though they bring upon us Loss instead of Profit. Eh, Charity?’

Glancing towards his daughters for the first time since he had begun these reflections, and seeing that they both smiled, Mr Pecksniff eyed them for an instant so jocosely (though still with a kind of saintly waggishness) that the younger one was moved to sit upon his knee forthwith, put her fair arms round his neck, and kiss him twenty times. During the whole of this affectionate display she laughed to a most immoderate extent: in which hilarious indulgence even the prudent Cherry joined.

‘Tut, tut,’ said Mr Pecksniff, pushing his latest-born away and running his fingers through his hair, as he resumed his tranquil face. ‘What folly is this! Let us take heed how we laugh without reason lest we cry with it. What is the domestic news since yesterday? John Westlock is gone, I hope?’

‘Indeed, no,’ said Charity.

‘And why not?’ returned her father. ‘His term expired yesterday. And his box was packed, I know; for I saw it, in the morning, standing in the hall.’

‘He slept last night at the Dragon,’ returned the young lady, ‘and had Mr Pinch to dine with him. They spent the evening together, and Mr Pinch was not home till very late.’

‘And when I saw him on the stairs this morning, Pa,’ said Mercy with her usual sprightliness, ‘he looked, oh goodness, SUCH a monster! with his face all manner of colours, and his eyes as dull as if they had been boiled, and his head aching dreadfully, I am sure from the look of it, and his clothes smelling, oh it’s impossible to say how strong, oh’—here the young lady shuddered—‘of smoke and punch.’

‘Now I think,’ said Mr Pecksniff with his accustomed gentleness, though still with the air of one who suffered under injury without complaint, ‘I think Mr Pinch might have done better than choose for his companion one who, at the close of a long intercourse, had endeavoured, as he knew, to wound my feelings. I am not quite sure that this was delicate in Mr Pinch. I am not quite sure that this was kind in Mr Pinch. I will go further and say, I am not quite sure that this was even ordinarily grateful in Mr Pinch.’

‘But what can anyone expect from Mr Pinch!’ cried Charity, with as strong and scornful an emphasis on the name as if it would have given her unspeakable pleasure to express it, in an acted charade, on the calf of that gentleman’s leg.

“Che cosa,” esclamò il signor Pecksniff dopo una pausa, durante la quale sembrava cercare disperatamente un nuovo principio morale, senza molto successo, “che è anche molto consolante. Misericordia, mia cara, riaccesi il fuoco e getta via le ceneri.”

La giovane signorina obbedì e, dopo averlo fatto, tornò a sedersi sul suo sgabello, appoggiando un braccio sul ginocchio di suo padre e posizionandovi il proprio viso sorridente. La signorina Charity avvicinò la sua sedia al focolare, pronta a iniziare una conversazione, e guardò verso suo padre.

“Sì,” disse il signor Pecksniff, dopo una breve pausa durante la quale aveva continuato a sorridere silenziosamente e scuotere la testa di fronte al fuoco, “Ho nuovamente avuto fortuna nell’ottenere ciò che desideravo. Un nuovo ospite arriverà tra noi molto presto.”

“Un giovane, papà?”, chiese Carità.

“Sì, un giovane,” disse il signor Pecksniff. “Approfitterà dell’opportunità che gli si presenta ora: unire i vantaggi della migliore formazione pratica in architettura con le comodità di una >casa e la costante compagnia di persone che, per quanto umili possano essere i loro mezzi e limitate le loro capacità, non trascurano affatto le proprie responsabilità morali.”

“Oh, papà!”, gridò Mercy, tenendo il dito flesso a forma di arco. “Guarda questo annuncio!”

“Un uccellino canoro e giocoso, ”, disse il signor Pecksniff. Si può notare che, chiamando sua figlia “uccellino canoro”, in realtà lei non aveva affatto una voce melodiosa; tuttavia il signor Pecksniff aveva l’abitudine di usare qualsiasi parola gli venisse in mente, purché suonasse bene, e di costruire le frasi in modo “armonioso”, senza curarsi molto del loro significato. Lo faceva con tale audacia e autorità che a volte riusciva a lasciare sbalorditi anche le persone più sagge, facendole trattenere il respiro per la sorpresa.

I suoi nemici sostenevano, tra l’altro, che una forte fiducia nei suoni e nelle forme fosse la chiave principale per comprendere il carattere del signor Pecksniff.

“È bello, papà?”, chiese la figlia minore.

“Silly Merry!”, disse il maggiore; infatti a Merry piaceva molto Mercy. “Qual è la ricompensa, papà? Diccelo.”

“Oh, mio Dio, Cherry!” esclamò la signorina Mercy, alzando le mani con il sorriso più incantevole del mondo, “che ragazza egoista e premurosa sei. Oh, tu birichina, premurosa e prudente!”

Era davvero incantevole, e degno dell’epoca pastorale, vedere come le due signorine Pecksniff si schiaffeggiassero a vicenda dopo quel momento, per poi abbracciarsi in un gesto che esprimeva le loro diverse personalità.

“Ha un aspetto molto buono,” disse il signor Pecksniff, lentamente e chiaramente; “abbastanza buono, sì. Non mi aspetto certo che ci sia un immediato aumento del prezzo per lui.”

Nonostante le loro diverse nature, sia Carità che Misericordia aprirono gli occhi con particolare attenzione di fronte a questa notizia, cercando di comprendere ogni dettaglio come se i loro pensieri avessero davvero un ruolo fondamentale in quella situazione.

“Ma che importanza ha tutto ciò!”, disse il signor Pecksniff, continuando a sorridere davanti al focolare. “Esiste forse ancora onestà e altruismo nel mondo. Lo >spero? Non siamo tutti divisi in due fazioni opposte: quelle che attaccano e quelle che difendono. Ci sono alcune persone che agiscono al di fuori di queste categorie; che aiutano chi ha bisogno senza prendere parte a nessuna delle due fazioni. Hmm!”

C’era qualcosa in questi piccoli gesti di filantropia che rassicurava le sorelle. Si scambiarono sguardi e il loro volto si illuminò di gioia.

“Oh! Non dobbiamo mai più calcolare, inventare e pianificare per il futuro,” disse il signor Pecksniff, sorridendo sempre di più e guardando il fuoco come se stesse scherzando con esso: “Ne ho abbastanza di queste arti. Se le nostre inclinazioni sono buone e sincere, lasciamo che si manifestino liberamente, anche se ci portano perdite invece di guadagni. Eh, Carità?”

Guardando per la prima volta le sue figlie da quando aveva iniziato queste riflessioni, e vedendo che entrambe sorridevano, il signor Pecksniff le osservò per un istante con un tono così scherzoso (sebbene ancora con una sorta di bonaria malizia) che la più giovane, commossa, si sedette immediatamente sulle sue ginocchia, gli mise le braccia intorno al collo e lo baciò venti volte. Durante tutto questo affettuoso comportamento, lei rideva in modo estremamente smisurato; anche la prudente Cherry si unì a questa allegra indulgenza.

“Tut, tut,” disse il signor Pecksniff, allontanando il proprio figlio più piccolo e passandosi le dita tra i capelli, mentre riprendeva il suo solito aspetto sereno. “Che follia è questa! Dobbiamo fare attenzione a non ridere senza motivo, altrimenti potremmo finire per piangere. Quali novità ci sono in famiglia da ieri? John Westlock se n’è andato, spero, ”

“Infatti, no,” disse Carità.

“E perché no?” rispose suo padre. “Il suo periodo di permanenza è scaduto ieri. E so che la sua valigia era pronta; l’ho vista stamattina nell’ingresso.”

“La scorsa notte ha dormito al Dragon,” rispose la giovane signora, “e ha avuto il signor Pinch a cena con sé. Hanno trascorso la serata insieme, e il signor Pinch non è tornato a casa fino a molto tardi.”

“E quando l’ho visto sulle scale stamattina, papà,” disse Mercy con la sua solita vivacità, “sembrava, oh mio Dio, un vero e proprio mostro! Il suo viso aveva tutti i colori possibili, gli occhi erano opachi come se fossero stati bolliti, e aveva terribili mal di testa. Ne sono sicura a giudicare dall’aspetto. Inoltre, i suoi vestiti puzzavano, oh, è impossibile descrivere quanto forte fosse quell’odore, di fumo e punch.”

“Ora penso,” disse il signor Pecksniff con la sua solita gentilezza, anche se ancora con l’aria di chi sopporta offese senza lamentarsi, “che il signor Pinch avrebbe potuto fare di meglio che scegliere come compagna per sé una persona che, alla fine di un lungo rapporto, aveva cercato, come lui stesso sapeva, di ferire i miei sentimenti. Non sono del tutto sicuro che questo comportamento fosse delicato da parte del signor Pinch. Non sono del tutto sicuro che fosse gentile. E aggiungerei persino che non sono del tutto sicuro che fosse nemmeno normale, o gratuloso, da parte sua.”

“Ma cosa si può aspettare da Mr Pinch!”, esclamò Charity, mettendo nel nome un’enfasi così forte e sprezzante, come se le avesse procurato un immenso piacere pronunciarlo in modo teatrale, proprio sul polpaccio di quel signore.

‘Aye, aye,’ returned her father, raising his hand mildly: ‘it is very well to say what can we expect from Mr Pinch, but Mr Pinch is a fellow-creature, my dear; Mr Pinch is an item in the vast total of humanity, my love; and we have a right, it is our duty, to expect in Mr Pinch some development of those better qualities, the possession of which in our own persons inspires our humble self-respect. No,’ continued Mr Pecksniff. ‘No! Heaven forbid that I should say, nothing can be expected from Mr Pinch; or that I should say, nothing can be expected from any man alive (even the most degraded, which Mr Pinch is not, no, really); but Mr Pinch has disappointed me; he has hurt me; I think a little the worse of him on this account, but not if human nature. Oh, no, no!’

‘Hark!’ said Miss Charity, holding up her finger, as a gentle rap was heard at the street door. ‘There is the creature! Now mark my words, he has come back with John Westlock for his box, and is going to help him to take it to the mail. Only mark my words, if that isn’t his intention!’

Even as she spoke, the box appeared to be in progress of conveyance from the house, but after a brief murmuring of question and answer, it was put down again, and somebody knocked at the parlour door.

‘Come in!’ cried Mr Pecksniff—not severely; only virtuously. ‘Come in!’

An ungainly, awkward-looking man, extremely short-sighted, and prematurely bald, availed himself of this permission; and seeing that Mr Pecksniff sat with his back towards him, gazing at the fire, stood hesitating, with the door in his hand. He was far from handsome certainly; and was drest in a snuff-coloured suit, of an uncouth make at the best, which, being shrunk with long wear, was twisted and tortured into all kinds of odd shapes; but notwithstanding his attire, and his clumsy figure, which a great stoop in his shoulders, and a ludicrous habit he had of thrusting his head forward, by no means redeemed, one would not have been disposed (unless Mr Pecksniff said so) to consider him a bad fellow by any means. He was perhaps about thirty, but he might have been almost any age between sixteen and sixty; being one of those strange creatures who never decline into an ancient appearance, but look their oldest when they are very young, and get it over at once.

Keeping his hand upon the lock of the door, he glanced from Mr Pecksniff to Mercy, from Mercy to Charity, and from Charity to Mr Pecksniff again, several times; but the young ladies being as intent upon the fire as their father was, and neither of the three taking any notice of him, he was fain to say, at last,

‘Oh! I beg your pardon, Mr Pecksniff: I beg your pardon for intruding; but—’

‘No intrusion, Mr Pinch,’ said that gentleman very sweetly, but without looking round. ‘Pray be seated, Mr Pinch. Have the goodness to shut the door, Mr Pinch, if you please.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ said Pinch; not doing so, however, but holding it rather wider open than before, and beckoning nervously to somebody without: ‘Mr Westlock, sir, hearing that you were come home—’

‘Mr Pinch, Mr Pinch!’ said Pecksniff, wheeling his chair about, and looking at him with an aspect of the deepest melancholy, ‘I did not expect this from you. I have not deserved this from you!’

‘No, but upon my word, sir—’ urged Pinch.

‘The less you say, Mr Pinch,’ interposed the other, ‘the better. I utter no complaint. Make no defence.’

‘No, but do have the goodness, sir,’ cried Pinch, with great earnestness, ‘if you please. Mr Westlock, sir, going away for good and all, wishes to leave none but friends behind him. Mr Westlock and you, sir, had a little difference the other day; you have had many little differences.’

‘Little differences!’ cried Charity.

‘Little differences!’ echoed Mercy.

‘My loves!’ said Mr Pecksniff, with the same serene upraising of his hand; ‘My dears!’ After a solemn pause he meekly bowed to Mr Pinch, as who should say, ‘Proceed;’ but Mr Pinch was so very much at a loss how to resume, and looked so helplessly at the two Miss Pecksniffs, that the conversation would most probably have terminated there, if a good-looking youth, newly arrived at man’s estate, had not stepped forward from the doorway and taken up the thread of the discourse.

‘Come, Mr Pecksniff,’ he said, with a smile, ‘don’t let there be any ill-blood between us, pray. I am sorry we have ever differed, and extremely sorry I have ever given you offence. Bear me no ill-will at parting, sir.’

‘I bear,’ answered Mr Pecksniff, mildly, ‘no ill-will to any man on earth.’

‘I told you he didn’t,’ said Pinch, in an undertone; ‘I knew he didn’t! He always says he don’t.’

‘Then you will shake hands, sir?’ cried Westlock, advancing a step or two, and bespeaking Mr Pinch’s close attention by a glance.

‘Umph!’ said Mr Pecksniff, in his most winning tone.

‘You will shake hands, sir.’

‘No, John,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a calmness quite ethereal; ‘no, I will not shake hands, John. I have forgiven you. I had already forgiven you, even before you ceased to reproach and taunt me. I have embraced you in the spirit, John, which is better than shaking hands.’

‘Pinch,’ said the youth, turning towards him, with a hearty disgust of his late master, ‘what did I tell you?’

Poor Pinch looked down uneasily at Mr Pecksniff, whose eye was fixed upon him as it had been from the first; and looking up at the ceiling again, made no reply.

‘As to your forgiveness, Mr Pecksniff,’ said the youth, ‘I’ll not have it upon such terms. I won’t be forgiven.’

‘Won’t you, John?’ retorted Mr Pecksniff, with a smile. ‘You must. You can’t help it. Forgiveness is a high quality; an exalted virtue; far above YOUR control or influence, John. I WILL forgive you. You cannot move me to remember any wrong you have ever done me, John.’

‘Wrong!’ cried the other, with all the heat and impetuosity of his age. ‘Here’s a pretty fellow! Wrong! Wrong I have done him! He’ll not even remember the five hundred pounds he had with me under false pretences; or the seventy pounds a year for board and lodging that would have been dear at seventeen! Here’s a martyr!’

“Sì, sì,” rispose suo padre alzando dolcemente la mano: “È molto giusto dire cosa possiamo aspettarci da Mr Pinch, ma Mr Pinch è pur sempre un essere umano, mia cara; fa parte di quella vasta comunità che è l’umanità stessa. Abbiamo il diritto, anzi il dovere, di sperare che in lui si sviluppino quelle qualità migliori di cui la nostra stessa esistenza ci ispira un umile rispetto per noi stessi. No,” continuò Mr Pecksniff. “No! Per l’amor del cielo, non vorrei mai dire che da Mr Pinch non si possa aspettare nulla, né che da nessun uomo vivente (anche dal più degradato, il che Mr Pinch certamente non è) si possa aspettare nulla. Ma Mr Pinch mi ha deluso; mi ha ferito. Per questo motivo penso un po’ peggio di lui, ma solo perché la natura umana è così. Oh, no, no!”

“Ascoltate!” disse la signorina Charity, alzando un dito, mentre si sentiva bussare delicatamente alla porta di strada. “Ecco quella creatura! Ora ascoltatemi bene: è tornato con John Westlock per prendere la sua scatola e sta per aiutarlo a portarla alla posta. Solo che non credo proprio che sia questa la sua intenzione!”

Mentre parlava, sembrava che la scatola stesse per essere portata via dalla >casa, ma dopo un breve scambio di domande e risposte, fu rimessa giù, e qualcuno bussò alla porta del salotto.

“Entri!” gridò il signor Pecksniff, non con severità, ma con aria virtuosa. “Entri!”

Un uomo goffo, dall’aspetto sgraziato, estremamente miope e prematuramente calvo approfittò di questo permesso; vedendo che il signor Pecksniff era seduto con le spalle rivolte verso di lui, assorto a guardare il fuoco, esitò per un momento, tenendo la porta in mano. Di certo non era affatto attraente; indossava un abito di colore marrone scuro, di fattura molto rozza, che, essendo stato troppo usato, si era ritorto e contorto assumendo forme strane. Tuttavia, nonostante il suo aspetto e la sua goffaggine – accentuati da una forte curvatura delle spalle e dall’abitudine ridicola di spingere la testa in avanti – nessuno avrebbe pensato (a meno che il signor Pecksniff non lo dicesse) che fosse una cattiva persona. Aveva forse circa trent’anni, ma poteva benissimo averne qualsiasi altro tra i sedici e i sessanta; apparteneva a quelle strane creature che non invecchiano mai: sembrano anziane fin da giovani e raggiungono immediatamente quell’aspetto.

Tenendo la mano sulla maniglia della porta, guardò più volte da Mr Pecksniff a Mercy, da Mercy a Charity, e di nuovo da Charity a Mr Pecksniff; ma poiché le giovani signore erano altrettanto concentrate sul fuoco quanto lo era loro padre, e nessuno dei tre gli prestò attenzione, alla fine dovette arrendersi.

“Oh! Mi scusi tanto, signor Pecksniff. Mi scuso per essere entrato senza permesso; ma, ”

“Nessuna intrusione, signor Pinch,” disse quel gentiluomo con molto garbo, ma senza guardarsi intorno. “Si sieda pure, signor Pinch. Per favore, chiuda la porta, signor Pinch.”

“Certamente, signore,” disse Pinch; tuttavia non lo fece, ma tenne la porta aperta ancora di più rispetto a prima e chiamò nervosamente qualcuno senza dire il nome: “Signor Westlock, signore, sentendo che eravate tornato a casa, ”

“Signor Pinch, signor Pinch!” disse Pecksniff, girando la sedia e guardandolo con un’espressione di profonda melancolia, “Non me lo aspettavo da voi. Non me lo sono meritato!”

“No, ma vi giuro sulla mia parola, signore, ” insistette Pinch.

“Più poco dite, signor Pinch,” intervenne l’altro, “meglio è. Non presento alcuna lamentela. Non cercate nemmeno di difendervi.”

“No, ma vi prego davvero,” gridò Pinch con grande sincerità, “se vi è possibile. Il signor Westlock, signore, che sta per andarsene per sempre, vuole lasciare dietro di sé solo amici. Il signor Westlock e voi, signore, avete avuto qualche piccolo disaccordo l’altro giorno; ne avete avuti molti in passato.”

“Piccole differenze!”, esclamò Carità.

“Piccole differenze!”, echeggiò la voce di Mercy.

“Miei cari!” disse il signor Pecksniff, sollevando di nuovo serenamente la mano; “Mie adorate!” Dopo una pausa solenne, si inchinò umilmente al signor Pinch, come per dire: “Prosegua pure”; ma il signor Pinch non sapeva proprio come riprendere il discorso e guardava con aria impotente le due signorine Pecksniff, tanto che la conversazione sarebbe probabilmente terminata lì, se non fosse stato per un giovane di bell’aspetto, appena entrato nell’età adulta, che si fece avanti dalla soglia e riprese il filo della discussione.

“Ma come, signor Pecksniff,” disse lui sorridendo, “non lasci che ci sia alcun rancore tra di noi, la prego. Mi dispiace molto che abbiamo mai avuto opinioni diverse, e mi dispiace ancora di più di averla offeso in qualche modo. Non porti rancore verso di me al momento della nostra separazione, signore.”

“Non nutro alcuna malvagità verso nessun uomo al mondo”, rispose gentilmente il signor Pecksniff.

“Te l’avevo detto che non l’aveva fatto,” disse Pinch sottovoce; “Lo sapevo che non l’aveva fatto! Lui dice sempre di no.”

“Allora stringerete la mano, signore?” esclamò Westlock, facendo un paio di passi avanti e lanciando uno sguardo per attirare l’attenzione del signor Pinch.

“Umf!”, disse il signor Pecksniff, usando il suo tono più affascinante.

“Si stringeranno la mano, signore.”

“No, John,” disse il signor Pecksniff con una calma davvero eterea; “no, non stringerò la tua mano, John. Ti ho perdonato. Te l’avevo già perdonato, anche prima che smettessi di rimproverarmi e deridermi. Ti ho abbracciato nello spirito, John, il che è molto meglio che stringersi la mano.”

“Pizzicami,” disse il giovane, voltandosi verso di lui con un profondo disgusto per il suo ex padrone. “Non te l’avevo detto?”

Povero Pinch guardò a disagio il signor Pecksniff, il cui sguardo era fisso su di lui fin dall’inizio; poi alzò di nuovo lo sguardo verso il soffitto e non rispose nulla.

“Per quanto riguarda la vostra perdono, signor Pecksniff,” disse il giovane, “non lo accetterò sotto tali condizioni. Non voglio essere perdonato.”

“Non lo farai, vero, John?” ribatté il signor Pecksniff sorridendo. “Devi farlo. Non puoi evitarlo. L’perdono è una qualità nobile; una virtù elevata. Molto al di sopra del tuo controllo o della tua influenza, John. IO TI PERDONERÒ. Non riuscirai a farmi ricordare alcun torto che tu mi abbia mai fatto, John.”

“Sbagliato!” gridò l’altro, con tutta la passione e l’impetuosità tipiche della sua età. “Che tipo strano. Sbagliato! Ho fatto un errore terribile: non si ricorderà nemmeno dei cinquecento sterline che aveva con me sotto false pretese, né dei settanta sterline all’anno per vitto e alloggio che avrebbero rappresentato una fortuna a diciassette anni. Che martire, ”

‘Money, John,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘is the root of all evil. I grieve to see that it is already bearing evil fruit in you. But I will not remember its existence. I will not even remember the conduct of that misguided person’—and here, although he spoke like one at peace with all the world, he used an emphasis that plainly said “I have my eye upon the rascal now”—‘that misguided person who has brought you here to-night, seeking to disturb (it is a happiness to say, in vain) the heart’s repose and peace of one who would have shed his dearest blood to serve him.’

The voice of Mr Pecksniff trembled as he spoke, and sobs were heard from his daughters. Sounds floated on the air, moreover, as if two spirit voices had exclaimed: one, ‘Beast!’ the other, ‘Savage!’

‘Forgiveness,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘entire and pure forgiveness is not incompatible with a wounded heart; perchance when the heart is wounded, it becomes a greater virtue. With my breast still wrung and grieved to its inmost core by the ingratitude of that person, I am proud and glad to say that I forgive him. Nay! I beg,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, raising his voice, as Pinch appeared about to speak, ‘I beg that individual not to offer a remark; he will truly oblige me by not uttering one word, just now. I am not sure that I am equal to the trial. In a very short space of time, I shall have sufficient fortitude, I trust to converse with him as if these events had never happened. But not,’ said Mr Pecksniff, turning round again towards the fire, and waving his hand in the direction of the door, ‘not now.’

‘Bah!’ cried John Westlock, with the utmost disgust and disdain the monosyllable is capable of expressing. ‘Ladies, good evening. Come, Pinch, it’s not worth thinking of. I was right and you were wrong. That’s small matter; you’ll be wiser another time.’

So saying, he clapped that dejected companion on the shoulder, turned upon his heel, and walked out into the passage, whither poor Mr Pinch, after lingering irresolutely in the parlour for a few seconds, expressing in his countenance the deepest mental misery and gloom followed him. Then they took up the box between them, and sallied out to meet the mail.

That fleet conveyance passed, every night, the corner of a lane at some distance; towards which point they bent their steps. For some minutes they walked along in silence, until at length young Westlock burst into a loud laugh, and at intervals into another, and another. Still there was no response from his companion.

‘I’ll tell you what, Pinch!’ he said abruptly, after another lengthened silence—‘You haven’t half enough of the devil in you. Half enough! You haven’t any.’

‘Well!’ said Pinch with a sigh, ‘I don’t know, I’m sure. It’s compliment to say so. If I haven’t, I suppose, I’m all the better for it.’

‘All the better!’ repeated his companion tartly: ‘All the worse, you mean to say.’

‘And yet,’ said Pinch, pursuing his own thoughts and not this last remark on the part of his friend, ‘I must have a good deal of what you call the devil in me, too, or how could I make Pecksniff so uncomfortable? I wouldn’t have occasioned him so much distress—don’t laugh, please—for a mine of money; and Heaven knows I could find good use for it too, John. How grieved he was!’

‘HE grieved!’ returned the other.

‘Why didn’t you observe that the tears were almost starting out of his eyes!’ cried Pinch. ‘Bless my soul, John, is it nothing to see a man moved to that extent and know one’s self to be the cause! And did you hear him say that he could have shed his blood for me?’

‘Do you WANT any blood shed for you?’ returned his friend, with considerable irritation. ‘Does he shed anything for you that you DO want? Does he shed employment for you, instruction for you, pocket money for you? Does he shed even legs of mutton for you in any decent proportion to potatoes and garden stuff?’

‘I am afraid,’ said Pinch, sighing again, ‘that I am a great eater; I can’t disguise from myself that I’m a great eater. Now, you know that, John.’

‘You a great eater!’ retorted his companion, with no less indignation than before. ‘How do you know you are?’

There appeared to be forcible matter in this inquiry, for Mr Pinch only repeated in an undertone that he had a strong misgiving on the subject, and that he greatly feared he was.

‘Besides, whether I am or no,’ he added, ‘that has little or nothing to do with his thinking me ungrateful. John, there is scarcely a sin in the world that is in my eyes such a crying one as ingratitude; and when he taxes me with that, and believes me to be guilty of it, he makes me miserable and wretched.’

‘Do you think he don’t know that?’ returned the other scornfully. ‘But come, Pinch, before I say anything more to you, just run over the reasons you have for being grateful to him at all, will you? Change hands first, for the box is heavy. That’ll do. Now, go on.’

‘In the first place,’ said Pinch, ‘he took me as his pupil for much less than he asked.’

‘Well,’ rejoined his friend, perfectly unmoved by this instance of generosity. ‘What in the second place?’

‘What in the second place?’ cried Pinch, in a sort of desperation, ‘why, everything in the second place. My poor old grandmother died happy to think that she had put me with such an excellent man. I have grown up in his house, I am in his confidence, I am his assistant, he allows me a salary; when his business improves, my prospects are to improve too. All this, and a great deal more, is in the second place. And in the very prologue and preface to the first place, John, you must consider this, which nobody knows better than I: that I was born for much plainer and poorer things, that I am not a good hand for his kind of business, and have no talent for it, or indeed for anything else but odds and ends that are of no use or service to anybody.’

“Denaro, John,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “è la radice di tutti i mali. Mi addolora vedere che già sta producendo frutti malvagi in te. Ma non ricorderò nemmeno la sua esistenza. Non ricorderò nemmeno il comportamento di quella persona fuorviata” – e qui, sebbene parlasse come chi fosse in pace con tutto il mondo, usò un tono che chiaramente significava “Ora ho quel furfante sotto controllo” – “quella persona fuorviata che ti ha portato qui, nella notte, nel tentativo di disturbare (è una fortuna poter dire che invano) la tranquillità e la pace di uno che avrebbe versato il proprio sangue più prezioso per servirla.”

La voce del signor Pecksniff tremava mentre parlava, e si sentivano i singhiozzi delle sue figlie. Inoltre, nell’aria risuonavano suoni come se due voci spirituali avessero gridato: una, “Bestia!”, l’altra, “Savage!”

“Perdono”, disse il signor Pecksniff, “un perdono completo e sincero non è affatto incompatibile con un cuore ferito; forse, quando il cuore è ferito, diventa addirittura una virtù ancora più grande. Anche se il mio petto è ancora straziato dall’ingratitudine di quella persona, sono orgoglioso e felice di dire che la perdono. No! Vi prego”, gridò il signor Pecksniff alzando la voce, mentre Pinch stava per parlare, “vi prego, che quell’individuo non faccia alcuna osservazione; mi farebbe davvero un grande favore se non pronunciasse una parola in questo momento. Non sono sicuro di essere abbastanza forte. In breve tempo, spero di avere la forza di parlare con lui come se tutto ciò non fosse mai accaduto. Ma no”, disse il signor Pecksniff, girandosi di nuovo verso il focolare e agitando la mano in direzione della porta, “non ora.”

“Bah!”, esclamò John Westlock, con tutto il disgusto e lo disprezzo che quel monosillabo possa esprimere. “Signorelle, buonasera. Venite, Pinch. Non vale la pena pensarci. Avevo ragione io e voi no. Ma non importa; la prossima volta sarete più sagge.”

Detto questo, diede una pacca sulla spalla al suo compagno scoraggiato, si girò e uscì nel corridoio; povero signor Pinch, dopo essersi trattenuto indeciso in salotto per qualche secondo, con un’espressione sul viso che rifletteva la più profonda sofferenza e tristezza interiore, lo seguì. Poi presero insieme la scatola e uscirono ad aspettare la posta.

Quel mezzo di trasporto fluviale passava, ogni notte, all’angolo di una strada a una certa distanza; verso quel punto dirigevano i loro passi. Per alcuni minuti camminarono in silenzio, fino a quando finalmente il giovane Westlock scoppiò in una risata forte, e poi, a intervalli, ne fece altre ancora. Tuttavia, non ci fu alcuna risposta da parte del suo compagno.

“Te lo dico io, Pinch!” disse improvvisamente, dopo un altro lungo silenzio, “Non hai nemmeno la metà del diavolo che dovresti avere dentro di te. Nemmeno la metà. Non ne hai affatto.”

“Beh!”, disse Pinch sospirando, “Non lo so. È comunque un complimento dirlo così. Se non l’ho detto, immagino che sia anche meglio per me.”

“Meglio ancora!”, ripeté acidamente il suo compagno. “Volevi dire che è ancora peggio.”

“Eppure,” disse Pinch, continuando nei suoi pensieri e non dando peso all’ultima osservazione del suo amico, “deve esserci in me anche qualcosa di ciò che voi chiamate ‘demonio’, altrimenti come potrei aver reso Pecksniff così infelice? Non gli avrei causato tanta sofferenza, per un mucchio di denaro; e Dio sa che ne farei buon uso anch’io, John. Quanto era addolorato, ”

“Lui soffriva!” rispose l’altro.

“Perché non hai notato che le lacrime stavano quasi per uscire dai suoi occhi?” gridò Pinch. “Dio mio, John. Non significa nulla vedere un uomo commuoversi a tal punto e rendersi conto di essere la causa di tutto ciò? E hai sentito dire che avrebbe potuto versare il proprio >sangue per me?”

“Vuoi davvero che si versi del sangue per te?” rispose il suo amico, con notevole irritazione. “Ti offre qualcosa di concreto che tu desideri davvero? Ti procura lavoro, istruzione, denaro? Ti fornisce anche carne di agnello, in una proporzione decente rispetto alle patate e agli ortaggi?”

“Temo,” disse Pinch, sospirando di nuovo, “di essere un grande mangiatore; non posso nascondere che sono davvero un grande mangiatore. Ora, lo sai, John.”

“Sei davvero un grande mangiatore!”, ribatté il suo compagno, con lo stesso livello di indignazione di prima. “Come fai a saperlo?”

In questa indagine sembrava esserci qualcosa di sospetto; infatti il signor Pinch continuava a ripetere, con un tono sommesso, di avere forti dubbi al riguardo e di temere molto che le cose stessero così.

“Inoltre, che io lo sia o meno,” aggiunse, “ciò ha ben poco o nulla a che fare con il fatto che lui ritenga che io sia ingrato. John, quasi non esiste alcun peccato al mondo che, ai miei occhi, sia così grave quanto l’ingratitudine; e quando lui mi accusa di questo e crede che io ne sia colpevole, mi rende miserabile e infelice.”

“Pensi davvero che non lo sappia?” rispose l’altro con disprezzo.
“Ma suvvia, Pinch. Prima che dica altro, dimmi almeno quali sono le ragioni per cui sei grato a lui, va bene? Cambia mano prima: la scatola è pesante. Ora continua.”

“Prima di tutto,” disse Pinch, “mi prese come suo allievo per una somma molto inferiore a quella che aveva chiesto.”

“Beh,” rispose il suo amico, del tutto indifferente a questo esempio di generosità. “Che importanza ha, dopotutto?”

“Ma che importanza ha tutto questo, in fondo?” esclamò Pinch, con un certo disperazione. “Perché, tutto questo è secondario. Mia povera vecchia nonna è morta felice, pensando di avermi messo in mano a un uomo così eccellente. Sono cresciuto nella sua >casa, sono nella sua fiducia, sono il suo assistente; mi dà uno stipendio. Quando i suoi affari andranno meglio, anche le mie prospettive miglioreranno. Tutto questo, e molto di più, è secondario. E soprattutto, John, devi considerare una cosa che nessuno conosce meglio di me: io sono nato per cose molto più semplici e povere; non sono adatto a quel tipo di affari, non ho alcun talento in materia, anzi, non ho alcun talento per nulla, se non per piccole faccende insignificanti che non servono a nessuno.”

He said this with so much earnestness, and in a tone so full of feeling, that his companion instinctively changed his manner as he sat down on the box (they had by this time reached the finger-post at the end of the lane); motioned him to sit down beside him; and laid his hand upon his shoulder.

‘I believe you are one of the best fellows in the world,’ he said, ‘Tom Pinch.’

‘Not at all,’ rejoined Tom. ‘If you only knew Pecksniff as well as I do, you might say it of him, indeed, and say it truly.’

‘I’ll say anything of him, you like,’ returned the other, ‘and not another word to his disparagement.’

‘It’s for my sake, then; not his, I am afraid,’ said Pinch, shaking his head gravely.

‘For whose you please, Tom, so that it does please you. Oh! He’s a famous fellow! HE never scraped and clawed into his pouch all your poor grandmother’s hard savings—she was a housekeeper, wasn’t she, Tom?’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Pinch, nursing one of his large knees, and nodding his head; ‘a gentleman’s housekeeper.’

‘HE never scraped and clawed into his pouch all her hard savings; dazzling her with prospects of your happiness and advancement, which he knew (and no man better) never would be realised! HE never speculated and traded on her pride in you, and her having educated you, and on her desire that you at least should live to be a gentleman. Not he, Tom!’

‘No,’ said Tom, looking into his friend’s face, as if he were a little doubtful of his meaning. ‘Of course not.’

‘So I say,’ returned the youth, ‘of course he never did. HE didn’t take less than he had asked, because that less was all she had, and more than he expected; not he, Tom! He doesn’t keep you as his assistant because you are of any use to him; because your wonderful faith in his pretensions is of inestimable service in all his mean disputes; because your honesty reflects honesty on him; because your wandering about this little place all your spare hours, reading in ancient books and foreign tongues, gets noised abroad, even as far as Salisbury, making of him, Pecksniff the master, a man of learning and of vast importance. HE gets no credit from you, Tom, not he.’

‘Why, of course he don’t,’ said Pinch, gazing at his friend with a more troubled aspect than before. ‘Pecksniff get credit from me! Well!’

‘Don’t I say that it’s ridiculous,’ rejoined the other, ‘even to think of such a thing?’

‘Why, it’s madness,’ said Tom.

‘Madness!’ returned young Westlock. ‘Certainly it’s madness. Who but a madman would suppose he cares to hear it said on Sundays, that the volunteer who plays the organ in the church, and practises on summer evenings in the dark, is Mr Pecksniff’s young man, eh, Tom? Who but a madman would suppose it is the game of such a man as he, to have his name in everybody’s mouth, connected with the thousand useless odds and ends you do (and which, of course, he taught you), eh, Tom? Who but a madman would suppose you advertised him hereabouts, much cheaper and much better than a chalker on the walls could, eh, Tom? As well might one suppose that he doesn’t on all occasions pour out his whole heart and soul to you; that he doesn’t make you a very liberal and indeed rather an extravagant allowance; or, to be more wild and monstrous still, if that be possible, as well might one suppose,’ and here, at every word, he struck him lightly on the breast, ‘that Pecksniff traded in your nature, and that your nature was to be timid and distrustful of yourself, and trustful of all other men, but most of all, of him who least deserves it. There would be madness, Tom!’

Mr Pinch had listened to all this with looks of bewilderment, which seemed to be in part occasioned by the matter of his companion’s speech, and in part by his rapid and vehement manner. Now that he had come to a close, he drew a very long breath; and gazing wistfully in his face as if he were unable to settle in his own mind what expression it wore, and were desirous to draw from it as good a clue to his real meaning as it was possible to obtain in the dark, was about to answer, when the sound of the mail guard’s horn came cheerily upon their ears, putting an immediate end to the conference; greatly as it seemed to the satisfaction of the younger man, who jumped up briskly, and gave his hand to his companion.

‘Both hands, Tom. I shall write to you from London, mind!’

‘Yes,’ said Pinch. ‘Yes. Do, please. Good-bye. Good-bye. I can hardly believe you’re going. It seems, now, but yesterday that you came. Good-bye! my dear old fellow!’

John Westlock returned his parting words with no less heartiness of manner, and sprung up to his seat upon the roof. Off went the mail at a canter down the dark road; the lamps gleaming brightly, and the horn awakening all the echoes, far and wide.

‘Go your ways,’ said Pinch, apostrophizing the coach; ‘I can hardly persuade myself but you’re alive, and are some great monster who visits this place at certain intervals, to bear my friends away into the world. You’re more exulting and rampant than usual tonight, I think; and you may well crow over your prize; for he is a fine lad, an ingenuous lad, and has but one fault that I know of; he don’t mean it, but he is most cruelly unjust to Pecksniff!’

Lo disse con tale sincerità, e con un tono così pieno di emozione, che il suo compagno cambiò istintivamente comportamento mentre si sedeva sulla scatola (a quel momento avevano già raggiunto il palo all’estremità del sentiero); gli fece segno di sedersi accanto a lui e gli posò una mano sulla spalla.

“Credo che tu sia uno dei migliori ragazzi al mondo,” disse, “Tom Pinch.”

“Assolutamente no,” ribatté Tom. “Se solo conoscessi Pecksniff così bene come lo conosco io, potresti davvero dirlo di lui, e dire la verità.”

“Posso dire qualsiasi cosa su di lui, puoi anche crederci,” rispose l’altro, “ma non una parola in suo disprezzo.”

“Allora è per il mio bene, non per il suo, temo,” disse Pinch scuotendo la testa con gravità.

“Per chi vuoi tu, Tom, purché ti faccia piacere. Oh! È un tipo famoso. Lui non ha mai rovistato nelle tasche delle povere risparmi di tua nonna: lei era una casalinga, vero, Tom?”

“Sì,” disse il signor Pinch, accarezzandosi uno dei suoi grandi ginocchi e annuendo con la testa; “la governante di una casa da gentiluomini.”

“Lui non ha mai approfittato delle sue riserve economiche; non le ha mai mostrato prospettive di felicità o successo per te, che sapeva (e nessuno meglio di lui) che non si sarebbero mai realizzate! Non ha mai sfruttato il suo orgoglio per te, né il fatto che ti avesse educato, né il suo desiderio che tu almeno diventassi un gentiluomo. No, Tom, ”

“No,” disse Tom, guardando il viso del suo amico, come se avesse qualche dubbio sul significato delle sue parole. “Certo che no.”

“Lo so bene,” rispose il giovane, “certamente non l’ha mai fatto. Non ha preso meno di quanto avesse chiesto, perché quella somma era tutto ciò che lei aveva; e nemmeno di più. Non lui, Tom! Non ti tiene come suo assistente perché tu gli sia davvero utile; non perché la tua straordinaria >fede nelle sue pretese sia di inestimabile aiuto nei suoi meschini litigi; non perché la tua onestà rifletta onestà su di lui. Ma perché il fatto che tu passi tutto il tuo tempo libero in questo piccolo posto, leggendo libri antichi e lingue straniere, fa sì che la sua reputazione si diffonda ovunque, fino a Salisbury. E così Pecksniff diventa considerato un uomo di cultura e di grande importanza. Lui non riceve alcun merito da te, Tom. Assolutamente no.”

“Perché, ovviamente no,” disse Pinch, guardando il suo amico con un’espressione ancora più preoccupata di prima. “Che Pecksniff riceva dei complimenti da me. Che cosa assurda!”

“Non dico forse che è ridicolo”, ribatté l’altro, “anche solo pensare a una cosa del genere?”

“Ma è pazzia,” disse Tom.

“Pazzia!”, rispose il giovane Westlock. “Certo che è pazzia. Chi altro, se non un matto, potrebbe pensare che a lui importi davvero sentire dire, la domenica, che quel volontario che suona l’organo in chiesa e si esercita nelle serate estive al buio sia il giovane di Mr Pecksniff. Eh, Tom? Chi altro, se non un matto, potrebbe pensare che per uno come lui sia divertente vedere il proprio nome in bocca a tutti, associato a mille sciocchezze e stupidaggini che tu hai fatto (e che, naturalmente, è stato lui ad insegnartele). Eh, Tom? Chi altro, se non un matto, potrebbe pensare che tu lo pubblicizzi in giro qui intorno, molto più a buon mercato e meglio di quanto possa fare qualsiasi annunciatore sui muri. Eh, Tom? Si potrebbe anche pensare”, aggiunse, battendogli leggermente sul petto a ogni parola, “che lui non ti riveli sempre tutto il proprio cuore e l’anima; che non ti dia una somma molto generosa, anzi addirittura eccessiva. O, per essere ancora più assurdi, se ciò fosse possibile. Si potrebbe pensare davvero tutto questo, ”

Il signor Pinch aveva ascoltato tutto questo con espressioni di perplessità, che sembravano essere dovute in parte al contenuto del discorso del suo compagno e in parte al modo rapido e appassionato con cui era stato espresso. Ora che la conversazione era giunta alla fine, tirò un lungo respiro; poi guardò il volto dell’altro con aria pensierosa, come se non riuscisse a comprendere esattamente quale significato si nascondesse in quelle parole, e cercasse di trarne le informazioni più utili possibile per capire il vero intento del suo interlocutore. Proprio mentre stava per rispondere, il suono allegro della tromba del guardiano dei posti telegrafici interruppe immediatamente la conversazione; il giovane, molto soddisfatto di ciò che aveva appreso, si alzò in piedi e tese la mano al suo compagno.

“Entrambe le mani, Tom. Ti scriverò da Londra, intesi?”

“Sì,” disse Pinch. “Sì. Per favore, fallo. Addio. Non riesco quasi a credere che tu stia andando via. Sembra ieri che sei arrivato. Addio, mio caro vecchio amico!”

John Westlock ricambiò le sue parole di addio con altrettanta cordialità e si alzò per tornare al suo posto sul tetto. La posta partì al galoppo lungo la buia strada; i lampioni brillavano intensamente, e il suono della tromba risuonava in lontananza, svegliando tutti gli echi intorno.

“Vai pure per la tua strada,” disse Pinch, rivolgendosi al cocchiere; “fatico quasi a convincermi che tu non sia vivo, ma piuttosto qualche grande mostro che visita questo posto di tanto in tanto per portare via i miei amici. Stasera sei ancora più esultante e aggressivo del solito; forse puoi davvero rallegrarti della tua “preda”. È un bravo ragazzo, ingenuo e sincero. Ma ha un solo difetto: non lo fa apposta, ma è terribilmente ingiusto con Pecksniff!”

CHAPTER THREE

IN WHICH CERTAIN OTHER PERSONS ARE INTRODUCED; ON THE SAME TERMS AS IN THE LAST CHAPTER

Mention has been already made more than once, of a certain Dragon who swung and creaked complainingly before the village alehouse door. A faded, and an ancient dragon he was; and many a wintry storm of rain, snow, sleet, and hail, had changed his colour from a gaudy blue to a faint lack-lustre shade of grey. But there he hung; rearing, in a state of monstrous imbecility, on his hind legs; waxing, with every month that passed, so much more dim and shapeless, that as you gazed at him on one side of the sign-board it seemed as if he must be gradually melting through it, and coming out upon the other.

He was a courteous and considerate dragon, too; or had been in his distincter days; for in the midst of his rampant feebleness, he kept one of his forepaws near his nose, as though he would say, ‘Don’t mind me—it’s only my fun;’ while he held out the other in polite and hospitable entreaty. Indeed it must be conceded to the whole brood of dragons of modern times, that they have made a great advance in civilisation and refinement. They no longer demand a beautiful virgin for breakfast every morning, with as much regularity as any tame single gentleman expects his hot roll, but rest content with the society of idle bachelors and roving married men; and they are now remarkable rather for holding aloof from the softer sex and discouraging their visits (especially on Saturday nights), than for rudely insisting on their company without any reference to their inclinations, as they are known to have done in days of yore.

Nor is this tribute to the reclaimed animals in question so wide a digression into the realms of Natural History as it may, at first sight, appear to be; for the present business of these pages in with the dragon who had his retreat in Mr Pecksniff’s neighbourhood, and that courteous animal being already on the carpet, there is nothing in the way of its immediate transaction.

For many years, then, he had swung and creaked, and flapped himself about, before the two windows of the best bedroom of that house of entertainment to which he lent his name; but never in all his swinging, creaking, and flapping, had there been such a stir within its dingy precincts, as on the evening next after that upon which the incidents, detailed in the last chapter occurred; when there was such a hurrying up and down stairs of feet, such a glancing of lights, such a whispering of voices, such a smoking and sputtering of wood newly lighted in a damp chimney, such an airing of linen, such a scorching smell of hot warming-pans, such a domestic bustle and to-do, in short, as never dragon, griffin, unicorn, or other animal of that species presided over, since they first began to interest themselves in household affairs.

An old gentleman and a young lady, travelling, unattended, in a rusty old chariot with post-horses; coming nobody knew whence and going nobody knew whither; had turned out of the high road, and driven unexpectedly to the Blue Dragon; and here was the old gentleman, who had taken this step by reason of his sudden illness in the carriage, suffering the most horrible cramps and spasms, yet protesting and vowing in the very midst of his pain, that he wouldn’t have a doctor sent for, and wouldn’t take any remedies but those which the young lady administered from a small medicine-chest, and wouldn’t, in a word, do anything but terrify the landlady out of her five wits, and obstinately refuse compliance with every suggestion that was made to him.

Of all the five hundred proposals for his relief which the good woman poured out in less than half an hour, he would entertain but one. That was that he should go to bed. And it was in the preparation of his bed and the arrangement of his chamber, that all the stir was made in the room behind the Dragon.

He was, beyond all question, very ill, and suffered exceedingly; not the less, perhaps, because he was a strong and vigorous old man, with a will of iron, and a voice of brass. But neither the apprehensions which he plainly entertained, at times, for his life, nor the great pain he underwent, influenced his resolution in the least degree. He would have no person sent for. The worse he grew, the more rigid and inflexible he became in his determination. If they sent for any person to attend him, man, woman, or child, he would leave the house directly (so he told them), though he quitted it on foot, and died upon the threshold of the door.

Now, there being no medical practitioner actually resident in the village, but a poor apothecary who was also a grocer and general dealer, the landlady had, upon her own responsibility, sent for him, in the very first burst and outset of the disaster. Of course it followed, as a necessary result of his being wanted, that he was not at home. He had gone some miles away, and was not expected home until late at night; so the landlady, being by this time pretty well beside herself, dispatched the same messenger in all haste for Mr Pecksniff, as a learned man who could bear a deal of responsibility, and a moral man who could administer a world of comfort to a troubled mind. That her guest had need of some efficient services under the latter head was obvious enough from the restless expressions, importing, however, rather a worldly than a spiritual anxiety, to which he gave frequent utterance.

From this last-mentioned secret errand, the messenger returned with no better news than from the first; Mr Pecksniff was not at home. However, they got the patient into bed without him; and in the course of two hours, he gradually became so far better that there were much longer intervals than at first between his terms of suffering. By degrees, he ceased to suffer at all; though his exhaustion was occasionally so great that it suggested hardly less alarm than his actual endurance had done.

Capitolo Tre

In cui vengono introdotti altri personaggi, secondo gli stessi termini del capitolo precedente

È già stato menzionato più volte un certo drago che dondolava e scricchiolava lamentosamente davanti alla porta della taverna del villaggio. Era un drago vecchio e sbiadito; molte tempeste invernali di pioggia, neve, grandine e ghiaccio avevano cambiato il suo colore da un blu sgargiante a una pallida tonalità grigiastra. Ma lì era ancora appeso, eretto sulle zampe posteriori, in uno stato di mostruosa stupidità; con ogni mese che passava diventava sempre più scuro e informe. Sembrava quasi che, se lo si fissava da un lato del cartello, stesse lentamente sciogliendosi per poi uscire dall’altro lato.

Era anche un drago cortese e premuroso; o almeno lo era nei suoi giorni migliori. Perché, nonostante la sua estrema debolezza, teneva una delle sue zampe anteriori vicino al naso, come se volesse dire: “Non badate a me, è solo per divertimento”; mentre con l’altra zampa faceva gesti cortesi e ospitalieri. Bisogna ammettere che tutta la stirpe dei draghi moderni ha compiuto grandi progressi in termini di civiltà e raffinatezza. Non chiedono più ogni mattina, con la stessa regolarità con cui un gentiluomo si aspetta il suo pane tostato, una bella vergine per colazione; si accontentano invece della compagnia di scapoli oziosi o uomini sposati che vagabondano da un posto all’altro. Oggi sono piuttosto noti per tenersi alla larga dal sesso femminile e scoraggiarne le visite (soprattutto nelle sere di sabato), piuttosto che per insistere rudemente affinché queste donne li accompagnino, senza tenere conto delle loro preferenze, come avveniva un tempo.

Né questo omaggio agli animali recuperati rappresenta, come potrebbe sembrare a prima vista, una digressione troppo ampia nei regni della storia naturale; poiché l’argomento principale di queste pagine riguarda il drago che aveva il suo rifugio nel quartiere del signor Pecksniff, e dato che questo animale cortese è già stato menzionato, non vi è nulla che possa ostacolare la sua trattazione immediata.

Per molti anni, dunque, aveva continuato a dondolarsi e a scricchiolare, muovendosi avanti e indietro davanti alle due finestre della migliore camera da letto di quella >casa di intrattenimento a cui aveva dato il proprio nome; ma mai, in tutto quel dondolarsi, scricchiolare e muoversi, si era verificata un tale agitazione all’interno dei suoi ambienti tetri e trasandati, come quella sera seguente alla notte in cui erano avvenuti gli eventi descritti nel capitolo precedente: passi affrettati su e giù per le scale, luci che si accendevano e si spegnevano rapidamente, voci sussurrate, legna che scoppiettava e fumava nei camini umidi, lenzuola che venivano stese ad asciugare. In breve, un trambusto domestico tale da far pensare che draghi, grifoni, unicorni o altri animali simili vegliassero su quella casa, da quando avevano iniziato a interessarsi alle faccende domestiche.

Un anziano gentiluomo e una giovane signorina, viaggiando da soli in un vecchio carro arrugginito trainato da cavalli da posta; nessuno sapeva da dove provenissero né dove stessero andando; si erano allontanati dalla strada principale ed erano finiti inaspettatamente al Blue Dragon. L’anziano gentiluomo, a causa di un improvviso malessere durante il viaggio, soffriva terribili crampi e spasmi; tuttavia, nonostante il dolore, si rifiutava categoricamente di farsi chiamare un medico o di assumere qualsiasi medicinale diverso da quelli che la giovane signorina gli somministrava da una piccola scatola di medicinali. Insomma, faceva di tutto per spaventare a morte la padrona di casa e si ostinava a rifiutare qualsiasi suggerimento gli venisse fatto.

Di tutte le cinquecento proposte per il suo sollievo che quella brava donna fece in meno di mezz’ora, ne prese in considerazione soltanto una: che andasse a letto. E fu proprio nella preparazione del suo letto e nell’organizzazione della sua stanza che si verificò tutto quel trambusto nella stanza situata dietro il Drago.

Era, senza dubbio alcuno, molto malato e soffriva terribilmente; forse anche perché era un uomo anziano forte e vigoroso, con una volontà di ferro e una voce potente. Tuttavia, né le preoccupazioni che a volte provava per la propria vita, né il grande dolore che doveva sopportare influenzarono minimamente la sua determinazione. Non voleva che nessuno venisse chiamato al suo fianco. Più peggiorava le sue condizioni, più diventava rigido e inflessibile nella sua decisione. Se avessero mandato qualcuno a prendersi cura di lui, uomo, donna o bambino, se ne sarebbe andato immediatamente (così aveva detto loro), anche a piedi, e sarebbe morto proprio sulla soglia di casa.

Poiché nel villaggio non risiedeva alcun medico, ma soltanto un povero farmacista che svolgeva anche il ruolo di mercante e venditore generale, la padrona di casa, assumendosi tutta la responsabilità, lo chiamò non appena scoppiò la calamità. Naturalmente, essendo stato chiamato d’urgenza, lui non si trovava a >casa. Era andato lontano e non sarebbe tornato fino a tardi di notte; quindi, ormai piuttosto sconvolta, la padrona di casa inviò immediatamente lo stesso messaggero da Mr Pecksniff: un uomo colto, in grado di assumersi grandi responsabilità, e anche una persona morale, capace di offrire grande conforto a chi si trovava in difficoltà. Era evidente che il suo ospite avesse bisogno di aiuto sotto questo aspetto, a giudicare dalle espressioni ansiose del suo volto, che riflettevano più un’angoscia terrena che spirituale.

Dalla quest’ultima missione segreta, il messaggero tornò con notizie non migliori delle prime: il signor Pecksniff non era a >casa. Tuttavia, riuscirono ad adagiare il paziente a letto senza di lui; e nel corso di due ore, le sue condizioni migliorarono gradualmente, tanto che gli intervalli tra i suoi attacchi di dolore divennero sempre più lunghi. Col tempo, smise del tutto di soffrire; sebbene la sua estrema stanchezza a volte destasse preoccupazione, essa non era certo inferiore alla resistenza che aveva dimostrato in precedenza.

It was in one of his intervals of repose, when, looking round with great caution, and reaching uneasily out of his nest of pillows, he endeavoured, with a strange air of secrecy and distrust, to make use of the writing materials which he had ordered to be placed on a table beside him, that the young lady and the mistress of the Blue Dragon found themselves sitting side by side before the fire in the sick chamber.

The mistress of the Blue Dragon was in outward appearance just what a landlady should be: broad, buxom, comfortable, and good looking, with a face of clear red and white, which, by its jovial aspect, at once bore testimony to her hearty participation in the good things of the larder and cellar, and to their thriving and healthful influences. She was a widow, but years ago had passed through her state of weeds, and burst into flower again; and in full bloom she had continued ever since; and in full bloom she was now; with roses on her ample skirts, and roses on her bodice, roses in her cap, roses in her cheeks,—aye, and roses, worth the gathering too, on her lips, for that matter. She had still a bright black eye, and jet black hair; was comely, dimpled, plump, and tight as a gooseberry; and though she was not exactly what the world calls young, you may make an affidavit, on trust, before any mayor or magistrate in Christendom, that there are a great many young ladies in the world (blessings on them one and all!) whom you wouldn’t like half as well, or admire half as much, as the beaming hostess of the Blue Dragon.

As this fair matron sat beside the fire, she glanced occasionally with all the pride of ownership, about the room; which was a large apartment, such as one may see in country places, with a low roof and a sunken flooring, all downhill from the door, and a descent of two steps on the inside so exquisitely unexpected, that strangers, despite the most elaborate cautioning, usually dived in head first, as into a plunging-bath. It was none of your frivolous and preposterously bright bedrooms, where nobody can close an eye with any kind of propriety or decent regard to the association of ideas; but it was a good, dull, leaden, drowsy place, where every article of furniture reminded you that you came there to sleep, and that you were expected to go to sleep. There was no wakeful reflection of the fire there, as in your modern chambers, which upon the darkest nights have a watchful consciousness of French polish; the old Spanish mahogany winked at it now and then, as a dozing cat or dog might, nothing more. The very size and shape, and hopeless immovability of the bedstead, and wardrobe, and in a minor degree of even the chairs and tables, provoked sleep; they were plainly apoplectic and disposed to snore. There were no staring portraits to remonstrate with you for being lazy; no round-eyed birds upon the curtains, disgustingly wide awake, and insufferably prying. The thick neutral hangings, and the dark blinds, and the heavy heap of bed-clothes, were all designed to hold in sleep, and act as nonconductors to the day and getting up. Even the old stuffed fox upon the top of the wardrobe was devoid of any spark of vigilance, for his glass eye had fallen out, and he slumbered as he stood.

The wandering attention of the mistress of the Blue Dragon roved to these things but twice or thrice, and then for but an instant at a time. It soon deserted them, and even the distant bed with its strange burden, for the young creature immediately before her, who, with her downcast eyes intently fixed upon the fire, sat wrapped in silent meditation.

She was very young; apparently no more than seventeen; timid and shrinking in her manner, and yet with a greater share of self possession and control over her emotions than usually belongs to a far more advanced period of female life. This she had abundantly shown, but now, in her tending of the sick gentleman. She was short in stature; and her figure was slight, as became her years; but all the charms of youth and maidenhood set it off, and clustered on her gentle brow. Her face was very pale, in part no doubt from recent agitation. Her dark brown hair, disordered from the same cause, had fallen negligently from its bonds, and hung upon her neck; for which instance of its waywardness no male observer would have had the heart to blame it.

Her attire was that of a lady, but extremely plain; and in her manner, even when she sat as still as she did then, there was an indefinable something which appeared to be in kindred with her scrupulously unpretending dress. She had sat, at first looking anxiously towards the bed; but seeing that the patient remained quiet, and was busy with his writing, she had softly moved her chair into its present place; partly, as it seemed, from an instinctive consciousness that he desired to avoid observation; and partly that she might, unseen by him, give some vent to the natural feelings she had hitherto suppressed.

Of all this, and much more, the rosy landlady of the Blue Dragon took as accurate note and observation as only woman can take of woman. And at length she said, in a voice too low, she knew, to reach the bed:

‘You have seen the gentleman in this way before, miss? Is he used to these attacks?’

‘I have seen him very ill before, but not so ill as he has been tonight.’

‘What a Providence!’ said the landlady of the Dragon, ‘that you had the prescriptions and the medicines with you, miss!’

‘They are intended for such an emergency. We never travel without them.’

‘Oh!’ thought the hostess, ‘then we are in the habit of travelling, and of travelling together.’

She was so conscious of expressing this in her face, that meeting the young lady’s eyes immediately afterwards, and being a very honest hostess, she was rather confused.

‘The gentleman—your grandpapa’—she resumed, after a short pause, ‘being so bent on having no assistance, must terrify you very much, miss?’

Fu durante uno dei suoi momenti di riposo che, guardandosi intorno con grande cautela e tendendo a fatica le mani fuori dal suo nido di cuscini, cercò, con un’aria strana di segretezza e sfiducia, di utilizzare i materiali da scrivere che aveva fatto mettere su un tavolo accanto a sé. Fu allora che la giovane signorina e la padrona del Drago Azzurro si trovarono sedute una accanto all’altra davanti al focolare nella stanza del malato.

La padrona del Dragone Azzurro, nell’aspetto esteriore, era esattamente ciò che si dovrebbe essere una padrona di casa: robusta, formosa, piacevole da vedere, con un viso dai colori vivaci e sani, il cui aspetto gioioso testimoniava chiaramente della sua grande passione per i cibi deliziosi e le bevande prelibate. Era una vedova, ma anni prima aveva superato il periodo di lutto ed era rifiorita; da allora era rimasta sempre in piena fioritura: rose sui suoi abiti ampi, rose sul corpetto, rose nel cappello, rose sulle guance, e persino sulle labbra. Aveva ancora un occhio nero brillante e capelli neri come il jet; era bella, con fossette, formosa e soda come una mela acida; e anche se non si poteva certo definirla giovane, potreste giurare davanti a qualsiasi sindaco o magistrato d’Europa che ci sono molte giovani donne nel mondo (che Dio le benedica tutte!) che non vi piacerebbero nemmeno la metà di quanto piacesse a voi questa splendida padrona del Dragone Azzurro.

Mentre questa gentile signora sedeva accanto al focolare, di tanto in tanto gettava uno sguardo, con tutta la orgoglio che deriva dal possedere qualcosa, intorno alla stanza; si trattava di un appartamento piuttosto grande, di quelli che si trovano nelle zone rurali, con soffitti bassi e pavimenti rialzati rispetto all’ingresso; c’erano due gradini all’interno che, per la loro posizione inaspettata, facevano sì che gli estranei, nonostante le più attente avvertenze, finissero spesso per inciamparci dentro come se fossero entrati in una vasca da bagno. Non era certo uno di quei dormitori frivoli e eccessivamente luminosi, dove nessuno riesce a chiudere occhio con un minimo di decoro o rispetto. Era invece un posto tranquillo, sobrio, quasi sonnolento; ogni mobile sembrava ricordarti che eri lì per )dormire, e che ci si aspettava proprio che dormissi. Non c’era alcuna traccia del calore del focolare in quella stanza, a differenza delle vostre camere moderne, dove anche nelle notti più buie si percepisce ancora la lucentezza dello smalto. Il vecchio mogano spagnolo, di tanto in tanto, sembrava “ammiccare” al fuoco, come un gatto o un cane che sonnecchia. La stessa dimensione, la forma e l’immobilità assoluta del letto, dell’armadio, persino delle sedie e dei tavoli, invitavano al sonno; sembravano davvero destinati a far russare chi vi si trovava dentro. Non c’erano ritratti che ti rimproverassero per la tua pigrizia; nessun uccello con occhi rotondi appeso alle tende, sveglio e invadente. Le pesanti tende scure, i copriletti spessi, tutto era pensato per favorire il sonno e impedire che si venisse svegliati dal giorno. Persino l’antico orso di peluche sopra l’armadio mancava completamente di “vigilanza”: il suo occhio di vetro era rotto, e dormiva dritto in piedi.

L’attenzione distratta della padrona del Drago Azzurro si soffermava su queste cose solo due o tre volte, e per un istante soltanto ogni volta. Presto le abbandonava del tutto, persino il letto lontano con il suo strano “carico”, per concentrarsi sulla giovane creatura davanti a lei: questa, con lo sguardo basso fisso sul fuoco, sedeva immersa in silenziosa meditazione.

Era molto giovane; a quanto pare non aveva più di diciassette anni. Timida e schiva nel suo comportamento, possedeva tuttavia una maggiore padronanza di sé e un controllo delle proprie emozioni di quanto sia solito accadere in una fase molto più avanzata della vita femminile. Questo lo aveva dimostrato ampiamente, soprattutto nel prendersi cura del gentiluomo malato. Era di statura bassa; la sua figura era snella, come ci si aspetterebbe alla sua età; ma tutti i fascini della giovinezza e dell’innocenza ne mettevano in risalto le bellezze, soprattutto sulla sua fronte dolce. Il suo viso era molto pallido; probabilmente a causa di un recente stato di agitazione. I suoi capelli castani scuri, disordinati per lo stesso motivo, cadevano liberamente sulle sue spalle; e nessun osservatore maschile avrebbe avuto il cuore di rimproverarla per questa loro ribellione.

Il suo abbigliamento era quello di una signora, ma estremamente semplice; e nel suo modo di comportarsi, anche quando stava seduta immobile come in quel momento, c’era qualcosa di indefinibile che sembrava in armonia con il suo abito sobrio e senza fronzoli. All’inizio era rimasta seduta, guardando ansiosamente verso il letto; ma vedendo che il paziente rimaneva tranquillo e impegnato a scrivere, aveva spostato dolcemente la sedia nella posizione attuale: in parte, forse, per un istinto naturale di non voler essere osservata; e in parte, perché potesse, senza che lui se ne accorgesse, dare sfogo ai sentimenti naturali che fino ad allora aveva represso.

Di tutto questo, e di molto altro ancora, la rossa padrona di casa del Blue Dragon prese nota con precisione e attenzione, come solo una donna sa fare quando si tratta di un’altra donna. Alla fine disse, con una voce troppo bassa, lo sapeva bene, perché non potesse essere udita dal letto:

“Ha già visto questo signore in questa situazione, signorina? È abituato a queste aggressioni?”

“L’ho visto molto malato in passato, ma mai quanto stasera.”

“Che Provvidenza!” esclamò la padrona di casa del Drago, “che aveste con voi le prescrizioni e i medicinali, signorina!”

“Sono destinati proprio a situazioni di emergenza: non viaggiamo mai senza di essi.”

“Ah!” pensò la padrona di casa, “allora siamo abituate a viaggiare, e a viaggiare insieme.”

Era così attenta a far trasparire queste emozioni sul suo viso che, quando poco dopo incrociò lo sguardo della giovane signora e, essendo una padrona di casa molto onesta, si trovò piuttosto confusa.

“Quel gentiluomo, vostro nonno”, riprese dopo una breve pausa, “essendo così deciso a non chiedere aiuto, deve spaventarvi molto, signorina, ”

‘I have been very much alarmed to-night. He—he is not my grandfather.’

‘Father, I should have said,’ returned the hostess, sensible of having made an awkward mistake.

‘Nor my father’ said the young lady. ‘Nor,’ she added, slightly smiling with a quick perception of what the landlady was going to add, ‘Nor my uncle. We are not related.’

‘Oh dear me!’ returned the landlady, still more embarrassed than before; ‘how could I be so very much mistaken; knowing, as anybody in their proper senses might that when a gentleman is ill, he looks so much older than he really is? That I should have called you “Miss,” too, ma’am!’ But when she had proceeded thus far, she glanced involuntarily at the third finger of the young lady’s left hand, and faltered again; for there was no ring upon it.

‘When I told you we were not related,’ said the other mildly, but not without confusion on her own part, ‘I meant not in any way. Not even by marriage. Did you call me, Martin?’

‘Call you?’ cried the old man, looking quickly up, and hurriedly drawing beneath the coverlet the paper on which he had been writing. ‘No.’

She had moved a pace or two towards the bed, but stopped immediately, and went no farther.

‘No,’ he repeated, with a petulant emphasis. ‘Why do you ask me? If I had called you, what need for such a question?’

‘It was the creaking of the sign outside, sir, I dare say,’ observed the landlady; a suggestion by the way (as she felt a moment after she had made it), not at all complimentary to the voice of the old gentleman.

‘No matter what, ma’am,’ he rejoined: ‘it wasn’t I. Why how you stand there, Mary, as if I had the plague! But they’re all afraid of me,’ he added, leaning helplessly backward on his pillow; ‘even she! There is a curse upon me. What else have I to look for?’

‘Oh dear, no. Oh no, I’m sure,’ said the good-tempered landlady, rising, and going towards him. ‘Be of better cheer, sir. These are only sick fancies.’

‘What are only sick fancies?’ he retorted. ‘What do you know about fancies? Who told you about fancies? The old story! Fancies!’

‘Only see again there, how you take one up!’ said the mistress of the Blue Dragon, with unimpaired good humour. ‘Dear heart alive, there is no harm in the word, sir, if it is an old one. Folks in good health have their fancies, too, and strange ones, every day.’

Harmless as this speech appeared to be, it acted on the traveller’s distrust, like oil on fire. He raised his head up in the bed, and, fixing on her two dark eyes whose brightness was exaggerated by the paleness of his hollow cheeks, as they in turn, together with his straggling locks of long grey hair, were rendered whiter by the tight black velvet skullcap which he wore, he searched her face intently.

‘Ah! you begin too soon,’ he said, in so low a voice that he seemed to be thinking it, rather than addressing her. ‘But you lose no time. You do your errand, and you earn your fee. Now, who may be your client?’

The landlady looked in great astonishment at her whom he called Mary, and finding no rejoinder in the drooping face, looked back again at him. At first she had recoiled involuntarily, supposing him disordered in his mind; but the slow composure of his manner, and the settled purpose announced in his strong features, and gathering, most of all, about his puckered mouth, forbade the supposition.

‘Come,’ he said, ‘tell me who is it? Being here, it is not very hard for me to guess, you may suppose.’

‘Martin,’ interposed the young lady, laying her hand upon his arm; ‘reflect how short a time we have been in this house, and that even your name is unknown here.’

‘Unless,’ he said, ‘you—’ He was evidently tempted to express a suspicion of her having broken his confidence in favour of the landlady, but either remembering her tender nursing, or being moved in some sort by her face, he checked himself, and changing his uneasy posture in the bed, was silent.

‘There!’ said Mrs Lupin; for in that name the Blue Dragon was licensed to furnish entertainment, both to man and beast. ‘Now, you will be well again, sir. You forgot, for the moment, that there were none but friends here.’

‘Oh!’ cried the old man, moaning impatiently, as he tossed one restless arm upon the coverlet; ‘why do you talk to me of friends! Can you or anybody teach me to know who are my friends, and who my enemies?’

‘At least,’ urged Mrs Lupin, gently, ‘this young lady is your friend, I am sure.’

‘She has no temptation to be otherwise,’ cried the old man, like one whose hope and confidence were utterly exhausted. ‘I suppose she is. Heaven knows. There, let me try to sleep. Leave the candle where it is.’

As they retired from the bed, he drew forth the writing which had occupied him so long, and holding it in the flame of the taper burnt it to ashes. That done, he extinguished the light, and turning his face away with a heavy sigh, drew the coverlet about his head, and lay quite still.

This destruction of the paper, both as being strangely inconsistent with the labour he had devoted to it, and as involving considerable danger of fire to the Dragon, occasioned Mrs Lupin not a little consternation. But the young lady evincing no surprise, curiosity, or alarm, whispered her, with many thanks for her solicitude and company, that she would remain there some time longer; and that she begged her not to share her watch, as she was well used to being alone, and would pass the time in reading.

Mrs Lupin had her full share and dividend of that large capital of curiosity which is inherited by her sex, and at another time it might have been difficult so to impress this hint upon her as to induce her to take it. But now, in sheer wonder and amazement at these mysteries, she withdrew at once, and repairing straightway to her own little parlour below stairs, sat down in her easy-chair with unnatural composure. At this very crisis, a step was heard in the entry, and Mr Pecksniff, looking sweetly over the half-door of the bar, and into the vista of snug privacy beyond, murmured:

“Sono molto allarmata, di notte. Lui, lui non è mio nonno.”

“Padre, avrei dovuto dirlo,” rispose la padrona di casa, rendendosi conto di aver commesso un errore imbarazzante.

“Né mio padre,” disse la giovane signorina. “E nemmeno,” aggiunse, sorridendo leggermente mentre intuiva rapidamente ciò che l’affittacamere stava per dire, “né mio zio. Non siamo parenti.”

“Oh mio Dio!”, rispose la padrona di casa, ancora più imbarazzata di prima; “come ho potuto sbagliarmi così tanto? Dopotutto, chiunque abbia un minimo di buon senso sa che quando un gentiluomo è malato, sembra molto più anziano di quanto non sia in realtà. E come ho fatto anche a chiamarvi “signorina”, signora!” Ma mentre parlava, gettò involontariamente uno sguardo al terzo dito della mano sinistra della giovane donna e esitò di nuovo: non c’era alcun anello su quel dito.

“Quando ti ho detto che non eravamo parenti,” disse l’altra con tono pacato, ma non senza una certa confusione dentro di sé, “intendevo dire proprio che non lo eravamo in alcun modo. Nemmeno attraverso il matrimonio. Mi hai chiamata, Martin?”

“Chiamarti?” gridò l’uomo anziano, alzando lo sguardo in fretta e nascondendo rapidamente sotto la coperta il foglio su cui stava scrivendo. “No.”

Si era avvicinata di un paio di passi al letto, ma si fermò immediatamente e non andò oltre.

“No,” ripeté, con un tono capriccioso e enfatico. “Perché mi chiedi questo? Se ti avessi chiamato, che bisogno ci sarebbe stato di una domanda del genere?”

“Era il cigolio del cartello fuori, signore, oserei dire,” osservò la padrona di casa; un’osservazione, tra l’altro (come si rese conto poco dopo averla fatta), assolutamente non lusinghiera per la voce dell’anziano signore.

“Comunque sia, signora,” riprese, “non sono stato io. Perché state lì in quel modo, Mary, come se avessi la peste! Ma tutti hanno paura di me,” aggiunse, appoggiandosi senza forze allo schienale del cuscino; “anche lei! C’è una maledizione su di me. Cosa altro dovrei aspettarmi?”

“Oh mio Dio, no. No, ne sono sicura,” disse la gentile padrona di casa, alzandosi e avvicinandosi a lui. “Siate più ottimista, signore. Sono solo sciocche paure.”

“Che cos’è, in fondo, se non una semplice follia?” ribatté. “Cosa ne sai tu delle fantasie? Chi te ne ha parlato? Quella vecchia storia. Solo fantasie!”

“Rivediamolo ancora una volta, come fa a prenderne uno!” disse la padrona del Drago Azzurro, con un ottimo umore. “Caro mio, non c’è nulla di male in quella parola, signore, se è vecchia. Le persone in buona salute hanno anche loro le loro fantasie, e spesso strane.”

Per quanto innocuo potesse sembrare quel discorso, alimentò il sospetto del viaggiatore, come l’olio sul fuoco. Alzò la testa dal letto e fissò i suoi due occhi scuri, il cui splendore era accentuato dalla pallidezza delle sue guance scavate; quegli occhi, insieme ai suoi lunghi capelli grigi disordinati, sembravano ancora più bianchi a causa del fitto cappello di velluto nero che indossava. Esaminò attentamente il suo volto.

“Ah, inizi troppo presto,” disse, con una voce così bassa che sembrava stesse pensando quelle parole piuttosto che parlarle. “Ma non perdi certo tempo: compi il tuo compito e guadagni la tua ricompensa. Ora, chi potrebbe essere il tuo cliente?”

La padrona di casa lo guardò con grande stupore; lui si presentò come Mary. Non trovando alcuna risposta sul suo volto abbassato, lei lo fissò di nuovo. All’inizio aveva indietreggiato involontariamente, pensando che fosse pazzo; ma la calma delle sue movenze, la determinazione evidente nei suoi tratti e, soprattutto, l’espressione concentrata sul suo viso escludevano quell’ipotesi.

“Come,” disse, “dimmi chi è. Essendo qui, non dovrebbe essere molto difficile per me indovinare, immagino.”

“Martin,” intervenne la giovane signora, posando una mano sul suo braccio; “pensa a quanto poco tempo abbiamo trascorso in questa casa, e a come anche il tuo nome qui sia sconosciuto.”

“Tranne che, ”, disse, “tu, ” Era evidente che fosse tentato di esprimere il sospetto che lei avesse tradito la sua fiducia a favore della padrona di casa, ma forse ricordandosi dei suoi atti di tenerezza verso di lui, o commosso dal suo viso, si trattenne e, cambiando posizione nel letto, rimase in silenzio.

“Eccolo!” disse la signora Lupin; perché con quel nome il Drago Azzurro aveva il permesso di offrire intrattenimento sia agli uomini che agli animali. “Ora starete bene di nuovo, signore. Per un momento avete dimenticato che qui ci sono solo amici.”

“Oh!” esclamò l’uomo anziano, gemendo impazientemente mentre gettava un braccio inquieto sopra la coperta; “perché mi parlate di amici? Voi o qualcun altro potete insegnarmi a capire chi siano i miei amici e chi i miei nemici?”

“Almeno,” disse gentilmente la signora Lupin, “questa giovane donna è tua amica, ne sono sicura.”

“Non ha alcuna tentazione di comportarsi altrimenti,” gridò l’uomo anziano, come chi avesse perso completamente ogni speranza e fiducia. “Forse sì. Chissà. Ora lasciami provare a dormire. Lasciate la candela dove è.”

Mentre si alzavano dal letto, tirò fuori il documento che lo aveva occupato per tanto tempo; tenendolo nella fiamma della candela, lo bruciò fino a ridurlo in cenere. Dopo aver fatto ciò, spense la luce, girò il viso dall’altra parte con un profondo sospiro, si avvolse nella coperta e rimase immobile.

Questa distruzione del foglio, sia per la sua strana incongruenza con il lavoro che vi aveva dedicato, sia per il notevole rischio di incendio che comportava per il Drago, causò non poco preoccupazione a Mrs Lupin. Ma la giovane donna, senza mostrare alcuna sorpresa, curiosità o allarme, le sussurrò, ringraziandola molto per la sua premura e compagnia, che avrebbe rimasto lì ancora per un po’; e le chiese di non condividere il suo turno di guardia, poiché era abituata a stare da sola e avrebbe trascorso il tempo leggendo.

La signora Lupin possedeva in pieno grado quella grande dose di curiosità tipica del suo sesso; in un altro momento, forse sarebbe stato difficile farle recepire quel suggerimento e convincerla ad agire di conseguenza. Ma ora, avvolta da pura meraviglia e stupore davanti a tutti quei misteri, si ritirò immediatamente e, tornata nel suo piccolo salotto al piano di sotto, si sedette nella sua poltrona con una calma insolita per lei. Proprio in quel momento, si sentì un passo nell’ingresso; il signor Pecksniff, guardando attraverso la porta semiaperta e vedendo l’intimità accogliente che si estendeva oltre, mormorò.

‘Good evening, Mrs Lupin!’

‘Oh dear me, sir!’ she cried, advancing to receive him, ‘I am so very glad you have come.’

‘And I am very glad I have come,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘if I can be of service. I am very glad I have come. What is the matter, Mrs Lupin?’

‘A gentleman taken ill upon the road, has been so very bad upstairs, sir,’ said the tearful hostess.

‘A gentleman taken ill upon the road, has been so very bad upstairs, has he?’ repeated Mr Pecksniff. ‘Well, well!’

Now there was nothing that one may call decidedly original in this remark, nor can it be exactly said to have contained any wise precept theretofore unknown to mankind, or to have opened any hidden source of consolation; but Mr Pecksniff’s manner was so bland, and he nodded his head so soothingly, and showed in everything such an affable sense of his own excellence, that anybody would have been, as Mrs Lupin was, comforted by the mere voice and presence of such a man; and, though he had merely said ‘a verb must agree with its nominative case in number and person, my good friend,’ or ‘eight times eight are sixty-four, my worthy soul,’ must have felt deeply grateful to him for his humanity and wisdom.

‘And how,’ asked Mr Pecksniff, drawing off his gloves and warming his hands before the fire, as benevolently as if they were somebody else’s, not his; ‘and how is he now?’

‘He is better, and quite tranquil,’ answered Mrs Lupin.

‘He is better, and quite tranquil,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Very well! Ve-ry well!’

Here again, though the statement was Mrs Lupin’s and not Mr Pecksniff’s, Mr Pecksniff made it his own and consoled her with it. It was not much when Mrs Lupin said it, but it was a whole book when Mr Pecksniff said it. ‘I observe,’ he seemed to say, ‘and through me, morality in general remarks, that he is better and quite tranquil.’

‘There must be weighty matters on his mind, though,’ said the hostess, shaking her head, ‘for he talks, sir, in the strangest way you ever heard. He is far from easy in his thoughts, and wants some proper advice from those whose goodness makes it worth his having.’

‘Then,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘he is the sort of customer for me.’ But though he said this in the plainest language, he didn’t speak a word. He only shook his head; disparagingly of himself too.

‘I am afraid, sir,’ continued the landlady, first looking round to assure herself that there was nobody within hearing, and then looking down upon the floor. ‘I am very much afraid, sir, that his conscience is troubled by his not being related to—or—or even married to—a very young lady—’

‘Mrs Lupin!’ said Mr Pecksniff, holding up his hand with something in his manner as nearly approaching to severity as any expression of his, mild being that he was, could ever do. ‘Person! young person?’

‘A very young person,’ said Mrs Lupin, curtseying and blushing; ‘—I beg your pardon, sir, but I have been so hurried to-night, that I don’t know what I say—who is with him now.’

‘Who is with him now,’ ruminated Mr Pecksniff, warming his back (as he had warmed his hands) as if it were a widow’s back, or an orphan’s back, or an enemy’s back, or a back that any less excellent man would have suffered to be cold. ‘Oh dear me, dear me!’

‘At the same time I am bound to say, and I do say with all my heart,’ observed the hostess, earnestly, ‘that her looks and manner almost disarm suspicion.’

‘Your suspicion, Mrs Lupin,’ said Mr Pecksniff gravely, ‘is very natural.’

Touching which remark, let it be written down to their confusion, that the enemies of this worthy man unblushingly maintained that he always said of what was very bad, that it was very natural; and that he unconsciously betrayed his own nature in doing so.

‘Your suspicion, Mrs Lupin,’ he repeated, ‘is very natural, and I have no doubt correct. I will wait upon these travellers.’

With that he took off his great-coat, and having run his fingers through his hair, thrust one hand gently in the bosom of his waist-coat and meekly signed to her to lead the way.

‘Shall I knock?’ asked Mrs Lupin, when they reached the chamber door.

‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘enter if you please.’

They went in on tiptoe; or rather the hostess took that precaution for Mr Pecksniff always walked softly. The old gentleman was still asleep, and his young companion still sat reading by the fire.

‘I am afraid,’ said Mr Pecksniff, pausing at the door, and giving his head a melancholy roll, ‘I am afraid that this looks artful. I am afraid, Mrs Lupin, do you know, that this looks very artful!’

As he finished this whisper, he advanced before the hostess; and at the same time the young lady, hearing footsteps, rose. Mr Pecksniff glanced at the volume she held, and whispered Mrs Lupin again; if possible, with increased despondency.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, ‘it is a good book. I was fearful of that beforehand. I am apprehensive that this is a very deep thing indeed!’

‘What gentleman is this?’ inquired the object of his virtuous doubts.

‘Hush! don’t trouble yourself, ma’am,’ said Mr Pecksniff, as the landlady was about to answer. ‘This young’—in spite of himself he hesitated when “person” rose to his lips, and substituted another word: ‘this young stranger, Mrs Lupin, will excuse me for replying briefly, that I reside in this village; it may be in an influential manner, however, undeserved; and that I have been summoned here by you. I am here, as I am everywhere, I hope, in sympathy for the sick and sorry.’

With these impressive words, Mr Pecksniff passed over to the bedside, where, after patting the counterpane once or twice in a very solemn manner, as if by that means he gained a clear insight into the patient’s disorder, he took his seat in a large arm-chair, and in an attitude of some thoughtfulness and much comfort, waited for his waking. Whatever objection the young lady urged to Mrs Lupin went no further, for nothing more was said to Mr Pecksniff, and Mr Pecksniff said nothing more to anybody else.

“Buonasera, signora Lupin!”

“Oh mio Dio, signore!”, esclamò avvicinandosi per accoglierlo, “Sono davvero molto felice che sia venuto.”

“E sono molto felice di essere venuto,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “se posso essere d’aiuto. Sono davvero contento di essere qui. Che cosa c’è, signora Lupin?”

“Un gentiluomo che si è ammalato lungo la strada sta molto male al piano di sopra, signore,” disse l’ospite con le lacrime agli occhi.

“Un gentiluomo che si è ammalato lungo la strada, sta molto male al piano di sopra, vero?” ripeté il signor Pecksniff. “Beh, beh!”

In questa osservazione non c’era nulla di veramente originale; né si può dire che contenesse qualche insegnamento saggio fino ad allora sconosciuto all’umanità, o che aprisse qualche fonte nascosta di consolazione. Tuttavia, il modo in cui il signor Pecksniff parlava era così gentile, annuiva con tale dolcezza e mostrava in tutto un tale senso di affabilità riguardo alla propria eccellenza, che chiunque sarebbe stato confortato soltanto dal suono della sua voce e dalla sua presenza, proprio come la signora Lupin. E anche se avesse detto semplicemente “Un verbo deve concordare con il suo soggetto in numero e persona, mio caro amico”, o “Otto per otto fa sessantaquattro, mia nobile ‘anima”, chiunque si sarebbe sentito profondamente grato per la sua umanità e saggezza.

“E allora,” chiese il signor Pecksniff, togliendosi i guanti e scaldandosi le mani davanti al focolare, con tale benevolenza come se quelle mani appartenessero a qualcun altro, non a lui; “e come sta ora?”

“Sta meglio, ed è molto tranquillo,” rispose la signora Lupin.

“Sta meglio, ed è molto tranquillo,” disse il signor Pecksniff. “Molto bene! Molto bene!”

Ancora una volta: anche se quelle parole erano della signora Lupin e non del signor Pecksniff, egli le fece sue e le utilizzò per consolarla. Quando la signora Lupin le pronunciò, non significavano molto; ma quando le disse il signor Pecksniff, diventarono un intero libro, “Osservo,” sembrava dire, “e attraverso me, la moralità in generale fa notare che lui è migliore e assolutamente tranquillo.”

“Deve sicuramente avere questioni molto importanti per la testa,” disse la padrona di casa scuotendo la testa, “perché parla in un modo davvero strano. Non è affatto sereno nei suoi pensieri e ha bisogno di consigli saggi da persone le cui buone intenzioni rendono degno il suo contatto con loro.”

“Allora,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “è proprio il tipo di cliente che mi interessa.” Ma anche se lo disse nel modo più chiaro possibile, non pronunciò una parola: si limitò a scuotere la testa, in un gesto di disprezzo verso se stesso.

“Temo molto, signore,” continuò la padrona di casa, guardandosi intorno prima per assicurarsi che nessuno potesse sentire, poi abbassando lo sguardo verso il pavimento. “Temo davvero molto che la sua coscienza sia turbata dal fatto che non sia imparentato con, o addirittura sposato con, una giovane signorina, ”

“Signora Lupin!” disse il signor Pecksniff, alzando la mano con un gesto che, per quanto possibile fosse severo considerando la sua natura mite, rasentava comunque la gravità. “Donna, giovane donna?”

“Una persona molto giovane,” disse la signora Lupin, inchinandosi e arrossendo; “scusate, signore, ma sono stata così impegnata tutta la notte che non so proprio cosa sto dicendo. Chi è con lui adesso?”

“Chi sarà adesso con lui, ”, rifletteva il signor Pecksniff, scaldandosi la schiena (così come si era scaldato le mani), come se si trattasse della schiena di una vedova, o di un orfano, o di un nemico. O di una schiena che qualsiasi altro uomo meno nobile avrebbe sopportato che rimanesse fredda. “Oh mio Dio, ”

‘Nello stesso tempo, devo dire, e lo dico con tutto il cuore,’ osservò la padrona di casa con sincerità, ‘che il suo aspetto e il suo comportamento quasi eliminano ogni sospetto.’

“La sua sospetta, signora Lupin”, disse seriamente il signor Pecksniff, “è del tutto naturale.”

Riguardo a questo commento, sia annotato a loro dispetto che gli nemici di quest’uomo degno non si vergognavano affatto di sostenere che lui, quando parlava di cose molto cattive, le definisse sempre “molto naturali”; e che, facendo ciò, tradisse inconsapevolmente la propria vera >natura.

“La sua sospetta, signora Lupin,” ripeté, “è del tutto naturale, e non ho alcun >dubbio che sia corretta. Aspetterò questi viaggiatori.”

Così si tolse il mantello, si passò le dita tra i capelli, infilò dolcemente una mano nella tasca del gilet e con gentilezza le fece segno di precederlo.

“Devo bussare?” chiese la signora Lupin quando arrivarono alla porta della stanza.

“No,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “entrate pure, se volete.”

Entrarono in punta di piedi; o meglio, la padrona di casa prese quella precauzione perché il signor Pecksniff camminava sempre in silenzio. Il vecchio gentiluomo dormiva ancora, e la sua giovane compagna sedeva ancora a leggere vicino al focolare.

“Temo, ”, disse il signor Pecksniff, fermandosi sulla porta e scuotendo la testa in modo melanconico, “temo che tutto questo sembri troppo calcolato. Temo davvero, signora Lupin, sa, che tutto questo abbia un aspetto molto artificioso!”

Non appena finì di sussurrare, si avvicinò alla cameriera; nello stesso momento, la giovane signorina, sentendo dei passi, si alzò in piedi. Il signor Pecksniff gettò un’occhiata al libro che lei teneva in mano e sussurrò di nuovo il nome della signora Lupin, se possibile, con ancora maggiore disperazione.

“Sì, signora,” disse, “è un buon libro. Ne avevo paura in precedenza. Temo che sia davvero un argomento molto profondo!”

“Che gentiluomo è questo?” chiese la donna su cui si concentravano i suoi pensieri virtuosi.

“Silenzio! Non si disturbi, signora,” disse il signor Pecksniff mentre la padrona di casa stava per rispondere. “Questo giovane, ” – nonostante se ne rendesse conto, esitò quando la parola “giovane” gli venne in mente e la sostituì con un’altra: “Questo giovane sconosciuto, signora Lupin. Mi scusi se rispondo brevemente, ma abito in questo villaggio; forse in modo influente, anche se non meritato; e sono stato chiamato qui da lei. Sono qui, come sono ovunque, nella speranza di poter aiutare i malati e i bisognosi.”

Con queste parole impressionanti, il signor Pecksniff si avvicinò al letto; dopo aver accarezzato la coperta un paio di volte in modo molto solenne, come se così potesse comprendere meglio la malattia del paziente, si sedette in una grande poltrona e, con un’aria pensierosa e apparentemente tranquilla, attese che il paziente si svegliasse. Qualsiasi obiezione la giovane signora avesse sollevato riguardo alla signora Lupin non ebbe seguito: nulla fu detto al signor Pecksniff, e il signor Pecksniff non disse più nulla a nessuno altro.

Full half an hour elapsed before the old man stirred, but at length he turned himself in bed, and, though not yet awake, gave tokens that his sleep was drawing to an end. By little and little he removed the bed-clothes from about his head, and turned still more towards the side where Mr Pecksniff sat. In course of time his eyes opened; and he lay for a few moments as people newly roused sometimes will, gazing indolently at his visitor, without any distinct consciousness of his presence.

There was nothing remarkable in these proceedings, except the influence they worked on Mr Pecksniff, which could hardly have been surpassed by the most marvellous of natural phenomena. Gradually his hands became tightly clasped upon the elbows of the chair, his eyes dilated with surprise, his mouth opened, his hair stood more erect upon his forehead than its custom was, until, at length, when the old man rose in bed, and stared at him with scarcely less emotion than he showed himself, the Pecksniff doubts were all resolved, and he exclaimed aloud:

‘You ARE Martin Chuzzlewit!’

His consternation of surprise was so genuine, that the old man, with all the disposition that he clearly entertained to believe it assumed, was convinced of its reality.

‘I am Martin Chuzzlewit,’ he said, bitterly: ‘and Martin Chuzzlewit wishes you had been hanged, before you had come here to disturb him in his sleep. Why, I dreamed of this fellow!’ he said, lying down again, and turning away his face, ‘before I knew that he was near me!’

‘My good cousin—’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘There! His very first words!’ cried the old man, shaking his grey head to and fro upon the pillow, and throwing up his hands. ‘In his very first words he asserts his relationship! I knew he would; they all do it! Near or distant, blood or water, it’s all one. Ugh! What a calendar of deceit, and lying, and false-witnessing, the sound of any word of kindred opens before me!’

‘Pray do not be hasty, Mr Chuzzlewit,’ said Pecksniff, in a tone that was at once in the sublimest degree compassionate and dispassionate; for he had by this time recovered from his surprise, and was in full possession of his virtuous self. ‘You will regret being hasty, I know you will.’

‘You know!’ said Martin, contemptuously.

‘Yes,’ retorted Mr Pecksniff. ‘Aye, aye, Mr Chuzzlewit; and don’t imagine that I mean to court or flatter you; for nothing is further from my intention. Neither, sir, need you entertain the least misgiving that I shall repeat that obnoxious word which has given you so much offence already. Why should I? What do I expect or want from you? There is nothing in your possession that I know of, Mr Chuzzlewit, which is much to be coveted for the happiness it brings you.’

‘That’s true enough,’ muttered the old man.

‘Apart from that consideration,’ said Mr Pecksniff, watchful of the effect he made, ‘it must be plain to you (I am sure) by this time, that if I had wished to insinuate myself into your good opinion, I should have been, of all things, careful not to address you as a relative; knowing your humour, and being quite certain beforehand that I could not have a worse letter of recommendation.’

Martin made not any verbal answer; but he as clearly implied though only by a motion of his legs beneath the bed-clothes, that there was reason in this, and that he could not dispute it, as if he had said as much in good set terms.

‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff, keeping his hand in his waistcoat as though he were ready, on the shortest notice, to produce his heart for Martin Chuzzlewit’s inspection, ‘I came here to offer my services to a stranger. I make no offer of them to you, because I know you would distrust me if I did. But lying on that bed, sir, I regard you as a stranger, and I have just that amount of interest in you which I hope I should feel in any stranger, circumstanced as you are. Beyond that, I am quite as indifferent to you, Mr Chuzzlewit, as you are to me.’

Having said which, Mr Pecksniff threw himself back in the easy-chair; so radiant with ingenuous honesty, that Mrs Lupin almost wondered not to see a stained-glass Glory, such as the Saint wore in the church, shining about his head.

A long pause succeeded. The old man, with increased restlessness, changed his posture several times. Mrs Lupin and the young lady gazed in silence at the counterpane. Mr Pecksniff toyed abstractedly with his eye-glass, and kept his eyes shut, that he might ruminate the better.

‘Eh?’ he said at last, opening them suddenly, and looking towards the bed. ‘I beg your pardon. I thought you spoke. Mrs Lupin,’ he continued, slowly rising ‘I am not aware that I can be of any service to you here. The gentleman is better, and you are as good a nurse as he can have. Eh?’

This last note of interrogation bore reference to another change of posture on the old man’s part, which brought his face towards Mr Pecksniff for the first time since he had turned away from him.

‘If you desire to speak to me before I go, sir,’ continued that gentleman, after another pause, ‘you may command my leisure; but I must stipulate, in justice to myself, that you do so as to a stranger, strictly as to a stranger.’

Now if Mr Pecksniff knew, from anything Martin Chuzzlewit had expressed in gestures, that he wanted to speak to him, he could only have found it out on some such principle as prevails in melodramas, and in virtue of which the elderly farmer with the comic son always knows what the dumb girl means when she takes refuge in his garden, and relates her personal memoirs in incomprehensible pantomime. But without stopping to make any inquiry on this point, Martin Chuzzlewit signed to his young companion to withdraw, which she immediately did, along with the landlady leaving him and Mr Pecksniff alone together. For some time they looked at each other in silence; or rather the old man looked at Mr Pecksniff, and Mr Pecksniff again closing his eyes on all outward objects, took an inward survey of his own breast. That it amply repaid him for his trouble, and afforded a delicious and enchanting prospect, was clear from the expression of his face.

Trascorsero ben mezz’ora prima che l’uomo anziano si muovesse, ma alla fine girò nel letto e, sebbene ancora addormentato, diede segni che il suo sonno stava per finire. Poco a poco si tolse le coperte dalla testa e si girò ancora di più verso il lato dove sedeva il signor Pecksniff. Dopo un po’ gli occhi si aprirono; rimase disteso per qualche momento, come fanno spesso le persone appena svegliate, guardando con indolenza il suo visitatore, senza rendersi completamente conto della sua presenza.

Non c’era nulla di particolarmente notevole in questi avvenimenti, tranne l’influenza che esercitarono su Mr Pecksniff; un’influenza che difficilmente avrebbe potuto essere superata nemmeno dai fenomeni naturali più straordinari. Gradualmente, le sue mani si strinsero con forza sui bracci della sedia, i suoi occhi si dilatarono per la sorpresa, la bocca gli si aprì, i capelli si rizzarono sulla fronte più del solito. Fino a quando, infine, quando l’uomo anziano si alzò dal letto e lo fissò con un’emozione quasi altrettanta, tutti i dubbi di Pecksniff furono dissipati, e egli esclamò ad alta voce:

“Tu SEI davvero Martin Chuzzlewit!”

La sua costernazione dovuta alla sorpresa era così genuina che l’uomo anziano, con tutto il credo che chiaramente nutriva in merito, ne fu convinto della realtà.

“Sono Martin Chuzzlewit”, disse amaramente, “e Martin Chuzzlewit vorrebbe che foste stato impiccato, prima di venire qui a disturbarlo nel suo sonno. Perbacco, ho sognato quest’uomo!”, aggiunse, sdraiandosi di nuovo e voltando il viso dall’altra parte. “Prima ancora di sapere che era vicino a me, ”

“Mio caro cugino, ” disse il signor Pecksniff.

“Eccolo! Le sue prime parole!” esclamò l’uomo anziano, scuotendo la testa grigia avanti e indietro sul cuscino e alzando le mani. “Già nelle sue prime parole afferma il proprio legame di parentela! Lo sapevo che lo avrebbe fatto; tutti fanno così. Che sia lontano o vicino, che si tratti di sangue o di acqua, non fa differenza. Ah. Che calendario di inganni, menzogne e falsi testimoni! Ogni parola legata al concetto di parentela mi viene rivelata davanti agli occhi, ”

“Per favore, non si affretti, signor Chuzzlewit,” disse Pecksniff con un tono che era al contempo estremamente compassionevole e distaccato; perché a quel punto aveva già superato la sua sorpresa ed era completamente in possesso della propria virtuosa natura. “Si pentirà di aver agito troppo in fretta, ne sono certo.”

“Lo sai!” disse Martin, con disprezzo.

“Sì,” ribatté il signor Pecksniff. “Esatto, signor Chuzzlewit; e non pensiate che intenda corteggiarvi o lusingarvi, perché nulla è più lontano dalle mie intenzioni. Inoltre, signore, non dovete nemmeno supporre che ripeterò quella parola odiosa che vi ha già offeso così tanto. Perché dovrei farlo? Cosa potrei mai desiderare da voi? Non c’è nulla, nella vostra proprietà, che io conosca, signor Chuzzlewit, che possa essere davvero desiderabile per la felicità che vi porta.”

“È vero,” mormorò l’uomo anziano.

“Oltre a questo considerazione,” disse il signor Pecksniff, attento all’effetto che le sue parole producevano, “dovrebbe essere ormai chiaro per voi (ne sono sicuro) che, se avessi voluto guadagnarmi la vostra stima, avrei fatto di tutto per non rivolgermi a voi come a un parente; conoscendo il vostro umore e essendo assolutamente certo che una lettera di raccomandazione del genere non potesse rivelarsi dannosa.”

Martin non diede alcuna risposta verbale; ma con un semplice movimento delle gambe sotto le coperte, fece capire chiaramente che c’era una ragione alla base di ciò e che non poteva contestarlo, come se avesse detto esattamente lo stesso in termini chiari e precisi.

“No,” disse il signor Pecksniff, tenendo la mano nella giacca come se fosse pronto, al minimo segnale, a mostrargli il proprio cuore per l’ispezione di Martin Chuzzlewit. “Sono venuto qui per offrire i miei servizi a uno sconosciuto. Non ve li offro a voi, perché so che non mi credereste se lo facessi. Ma sdraiato su quel letto, signore, vi considero uno sconosciuto e provo nei vostri confronti esattamente quell’interesse che spero di provare per qualsiasi altro sconosciuto nelle vostre stesse circostanze. Al di là di questo, sono assolutamente indifferente a voi, signor Chuzzlewit, proprio come lo siete voi verso di me.”

Detto questo, il signor Pecksniff si lasciò cadere di nuovo nella poltrona; era così radioso di sincera onestà che la signora Lupin quasi pensò di non vedere intorno alla sua testa una sorta di “gloria” dipinta su vetro colorato, come quella che i santi indossano in chiesa.

Seguì un lungo silenzio. L’uomo anziano, sempre più irrequieto, cambiò più volte posizione. La signora Lupin e la giovane donna fissavano in silenzio il copriletto. Il signor Pecksniff giocherellava distrattamente con i suoi occhiali, tenendo gli occhi chiusi per poter riflettere meglio.

“Eh?”, disse finalmente, aprendoli all’improvviso e guardando verso il letto. “Mi scusi. Pensavo che avesse parlato. Signora Lupin”, continuò, alzandosi lentamente, “non credo di poterle essere d’aiuto in questo momento. Il signore sta meglio, e lei è senz’altro la migliore infermiera che possa desiderare. Eh?”

Quest’ultima osservazione riguardava un altro cambiamento nel comportamento dell’uomo anziano: per la prima volta da quando si era allontanato da Mr Pecksniff, voltò il viso verso di lui.

“Se desiderate parlarmi prima che io me ne vada, signore,” continuò quell’uomo gentile, dopo un’altra pausa, “potete disporre del mio tempo; ma devo stabilire, per giustizia verso di me stesso, che lo facciate come se fossi uno sconosciuto, esattamente come se fossi uno sconosciuto.”

Ora, se il signor Pecksniff avesse saputo, da qualche gesto espresso da Martin Chuzzlewit, che quest’ultimo voleva parlargli, avrebbe potuto dedurlo soltanto seguendo quei principi tipici dei melodrammi, secondo i quali il vecchio contadino con quel figlio comico riesce sempre a capire cosa intenda la ragazza muta quando si rifugia nel suo giardino e gli racconta le sue memorie attraverso gesti incomprensibili. Ma senza soffermarsi a indagare su questo punto, Martin Chuzzlewit fece segno alla sua giovane compagna di andarsene; lei lo fece immediatamente, così come la padrona di casa, lasciandoli soli, il signor Pecksniff e lui. Per un po’ si guardarono in silenzio; o meglio, il vecchio fissò il signor Pecksniff, mentre quest’ultimo, chiudendo gli occhi davanti a tutto ciò che lo circondava, si immerse in un’introspezione profonda. Era evidente che tutto ciò gli aveva ripagato ampiamente le sue fatiche e gli offriva prospettive deliziose ed incantevoli. A giudicare dall’espressione sul suo viso.

‘You wish me to speak to you as to a total stranger,’ said the old man, ‘do you?’

Mr Pecksniff replied, by a shrug of his shoulders and an apparent turning round of his eyes in their sockets before he opened them, that he was still reduced to the necessity of entertaining that desire.

‘You shall be gratified,’ said Martin. ‘Sir, I am a rich man. Not so rich as some suppose, perhaps, but yet wealthy. I am not a miser sir, though even that charge is made against me, as I hear, and currently believed. I have no pleasure in hoarding. I have no pleasure in the possession of money, The devil that we call by that name can give me nothing but unhappiness.’

It would be no description of Mr Pecksniff’s gentleness of manner to adopt the common parlance, and say that he looked at this moment as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He rather looked as if any quantity of butter might have been made out of him, by churning the milk of human kindness, as it spouted upwards from his heart.

‘For the same reason that I am not a hoarder of money,’ said the old man, ‘I am not lavish of it. Some people find their gratification in storing it up; and others theirs in parting with it; but I have no gratification connected with the thing. Pain and bitterness are the only goods it ever could procure for me. I hate it. It is a spectre walking before me through the world, and making every social pleasure hideous.’

A thought arose in Pecksniff’s mind, which must have instantly mounted to his face, or Martin Chuzzlewit would not have resumed as quickly and as sternly as he did:

‘You would advise me for my peace of mind, to get rid of this source of misery, and transfer it to some one who could bear it better. Even you, perhaps, would rid me of a burden under which I suffer so grievously. But, kind stranger,’ said the old man, whose every feature darkened as he spoke, ‘good Christian stranger, that is a main part of my trouble. In other hands, I have known money do good; in other hands I have known it triumphed in, and boasted of with reason, as the master-key to all the brazen gates that close upon the paths to worldly honour, fortune, and enjoyment. To what man or woman; to what worthy, honest, incorruptible creature; shall I confide such a talisman, either now or when I die? Do you know any such person? YOUR virtues are of course inestimable, but can you tell me of any other living creature who will bear the test of contact with myself?’

‘Of contact with yourself, sir?’ echoed Mr Pecksniff.

‘Aye,’ returned the old man, ‘the test of contact with me—with me. You have heard of him whose misery (the gratification of his own foolish wish) was, that he turned every thing he touched into gold. The curse of my existence, and the realisation of my own mad desire is that by the golden standard which I bear about me, I am doomed to try the metal of all other men, and find it false and hollow.’

Mr Pecksniff shook his head, and said, ‘You think so.’

‘Oh yes,’ cried the old man, ‘I think so! and in your telling me “I think so,” I recognize the true unworldly ring of YOUR metal. I tell you, man,’ he added, with increasing bitterness, ‘that I have gone, a rich man, among people of all grades and kinds; relatives, friends, and strangers; among people in whom, when I was poor, I had confidence, and justly, for they never once deceived me then, or, to me, wronged each other. But I have never found one nature, no, not one, in which, being wealthy and alone, I was not forced to detect the latent corruption that lay hid within it waiting for such as I to bring it forth. Treachery, deceit, and low design; hatred of competitors, real or fancied, for my favour; meanness, falsehood, baseness, and servility; or,’ and here he looked closely in his cousin’s eyes, ‘or an assumption of honest independence, almost worse than all; these are the beauties which my wealth has brought to light. Brother against brother, child against parent, friends treading on the faces of friends, this is the social company by whom my way has been attended. There are stories told—they may be true or false—of rich men who, in the garb of poverty, have found out virtue and rewarded it. They were dolts and idiots for their pains. They should have made the search in their own characters. They should have shown themselves fit objects to be robbed and preyed upon and plotted against and adulated by any knaves, who, but for joy, would have spat upon their coffins when they died their dupes; and then their search would have ended as mine has done, and they would be what I am.’

Mr Pecksniff, not at all knowing what it might be best to say in the momentary pause which ensued upon these remarks, made an elaborate demonstration of intending to deliver something very oracular indeed; trusting to the certainty of the old man interrupting him, before he should utter a word. Nor was he mistaken, for Martin Chuzzlewit having taken breath, went on to say:

‘Hear me to an end; judge what profit you are like to gain from any repetition of this visit; and leave me. I have so corrupted and changed the nature of all those who have ever attended on me, by breeding avaricious plots and hopes within them; I have engendered such domestic strife and discord, by tarrying even with members of my own family; I have been such a lighted torch in peaceful homes, kindling up all the inflammable gases and vapours in their moral atmosphere, which, but for me, might have proved harmless to the end, that I have, I may say, fled from all who knew me, and taking refuge in secret places have lived, of late, the life of one who is hunted. The young girl whom you just now saw—what! your eye lightens when I talk of her! You hate her already, do you?’

‘Upon my word, sir!’ said Mr Pecksniff, laying his hand upon his breast, and dropping his eyelids.

‘I forgot,’ cried the old man, looking at him with a keenness which the other seemed to feel, although he did not raise his eyes so as to see it. ‘I ask your pardon. I forgot you were a stranger. For the moment you reminded me of one Pecksniff, a cousin of mine. As I was saying—the young girl whom you just now saw, is an orphan child, whom, with one steady purpose, I have bred and educated, or, if you prefer the word, adopted. For a year or more she has been my constant companion, and she is my only one. I have taken, as she knows, a solemn oath never to leave her sixpence when I die, but while I live I make her an annual allowance; not extravagant in its amount and yet not stinted. There is a compact between us that no term of affectionate cajolery shall ever be addressed by either to the other, but that she shall call me always by my Christian name; I her, by hers. She is bound to me in life by ties of interest, and losing by my death, and having no expectation disappointed, will mourn it, perhaps; though for that I care little. This is the only kind of friend I have or will have. Judge from such premises what a profitable hour you have spent in coming here, and leave me, to return no more.’

“Volete che vi parli come se foste degli estranei completamente sconosciuti, è così?” disse l’uomo anziano.

Il signor Pecksniff rispose, alzando le spalle e girando apparentemente gli occhi nelle orbite prima di aprirli, che era ancora costretto a soddisfare quel desiderio.

“Sarrete soddisfatto,” disse Martin. “Signore, sono un uomo ricco. Forse non così ricco come alcuni pensano, ma comunque benestante. Non sono un avaro, signore, anche se si dice questo di me, e attualmente ci si crede. Non provo alcun piacere nell’accumulare ricchezze; non trovo gioia nella proprietà del denaro. Il diavolo, che chiamiamo con quel nome, non può darmi altro che sfortuna.”

Non sarebbe affatto appropriato descrivere la gentilezza di modi del signor Pecksniff usando il linguaggio comune, dicendo che in quel momento sembrava che il burro non si sciogliesse nemmeno nella sua bocca. Piuttosto, sembrava che qualsiasi quantità di burro potesse essere prodotta mescolando il “latte” della gentilezza umana, che sgorgava dal suo cuore.

“Per la stessa ragione per cui non sono uno che accumula denaro,” disse l’uomo anziano, “non lo spendo nemmeno generosamente. Alcune persone trovano soddisfazione nell’accumularlo; altre nel darlo via; ma io non provo alcuna gratificazione in questo. Solo dolore e amarezza possono derivarne per me. Lo odio. È come uno spettro che mi accompagna in tutto il mondo, rendendo orribili ogni piacere sociale.”

Un pensiero gli balenò nella mente a Pecksniff; sicuramente si rifletté immediatamente sul suo volto, altrimenti Martin Chuzzlewit non avrebbe ripreso a parlare così rapidamente e con tanta severità.

“Mi consigliereste, per il mio stesso bene, di liberarmi di questa fonte di miseria e di trasferirla a qualcuno che possa sopportarla meglio. Forse anche voi potreste aiutarmi ad eliminare un peso che mi causa tanta sofferenza. Ma, gentile sconosciuto,” disse l’uomo anziano, il cui volto si oscurò mentre parlava, “buon cristiano, questo è proprio il cuore del mio problema. Ho visto il denaro fare del bene in alcune mani; ho anche visto come diventasse il “grande mezzo” per ottenere onore, fortuna e piaceri terreni. Ma a quale uomo o donna, a quale persona degna, onesta e incorruttibile posso affidare un simile potere? Conoscete qualcuno del genere? Le vostre virtù sono certamente inestimabili, ma potete indicarmi qualche altra persona vivente che possa sopportare il contatto con me?”

“Di contatto con se stesso, signore?” ripeté il signor Pecksniff.

“Sì,” rispose l’uomo anziano, “il test del contatto con me. Con me stesso. Avete sentito parlare di colui il cui dolore – la realizzazione del proprio stupido desiderio – fu che tutto ciò che toccava si trasformava in oro. La maledizione della mia esistenza, e l’attuazione del mio stesso folle desiderio, è che, con lo standard d’oro che porto con me, sono condannato a valutare il metallo di tutti gli altri uomini. E a scoprire che è falso e vuoto.”

“Pensa così, eh?” disse il signor Pecksniff scuotendo la testa.

“Oh sì,” esclamò l’uomo anziano, “credo di sì! E nel modo in cui mi hai detto ‘credo di sì’, riconosco quel vero carattere ‘al di là del mondo’ tipico del tuo temperamento. Ti dico,” aggiunse con crescente amarezza, “che sono stato un uomo ricco, tra persone di ogni ceto e tipo: parenti, amici e estranei; tra persone in cui, quando ero povero, avevo fiducia, e giustamente, perché mai una volta mi hanno ingannato o si sono fatti del male a vicenda. Ma non ho mai trovato nemmeno una singola persona, no, proprio nessuna, nella quale, diventato ricco e solo, non fossi costretto a scoprire quella corruzione nascosta che vi era dentro, in attesa soltanto di qualcuno come me per venire alla luce. Tradimento, inganno, bassezze; odio verso i concorrenti, reali o immaginari, per il mio favore; meschinità, menzogne, viltà e servilismo. O,” e qui guardò attentamente negli occhi del suo cugino, “o un’illusoria apparente indipendenza, quasi peggiore di tutto. Queste sono le ‘bellezze’ che la mia ricchezza ha portato alla luce. Fratello contro fratello, figlio contro genitore, amici che calpestano i volti degli stessi amici. Questa è la compagnia sociale con cui ho dovuto convivere lungo il mio cammino. Si raccontano storie, forse vere o false, di ricchi uomini che, sotto l’aspetto della povertà, hanno scoperto la virtù e l’hanno premiata. Ma erano degli sciocchi: avrebbero dovuto cercare dentro se stessi. Avrebbero dovuto rendersi conto di essere oggetti perfetti per essere derubati, manipolati, traditi o adorati da qualsiasi furfante. Che, se non fosse stato per il piacere di vedermi cadere in trappola, avrebbero sputato sui loro cadaveri al momento della morte. E allora la loro ricerca sarebbe finita proprio come la mia, ”

Il signor Pecksniff, non avendo la minima idea di cosa fosse meglio dire nel breve silenzio che seguì queste parole, fece un’ampia dimostrazione di voler pronunciare qualcosa di davvero profetico; confidando nella certezza che l’anziano lo interrompesse prima che potesse aprire bocca. E non si sbagliò, perché Martin Chuzzlewit, dopo essersi ripreso, continuò a parlare.

“Ascoltatemi fino alla fine; valutate quale vantaggio possiate trarre da qualsiasi ulteriore incontro con me, e lasciatemi in pace. Ho corrotto e cambiato completamente la >natura di tutte quelle persone che sono state a mio servizio, suscitando in loro desideri avidi e speranze malvagie; ho causato tante lotte e discordie all’interno delle stesse famiglie, anche tra i miei parenti; sono stato come una torcia accesa nelle case pacifiche, alimentando tutti quegli elementi infiammabili presenti nell’atmosfera morale di quelle persone. Elementi che, senza di me, avrebbero potuto rimanere innocui fino alla fine. Per questo motivo ho dovuto fuggire da tutte le persone che mi conoscevano e nascondermi in luoghi segreti, vivendo ormai come una persona braccata. Quella giovane ragazza di cui avete appena parlato. Ah! Il vostro sguardo si illumina quando ne parlo. La odiate già, vero?”

“Per la mia parola, signore!” disse il signor Pecksniff, mettendo una mano sul petto e abbassando le palpebre.

“L’ho dimenticato,” gridò l’uomo anziano, guardandolo con una intensità che l’altro sembrava percepire, anche se non alzava gli occhi per vederla. “Vi chiedo scusa. Ho dimenticato che eravate uno straniero. Per un momento mi avete ricordato un certo Pecksniff, un mio cugino. Come stavo dicendo, la ragazza che avete appena visto è una orfana, e io, con determinazione, l’ho cresciuta ed educata, o, se preferite, l’ho adottata. Da un anno ormai è la mia unica compagnia; ho giurato solennemente di non lasciarle nemmeno sei pence quando morirò, e mentre vivo le concedo una somma annuale, né eccessiva né troppo scarsa. Tra noi esiste un accordo: nessuno dei due dovrà mai rivolgersi all’altro con parole affettuose o lusinghe; lei dovrà chiamarmi sempre con il mio nome cristiano, e io con il suo. È legata a me da vincoli di interesse. E dopo la mia morte, non avendo altre aspettative, forse piangerà. Ma a me poco importa. Questo è l’unico tipo di amico che abbia mai avuto o avrò mai. Giudicate voi stesso quanto tempo prezioso abbiate trascorso venendo qui. Lasciatemi ora, e non tornate più.”

With these words, the old man fell slowly back upon his pillow. Mr Pecksniff as slowly rose, and, with a prefatory hem, began as follows:

‘Mr Chuzzlewit.’

‘There. Go!’ interposed the other. ‘Enough of this. I am weary of you.’

‘I am sorry for that, sir,’ rejoined Mr Pecksniff, ‘because I have a duty to discharge, from which, depend upon it, I shall not shrink. No, sir, I shall not shrink.’

It is a lamentable fact, that as Mr Pecksniff stood erect beside the bed, in all the dignity of Goodness, and addressed him thus, the old man cast an angry glance towards the candlestick, as if he were possessed by a strong inclination to launch it at his cousin’s head. But he constrained himself, and pointing with his finger to the door, informed him that his road lay there.

‘Thank you,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘I am aware of that. I am going. But before I go, I crave your leave to speak, and more than that, Mr Chuzzlewit, I must and will—yes indeed, I repeat it, must and will—be heard. I am not surprised, sir, at anything you have told me tonight. It is natural, very natural, and the greater part of it was known to me before. I will not say,’ continued Mr Pecksniff, drawing out his pocket-handkerchief, and winking with both eyes at once, as it were, against his will, ‘I will not say that you are mistaken in me. While you are in your present mood I would not say so for the world. I almost wish, indeed, that I had a different nature, that I might repress even this slight confession of weakness; which I cannot disguise from you; which I feel is humiliating; but which you will have the goodness to excuse. We will say, if you please,’ added Mr Pecksniff, with great tenderness of manner, ‘that it arises from a cold in the head, or is attributable to snuff, or smelling-salts, or onions, or anything but the real cause.’

Here he paused for an instant, and concealed his face behind his pocket-handkerchief. Then, smiling faintly, and holding the bed furniture with one hand, he resumed:

‘But, Mr Chuzzlewit, while I am forgetful of myself, I owe it to myself, and to my character—aye, sir, and I HAVE a character which is very dear to me, and will be the best inheritance of my two daughters—to tell you, on behalf of another, that your conduct is wrong, unnatural, indefensible, monstrous. And I tell you, sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, towering on tiptoe among the curtains, as if he were literally rising above all worldly considerations, and were fain to hold on tight, to keep himself from darting skyward like a rocket, ‘I tell you without fear or favour, that it will not do for you to be unmindful of your grandson, young Martin, who has the strongest natural claim upon you. It will not do, sir,’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, shaking his head. ‘You may think it will do, but it won’t. You must provide for that young man; you shall provide for him; you WILL provide for him. I believe,’ said Mr Pecksniff, glancing at the pen-and-ink, ‘that in secret you have already done so. Bless you for doing so. Bless you for doing right, sir. Bless you for hating me. And good night!’

So saying, Mr Pecksniff waved his right hand with much solemnity, and once more inserting it in his waistcoat, departed. There was emotion in his manner, but his step was firm. Subject to human weaknesses, he was upheld by conscience.

Martin lay for some time, with an expression on his face of silent wonder, not unmixed with rage; at length he muttered in a whisper:

‘What does this mean? Can the false-hearted boy have chosen such a tool as yonder fellow who has just gone out? Why not! He has conspired against me, like the rest, and they are but birds of one feather. A new plot; a new plot! Oh self, self, self! At every turn nothing but self!’

He fell to trifling, as he ceased to speak, with the ashes of the burnt paper in the candlestick. He did so, at first, in pure abstraction, but they presently became the subject of his thoughts.

‘Another will made and destroyed,’ he said, ‘nothing determined on, nothing done, and I might have died to-night! I plainly see to what foul uses all this money will be put at last,’ he cried, almost writhing in the bed; ‘after filling me with cares and miseries all my life, it will perpetuate discord and bad passions when I am dead. So it always is. What lawsuits grow out of the graves of rich men, every day; sowing perjury, hatred, and lies among near kindred, where there should be nothing but love! Heaven help us, we have much to answer for! Oh self, self, self! Every man for himself, and no creature for me!’

Universal self! Was there nothing of its shadow in these reflections, and in the history of Martin Chuzzlewit, on his own showing?

Con queste parole, l’uomo anziano si adagiò lentamente di nuovo sul cuscino. Il signor Pecksniff si alzò altrettanto lentamente e, dopo un breve preambolo, iniziò a parlare così:

“Mr Chuzzlewit.”

“Ecco fatto! Basta così,” intervenne l’altro. “Ne ho abbastanza di te.”

“Mi dispiace molto per questo, signore,” rispose il signor Pecksniff, “perché ho un dovere da adempiere, e di certo non mi tirerò indietro. No, signore, non lo farò.”

È un fatto deplorevole che, mentre il signor Pecksniff stava in piedi accanto al letto, con tutta la dignità della Bontà, e gli parlava in quel modo, l’uomo anziano lanciò uno sguardo furioso verso il candelabro, come se avesse una forte tentazione di scagliarlo sulla testa del suo cugino. Ma si trattenne e, indicando con il dito la porta, gli fece sapere che la sua strada era lì.

“Grazie,” disse il signor Pecksniff; “ne sono consapevole. Me ne vado ora.
Ma prima di andare, desidero chiedervi il permesso di parlare. E, più ancora, signor Chuzzlewit, devo e voglio assolutamente essere ascoltato. Non mi sorprende affatto nulla di ciò che mi avete detto stasera: è del tutto naturale, e gran parte di queste cose già la conoscevo. Non dirò,” continuò il signor Pecksniff, estraendo il fazzoletto da tasca e battendo le palpebre contemporaneamente, come se lo facesse contro la sua volontà, “che vi sbagliate su di me. Mentre siete in questo stato d’animo, non lo direi mai. Anzi, vorrei davvero avere un’altra natura, per poter reprimere anche questa debole confessione di fragilità. Una fragilità che non posso nascondervi, che ritengo umiliante. Ma spero che abbiate la gentilezza di scusarmi. Diciamo, se vi piace,” aggiunse il signor Pecksniff con grande dolcezza, “che tutto ciò derivi da un raffreddore alla testa, o sia dovuto allo snuff, ai sali aromatici, alle cipolle, o a qualsiasi altra cosa tranne la vera causa.”

Si fermò per un istante, nascondendo il viso nel fazzoletto da tasca. Poi, sorridendo appena e tenendo con una mano i mobili del letto, continuò:

“Ma, signor Chuzzlewit, anche se sono negligente verso me stesso, devo farlo per me stesso, e per il mio carattere. Sì, signore: ho un carattere che mi è molto caro, e sarà l’eredità migliore per le mie due figlie. Devo dirvi, a nome di un altro, che il vostro comportamento è sbagliato, innaturale, insostenibile, orribile. Ve lo dico senza paura né favoritismi: non va bene che ignoriate vostro nipote, il giovane Martin, che ha su di voi il diritto naturale più forte. Non va bene, signore“, ripeté Mr Pecksniff scuotendo la testa. “Forse voi pensate che vada bene, ma non è così. Dovete prendervi cura di quel giovane. Dovete farlo; DEVETE farlo. Credo“, aggiunse guardando il calamaio e la carta, “che in segreto lo abbiate già fatto. Benedetto voi per averlo fatto. Benedetto voi per aver agito nel modo giusto. E buona notte!”

Detto questo, il signor Pecksniff agitò la sua mano destra con grande solennità, poi la infilò di nuovo nel gilet e se ne andò. C’era emozione nel suo comportamento, ma i suoi passi erano decisi. Nonostante le debolezze umane, era sostenuto dalla coscienza.

Martin rimase disteso per un po’, con un’espressione sul viso che rifletteva uno stupore silenzioso, misto a rabbia; alla fine mormorò sottovoce:

‘Cosa significa tutto questo? Può davvero quel ragazzo dal cuore malvagio aver scelto un complice come quello che è appena uscito? Certo che può! Ha cospirato contro di me, proprio come gli altri. Sono tutti della stessa pasta. Un nuovo complotto. Oh, io stesso. A ogni svolta, non c’è altro che il mio interesse personale!’

Si dedicò a cose insignificanti; smise di parlare e iniziò a osservare le ceneri del carta bruciata nel candeliere. All’inizio lo faceva solo per abitudine, ma presto quelle ceneri divennero oggetto dei suoi pensieri.

“Un’altra volontà è stata fatta e poi distrutta,” disse, “niente è stato deciso, niente è stato fatto. E forse sarei morto quella notte! Ora vedo chiaramente a quali scopi malvagi verranno utilizzati tutti questi soldi, ” gridò, quasi contorcendosi nel letto; “Dopo avermi riempito di preoccupazioni e sofferenze per tutta la vita, continueranno a causare discordie e cattive passioni anche dopo la mia morte. È sempre così. Quante cause legali nascono dalle tombe dei ricchi. Seminano falsità, odio e menzogne tra parenti stretti, dove invece dovrebbe regnare solo l’amore! Che il cielo ci aiuti. Abbiamo molte cose di cui dover rendere conto. Oh ego, ego, ego. Ognuno per sé, e nessuno pensa a me, ”

L’io universale. Non c’era forse alcuna traccia della sua ombra in queste riflessioni, né nella storia di Martin Chuzzlewit, nelle sue stesse azioni?

CHAPTER FOUR

FROM WHICH IT WILL APPEAR THAT IF UNION BE STRENGTH, AND FAMILY AFFECTION BE PLEASANT TO CONTEMPLATE, THE CHUZZLEWITS WERE THE STRONGEST AND MOST AGREEABLE FAMILY IN THE WORLD

That worthy man Mr Pecksniff having taken leave of his cousin in the solemn terms recited in the last chapter, withdrew to his own home, and remained there three whole days; not so much as going out for a walk beyond the boundaries of his own garden, lest he should be hastily summoned to the bedside of his penitent and remorseful relative, whom, in his ample benevolence, he had made up his mind to forgive unconditionally, and to love on any terms. But such was the obstinacy and such the bitter nature of that stern old man, that no repentant summons came; and the fourth day found Mr Pecksniff apparently much farther from his Christian object than the first.

During the whole of this interval, he haunted the Dragon at all times and seasons in the day and night, and, returning good for evil evinced the deepest solicitude in the progress of the obdurate invalid, in so much that Mrs Lupin was fairly melted by his disinterested anxiety (for he often particularly required her to take notice that he would do the same by any stranger or pauper in the like condition), and shed many tears of admiration and delight.

Meantime, old Martin Chuzzlewit remained shut up in his own chamber, and saw no person but his young companion, saving the hostess of the Blue Dragon, who was, at certain times, admitted to his presence. So surely as she came into the room, however, Martin feigned to fall asleep. It was only when he and the young lady were alone, that he would utter a word, even in answer to the simplest inquiry; though Mr Pecksniff could make out, by hard listening at the door, that they two being left together, he was talkative enough.

It happened on the fourth evening, that Mr Pecksniff walking, as usual, into the bar of the Dragon and finding no Mrs Lupin there, went straight upstairs; purposing, in the fervour of his affectionate zeal, to apply his ear once more to the keyhole, and quiet his mind by assuring himself that the hard-hearted patient was going on well. It happened that Mr Pecksniff, coming softly upon the dark passage into which a spiral ray of light usually darted through the same keyhole, was astonished to find no such ray visible; and it happened that Mr Pecksniff, when he had felt his way to the chamber-door, stooping hurriedly down to ascertain by personal inspection whether the jealousy of the old man had caused this keyhole to be stopped on the inside, brought his head into such violent contact with another head that he could not help uttering in an audible voice the monosyllable ‘Oh!’ which was, as it were, sharply unscrewed and jerked out of him by very anguish. It happened then, and lastly, that Mr Pecksniff found himself immediately collared by something which smelt like several damp umbrellas, a barrel of beer, a cask of warm brandy-and-water, and a small parlour-full of stale tobacco smoke, mixed; and was straightway led downstairs into the bar from which he had lately come, where he found himself standing opposite to, and in the grasp of, a perfectly strange gentleman of still stranger appearance who, with his disengaged hand, rubbed his own head very hard, and looked at him, Pecksniff, with an evil countenance.

The gentleman was of that order of appearance which is currently termed shabby-genteel, though in respect of his dress he can hardly be said to have been in any extremities, as his fingers were a long way out of his gloves, and the soles of his feet were at an inconvenient distance from the upper leather of his boots. His nether garments were of a bluish grey—violent in its colours once, but sobered now by age and dinginess—and were so stretched and strained in a tough conflict between his braces and his straps, that they appeared every moment in danger of flying asunder at the knees. His coat, in colour blue and of a military cut, was buttoned and frogged up to his chin. His cravat was, in hue and pattern, like one of those mantles which hairdressers are accustomed to wrap about their clients, during the progress of the professional mysteries. His hat had arrived at such a pass that it would have been hard to determine whether it was originally white or black. But he wore a moustache—a shaggy moustache too; nothing in the meek and merciful way, but quite in the fierce and scornful style; the regular Satanic sort of thing—and he wore, besides, a vast quantity of unbrushed hair. He was very dirty and very jaunty; very bold and very mean; very swaggering and very slinking; very much like a man who might have been something better, and unspeakably like a man who deserved to be something worse.

‘You were eaves-dropping at that door, you vagabond!’ said this gentleman.

Mr Pecksniff cast him off, as Saint George might have repudiated the Dragon in that animal’s last moments, and said:

‘Where is Mrs Lupin, I wonder! can the good woman possibly be aware that there is a person here who—’

‘Stay!’ said the gentleman. ‘Wait a bit. She DOES know. What then?’

‘What then, sir?’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘What then? Do you know, sir, that I am the friend and relative of that sick gentleman? That I am his protector, his guardian, his—’

‘Not his niece’s husband,’ interposed the stranger, ‘I’ll be sworn; for he was there before you.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Mr Pecksniff, with indignant surprise. ‘What do you tell me, sir?’

‘Wait a bit!’ cried the other, ‘Perhaps you are a cousin—the cousin who lives in this place?’

‘I AM the cousin who lives in this place,’ replied the man of worth.

‘Your name is Pecksniff?’ said the gentleman.

‘It is.’

‘I am proud to know you, and I ask your pardon,’ said the gentleman, touching his hat, and subsequently diving behind his cravat for a shirt-collar, which however he did not succeed in bringing to the surface. ‘You behold in me, sir, one who has also an interest in that gentleman upstairs. Wait a bit.’

CAPITOLO QUATTRO

Da ciò si evince che, se l’Unione è una forza e l’affetto familiare è piacevole da osservare, i Chuuzzlewits erano senz’altro la famiglia più forte e più armoniosa al mondo.

Quell’uomo nobile, il signor Pecksniff, dopo essersi congedato dal suo cugino con le stesse parole solenni menzionate nel capitolo precedente, si ritirò nella propria >casa e vi rimase per tre interi giorni; non uscì nemmeno a fare una passeggiata al di fuori dei confini del proprio >jardino, per timore di essere chiamato all’improvviso al capezzale del suo parente pentito e pieno di rimorso. Con la sua grande bontà, aveva deciso di perdonarlo incondizionatamente e di amarlo a qualunque costo. Ma tale era l’ostinazione e la natura amara di quell’uomo rigido e anziano, che nessun richiamo di pentimento arrivò mai; e al quarto giorno, il signor Pecksniff si trovava chiaramente ancora più lontano dal proprio scopo cristiano rispetto al primo giorno.

Per tutto questo periodo, egli tormentò continuamente il Drago, sia di giorno che di notte; e, agendo sempre con benevolenza verso il male, dimostrò una profonda premura per il progresso di quel malato ostinato. A tal punto che la signora Lupin fu davvero commossa dalla sua altruistica sollecitudine (poiché spesso le ricordava esplicitamente di fare lo stesso con qualsiasi estraneo o povero in condizioni simili), e versò molte lacrime di ammirazione e gioia.

Nel frattempo, vecchio Martin Chuzzlewit rimaneva chiuso nella sua stanza e non vedeva nessuno se non la sua giovane compagna, ad eccezione della padrona dell’Ospite Blu, che a volte veniva ammessa nella sua presenza. Tuttavia, non appena lei entrava nella stanza, Martin fingeva di addormentarsi. Solo quando lui e la ragazza erano soli, pronunciava una parola, anche in risposta alle domande più semplici; sebbene il signor Pecksniff, ascoltando attentamente alla porta, potesse capire che, quando rimanevano soli, Martin diventava abbastanza loquace.

Accadde la quarta sera: il signor Pecksniff, come al solito, entrò nel bar del Dragon e, non trovando lì la signora Lupin, salì direttamente al piano di sopra; con l’intenzione, nell’ardore della sua affettuosa premura, di ascoltare ancora una volta dalla serratura per assicurarsi che quella donna spietata stesse bene. Ma il signor Pecksniff, entrando silenziosamente nel corridoio buio attraverso cui di solito filtrava un raggio di luce proveniente da quella stessa serratura, rimase sorpreso nel non trovarlo; e quando cercò la porta della stanza, chinandosi per verificare personalmente se l’“invidia” dell’uomo anziano avesse causato il blocco della serratura dall’interno, la sua testa urtò violentemente contro quella di un altro uomo, facendogli emettere ad alta voce il monosillabo “Oh!”, pronunciato con estrema angoscia. Infine, il signor Pecksniff si trovò immediatamente circondato da oggetti che puzzavano di ombrelli umidi, una botte di birra, un barile di brandy caldo e, fumo di tabacco stantio; fu subito portato giù nel bar da cui era appena venuto, dove si trovò di fronte a un gentiluomo assolutamente strano, dall’aspetto ancora più bizzarro. Quell’uomo, con la mano libera, si strofinava forte la testa e lo guardava con un’espressione malvagia.

Quel gentiluomo aveva quell’aspetto che oggi viene definito “di medio ceto”, anche se, per quanto riguarda il suo abbigliamento, non si poteva certo dire che fosse estremamente trasandato: le sue dita spuntavano fuori dalle maniche dei guanti, e le suole dei suoi stivali erano distanziate di un’insolita quantità dalla parte superiore in pelle degli stessi. I suoi indumenti inferiori erano di un grigio bluastro; un tempo i colori erano vivaci, ma ora erano sbiaditi a causa dell’uso e del tempo. Erano così tesi e strappati a causa della tensione tra le mollette e le cinghie che sembrava potessero rompersi da un momento all’altro alle ginocchia. Il suo cappotto, di colore blu e con taglio militare, era abbottonato fino al mento; la sua cravatta, per colore e motivo, assomigliava a uno di quegli scialli che i parrucchieri usano avvolgere i propri clienti durante le operazioni di toelettatura. Il suo cappello, ormai in condizioni disastrose, rendeva difficile stabilire se fosse originariamente bianco o nero. Ma portava una barba, una barba folta e disordinata; nulla di dolce o misericordioso, bensì qualcosa di aggressivo e sprezzante, il tipico aspetto satanico. Inoltre, aveva anche una quantità enorme di capelli non pettinati. Era molto sporco, ma allo stesso tempo molto arrogante; molto audace, ma anche molto meschino; molto tronfio, ma anche molto insicuro. Sembrava proprio un uomo che avrebbe potuto essere qualcosa di meglio, e, al contempo, un uomo che meritava senz’altro di essere qualcosa di peggio.

“Stavi origliando dietro quella porta, tu vagabondo!” disse questo gentiluomo.

Il signor Pecksniff lo rifiutò, proprio come San Giorgio avrebbe potuto respingere il Drago nei suoi ultimi momenti, e disse:

“Dove è la signora Lupin? Mi chiedo. Possibile che quella brava donna non sappia che qui c’è qualcuno che, ”

“Resta!” disse il gentiluomo. “Aspetta un attimo. Lei lo sa già. E allora?”

“E allora, signore?” gridò il signor Pecksniff. “E allora? Sa forse, signore, che io sono l’amico e il parente di quel gentiluomo malato? Che io sono il suo protettore, il suo tutore, il suo, ”

“Non è il marito di sua nipote,” intervenne lo sconosciuto, “lo giuro; perché era già lì prima di voi.”

“Cosa intendete dire?”, esclamò il signor Pecksniff con indignazione e sorpresa. “Che cosa state dicendo, signore?”

“Aspetta un attimo!”, gridò l’altro, “Forse sei un cugino, il cugino che vive in questo posto?”

“Sono il cugino che vive in questo posto,” rispose l’uomo di valore.

“Si chiama Pecksniff?” disse il gentiluomo.

‘It is.’

“Sono orgoglioso di conoscervi e chiedo il vostro perdono,” disse il gentiluomo, toccandosi il cappello; poi cercò di tirare fuori dal colletto della cravatta un colletto di camicia, ma non riuscì a farlo emergere. “Signore, vedete davanti a voi una persona che ha anch’essa degli interessi in relazione a quel gentiluomo al piano di sopra. Aspettate un attimo.”

As he said this, he touched the tip of his high nose, by way of intimation that he would let Mr Pecksniff into a secret presently; and pulling off his hat, began to search inside the crown among a mass of crumpled documents and small pieces of what may be called the bark of broken cigars; whence he presently selected the cover of an old letter, begrimed with dirt and redolent of tobacco.

‘Read that,’ he cried, giving it to Mr Pecksniff.

‘This is addressed to Chevy Slyme, Esquire,’ said that gentleman.

‘You know Chevy Slyme, Esquire, I believe?’ returned the stranger.

Mr Pecksniff shrugged his shoulders as though he would say ‘I know there is such a person, and I am sorry for it.’

‘Very good,’ remarked the gentleman. ‘That is my interest and business here.’ With that he made another dive for his shirt-collar and brought up a string.

‘Now, this is very distressing, my friend,’ said Mr Pecksniff, shaking his head and smiling composedly. ‘It is very distressing to me, to be compelled to say that you are not the person you claim to be. I know Mr Slyme, my friend; this will not do; honesty is the best policy you had better not; you had indeed.’

‘Stop’ cried the gentleman, stretching forth his right arm, which was so tightly wedged into his threadbare sleeve that it looked like a cloth sausage. ‘Wait a bit!’

He paused to establish himself immediately in front of the fire with his back towards it. Then gathering the skirts of his coat under his left arm, and smoothing his moustache with his right thumb and forefinger, he resumed:

‘I understand your mistake, and I am not offended. Why? Because it’s complimentary. You suppose I would set myself up for Chevy Slyme. Sir, if there is a man on earth whom a gentleman would feel proud and honoured to be mistaken for, that man is my friend Slyme. For he is, without an exception, the highest-minded, the most independent-spirited, most original, spiritual, classical, talented, the most thoroughly Shakspearian, if not Miltonic, and at the same time the most disgustingly-unappreciated dog I know. But, sir, I have not the vanity to attempt to pass for Slyme. Any other man in the wide world, I am equal to; but Slyme is, I frankly confess, a great many cuts above me. Therefore you are wrong.’

‘I judged from this,’ said Mr Pecksniff, holding out the cover of the letter.

‘No doubt you did,’ returned the gentleman. ‘But, Mr Pecksniff, the whole thing resolves itself into an instance of the peculiarities of genius. Every man of true genius has his peculiarity. Sir, the peculiarity of my friend Slyme is, that he is always waiting round the corner. He is perpetually round the corner, sir. He is round the corner at this instant. Now,’ said the gentleman, shaking his forefinger before his nose, and planting his legs wider apart as he looked attentively in Mr Pecksniff’s face, ‘that is a remarkably curious and interesting trait in Mr Slyme’s character; and whenever Slyme’s life comes to be written, that trait must be thoroughly worked out by his biographer or society will not be satisfied. Observe me, society will not be satisfied!’

Mr Pecksniff coughed.

‘Slyme’s biographer, sir, whoever he may be,’ resumed the gentleman, ‘must apply to me; or, if I am gone to that what’s-his-name from which no thingumbob comes back, he must apply to my executors for leave to search among my papers. I have taken a few notes in my poor way, of some of that man’s proceedings—my adopted brother, sir,—which would amaze you. He made use of an expression, sir, only on the fifteenth of last month when he couldn’t meet a little bill and the other party wouldn’t renew, which would have done honour to Napoleon Bonaparte in addressing the French army.’

‘And pray,’ asked Mr Pecksniff, obviously not quite at his ease, ‘what may be Mr Slyme’s business here, if I may be permitted to inquire, who am compelled by a regard for my own character to disavow all interest in his proceedings?’

‘In the first place,’ returned the gentleman, ‘you will permit me to say, that I object to that remark, and that I strongly and indignantly protest against it on behalf of my friend Slyme. In the next place, you will give me leave to introduce myself. My name, sir, is Tigg. The name of Montague Tigg will perhaps be familiar to you, in connection with the most remarkable events of the Peninsular War?’

Mr Pecksniff gently shook his head.

‘No matter,’ said the gentleman. ‘That man was my father, and I bear his name. I am consequently proud—proud as Lucifer. Excuse me one moment. I desire my friend Slyme to be present at the remainder of this conference.’

With this announcement he hurried away to the outer door of the Blue Dragon, and almost immediately returned with a companion shorter than himself, who was wrapped in an old blue camlet cloak with a lining of faded scarlet. His sharp features being much pinched and nipped by long waiting in the cold, and his straggling red whiskers and frowzy hair being more than usually dishevelled from the same cause, he certainly looked rather unwholesome and uncomfortable than Shakspearian or Miltonic.

‘Now,’ said Mr Tigg, clapping one hand on the shoulder of his prepossessing friend, and calling Mr Pecksniff’s attention to him with the other, ‘you two are related; and relations never did agree, and never will; which is a wise dispensation and an inevitable thing, or there would be none but family parties, and everybody in the world would bore everybody else to death. If you were on good terms, I should consider you a most confoundedly unnatural pair; but standing towards each other as you do, I took upon you as a couple of devilish deep-thoughted fellows, who may be reasoned with to any extent.’

Here Mr Chevy Slyme, whose great abilities seemed one and all to point towards the sneaking quarter of the moral compass, nudged his friend stealthily with his elbow, and whispered in his ear.

Mentre lo diceva, toccò la punta del suo naso alto, come a indicare che presto avrebbe rivelato un segreto al signor Pecksniff; poi si tolse il cappello e iniziò a cercare all’interno della sua >tacca, tra una massa di documenti accartocciati e piccoli pezzi di quella che si potrebbe definire “corteccia” di sigari spezzati; alla fine trovò la copertina di una vecchia lettera, sporca di fango e impregnata dell’odore del tabacco.

“Leggete questo,” gridò, porgendolo al signor Pecksniff.

“Questo è indirizzato a Chevy Slyme, signore,” disse quel gentiluomo.

“Conosce lei Chevy Slyme, signore, vero?” rispose lo sconosciuto.

Il signor Pecksniff alzò le spalle, come se volesse dire: “So che esiste una persona del genere, e mi dispiace per questo.”

“Molto bene,” osservò il gentiluomo. “Questo è esattamente ciò che mi interessa e di cui mi occupo qui.” Detto questo, si tuffò nuovamente verso il colletto della camicia e ne tirò fuori una cordicella.

“Ora, questo è davvero molto preoccupante, mio caro,” disse il signor Pecksniff scuotendo la testa e sorridendo con compostezza. “È molto doloroso per me dover dire che lei non è la persona che sostiene di essere. Conosco bene il signor Slyme, mio caro; questa situazione non può andare avanti. Onestà è sempre la scelta migliore. Meglio non mentire, davvero.”

“Fermati!” gridò il gentiluomo, tendendo il braccio destro, che era così stretto nella sua vecchia manica da sembrare una salsiccia di stoffa. “Aspetta un attimo!”

Si fermò per posizionarsi immediatamente davanti al fuoco, con la schiena rivolta verso di esso. Poi, raccolgendo le falde del suo cappotto sotto il braccio sinistro e lisciandosi il mustacchio con il pollice e l’indice della mano destra, riprese a parlare:

“Capisco il vostro errore e non mi offendo affatto. Perché? Perché è un complimento. Forse pensate che io cercherei di farmi passare per Chevy Slyme. Signore, se esiste al mondo un uomo per cui un gentiluomo si sentirebbe orgoglioso e onorato di essere scambiato per lui, quell’uomo è il mio amico Slyme. Perché lui, senza eccezione, è l’uomo dal carattere più nobile, dall’animo più indipendente, dall’originalità e dalla cultura più profonde; è un vero talento, nel senso shakespeariano, se non addirittura miltonico. Eppure, allo stesso tempo, è anche il personaggio meno apprezzato che conosca. Ma, signore, non ho la vanità di cercare di passare per Slyme. Con qualsiasi altro uomo al mondo potrei competere; ma Slyme, lo ammetto francamente, è molto al di sopra di me. Quindi, vi sbagliate.”

“Ho giudicato in base a questo,” disse il signor Pecksniff, mostrando la copertina della lettera.

“Non ho dubbi che lo abbiate fatto,” rispose il gentiluomo. “Ma, signor Pecksniff, tutto ciò rappresenta semplicemente un esempio delle peculiarità del genio. Ogni uomo di vero genio possiede le sue caratteristiche particolari. La peculiarità del mio amico Slyme è che è sempre ‘dietro l’angolo’: è costantemente lì, signor Pecksniff. In questo stesso istante è sicuramente dietro l’angolo. Ora,” disse il gentiluomo, scuotendo il dito indice davanti al proprio naso e allargando le gambe mentre fissava attentamente il volto di Mr Pecksniff, “questa è una caratteristica davvero curiosa e interessante nel carattere di Mr Slyme. E ogni volta che verrà scritta la sua biografia, questa particolarità dovrà essere descritta in modo approfondito; altrimenti la società non sarà soddisfatta. Capite? La società non sarà soddisfatta!”

Il signor Pecksniff tossì.

“Il biografo di Slyme, signore, chiunque egli sia,” riprese il gentiluomo, “deve rivolgersi a me; oppure, se io fossi già passato a quella condizione, insomma, se non ci fosse più nulla da fare, dovrebbe chiedere ai miei esecutori il permesso di cercare tra le mie carte. Ho preso qualche appunto, nel modo mio modesto, riguardo alle azioni di quell’uomo, mio fratello adottivo, signore, che vi sorprenderebbero certamente. Ha usato un’espressione, soltanto il quindicesimo del mese scorso, quando non riuscì a pagare un piccolo debito e l’altra parte non volle rinnovarlo. Un’espressione tale da rendere onore a Napoleone Bonaparte se fosse stata usata dall’esercito francese.”

“E preghi,” chiese il signor Pecksniff, chiaramente non del tutto a suo agio, “di dirmi quale possa essere lo scopo della visita del signor Slyme qui, se posso permettermi di chiedere. Io, infatti, per rispetto verso la mia stessa reputazione, devo negare qualsiasi interesse io abbia nei suoi affari.”

“Prima di tutto,” rispose il gentiluomo, “le permetto di dire che mi oppongo a quell’osservazione e che la protesto con forza e indignazione a nome del mio amico Slyme. In secondo luogo, le consentirò di presentarmi: il mio nome è Tigg. Il nome di Montague Tigg le sarà forse familiare, in relazione agli eventi più straordinari della Guerra Peninsulare, ”

Il signor Pecksniff scosse dolcemente la testa.

“Non importa,” disse il gentiluomo. “Quell’uomo era mio padre, e porto il suo nome. Pertanto sono orgoglioso, orgoglioso come Lucifero. Scusate un momento: desidero che il mio amico Slyme sia presente al resto di questa conversazione.”

Con questo annuncio si affrettò verso la porta esterna del Blue Dragon e quasi immediatamente tornò accompagnato da una persona più bassa di lui, avvolta in un vecchio mantello blu con fodera di scarlatto sbiadito. I suoi tratti marcati erano visibilmente segnati dall’attesa prolungata nel freddo; le sue lunghe basette rosse e i capelli arruffati erano ancora più disordinati del solito per la stessa ragione. Di certo, aveva un aspetto piuttosto malaticcio e scomodo, molto diverso da quello tipico dei personaggi shakespeariani o miltoniani.

“Ora,” disse il signor Tigg, posando una mano sulla spalla del suo affascinante amico e attirando l’attenzione del signor Pecksniff con l’altra, “voi due siete parenti; e i parenti, fin dai tempi antichi, non sono mai andati d’accordo, né lo faranno mai. Il che è una saggezza naturale e inevitabile; altrimenti ci sarebbero solo feste familiari, e tutti nel mondo si annoierebbero a morte gli uni con gli altri. Se foste in buoni rapporti, vi considererei una coppia davvero innaturale. Ma visto il modo in cui vi comportate l’uno verso l’altro, vi vedo come due individui astuti e calcolatori, con i quali si può senz’altro ragionare.”

Ecco qui il signor Chevy Slyme, le cui grandi capacità sembravano indicare inequivocamente la direzione opposta ai principi morali; gli diede di gomito al suo amico e sussurrò qualcosa all’orecchio.

‘Chiv,’ said Mr Tigg aloud, in the high tone of one who was not to be tampered with. ‘I shall come to that presently. I act upon my own responsibility, or not at all. To the extent of such a trifling loan as a crownpiece to a man of your talents, I look upon Mr Pecksniff as certain;’ and seeing at this juncture that the expression of Mr Pecksniff’s face by no means betokened that he shared this certainty, Mr Tigg laid his finger on his nose again for that gentleman’s private and especial behoof; calling upon him thereby to take notice that the requisition of small loans was another instance of the peculiarities of genius as developed in his friend Slyme; that he, Tigg, winked at the same, because of the strong metaphysical interest which these weaknesses possessed; and that in reference to his own personal advocacy of such small advances, he merely consulted the humour of his friend, without the least regard to his own advantage or necessities.

‘Oh, Chiv, Chiv!’ added Mr Tigg, surveying his adopted brother with an air of profound contemplation after dismissing this piece of pantomime. ‘You are, upon my life, a strange instance of the little frailties that beset a mighty mind. If there had never been a telescope in the world, I should have been quite certain from my observation of you, Chiv, that there were spots on the sun! I wish I may die, if this isn’t the queerest state of existence that we find ourselves forced into without knowing why or wherefore, Mr Pecksniff! Well, never mind! Moralise as we will, the world goes on. As Hamlet says, Hercules may lay about him with his club in every possible direction, but he can’t prevent the cats from making a most intolerable row on the roofs of the houses, or the dogs from being shot in the hot weather if they run about the streets unmuzzled. Life’s a riddle; a most infernally hard riddle to guess, Mr Pecksniff. My own opinions, that like that celebrated conundrum, “Why’s a man in jail like a man out of jail?” there’s no answer to it. Upon my soul and body, it’s the queerest sort of thing altogether—but there’s no use in talking about it. Ha! Ha!’

With which consolatory deduction from the gloomy premises recited, Mr Tigg roused himself by a great effort, and proceeded in his former strain.

‘Now I’ll tell you what it is. I’m a most confoundedly soft-hearted kind of fellow in my way, and I cannot stand by, and see you two blades cutting each other’s throats when there’s nothing to be got by it. Mr Pecksniff, you’re the cousin of the testator upstairs and we’re the nephew—I say we, meaning Chiv. Perhaps in all essential points you are more nearly related to him than we are. Very good. If so, so be it. But you can’t get at him, neither can we. I give you my brightest word of honour, sir, that I’ve been looking through that keyhole with short intervals of rest, ever since nine o’clock this morning, in expectation of receiving an answer to one of the most moderate and gentlemanly applications for a little temporary assistance—only fifteen pounds, and MY security—that the mind of man can conceive. In the meantime, sir, he is perpetually closeted with, and pouring his whole confidence into the bosom of, a stranger. Now I say decisively with regard to this state of circumstances, that it won’t do; that it won’t act; that it can’t be; and that it must not be suffered to continue.’

‘Every man,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘has a right, an undoubted right, (which I, for one, would not call in question for any earthly consideration; oh no!) to regulate his own proceedings by his own likings and dislikings, supposing they are not immoral and not irreligious. I may feel in my own breast, that Mr Chuzzlewit does not regard—me, for instance; say me—with exactly that amount of Christian love which should subsist between us. I may feel grieved and hurt at the circumstance; still I may not rush to the conclusion that Mr Chuzzlewit is wholly without a justification in all his coldnesses. Heaven forbid! Besides; how, Mr Tigg,’ continued Pecksniff even more gravely and impressively than he had spoken yet, ‘how could Mr Chuzzlewit be prevented from having these peculiar and most extraordinary confidences of which you speak; the existence of which I must admit; and which I cannot but deplore—for his sake? Consider, my good sir—’ and here Mr Pecksniff eyed him wistfully—‘how very much at random you are talking.’

‘Why, as to that,’ rejoined Tigg, ‘it certainly is a difficult question.’

‘Undoubtedly it is a difficult question,’ Mr Pecksniff answered. As he spoke he drew himself aloft, and seemed to grow more mindful, suddenly, of the moral gulf between himself and the creature he addressed. ‘Undoubtedly it is a very difficult question. And I am far from feeling sure that it is a question any one is authorized to discuss. Good evening to you.’

‘You don’t know that the Spottletoes are here, I suppose?’ said Mr Tigg.

‘What do you mean, sir? what Spottletoes?’ asked Pecksniff, stopping abruptly on his way to the door.

‘Mr and Mrs Spottletoe,’ said Chevy Slyme, Esquire, speaking aloud for the first time, and speaking very sulkily; shambling with his legs the while. ‘Spottletoe married my father’s brother’s child, didn’t he? And Mrs Spottletoe is Chuzzlewit’s own niece, isn’t she? She was his favourite once. You may well ask what Spottletoes.’

‘Now upon my sacred word!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, looking upwards. ‘This is dreadful. The rapacity of these people is absolutely frightful!’

‘It’s not only the Spottletoes either, Tigg,’ said Slyme, looking at that gentleman and speaking at Mr Pecksniff. ‘Anthony Chuzzlewit and his son have got wind of it, and have come down this afternoon. I saw ‘em not five minutes ago, when I was waiting round the corner.’

‘Oh, Mammon, Mammon!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, smiting his forehead.

‘So there,’ said Slyme, regardless of the interruption, ‘are his brother and another nephew for you, already.’

“Chiv,” disse ad alta voce il signor Tigg, con quel tono autoritario di chi non tollera interferenze. “Ne parlerò più tardi. Agisco esclusivamente per mia responsabilità, o non agisco affatto. Per quanto riguarda un prestito così insignificante come una ‘corona’ per un uomo del tuo talento, ritengo il signor Pecksniff assolutamente affidabile, ” E vedendo che l’espressione sul volto del signor Pecksniff non sembrava affatto condividere questa certezza, il signor Tigg si mise di nuovo il dito sul naso, a beneficio personale di quel gentiluomo; intendeva così far notare che la richiesta di piccoli prestiti rappresentava un’altra delle particolarità del genio sviluppato in suo amico Slyme. Lui stesso, Tigg, tollerava queste debolezze per il forte interesse metafisico che esse suscitavano. E riguardo alla propria decisione di concedere tali piccoli prestiti, affermava di seguire semplicemente l’“umore” del proprio amico, senza alcun interesse personale o necessità legata a ciò.

‘Oh, Chiv, Chiv!’ aggiunse il signor Tigg, osservando il suo fratello adottivo con un’aria di profonda riflessione dopo aver liquidato quella pantomima. ‘Sei davvero un esempio strano delle piccole debolezze che affliggono anche le menti più grandi. Se mai nel mondo non fosse esistito un telescopio, sarei stato assolutamente certo, osservandoti, Chiv, che sul sole ci siano delle macchie! Vorrei morire, se questa non è la situazione più strana in cui ci troviamo costretti a vivere, senza sapere perché o per quale motivo, signor Pecksniff. Beh, lasciamo perdere! Per quanto possiamo moralizzare, il mondo va avanti lo stesso. Come dice Amleto, anche se Ercole potesse brandire il suo bastone in tutte le direzioni possibili, non riuscirebbe comunque a impedire ai gatti di fare un rumore insopportabile sui tetti delle case, né ai cani di essere sparati nel caldo se corrono per le strade senza museria. La vita è davvero un enigma, un enigma terribilmente difficile da risolvere, signor Pecksniff. Le mie opinioni? Proprio come quella famosa domanda: “Perché un uomo in prigione assomiglia a un uomo fuori prigione?” Non c’è risposta. Sul mio anima e sul mio -corpo, è davvero la cosa più strana di tutte. Ma non ha senso parlarne. Ah! Ah!’

Con quale conclusione consolatoria tratta da quelle cupe premesse, il signor Tigg si riscosse con grande sforzo e proseguì nel suo solito modo di procedere.

“Ora vi dirò di cosa si tratta. Sono una persona davvero troppo compassionevole, e non posso stare a guardare mentre voi due vi fate del male a vicenda, quando in realtà non c’è alcun motivo per farlo. Signor Pecksniff, lei è il cugino del testatore di sopra, e noi siamo i nipoti. Voglio dire, io e Chiv. Forse, in tutti gli aspetti essenziali, lei è più legato a lui di noi. Molto bene. Se così è, che sia pure. Ma né lei né noi possiamo raggiungerlo. Le do la mia parola d’onore: da questa mattina alle nove in poi, ho continuato a spiare attraverso quella fessura della serratura, nella speranza di ricevere una risposta a una richiesta molto moderata e gentile. Solo quindici sterline, e la mia garanzia personale. La cosa più ragionevole che si possa chiedere. Nel frattempo, lui passa tutto il tempo con uno sconosciuto, confidandogli completamente le sue cose. Ora, riguardo a questa situazione, dico decisamente che non va bene. Non può funzionare. Non è possibile. E non deve essere permesso che continui.”

“Ogni uomo,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “ha un diritto, un diritto indubbiato (che io, personalmente, non metterei mai in discussione per nessuna ragione al mondo; oh no!). Ha il diritto di regolare le proprie azioni in base ai propri gusti e avversioni, purché questi non siano immorali né irreligiosi. Potrei sentire dentro di me che il signor Chuzzlewit non prova nei miei confronti esattamente quell’amore cristiano che dovrebbe esistere tra noi. Potrei essere addolorato e offeso per questa circostanza; tuttavia, non potrei concludere che il signor Chuzzlewit sia del tutto senza giustificazioni nelle sue freddezze. Per carità! Inoltre,” continuò Pecksniff ancora più seriamente e persuasivamente di prima, “come potrebbe essere impedito al signor Chuzzlewit di avere queste confidenze particolari e straordinarie di cui parlate. La loro esistenza devo ammetterla; e non posso fare a meno di deplorarle, per il suo bene. Pensateci, mio buon signore, ” E qui Pecksniff lo guardò con aria supplichevole, “Quanto siete, in realtà, imprevedibile nel parlare.”

“Beh, su questo”, ribatté Tigg, “certamente è una domanda difficile.”

“Senza dubbio è una domanda difficile,” rispose il signor Pecksniff. Mentre parlava, si ergeva in tutta la sua statura e sembrava improvvisamente rendersi conto, con maggiore chiarezza, del divario morale che esisteva tra lui e la persona a cui si rivolgeva. “Senza dubbio è una domanda molto difficile. E non sono affatto certo che sia un argomento di cui qualcuno abbia il diritto di discutere. Buona serata.”

“Non sai che i Spottletoes sono qui, vero?” disse il signor Tigg.

“Cosa intende dire, signore? Che cos’è questo Spottletoes?” chiese Pecksniff, fermandosi all’improvviso mentre si dirigeva verso la porta.

“Signor e signora Spottletoe,” disse Chevy Slyme, Esquire, parlando ad alta voce per la prima volta, e con tono molto malinconico; intanto zoppicava avanti. “Spottletoe ha sposato la figlia del fratello di mio padre, vero? E la signora Spottletoe è in realtà la nipote stessa di Chuzzlewit, no? Un tempo era la sua preferita. Potreste chiedervi cosa siano mai questi Spottletoe, ”

“Ora, sulla mia sacra parola!”, esclamò il signor Pecksniff guardando verso l’alto. “È terribile. L’avidità di queste persone è davvero spaventosa!”

“Non sono solo i Spottletoes, Tigg,” disse Slyme, guardando quel gentiluomo e rivolgendosi a Mr Pecksniff. “Anthony Chuzzlewit e suo figlio ne sono al corrente e sono arrivati questo pomeriggio. Li ho visti meno di cinque minuti fa, mentre aspettavo all’angolo della strada.”

“Oh, Mammon, Mammon!” gridò il signor Pecksniff, battendosi la fronte.

“Ecco lì,” disse Slyme, ignorando l’interruzione, “il suo fratello e un altro nipote per te, già pronti.”

‘This is the whole thing, sir,’ said Mr Tigg; ‘this is the point and purpose at which I was gradually arriving when my friend Slyme here, with six words, hit it full. Mr Pecksniff, now that your cousin (and Chiv’s uncle) has turned up, some steps must be taken to prevent his disappearing again; and, if possible, to counteract the influence which is exercised over him now, by this designing favourite. Everybody who is interested feels it, sir. The whole family is pouring down to this place. The time has come when individual jealousies and interests must be forgotten for a time, sir, and union must be made against the common enemy. When the common enemy is routed, you will all set up for yourselves again; every lady and gentleman who has a part in the game, will go in on their own account and bowl away, to the best of their ability, at the testator’s wicket, and nobody will be in a worse position than before. Think of it. Don’t commit yourself now. You’ll find us at the Half Moon and Seven Stars in this village, at any time, and open to any reasonable proposition. Hem! Chiv, my dear fellow, go out and see what sort of a night it is.’

Mr Slyme lost no time in disappearing, and it is to be presumed in going round the corner. Mr Tigg, planting his legs as wide apart as he could be reasonably expected by the most sanguine man to keep them, shook his head at Mr Pecksniff and smiled.

‘We must not be too hard,’ he said, ‘upon the little eccentricities of our friend Slyme. You saw him whisper me?’

Mr Pecksniff had seen him.

‘You heard my answer, I think?’

Mr Pecksniff had heard it.

‘Five shillings, eh?’ said Mr Tigg, thoughtfully. ‘Ah! what an extraordinary fellow! Very moderate too!’

Mr Pecksniff made no answer.

‘Five shillings!’ pursued Mr Tigg, musing; ‘and to be punctually repaid next week; that’s the best of it. You heard that?’

Mr Pecksniff had not heard that.

‘No! You surprise me!’ cried Tigg. ‘That’s the cream of the thing sir. I never knew that man fail to redeem a promise, in my life. You’re not in want of change, are you?’

‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘thank you. Not at all.’

‘Just so,’ returned Mr Tigg. ‘If you had been, I’d have got it for you.’ With that he began to whistle; but a dozen seconds had not elapsed when he stopped short, and looking earnestly at Mr Pecksniff, said:

‘Perhaps you’d rather not lend Slyme five shillings?’

‘I would much rather not,’ Mr Pecksniff rejoined.

‘Egad!’ cried Tigg, gravely nodding his head as if some ground of objection occurred to him at that moment for the first time, ‘it’s very possible you may be right. Would you entertain the same sort of objection to lending me five shillings now?’

‘Yes, I couldn’t do it, indeed,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘Not even half-a-crown, perhaps?’ urged Mr Tigg.

‘Not even half-a-crown.’

‘Why, then we come,’ said Mr Tigg, ‘to the ridiculously small amount of eighteen pence. Ha! ha!’

‘And that,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘would be equally objectionable.’

On receipt of this assurance, Mr Tigg shook him heartily by both hands, protesting with much earnestness, that he was one of the most consistent and remarkable men he had ever met, and that he desired the honour of his better acquaintance. He moreover observed that there were many little characteristics about his friend Slyme, of which he could by no means, as a man of strict honour, approve; but that he was prepared to forgive him all these slight drawbacks, and much more, in consideration of the great pleasure he himself had that day enjoyed in his social intercourse with Mr Pecksniff, which had given him a far higher and more enduring delight than the successful negotiation of any small loan on the part of his friend could possibly have imparted. With which remarks he would beg leave, he said, to wish Mr Pecksniff a very good evening. And so he took himself off; as little abashed by his recent failure as any gentleman would desire to be.

The meditations of Mr Pecksniff that evening at the bar of the Dragon, and that night in his own house, were very serious and grave indeed; the more especially as the intelligence he had received from Messrs Tigg and Slyme touching the arrival of other members of the family, were fully confirmed on more particular inquiry. For the Spottletoes had actually gone straight to the Dragon, where they were at that moment housed and mounting guard, and where their appearance had occasioned such a vast sensation that Mrs Lupin, scenting their errand before they had been under her roof half an hour, carried the news herself with all possible secrecy straight to Mr Pecksniff’s house; indeed it was her great caution in doing so which occasioned her to miss that gentleman, who entered at the front door of the Dragon just as she emerged from the back one. Moreover, Mr Anthony Chuzzlewit and his son Jonas were economically quartered at the Half Moon and Seven Stars, which was an obscure ale-house; and by the very next coach there came posting to the scene of action, so many other affectionate members of the family (who quarrelled with each other, inside and out, all the way down, to the utter distraction of the coachman), that in less than four-and-twenty hours the scanty tavern accommodation was at a premium, and all the private lodgings in the place, amounting to full four beds and sofa, rose cent per cent in the market.

In a word, things came to that pass that nearly the whole family sat down before the Blue Dragon, and formally invested it; and Martin Chuzzlewit was in a state of siege. But he resisted bravely; refusing to receive all letters, messages, and parcels; obstinately declining to treat with anybody; and holding out no hope or promise of capitulation. Meantime the family forces were perpetually encountering each other in divers parts of the neighbourhood; and, as no one branch of the Chuzzlewit tree had ever been known to agree with another within the memory of man, there was such a skirmishing, and flouting, and snapping off of heads, in the metaphorical sense of that expression; such a bandying of words and calling of names; such an upturning of noses and wrinkling of brows; such a formal interment of good feelings and violent resurrection of ancient grievances; as had never been known in those quiet parts since the earliest record of their civilized existence.

“Ecco tutta la questione, signore,” disse il signor Tigg; “è proprio a questo punto che stavo gradualmente arrivando quando mio amico Slyme, con soltanto sei parole, ha colpito nel segno. Signor Pecksniff, ora che suo cugino (e zio di Chiv) è apparso, è necessario prendere alcune misure per impedirgli di scomparire di nuovo; e, se possibile, contrastare l’influenza che in questo momento esercita su di lui quel favorito astuto. Tutti coloro che ne hanno interesse lo capiscono bene, signore. L’intera famiglia sta accorrendo qui. È arrivato il momento in cui le gelosie e gli interessi individuali devono essere messi da parte per un po’, signore, e bisogna unirsi contro il nemico comune. Quando quel nemico sarà sconfitto, ognuno potrà tornare a occuparsi dei propri affari; ogni signora e gentiluomo coinvolto in questa situazione agirà per conto proprio, facendo del suo meglio per raggiungere i propri obiettivi, e nessuno si troverà in una posizione peggiore di prima. Ci pensi bene. Non si impegni ancora adesso. Ci troverà qui, nel villaggio, alle Half Moon and Seven Stars, in qualsiasi momento, e saremo aperti a qualsiasi proposta ragionevole. Ehm. Chiv, caro amico, vai a vedere che tipo di notte sia.”

Il signor Slyme non perse nemmeno un istante prima di scomparire; si può presumere che sia andato oltre l’angolo. Il signor Tigg, aprendo le gambe il più possibile, scosse la testa verso il signor Pecksniff e sorrise.

“Non dobbiamo essere troppo severi,” disse, “con le piccole eccentricità del nostro amico Slyme. L’avete visto sussurrarmi qualcosa?”

Il signor Pecksniff lo aveva visto.

“Avete sentito la mia risposta, giusto?”

Il signor Pecksniff l’aveva sentito.

“Cinque scellini, eh?”, disse il signor Tigg, pensieroso. “Ah! Che tipo straordinario. E poi molto moderato anche!”

Il signor Pecksniff non rispose nulla.

“Cinque scellini!” continuò a riflettere il signor Tigg; “e devono essere restituiti puntualmente la prossima settimana. Questo è davvero il meglio di tutto. L’avete sentito?”

Il signor Pecksniff non aveva sentito nulla del genere.

“No! Mi sorprendi davvero!” esclamò Tigg. “Questo è proprio il meglio della situazione. Non avevo mai saputo che quell’uomo potesse mancare a una promessa. Non ti mancano certo le opportunità di cambiare, vero?”

“No,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “grazie. Assolutamente no.”

“Proprio così,” rispose il signor Tigg. “Se lo avessi voluto, te l’avrei procurato.”
Detto questo iniziò a fischiare; ma non erano trascorsi nemmeno dodici secondi che si fermò di colpo e, guardando seriamente il signor Pecksniff, disse:

“Forse preferireste non prestare cinque scellini a Slyme, ”

“Preferirei di gran lunga di no,” ribatté il signor Pecksniff.

“Egad!”, esclamò Tigg, annuendo seriamente come se in quel momento gli fosse venuta in mente per la prima volta qualche obiezione, “è molto possibile che tu abbia ragione. Avresti lo stesso tipo di obiezione se ora mi prestassi cinque scellini?”

“Sì, davvero non avrei potuto farlo,” disse il signor Pecksniff.

“Forse nemmeno mezza corona, eh?” insistette il signor Tigg.

“Nemmeno la metà di una corona.”

“Allora, siamo arrivati,” disse il signor Tigg, “a questa ridicolmente bassa somma di diciotto penny. Ah! ah!”

“E questo,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “sarebbe altrettanto inaccettabile.”

Al ricevere questa garanzia, il signor Tigg gli strinse calorosamente entrambe le mani, protestando con grande sincerità che lui era una delle persone più affidabili e notevoli che avesse mai incontrato, e che desiderava l’‘onore di conoscerlo meglio. Aggiunse inoltre che c’erano molte piccole caratteristiche nel suo amico Slyme di cui, essendo una persona di rigorosa onestà, non poteva assolutamente approvare; ma che era disposto a perdonargli tutti questi difetti, e molto di più, considerando la grande gioia che aveva provato quel giorno nell’interazione sociale con il signor Pecksniff, una gioia molto più profonda e duratura di quella che avrebbe potuto derivare dall’ottenere con successo un piccolo prestito da parte del suo amico. Con queste parole, chiese il permesso di augurare al signor Pecksniff una buona serata, e se ne andò; per nulla imbarazzato dal proprio recente fallimento, come avrebbe desiderato che fosse qualsiasi gentiluomo.

Le meditazioni del signor Pecksniff quella sera al bar del Dragon, e quella notte nella sua stessa casa, furono davvero molto serie e grave; soprattutto perché le informazioni ricevute dai signori Tigg e Slyme riguardo all’arrivo di altri membri della famiglia furono pienamente confermate dopo ulteriori indagini. Infatti, i Spottletoes erano andati direttamente al Dragon, dove in quel momento soggiornavano e montavano la guardia; il loro arrivo aveva suscitato un grande scalpore, tanto che la signora Lupin, intuendo lo scopo della loro visita ancor prima che entrassero sotto il suo tetto, portò la notizia in segreto direttamente alla casa del signor Pecksniff. Fu proprio la sua grande cautela a farle perdere di vista quel gentiluomo, che entrò dal portone principale del Dragon proprio nel momento in cui lei ne usciva dal retro. Inoltre, il signor Anthony Chuzzlewit e suo figlio Jonas erano alloggiati nell’oscura osteria “Half Moon and Seven Stars”; il giorno seguente, molti altri membri della famiglia arrivarono sul posto, causando un grande trambusto (si litigavano tra loro, dentro e fuori dall’osteria, fino a confondere completamente il cocchiere), tanto che in meno di ventiquattro ore tutte le stanze disponibili nell’osteria divennero estremamente richieste; anche tutti gli alloggi privati della zona, che offrivano complessivamente quattro letti e un divano, aumentarono di prezzo del cento percento.

In breve, le cose arrivarono a tal punto che quasi tutta la famiglia si riunì davanti al “Drago Azzurro” e lo investì formalmente; Martin Chuzzlewit si trovava quindi in una situazione molto difficile. Ma lui resistette coraggiosamente: rifiutò di ricevere lettere, messaggi o pacchi; si ostinò a non trattare con nessuno; e non diede alcuna speranza né promesse di arrendersi. Nel frattempo, le varie fazioni della famiglia continuavano ad scontrarsi in diversi punti del quartiere; e poiché nessuna delle ramificazioni della “famiglia Chuzzlewit” aveva mai concordato con un’altra nella memoria degli uomini, si verificarono continue schermaglie, insulti, e, per usare una metafora, “tagli di testa”; scambi di parole offensive, appellativi offensivi, smorfie di disprezzo, e un ritorno violento di vecchi rancori, cose che non si erano mai viste in quelle zone tranquille da quando esistevano le prime testimonianze della loro civiltà.

At length, in utter despair and hopelessness, some few of the belligerents began to speak to each other in only moderate terms of mutual aggravation; and nearly all addressed themselves with a show of tolerable decency to Mr Pecksniff, in recognition of his high character and influential position. Thus, by little and little, they made common cause of Martin Chuzzlewit’s obduracy, until it was agreed (if such a word can be used in connection with the Chuzzlewits) that there should be a general council and conference held at Mr Pecksniff’s house upon a certain day at noon; which all members of the family who had brought themselves within reach of the summons, were forthwith bidden and invited, solemnly, to attend.

If ever Mr Pecksniff wore an apostolic look, he wore it on this memorable day. If ever his unruffled smile proclaimed the words, ‘I am a messenger of peace!’ that was its mission now. If ever man combined within himself all the mild qualities of the lamb with a considerable touch of the dove, and not a dash of the crocodile, or the least possible suggestion of the very mildest seasoning of the serpent, that man was he. And, oh, the two Miss Pecksniffs! Oh, the serene expression on the face of Charity, which seemed to say, ‘I know that all my family have injured me beyond the possibility of reparation, but I forgive them, for it is my duty so to do!’ And, oh, the gay simplicity of Mercy; so charming, innocent, and infant-like, that if she had gone out walking by herself, and it had been a little earlier in the season, the robin-redbreasts might have covered her with leaves against her will, believing her to be one of the sweet children in the wood, come out of it, and issuing forth once more to look for blackberries in the young freshness of her heart! What words can paint the Pecksniffs in that trying hour? Oh, none; for words have naughty company among them, and the Pecksniffs were all goodness.

But when the company arrived! That was the time. When Mr Pecksniff, rising from his seat at the table’s head, with a daughter on either hand, received his guests in the best parlour and motioned them to chairs, with eyes so overflowing and countenance so damp with gracious perspiration, that he may be said to have been in a kind of moist meekness! And the company; the jealous stony-hearted distrustful company, who were all shut up in themselves, and had no faith in anybody, and wouldn’t believe anything, and would no more allow themselves to be softened or lulled asleep by the Pecksniffs than if they had been so many hedgehogs or porcupines!

First, there was Mr Spottletoe, who was so bald and had such big whiskers, that he seemed to have stopped his hair, by the sudden application of some powerful remedy, in the very act of falling off his head, and to have fastened it irrevocably on his face. Then there was Mrs Spottletoe, who being much too slim for her years, and of a poetical constitution, was accustomed to inform her more intimate friends that the said whiskers were ‘the lodestar of her existence;’ and who could now, by reason of her strong affection for her uncle Chuzzlewit, and the shock it gave her to be suspected of testamentary designs upon him, do nothing but cry—except moan. Then there were Anthony Chuzzlewit, and his son Jonas; the face of the old man so sharpened by the wariness and cunning of his life, that it seemed to cut him a passage through the crowded room, as he edged away behind the remotest chairs; while the son had so well profited by the precept and example of the father, that he looked a year or two the elder of the twain, as they stood winking their red eyes, side by side, and whispering to each other softly. Then there was the widow of a deceased brother of Mr Martin Chuzzlewit, who being almost supernaturally disagreeable, and having a dreary face and a bony figure and a masculine voice, was, in right of these qualities, what is commonly called a strong-minded woman; and who, if she could, would have established her claim to the title, and have shown herself, mentally speaking, a perfect Samson, by shutting up her brother-in-law in a private madhouse, until he proved his complete sanity by loving her very much. Beside her sat her spinster daughters, three in number, and of gentlemanly deportment, who had so mortified themselves with tight stays, that their tempers were reduced to something less than their waists, and sharp lacing was expressed in their very noses. Then there was a young gentleman, grandnephew of Mr Martin Chuzzlewit, very dark and very hairy, and apparently born for no particular purpose but to save looking-glasses the trouble of reflecting more than just the first idea and sketchy notion of a face, which had never been carried out. Then there was a solitary female cousin who was remarkable for nothing but being very deaf, and living by herself, and always having the toothache. Then there was George Chuzzlewit, a gay bachelor cousin, who claimed to be young but had been younger, and was inclined to corpulency, and rather overfed himself; to that extent, indeed, that his eyes were strained in their sockets, as if with constant surprise; and he had such an obvious disposition to pimples, that the bright spots on his cravat, the rich pattern on his waistcoat, and even his glittering trinkets, seemed to have broken out upon him, and not to have come into existence comfortably. Last of all there were present Mr Chevy Slyme and his friend Tigg. And it is worthy of remark, that although each person present disliked the other, mainly because he or she DID belong to the family, they one and all concurred in hating Mr Tigg because he didn’t.

Such was the pleasant little family circle now assembled in Mr Pecksniff’s best parlour, agreeably prepared to fall foul of Mr Pecksniff or anybody else who might venture to say anything whatever upon any subject.

Alla fine, in un totale disperazione e senza alcuna speranza, alcuni dei belligerenti iniziarono a parlarsi con toni moderati, evitando di esagerare nelle loro accuse reciproche; quasi tutti si rivolsero anche al signor Pecksniff con un certo rispetto, riconoscendo il suo alto carattere e la sua influenza. Così, poco a poco, decisero di unirsi contro l’ostinazione di Martin Chuzzlewit, fino a concordare (se si può usare questo termine per parlare dei Chuzzlewit) che si tenesse una riunione generale nella casa del signor Pecksniff, alle mattine di un certo giorno. Tutti i membri della famiglia che si trovavano nelle vicinanze furono immediatamente invitati ad partecipare, con solennità.

Se mai il signor Pecksniff assunse un’espressione apostolica, fu proprio in quel giorno memorabile. Se mai il suo sorriso sereno proclamava: “Io sono un messaggero di pace!”, allora quella era davvero la sua missione in quel momento. Se mai un uomo riuscì a combinare in sé tutte le qualità gentili del agnello con un tocco di dolcezza tipica della colomba, senza alcuna traccia di crudeltà o malvagità, allora quell’uomo era proprio lui. E oh, le due signorine Pecksniff! Oh, l’espressione serena sul viso di Carity, che sembrava dire: “So che tutta la mia famiglia mi ha ferita in modo irreparabile, ma li perdono, perché è mio dovere farlo”. E oh, la semplicità gioiosa di Mercy, così incantevole, innocente e infantile, che se fosse uscita a camminare da sola, in un periodo un po’ più precoce dell’anno, gli uccellini rossi le avrebbero potuto coprire il corpo di foglie, credendo che fosse uno di quei dolci bambini del bosco, usciti per raccogliere more nel fresco rigore della primavera! Quali parole possono descrivere i Pecksniff in quel momento difficile? Oh, nessuna, perché le parole spesso portano con sé cose malvagie, mentre i Pecksniff erano pura bontà.

Ma quando arrivò il gruppo di persone. Quello fu davvero il momento giusto. Quando il signor Pecksniff, alzandosi dal posto a capotavola con una figlia per braccio, accolse i suoi ospiti nel salotto migliore e li invitò a sedersi, i suoi occhi erano così pieni di gentilezza e il suo viso così umido di sincera emozione che si poteva dire che fosse davvero in uno stato di profonda dolcezza. E quei personaggi, quegli individui gelosi, duri di cuore, diffidenti, chiusi in se stessi, che non avevano fiducia in nessuno, che non credevano a nulla. Non si lasciarono certo commuovere o addolcire dalle parole del signor Pecksniff, proprio come se fossero stati tanti ricci o porcospini!

Prima di tutto, c’era il signor Spottletoe: così calvo e con quelle grandi basette che sembrava avesse fermato la caduta dei propri capelli applicando improvvisamente qualche potente rimedio, fissandoli irrevocabilmente sul proprio viso. Poi c’era la signora Spottletoe: troppo magra per la sua età e di natura poetica, abituata a dire ai suoi amici più intimi che quelle basette erano “la stella guida della sua esistenza”; ora, a causa del suo forte affetto per lo zio Chuzzlewit e dello shock provato all’essere sospettata di avere intenzioni testamentarie nei suoi confronti, non poteva fare altro che piangere, o lamentarsi. C’erano poi Anthony Chuzzlewit e suo figlio Jonas: il viso dell’uomo era così affilato a causa della sua prudenza e astuzia che sembrava tagliare la folla mentre si muoveva tra le sedie più lontane; il figlio, invece, aveva tratto grande beneficio dagli insegnamenti e dall’esempio del padre, tanto da sembrare più anziano di un anno o due rispetto a lui, quando stavano fianco a fianco, socchiudendo gli occhi rossi e sussurrandosi qualcosa all’orecchio. C’era anche la vedova di un fratello defunto del signor Martin Chuzzlewit: donna estremamente antipatica, con un viso triste, una figura ossuta e una voce mascolina; per queste caratteristiche, si poteva considerare davvero una donna di forte volontà. E se avesse potuto, avrebbe sicuramente rivendicato il titolo che le spettava, dimostrando di essere, mentalmente parlando, un vero Samson: avrebbe rinchiuso suo cognato in un manicomio privato fino a quando non avesse dimostrato la propria completa sanità mentale, amandola molto. Accanto a lei sedevano le sue figlie zitelle, tre in totale, di comportamento gentile; si erano così tormentate con corsetti stretti che il loro temperamento era diventato, meno forte del loro girovita! C’era poi un giovane signore, pronipote del signor Martin Chuzzlewit: molto scuro di pelle e peloso in modo eccessivo; sembrava essere nato soltanto per risparmiare ai specchi la fatica di riflettere più di una vaga immagine del suo viso, che, in realtà, non era mai stato completato. C’era anche una cugina solitaria, caratterizzata soltanto dal fatto di essere molto sorda, di vivere da sola e di soffrire sempre di mal di denti. Poi c’era George Chuzzlewit: un giovane scapolo che si vantava di essere ancora giovane, ma in realtà lo era stato di meno; tendeva ad ingrassare e si nutriva in modo eccessivo, tanto che i suoi occhi sembravano sempre sorpresi; aveva anche una tendenza evidente all’insorgere di brufoli, tanto che le macchie luminose sul suo colletto, il ricco disegno sulla sua giacca, persino i suoi gioielli scintillanti, sembravano essere spuntati su di lui, piuttosto che essersi formati in modo naturale. Infine, erano presenti anche il signor Chevy Slyme e il suo amico Tigg. E è degno di nota che, sebbene ognuno dei presenti disprezzasse gli altri, soprattutto perché appartenevano alla stessa famiglia, tutti quanti concordavano nel detestare il signor Tigg, proprio perché lui non apparteneva a quella famiglia.

Ecco dunque quel piacevole piccolo circolo familiare riunito nel salotto migliore del signor Pecksniff, pronto a contraddirsi o a contraddire chiunque osasse pronunciarsi su qualsiasi argomento.

‘This,’ said Mr Pecksniff, rising and looking round upon them with folded hands, ‘does me good. It does my daughters good. We thank you for assembling here. We are grateful to you with our whole hearts. It is a blessed distinction that you have conferred upon us, and believe me’—it is impossible to conceive how he smiled here—‘we shall not easily forget it.’

‘I am sorry to interrupt you, Pecksniff,’ remarked Mr Spottletoe, with his whiskers in a very portentous state; ‘but you are assuming too much to yourself, sir. Who do you imagine has it in contemplation to confer a distinction upon YOU, sir?’

A general murmur echoed this inquiry, and applauded it.

‘If you are about to pursue the course with which you have begun, sir,’ pursued Mr Spottletoe in a great heat, and giving a violent rap on the table with his knuckles, ‘the sooner you desist, and this assembly separates, the better. I am no stranger, sir, to your preposterous desire to be regarded as the head of this family, but I can tell YOU, sir—’

Oh yes, indeed! HE tell. HE! What? He was the head, was he? From the strong-minded woman downwards everybody fell, that instant, upon Mr Spottletoe, who after vainly attempting to be heard in silence was fain to sit down again, folding his arms and shaking his head most wrathfully, and giving Mrs Spottletoe to understand in dumb show, that that scoundrel Pecksniff might go on for the present, but he would cut in presently, and annihilate him.

‘I am not sorry,’ said Mr Pecksniff in resumption of his address, ‘I am really not sorry that this little incident has happened. It is good to feel that we are met here without disguise. It is good to know that we have no reserve before each other, but are appearing freely in our own characters.’

Here, the eldest daughter of the strong-minded woman rose a little way from her seat, and trembling violently from head to foot, more as it seemed with passion than timidity, expressed a general hope that some people WOULD appear in their own characters, if it were only for such a proceeding having the attraction of novelty to recommend it; and that when they (meaning the some people before mentioned) talked about their relations, they would be careful to observe who was present in company at the time; otherwise it might come round to those relations’ ears, in a way they little expected; and as to red noses (she observed) she had yet to learn that a red nose was any disgrace, inasmuch as people neither made nor coloured their own noses, but had that feature provided for them without being first consulted; though even upon that branch of the subject she had great doubts whether certain noses were redder than other noses, or indeed half as red as some. This remark being received with a shrill titter by the two sisters of the speaker, Miss Charity Pecksniff begged with much politeness to be informed whether any of those very low observations were levelled at her; and receiving no more explanatory answer than was conveyed in the adage ‘Those the cap fits, let them wear it,’ immediately commenced a somewhat acrimonious and personal retort, wherein she was much comforted and abetted by her sister Mercy, who laughed at the same with great heartiness; indeed far more naturally than life. And it being quite impossible that any difference of opinion can take place among women without every woman who is within hearing taking active part in it, the strong-minded lady and her two daughters, and Mrs Spottletoe, and the deaf cousin (who was not at all disqualified from joining in the dispute by reason of being perfectly unacquainted with its merits), one and all plunged into the quarrel directly.

The two Miss Pecksniffs being a pretty good match for the three Miss Chuzzlewits, and all five young ladies having, in the figurative language of the day, a great amount of steam to dispose of, the altercation would no doubt have been a long one but for the high valour and prowess of the strong-minded woman, who, in right of her reputation for powers of sarcasm, did so belabour and pummel Mrs Spottletoe with taunting words that the poor lady, before the engagement was two minutes old, had no refuge but in tears. These she shed so plentifully, and so much to the agitation and grief of Mr Spottletoe, that that gentleman, after holding his clenched fist close to Mr Pecksniff’s eyes, as if it were some natural curiosity from the near inspection whereof he was likely to derive high gratification and improvement, and after offering (for no particular reason that anybody could discover) to kick Mr George Chuzzlewit for, and in consideration of, the trifling sum of sixpence, took his wife under his arm and indignantly withdrew. This diversion, by distracting the attention of the combatants, put an end to the strife, which, after breaking out afresh some twice or thrice in certain inconsiderable spurts and dashes, died away in silence.

It was then that Mr Pecksniff once more rose from his chair. It was then that the two Miss Pecksniffs composed themselves to look as if there were no such beings—not to say present, but in the whole compass of the world—as the three Miss Chuzzlewits; while the three Miss Chuzzlewits became equally unconscious of the existence of the two Miss Pecksniffs.

‘It is to be lamented,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a forgiving recollection of Mr Spottletoe’s fist, ‘that our friend should have withdrawn himself so very hastily, though we have cause for mutual congratulation even in that, since we are assured that he is not distrustful of us in regard to anything we may say or do while he is absent. Now, that is very soothing, is it not?’

‘Pecksniff,’ said Anthony, who had been watching the whole party with peculiar keenness from the first—‘don’t you be a hypocrite.’

‘A what, my good sir?’ demanded Mr Pecksniff.

‘A hypocrite.’

‘Charity, my dear,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘when I take my chamber candlestick to-night, remind me to be more than usually particular in praying for Mr Anthony Chuzzlewit; who has done me an injustice.’

“Questo,” disse il signor Pecksniff, alzandosi e guardandoli intorno con le mani giunte, “mi fa bene. Fa bene anche alle mie figlie. Vi ringraziamo per essere riuniti qui. Siamo profondamente grati a voi con tutto il cuore. È un onore immenso che ci avete concesso, e credetemi, ” – è impossibile immaginare come sorridesse in quel momento – “non lo dimenticheremo facilmente.”

“Mi dispiace interromperla, Pecksniff,” osservò il signor Spottletoe, con i suoi mustacchi in uno stato davvero preoccupante; “ma lei sta prendendosi troppe libertà, signore. Chi pensa che abbia intenzione di conferirle un onore del genere?”

Un mormorio generale echeggiò a questa domanda, esprimendo approvazione per essa.

“Se intende proseguire con la strada che ha intrapreso, signore,” continuò il signor Spottletoe con grande fervore, battendo violentemente sul tavolo con le nocche, “meglio che lo faccia il prima possibile, così da permettere a questa assemblea di sciogliersi. Non sono certo ignaro della sua assurda desiderio di essere considerato capo di questa famiglia, ma posso dirle una cosa, signore, ”

Oh sì, davvero! Lui ha detto. LUI! Cosa? Era lui il capo, vero? Dalla donna decisa in giù, tutti caddero all’istante su Mr Spottletoe, che, dopo aver tentato invano di farsi ascoltare nel silenzio, dovette sedersi di nuovo, incrociando le braccia e scuotendo la testa con estrema rabbia, facendo capire a Mrs Spottletoe con gesti che quel farabutto Pecksniff poteva continuare per il momento, ma che lui sarebbe intervenuto presto per distruggerlo.

“Non mi dispiace affatto,” disse il signor Pecksniff riprendendo il suo discorso, “non mi dispiace davvero che sia accaduto questo piccolo incidente. È bello sentirsi qui senza alcun velo di finzione; è bello sapere di non avere riserve l’uno verso l’altro, ma di poterci mostrare liberamente per ciò che siamo veramente.”

Qui, la figlia maggiore di quella donna dal carattere deciso si alzò leggermente dal suo posto e, tremando violentemente dalla testa ai piedi – più per passione che per timidezza – esprimeva la speranza che alcune persone mostrassero finalmente il vero volto loro, anche solo perché un comportamento del genere presentava il fascino della novità; inoltre, sperava che quando queste persone parlavano delle proprie relazioni, facessero attenzione a chi era presente; altrimenti, quelle stesse relazioni potrebbero venire a conoscenza di cose che loro non si aspettavano affatto. Per quanto riguarda il naso rosso, osservava che non aveva mai sentito dire che fosse una vergogna, dopotutto, le persone non si modificavano il naso né lo tingevano; quella caratteristica era semplicemente data loro senza che venisse nemmeno consultata. Tuttavia, anche su questo argomento nutriva grandi dubbi: alcuni nasi erano forse più rossi di altri, o addirittura solo la metà di rosso di certi? Queste osservazioni suscitarono una risatina acuta da parte delle due sorelle della donna che aveva parlato; Miss Charity Pecksniff, molto educatamente, chiese se quelle critiche fossero rivolte a lei. Non ricevendo alcuna spiegazione, tranne il vecchio detto “Chi ha la testa piccola, si adatti al cappello che gli sta bene”, iniziò immediatamente una replica piuttosto aspra e personale; sua sorella Mercy l’aiutava molto, ridendo con grande entusiasmo, anzi, con una naturalezza davvero sorprendente. E poiché è assolutamente impossibile che si possa avere un disaccordo tra donne senza che tutte quelle che ascoltano vi prendano attivamente parte, la donna dal carattere deciso, le sue due figlie, Mrs Spottletoe e la cugina sorda (che non era affatto esclusa da questa discussione, visto che non conosceva affatto i meriti o i demeriti dell’argomento in questione) si immisero tutte direttamente nella lite.

Le due signorine Pecksniff erano una coppia abbastanza adatta per le tre signorine Chuzzlewits; inoltre, tutte e cinque le giovani donne avevano, per usare il linguaggio allora in voga, molta energia da sfogare. L’alterco, senza dubbio, sarebbe durato a lungo se non fosse stato per il grande coraggio e l’intelligenza di quella donna decisa: grazie alla sua abilità nel sarcasmo, riuscì a colpire con parole pungenti la signora Spottletoe al punto che questa, dopo soli due minuti dall’inizio della discussione, non ebbe altra scelta se non piangere. Le lacrime versate causarono grande angoscia e dolore al signor Spottletoe; questi, dopo aver tenuto il pugno chiuso davanti agli occhi della signora Pecksniff, come se si trattasse di una curiosità naturale da osservare da vicino, e dopo aver offerto (senza alcun motivo evidente) di picchiare il signor George Chuzzlewit in cambio di soli sei penny, prese sua moglie per un braccio e se ne andò indignato. Questo intervento, distogliendo l’attenzione dei contendenti, pose fine alla lite, che dopo essere ricominciata un paio di volte, si placò definitivamente nel silenzio.

Fu allora che il signor Pecksniff si alzò di nuovo dalla sua sedia. Fu allora che le due signorine Pecksniff si sforzarono di apparire come se non esistessero persone del genere – per non dire presenti, ma nemmeno nell’intero mondo – come le tre signorine Chuzzlewits; mentre le tre signorine Chuzzlewits, a loro volta, dimenticarono completamente l’esistenza delle due signorine Pecksniff.

“È davvero da lamentare,” disse il signor Pecksniff, ricordando con indulgenza il pugno del signor Spottletoe, “che il nostro amico si sia ritirato così in fretta. Anche se abbiamo motivo di congratularci a vicenda anche per questo: siamo infatti certi che non nutre alcun sospetto nei nostri confronti riguardo a ciò che potremmo dire o fare durante la sua assenza. Questo è davvero molto consolante, non credete?”

“Pecksniff,” disse Anthony, che aveva osservato tutta la compagnia con una curiosità particolare fin dall’inizio, “non essere ipocrita.”

“Di cosa, mio buon signore?”, chiese il signor Pecksniff.

“Un ipocrita.”

“‘Carità, mia cara,’ disse il signor Pecksniff, ‘quando stasera porterò via la candela del mio studio, ricordami di pregare più del solito per il signor Anthony Chuzzlewit; che mi ha fatto un torto.’”

This was said in a very bland voice, and aside, as being addressed to his daughter’s private ear. With a cheerfulness of conscience, prompting almost a sprightly demeanour, he then resumed:

‘All our thoughts centring in our very dear but unkind relative, and he being as it were beyond our reach, we are met to-day, really as if we were a funeral party, except—a blessed exception—that there is no body in the house.’

The strong-minded lady was not at all sure that this was a blessed exception. Quite the contrary.

‘Well, my dear madam!’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Be that as it may, here we are; and being here, we are to consider whether it is possible by any justifiable means—’

‘Why, you know as well as I,’ said the strong-minded lady, ‘that any means are justifiable in such a case, don’t you?’

‘Very good, my dear madam, very good; whether it is possible by ANY means, we will say by ANY means, to open the eyes of our valued relative to his present infatuation. Whether it is possible to make him acquainted by any means with the real character and purpose of that young female whose strange, whose very strange position, in reference to himself’—here Mr Pecksniff sunk his voice to an impressive whisper—‘really casts a shadow of disgrace and shame upon this family; and who, we know’—here he raised his voice again—‘else why is she his companion? harbours the very basest designs upon his weakness and his property.’

In their strong feeling on this point, they, who agreed in nothing else, all concurred as one mind. Good Heaven, that she should harbour designs upon his property! The strong-minded lady was for poison, her three daughters were for Bridewell and bread-and-water, the cousin with the toothache advocated Botany Bay, the two Miss Pecksniffs suggested flogging. Nobody but Mr Tigg, who, notwithstanding his extreme shabbiness, was still understood to be in some sort a lady’s man, in right of his upper lip and his frogs, indicated a doubt of the justifiable nature of these measures; and he only ogled the three Miss Chuzzlewits with the least admixture of banter in his admiration, as though he would observe, ‘You are positively down upon her to too great an extent, my sweet creatures, upon my soul you are!’

‘Now,’ said Mr Pecksniff, crossing his two forefingers in a manner which was at once conciliatory and argumentative; ‘I will not, upon the one hand, go so far as to say that she deserves all the inflictions which have been so very forcibly and hilariously suggested;’ one of his ornamental sentences; ‘nor will I, upon the other, on any account compromise my common understanding as a man, by making the assertion that she does not. What I would observe is, that I think some practical means might be devised of inducing our respected, shall I say our revered—?’

‘No!’ interposed the strong-minded woman in a loud voice.

‘Then I will not,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘You are quite right, my dear madam, and I appreciate and thank you for your discriminating objection—our respected relative, to dispose himself to listen to the promptings of nature, and not to the—’

‘Go on, Pa!’ cried Mercy.

‘Why, the truth is, my dear,’ said Mr Pecksniff, smiling upon his assembled kindred, ‘that I am at a loss for a word. The name of those fabulous animals (pagan, I regret to say) who used to sing in the water, has quite escaped me.’

Mr George Chuzzlewit suggested ‘swans.’

‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Not swans. Very like swans, too. Thank you.’

The nephew with the outline of a countenance, speaking for the first and last time on that occasion, propounded ‘Oysters.’

‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with his own peculiar urbanity, ‘nor oysters. But by no means unlike oysters; a very excellent idea; thank you, my dear sir, very much. Wait! Sirens. Dear me! sirens, of course. I think, I say, that means might be devised of disposing our respected relative to listen to the promptings of nature, and not to the siren-like delusions of art. Now we must not lose sight of the fact that our esteemed friend has a grandson, to whom he was, until lately, very much attached, and whom I could have wished to see here to-day, for I have a real and deep regard for him. A fine young man, a very fine young man! I would submit to you, whether we might not remove Mr Chuzzlewit’s distrust of us, and vindicate our own disinterestedness by—’

‘If Mr George Chuzzlewit has anything to say to ME,’ interposed the strong-minded woman, sternly, ‘I beg him to speak out like a man; and not to look at me and my daughters as if he could eat us.’

‘As to looking, I have heard it said, Mrs Ned,’ returned Mr George, angrily, ‘that a cat is free to contemplate a monarch; and therefore I hope I have some right, having been born a member of this family, to look at a person who only came into it by marriage. As to eating, I beg to say, whatever bitterness your jealousies and disappointed expectations may suggest to you, that I am not a cannibal, ma’am.’

‘I don’t know that!’ cried the strong-minded woman.

‘At all events, if I was a cannibal,’ said Mr George Chuzzlewit, greatly stimulated by this retort, ‘I think it would occur to me that a lady who had outlived three husbands, and suffered so very little from their loss, must be most uncommonly tough.’

The strong-minded woman immediately rose.

‘And I will further add,’ said Mr George, nodding his head violently at every second syllable; ‘naming no names, and therefore hurting nobody but those whose consciences tell them they are alluded to, that I think it would be much more decent and becoming, if those who hooked and crooked themselves into this family by getting on the blind side of some of its members before marriage, and manslaughtering them afterwards by crowing over them to that strong pitch that they were glad to die, would refrain from acting the part of vultures in regard to other members of this family who are living. I think it would be full as well, if not better, if those individuals would keep at home, contenting themselves with what they have got (luckily for them) already; instead of hovering about, and thrusting their fingers into, a family pie, which they flavour much more than enough, I can tell them, when they are fifty miles away.’

Queste parole furono dette con una voce molto neutra, e in un tono confidenziale, come se fossero state sussurrate all’orecchio privato di sua figlia. Con una serenità d’animo che gli conferiva quasi un atteggiamento spensierato, proseguì:

“Tutti i nostri pensieri sono rivolti verso quel nostro carissimo ma crudele parente; e poiché lui è, in un certo senso, al di fuori della nostra portata, oggi ci troviamo qui come se fossimo una comitiva funebre, tranne per una benedetta eccezione: non c’è alcun corpo nella casa.”

Questa donna di forte carattere non era affatto sicura che si trattasse di un’eccezione benedetta. Anzi, il contrario.

“Beh, mia cara signora!”, disse il signor Pecksniff. “Comunque sia, siamo qui; e essendo qui, dobbiamo considerare se sia possibile, con mezzi giustificabili, ”

“Beh, sai bene quanto me,” disse la donna di forte carattere, “che in un caso del genere qualsiasi mezzo possa essere giustificato, non è vero?”

“Molto bene, mia cara signora, molto bene; qualunque sia il mezzo, diremo qualunque mezzo, per aprire gli occhi del nostro caro parente riguardo alla sua attuale infatuazione. Qualunque sia il modo per fargli conoscere la vera natura e lo scopo di quella giovane donna la cui strana, davvero strana posizione rispetto a lui, ” – a questo punto il signor Pecksniff abbassò la voce in un sussurro impressionante – “getta davvero un’ombra di disonore e vergogna su questa famiglia. E, come sappiamo, ” – alzò di nuovo la voce – “altrimenti, perché sarebbe sua compagna? Certamente nutre i propositi più bassi riguardo alla sua debolezza e ai suoi beni.”

Nel loro forte convincimento su questo punto, essi – che in nessun altro ambito erano d’accordo – concordarono tutti all’unanimità. Buon cielo, che lei potesse avere intenzioni riguardo alla sua proprietà! La donna di carattere deciso era a favore dell’uso del veleno; le sue tre figlie proponevano il carcere e il semplice sostentamento; la cugina con il mal di denti suggeriva l’esilio in Botany Bay; le due Miss Pecksniff consigliavano la frusta. Solo il signor Tigg, nonostante la sua estrema povertà e il fatto che si sapesse fosse in qualche modo un corteggiatore di donne, esprimeva dei dubbi sulla giustificazione di tali misure; e guardava le tre Miss Chuzzlewits con un misto di ammirazione e scherzo, come se volesse dire: “Voi siete davvero troppo severe nei suoi confronti. Per la mia anima, lo siete!”

“Ora,” disse il signor Pecksniff, incrociando i due dita della mano in un modo che era al contempo conciliante e argomentativo; “da un lato, non andrò fino a dire che lei meriti tutte le sofferenze che sono state così fortemente e in modo ridicolo suggerite”; una delle sue frasi decorative; “dall’altro lato, per nessun motivo comprometterò la mia comune intelligenza di uomo affermando il contrario. Quello che vorrei osservare è che credo si possano escogitare alcuni metodi pratici per indurre la nostra rispettabile, diciamo, la nostra venerata, ”

“No!”, intervenne la donna decisa ad alta voce.

“Allora non lo farò,” disse il signor Pecksniff. “Ha perfettamente ragione, mia cara signora; apprezzo molto e le ringrazio per questa obiezione così perspicace. Il nostro rispettabile parente, infatti, dovrebbe seguire gli impulsi della >natura, e non quelli di, ”

“Vai avanti, papà!”, gridò Mercy.

“Beh, la verità è,” disse il signor Pecksniff sorridendo alla sua famiglia riunita, “che non so proprio cosa dire. Il nome di quegli strani animali (pagani, purtroppo) che un tempo cantavano nell’acqua, mi è completamente sfuggito.”

“Gli svan, ” suggerì il signor George Chuzzlewit.

“No,” disse il signor Pecksniff. “Non sono cigni. Anche se assomigliano molto ai cigni. Grazie.”

Il nipote, dal viso dai tratti distintivi, parlò per la prima e ultima volta in quell’occasione, proponendo “Ostriche”.

“No,” disse il signor Pecksniff, con la sua tipica urbanità, “né ostriche. Ma niente affatto simili alle ostriche; un’idea davvero eccellente. Grazie mille, mio caro signore. Aspettate! Sirene. Oh, certo, sirene. Penso che si possano trovare modi per convincere il nostro rispettabile parente ad ascoltare le istruzioni della >natura, e non le illusioni artificiosamente seducenti dell’arte. Ora non dobbiamo dimenticare che il nostro stimato amico ha un nipote a cui era molto affezionato fino a poco tempo fa. Avrei voluto vederlo qui oggi, perché provo per lui un vero e profondo rispetto. Un giovane davvero eccellente! Vi chiedo: non potremmo forse eliminare la diffidenza del signor Chuzzlewit nei nostri confronti e dimostrare la nostra imparzialità, ”

“Se il signor George Chuzzlewit ha qualcosa da dire A ME,” intervenne la donna di ferma volontà, con decisione, “lo prego di parlare apertamente come un uomo; e di non guardarmi e alle mie figlie come se potesse mangiarci.”

“Per quanto riguarda guardare, ho sentito dire, signora Ned,” rispose il signor George con rabbia, “che una gatta può liberamente osservare un monarca; quindi spero di avere qualche diritto, essendo nato membro di questa famiglia, di guardare una persona che vi è entrata soltanto attraverso il matrimonio. Per quanto riguarda mangiare, posso dire, per quanto le vostre gelosie e delusioni possano suggerirvi il contrario, che non sono un cannibale, signora.”

“Non lo so!” gridò quella donna decisa.

“Comunque,” disse il signor George Chuzzlewit, molto stimolato da questa risposta, “penso che mi verrebbe in mente che una donna che ha vissuto più a lungo di tre mariti e che ha sofferto così poco per la loro perdita debba essere davvero straordinariamente forte.”

Quella donna decisa si alzò immediatamente.

“E aggiungerò ancora,” disse il signor George, annuendo vigorosamente ad ogni sillaba; “senza nominare nomi specifici, e quindi senza ferire nessuno se non coloro la cui coscienza li fa sentire essere stati menzionati, penso che sarebbe molto più decente e appropriato se coloro che si sono insinuati in questa famiglia approfittando della debolezza di alcuni dei suoi membri prima del matrimonio, per poi umiliarli a tal punto da farli preferire la morte, si astenessero dal comportarsi come avvoltoi nei confronti degli altri membri ancora viventi di questa famiglia. Penso che sarebbe molto meglio, se non addirittura perfetto, se queste persone rimanessero a >casa, contentandosi di ciò che già hanno (per loro fortuna); invece di aggirarsi intorno e ficcare il naso nelle faccende altrui, in una famiglia che, posso dirlo con certezza, li interessa molto più di quanto sia necessario, soprattutto quando si trovano a cinquanta miglia di distanza.”

‘I might have been prepared for this!’ cried the strong-minded woman, looking about her with a disdainful smile as she moved towards the door, followed by her three daughters. ‘Indeed I was fully prepared for it from the first. What else could I expect in such an atmosphere as this!’

‘Don’t direct your halfpay-officers’ gaze at me, ma’am, if you please,’ interposed Miss Charity; ‘for I won’t bear it.’

This was a smart stab at a pension enjoyed by the strong-minded woman, during her second widowhood and before her last coverture. It told immensely.

‘I passed from the memory of a grateful country, you very miserable minx,’ said Mrs Ned, ‘when I entered this family; and I feel now, though I did not feel then, that it served me right, and that I lost my claim upon the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland when I so degraded myself. Now, my dears, if you’re quite ready, and have sufficiently improved yourselves by taking to heart the genteel example of these two young ladies, I think we’ll go. Mr Pecksniff, we are very much obliged to you, really. We came to be entertained, and you have far surpassed our utmost expectations, in the amusement you have provided for us. Thank you. Good-bye!’

With such departing words, did this strong-minded female paralyse the Pecksniffian energies; and so she swept out of the room, and out of the house, attended by her daughters, who, as with one accord, elevated their three noses in the air, and joined in a contemptuous titter. As they passed the parlour window on the outside, they were seen to counterfeit a perfect transport of delight among themselves; and with this final blow and great discouragement for those within, they vanished.

Before Mr Pecksniff or any of his remaining visitors could offer a remark, another figure passed this window, coming, at a great rate in the opposite direction; and immediately afterwards, Mr Spottletoe burst into the chamber. Compared with his present state of heat, he had gone out a man of snow or ice. His head distilled such oil upon his whiskers, that they were rich and clogged with unctuous drops; his face was violently inflamed, his limbs trembled; and he gasped and strove for breath.

‘My good sir!’ cried Mr Pecksniff.

‘Oh yes!’ returned the other; ‘oh yes, certainly! Oh to be sure! Oh, of course! You hear him? You hear him? all of you!’

‘What’s the matter?’ cried several voices.

‘Oh nothing!’ cried Spottletoe, still gasping. ‘Nothing at all! It’s of no consequence! Ask him! HE’ll tell you!’

‘I do not understand our friend,’ said Mr Pecksniff, looking about him in utter amazement. ‘I assure you that he is quite unintelligible to me.’

‘Unintelligible, sir!’ cried the other. ‘Unintelligible! Do you mean to say, sir, that you don’t know what has happened! That you haven’t decoyed us here, and laid a plot and a plan against us! Will you venture to say that you didn’t know Mr Chuzzlewit was going, sir, and that you don’t know he’s gone, sir?’

‘Gone!’ was the general cry.

‘Gone,’ echoed Mr Spottletoe. ‘Gone while we were sitting here. Gone. Nobody knows where he’s gone. Oh, of course not! Nobody knew he was going. Oh, of course not! The landlady thought up to the very last moment that they were merely going for a ride; she had no other suspicion. Oh, of course not! She’s not this fellow’s creature. Oh, of course not!’

Adding to these exclamations a kind of ironical howl, and gazing upon the company for one brief instant afterwards, in a sudden silence, the irritated gentleman started off again at the same tremendous pace, and was seen no more.

It was in vain for Mr Pecksniff to assure them that this new and opportune evasion of the family was at least as great a shock and surprise to him as to anybody else. Of all the bullyings and denunciations that were ever heaped on one unlucky head, none can ever have exceeded in energy and heartiness those with which he was complimented by each of his remaining relatives, singly, upon bidding him farewell.

The moral position taken by Mr Tigg was something quite tremendous; and the deaf cousin, who had the complicated aggravation of seeing all the proceedings and hearing nothing but the catastrophe, actually scraped her shoes upon the scraper, and afterwards distributed impressions of them all over the top step, in token that she shook the dust from her feet before quitting that dissembling and perfidious mansion.

Mr Pecksniff had, in short, but one comfort, and that was the knowledge that all these his relations and friends had hated him to the very utmost extent before; and that he, for his part, had not distributed among them any more love than, with his ample capital in that respect, he could comfortably afford to part with. This view of his affairs yielded him great consolation; and the fact deserves to be noted, as showing with what ease a good man may be consoled under circumstances of failure and disappointment.

“Forse avrei dovuto esserne preparata!” esclamò la donna di forte carattere, guardandosi intorno con un sorriso di disprezzo mentre si dirigeva verso la porta, seguita dalle sue tre figlie. “In effetti, ero completamente pronta fin dall’inizio. Cosa altro avrei potuto aspettarmi in un ambiente del genere!”

“Per favore, signora, non rivolga lo sguardo dei suoi ufficiali a mezzo stipendio verso di me,” intervenne la signorina Charity; “non lo sopporterei.”

Si trattava di un attacco astuto contro una pensione che quella donna decisa godeva, durante la sua seconda vedovanza e prima del suo ultimo matrimonio segreto. Quello gesto diceva molto.

“Sono passata dalla memoria di un paese riconoscente, tu, povera sciocca,” disse la signora Ned, “quando sono entrata in questa famiglia; e ora sento, anche se all’epoca non lo pensavo, che mi è andata bene così. Ho perso ogni diritto sul Regno Unito di Gran Bretagna e Irlanda quando mi sono umiliata a tal punto. Ora, mie care, se siete davvero pronte e vi siete sufficientemente migliorate imitando l’esempio gentile di queste due giovani signore, penso che possiamo andare. Signor Pecksniff, le siamo davvero molto grate. Siamo venute per divertirci, e lei ha superato di gran lunga le nostre aspettative. Grazie. Addio!”

Con queste parole d’addio, questa donna di forte carattere riuscì effettivamente a paralizzare le energie “Pecksniffiane” presenti nella stanza; poi uscì dalla camera e dall’casa, accompagnata dalle sue figlie, le quali, all’unisono, alzarono il naso in aria e iniziarono a ridere con disprezzo. Mentre passavano davanti alla finestra del salotto, si poteva vedere che fingevano un’estrema gioia tra loro; con questo ultimo colpo, causarono grande delusione a coloro che erano rimasti all’interno, e poi scomparvero.

Prima che il signor Pecksniff o qualsiasi altro dei suoi visitatori rimanenti potesse dire qualcosa, un’altra figura passò davanti a questa finestra, avanzando a grande velocità nella direzione opposta; subito dopo, il signor Spottletoe irruppe nella stanza. Rispetto allo stato di calore in cui si trovava ora, poco prima era uscito come se fosse coperto di neve o ghiaccio. Dalla sua testa sgorgava tanto olio che i suoi baffi ne erano ricoperti e intasati da gocce unte; il suo viso era gravemente infiammato, le sue membra tremavano; e lui ansimava disperatamente cercando di respirare.

“Mio caro signore!”, esclamò il signor Pecksniff.

“Oh sì!” rispose l’altro; “oh sì, certamente! Oh, senza dubbio! Oh, naturalmente! Lo sentite? Lo sentite tutti?”

“Che c’è che non va?” gridarono diverse voci.

“Niente, assolutamente niente!” gridò Spottletoe, ancora senza fiato. “Non ha alcuna importanza! Chiedeteglielo voi stessi. LUI vi dirà la verità!”

“Non capisco affatto il nostro amico,” disse il signor Pecksniff, guardandosi intorno con totale stupore. “Vi assicuro che per me è del tutto incomprensibile.”

“Incomprensibile, signore!” gridò l’altro. “Incomprensibile! Volete forse dire che non sapete cosa sia successo? Che non ci avete attirati qui con un trucco, né architettato qualche piano contro di noi? Osereste davvero affermare di non sapere che il signor Chuzzlewit se n’è andato?”

“Via!” fu il grido generale.

“Se n’è andato,” echeggiò il signor Spottletoe. “Se n’è andato mentre eravamo seduti qui. Nessuno sa dove sia andato. Oh, certo che no! Nessuno sapeva che se ne sarebbe andato. Oh, certo che no! La padrona di casa fino all’ultimo momento pensava che fossero semplicemente andati a fare una passeggiata; non aveva alcun sospetto. Oh, certo che no! Lei non ha nulla a che fare con quest’uomo. Oh, certo che no!”

Aggiungendo a queste esclamazioni una sorta di urlo ironico, e dopo aver guardato intorno per un breve istante in un improvviso silenzio, il signore irritato riprese la sua marcia al solito passo frenetico e scomparve dalla vista.

Fu inutile che il signor Pecksniff assicurasse loro che questa nuova e opportuna scappatoia della famiglia rappresentava per lui, quanto per chiunque altro, uno shock e una sorpresa altrettanto grandi. Di tutte le persecuzioni e denunce che mai furono accumulate su una sfortunata persona, nessuna poteva eguagliare, per intensità e ferocia, quelle con cui ciascuno dei suoi parenti rimasti lo ringraziò, uno dopo l’altro, al momento del loro addio.

La posizione morale assunta dal signor Tigg era davvero notevole; e la cugina sorda, che per di più assisteva a tutte le procedure senza sentire nulla se non alla catastrofe finale, si pulì le scarpe con lo strumento apposito e poi ne sparse le tracce sul gradino superiore, come segno del fatto che avesse scosso via la polvere dai propri piedi prima di lasciare quella dimora ingannevole e perfida.

In breve, il signor Pecksniff aveva un solo conforto: la consapevolezza che tutti i suoi parenti e amici lo odiassero profondamente fin da sempre; e che, da parte sua, non avesse mai distribuito tra di loro alcun amore in più di quanto il suo abbondante “capitale” in quel senso gli permettesse comodamente di concedere. Questa visione delle sue circostanze gli procurava grande consolazione; e questo fatto merita di essere notato, poiché dimostra con quanta facilità un uomo buono possa trovare conforto in situazioni di fallimento e delusione.

CHAPTER FIVE

CONTAINING A FULL ACCOUNT OF THE INSTALLATION OF MR PECKSNIFF’S NEW PUPIL INTO THE BOSOM OF MR PECKSNIFF’S FAMILY. WITH ALL THE FESTIVITIES HELD ON THAT OCCASION, AND THE GREAT ENJOYMENT OF MR PINCH

The best of architects and land surveyors kept a horse, in whom the enemies already mentioned more than once in these pages pretended to detect a fanciful resemblance to his master. Not in his outward person, for he was a raw-boned, haggard horse, always on a much shorter allowance of corn than Mr Pecksniff; but in his moral character, wherein, said they, he was full of promise, but of no performance. He was always in a manner, going to go, and never going. When at his slowest rate of travelling he would sometimes lift up his legs so high, and display such mighty action, that it was difficult to believe he was doing less than fourteen miles an hour; and he was for ever so perfectly satisfied with his own speed, and so little disconcerted by opportunities of comparing himself with the fastest trotters, that the illusion was the more difficult of resistance. He was a kind of animal who infused into the breasts of strangers a lively sense of hope, and possessed all those who knew him better with a grim despair. In what respect, having these points of character, he might be fairly likened to his master, that good man’s slanderers only can explain. But it is a melancholy truth, and a deplorable instance of the uncharitableness of the world, that they made the comparison.

In this horse, and the hooded vehicle, whatever its proper name might be, to which he was usually harnessed—it was more like a gig with a tumour than anything else—all Mr Pinch’s thoughts and wishes centred, one bright frosty morning; for with this gallant equipage he was about to drive to Salisbury alone, there to meet with the new pupil, and thence to bring him home in triumph.

Blessings on thy simple heart, Tom Pinch, how proudly dost thou button up that scanty coat, called by a sad misnomer, for these many years, a ‘great’ one; and how thoroughly, as with thy cheerful voice thou pleasantly adjurest Sam the hostler ‘not to let him go yet,’ dost thou believe that quadruped desires to go, and would go if he might! Who could repress a smile—of love for thee, Tom Pinch, and not in jest at thy expense, for thou art poor enough already, Heaven knows—to think that such a holiday as lies before thee should awaken that quick flow and hurry of the spirits, in which thou settest down again, almost untasted, on the kitchen window-sill, that great white mug (put by, by thy own hands, last night, that breakfast might not hold thee late), and layest yonder crust upon the seat beside thee, to be eaten on the road, when thou art calmer in thy high rejoicing! Who, as thou drivest off, a happy, man, and noddest with a grateful lovingness to Pecksniff in his nightcap at his chamber-window, would not cry, ‘Heaven speed thee, Tom, and send that thou wert going off for ever to some quiet home where thou mightst live at peace, and sorrow should not touch thee!’

What better time for driving, riding, walking, moving through the air by any means, than a fresh, frosty morning, when hope runs cheerily through the veins with the brisk blood, and tingles in the frame from head to foot! This was the glad commencement of a bracing day in early winter, such as may put the languid summer season (speaking of it when it can’t be had) to the blush, and shame the spring for being sometimes cold by halves. The sheep-bells rang as clearly in the vigorous air, as if they felt its wholesome influence like living creatures; the trees, in lieu of leaves or blossoms, shed upon the ground a frosty rime that sparkled as it fell, and might have been the dust of diamonds. So it was to Tom. From cottage chimneys, smoke went streaming up high, high, as if the earth had lost its grossness, being so fair, and must not be oppressed by heavy vapour. The crust of ice on the else rippling brook was so transparent, and so thin in texture, that the lively water might of its own free will have stopped—in Tom’s glad mind it had—to look upon the lovely morning. And lest the sun should break this charm too eagerly, there moved between him and the ground, a mist like that which waits upon the moon on summer nights—the very same to Tom—and wooed him to dissolve it gently.

Tom Pinch went on; not fast, but with a sense of rapid motion, which did just as well; and as he went, all kinds of things occurred to keep him happy. Thus when he came within sight of the turnpike, and was—oh a long way off!—he saw the tollman’s wife, who had that moment checked a waggon, run back into the little house again like mad, to say (she knew) that Mr Pinch was coming up. And she was right, for when he drew within hail of the gate, forth rushed the tollman’s children, shrieking in tiny chorus, ‘Mr Pinch!’ to Tom’s intense delight. The very tollman, though an ugly chap in general, and one whom folks were rather shy of handling, came out himself to take the toll, and give him rough good morning; and that with all this, and a glimpse of the family breakfast on a little round table before the fire, the crust Tom Pinch had brought away with him acquired as rich a flavour as though it had been cut from a fairy loaf.

But there was more than this. It was not only the married people and the children who gave Tom Pinch a welcome as he passed. No, no. Sparkling eyes and snowy breasts came hurriedly to many an upper casement as he clattered by, and gave him back his greeting: not stinted either, but sevenfold, good measure. They were all merry. They all laughed. And some of the wickedest among them even kissed their hands as Tom looked back. For who minded poor Mr Pinch? There was no harm in HIM.

CAPITOLO CINQUE

Un resoconto completo sull’ingresso del nuovo allievo di Mr Pecksniff nella famiglia di quest’ultimo. Vengono descritte tutte le celebrazioni tenutesi in quell’occasione, nonché il grande divertimento provato da Mr Pinch.

I migliori architetti e topografi possedevano tutti un cavallo; gli nemici già menzionati più volte in queste pagine fingevano di notare una vaga somiglianza tra quel cavallo e il suo padrone. Non certo nell’aspetto esteriore, poiché si trattava di un animale magro e stanco, a cui veniva data una razione di grano molto più scarsa rispetto al signor Pecksniff; ma nel carattere morale. Secondo loro, quel cavallo era pieno di promesse, ma in realtà non le manteneva mai. Sempre pronto a partire, ma mai veramente in movimento. Quando procedeva al suo passo più lento, talvolta sollevava le zampe così in alto da dare l’impressione di correre a quattordici miglia all’ora; era estremamente soddisfatto della propria velocità e non si lasciava affatto influenzare dal confronto con i cavalli più veloci. Quell’illusione diventava quindi ancora più difficile da sfatare. Era un animale capace di infondere negli sconosciuti una viva speranza, ma coloro che lo conoscevano meglio provavano solo disperazione. In quale senso si potesse paragonare a suo padrone, solo i suoi calunniatori possono spiegarlo. Ma è una triste verità, e un esempio deplorevole dell’indifferenza del mondo, che abbiano mai fatto quel confronto.

In questo cavallo e in quel veicolo coperto, qualunque fosse il suo vero nome, a cui era solitamente attaccato, sembrava più un carrozzone malandato che altro, in quella fredda mattina, tutti i pensieri e i desideri del signor Pinch erano concentrati su questo viaggio: con questa “nobile” compagnia avrebbe guidato da solo fino a Salisbury, per incontrare il nuovo allievo e poi riportarlo a casa trionfante.

Benedizioni sul tuo semplice cuore, Tom Pinch. Con quanta fierezza abbottoni quel misero cappotto, chiamato per molti anni “grande”, nonostante sia in realtà così modesto; e con quanta convinzione, mentre con voce allegra esorti Sam il locandiere a “non lasciarlo andare ancora”, credi davvero che quel quadrupede desideri partire, e che lo farebbe se potesse! Chi potrebbe trattenersi dal sorridere – di amore per te, Tom Pinch – senza scherzare sul tuo conto? Dopotutto sei già abbastanza povero. Chi potrebbe non pensare che una giornata come quella che ti aspetta possa risvegliare in te tanta gioia e entusiasmo, al punto che tu lasci quasi intatto quel grande bicchiere bianco (che hai messo da parte tu stesso, la scorsa notte, affinché non ti facessero aspettare troppo per colazione), e metti quella fetta di pane accanto a te, pronta da mangiare lungo la strada, quando sarai più calmo nella tua grande felicità. Chi, vedendoti partire così felice e ringraziante, non vorrebbe augurarti che il cielo ti guidasse verso una tranquilla casa, dove potessi vivere in pace, lontano da ogni dolore?

Che momento migliore per guidare, andare in bicicletta, camminare o muoversi nell’aria, con qualsiasi mezzo, di una fresca mattina gelata, quando la speranza scorre gioiosamente nelle vene insieme al sangue vivace, facendo formicolare il corpo dalla testa ai piedi! Era l’inizio felice di una giornata rigenerante all’inizio dell’Inverno, una giornata tale da far arrossire la pigra stagione estiva (parlando di lei quando non è più possibile goderne) e far vergognare la primavera per i suoi occasionali freddi. I campanelli delle pecore risuonavano chiaramente nell’aria fresca, come se anch’essi sentissero il suo benefico influsso; gli alberi, invece di foglie o fiori, versavano a terra una brina scintillante che sembrava davvero polvere di diamanti. E lo stesso accadeva per Tom. Dalle cimini delle capanne saliva il fumo, alto, alto, come se la terra avesse perso ogni pesantezza, diventando così bella da non poter essere oppressa dalle nuvole dense. La crosta di ghiaccio sul ruscello era talmente trasparente e sottile che l’acqua vivace sembrava voler fermarsi volontariamente per ammirare quella meravigliosa mattina. E affinché il sole non spezzasse troppo presto questo incanto, tra lui e la terra si formava una nebbia simile a quella che avvolge la luna nelle notti estive. Proprio quella stessa nebbia per Tom, che lo invitava ad scioglierla dolcemente.

Tom Pinch proseguì il suo cammino; non velocemente, ma con una sorta di movimento rapido che, comunque, funzionava benissimo. Mentre avanzava, accadevano continuamente cose che lo rendevano felice. Quando finalmente iniziò a intravedere la stazione dei pedaggi – e ci mancava ancora molto! – vide la moglie del casellante, che proprio in quel momento aveva controllato un carro, correre di nuovo come una pazza verso la piccola casa per dire (lo sapeva bene) che il signor Pinch stava arrivando. E aveva ragione: non appena Tom si avvicinò al cancello, i figli del casellante uscirono correndo e gridando all’unisono “Signor Pinch!”, il che rese Tom estremamente felice. Anche il casellante stesso, sebbene fosse un uomo brutto e di cui la gente preferiva evitare l’approccio, venne fuori personalmente per riscuotere il pedaggio e gli augurò buongiorno con cordialità. Tutto questo, insieme al panorama della colazione familiare servita su un piccolo tavolo rotondo davanti al camino, diede a quella pagnotta che Tom Pinch aveva portato via con sé un sapore così delizioso, come se fosse stata tagliata da un pane fatato.

Ma c’era di più. Non erano solo le persone sposate e i bambini a salutare Tom Pinch mentre passava. No, non solo: occhi scintillanti e seni candidi si affacciavano alle finestre delle case quando lui passava, rispondendo al suo saluto con lo stesso entusiasmo, anzi, addirittura in misura raddoppiata. Tutti erano felici, tutti ridevano. E alcuni dei più malvagi tra loro baciavano persino le proprie mani quando Tom si voltava indietro. Perché a chi importava di povero Mr Pinch? Lui non faceva del male a nessuno.

And now the morning grew so fair, and all things were so wide awake and gay, that the sun seeming to say—Tom had no doubt he said—‘I can’t stand it any longer; I must have a look,’ streamed out in radiant majesty. The mist, too shy and gentle for such lusty company, fled off, quite scared, before it; and as it swept away, the hills and mounds and distant pasture lands, teeming with placid sheep and noisy crows, came out as bright as though they were unrolled bran new for the occasion. In compliment to which discovery, the brook stood still no longer, but ran briskly off to bear the tidings to the water-mill, three miles away.

Mr Pinch was jogging along, full of pleasant thoughts and cheerful influences, when he saw, upon the path before him, going in the same direction with himself, a traveller on foot, who walked with a light quick step, and sang as he went—for certain in a very loud voice, but not unmusically. He was a young fellow, of some five or six-and-twenty perhaps, and was dressed in such a free and fly-away fashion, that the long ends of his loose red neckcloth were streaming out behind him quite as often as before; and the bunch of bright winter berries in the buttonhole of his velveteen coat was as visible to Mr Pinch’s rearward observation, as if he had worn that garment wrong side foremost. He continued to sing with so much energy, that he did not hear the sound of wheels until it was close behind him; when he turned a whimsical face and a very merry pair of blue eyes on Mr Pinch, and checked himself directly.

‘Why, Mark?’ said Tom Pinch, stopping. ‘Who’d have thought of seeing you here? Well! this is surprising!’

Mark touched his hat, and said, with a very sudden decrease of vivacity, that he was going to Salisbury.

‘And how spruce you are, too!’ said Mr Pinch, surveying him with great pleasure. ‘Really, I didn’t think you were half such a tight-made fellow, Mark!’

‘Thankee, Mr Pinch. Pretty well for that, I believe. It’s not my fault, you know. With regard to being spruce, sir, that’s where it is, you see.’ And here he looked particularly gloomy.

‘Where what is?’ Mr Pinch demanded.

‘Where the aggravation of it is. Any man may be in good spirits and good temper when he’s well dressed. There an’t much credit in that. If I was very ragged and very jolly, then I should begin to feel I had gained a point, Mr Pinch.’

‘So you were singing just now, to bear up, as it were, against being well dressed, eh, Mark?’ said Pinch.

‘Your conversation’s always equal to print, sir,’ rejoined Mark, with a broad grin. ‘That was it.’

‘Well!’ cried Pinch, ‘you are the strangest young man, Mark, I ever knew in my life. I always thought so; but now I am quite certain of it. I am going to Salisbury, too. Will you get in? I shall be very glad of your company.’

The young fellow made his acknowledgments and accepted the offer; stepping into the carriage directly, and seating himself on the very edge of the seat with his body half out of it, to express his being there on sufferance, and by the politeness of Mr Pinch. As they went along, the conversation proceeded after this manner.

‘I more than half believed, just now, seeing you so very smart,’ said Pinch, ‘that you must be going to be married, Mark.’

‘Well, sir, I’ve thought of that, too,’ he replied. ‘There might be some credit in being jolly with a wife, ‘specially if the children had the measles and that, and was very fractious indeed. But I’m a’most afraid to try it. I don’t see my way clear.’

‘You’re not very fond of anybody, perhaps?’ said Pinch.

‘Not particular, sir, I think.’

‘But the way would be, you know, Mark, according to your views of things,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘to marry somebody you didn’t like, and who was very disagreeable.’

‘So it would, sir; but that might be carrying out a principle a little too far, mightn’t it?’

‘Perhaps it might,’ said Mr Pinch. At which they both laughed gayly.

‘Lord bless you, sir,’ said Mark, ‘you don’t half know me, though. I don’t believe there ever was a man as could come out so strong under circumstances that would make other men miserable, as I could, if I could only get a chance. But I can’t get a chance. It’s my opinion that nobody never will know half of what’s in me, unless something very unexpected turns up. And I don’t see any prospect of that. I’m a-going to leave the Dragon, sir.’

‘Going to leave the Dragon!’ cried Mr Pinch, looking at him with great astonishment. ‘Why, Mark, you take my breath away!’

‘Yes, sir,’ he rejoined, looking straight before him and a long way off, as men do sometimes when they cogitate profoundly. ‘What’s the use of my stopping at the Dragon? It an’t at all the sort of place for ME. When I left London (I’m a Kentish man by birth, though), and took that situation here, I quite made up my mind that it was the dullest little out-of-the-way corner in England, and that there would be some credit in being jolly under such circumstances. But, Lord, there’s no dullness at the Dragon! Skittles, cricket, quoits, nine-pins, comic songs, choruses, company round the chimney corner every winter’s evening. Any man could be jolly at the Dragon. There’s no credit in THAT.’

‘But if common report be true for once, Mark, as I think it is, being able to confirm it by what I know myself,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘you are the cause of half this merriment, and set it going.’

‘There may be something in that, too, sir,’ answered Mark. ‘But that’s no consolation.’

‘Well!’ said Mr Pinch, after a short silence, his usually subdued tone being even now more subdued than ever. ‘I can hardly think enough of what you tell me. Why, what will become of Mrs Lupin, Mark?’

Mark looked more fixedly before him, and further off still, as he answered that he didn’t suppose it would be much of an object to her. There were plenty of smart young fellows as would be glad of the place. He knew a dozen himself.

E ora la mattina era diventata così bella, e tutte le cose sembravano così vivide e gioiose, che il sole, come se volesse dire – Tom non aveva alcun dubbio che fosse proprio questo ciò che voleva dire – “Non ce la faccio più; devo dare un’occhiata”, splendeva con una maestosità radiosa. La nebbia, troppo timida e gentile per stare in compagnia di tanta vitalità, fuggì via spaventata; e mentre si dissipava, le colline, i tumuli e i lontani pascoli, pieni di pecore tranquille e corvi chiassosi, divennero visibili con una chiarezza tale da sembrare appena creati per quell’occasione. In omaggio a questa meravigliosa scoperta, il ruscello smise di stare fermo e iniziò a scorrere velocemente, portando le notizie fino alla mulina situata a tre miglia di distanza.

Il signor Pinch stava facendo jogging, pieno di pensieri piacevoli e di sentimenti gioiosi, quando vide, sul sentiero davanti a sé, un viaggiatore a piedi che procedeva nella stessa direzione: camminava con passi leggeri e veloci e cantava mentre andava, anzi, sicuramente a voce molto alta, ma senza alcuna mancanza di musicalità. Era un giovane, forse sui ventisei anni, vestito in modo molto disinvolto; i lunghi lembi del suo largo fazzoletto rosso gli sventolavano alle spalle ogni tanto; il mazzolino di brillanti bacche invernali nel bottone del suo cappotto di velluto era visibile perfettamente da dietro, come se avesse indossato quel capo con il lato sbagliato rivolto verso l’esterno. Continuò a cantare con tale energia che non sentì il rumore delle ruote finché queste non furono proprio dietro di lui; allora girò verso il signor Pinch un viso sorridente e due occhi blu molto allegri, e immediatamente si fermò.

“Perché, Mark?” disse Tom Pinch fermandosi. “Chi avrebbe mai pensato di trovarti qui? Beh, è davvero sorprendente!”

Mark si toccò il cappello e, con un improvviso calo di vivacità, disse che stava andando a Salisbury.

“E come sei ben vestito!” disse il signor Pinch, osservandolo con grande piacere. “Davvero, non pensavo che fossi così ordinato e curato nel tuo aspetto, Mark!”

“Grazie mille, signor Pinch. Direi che sia andato piuttosto bene, vero? Non è colpa mia, sa. Per quanto riguarda essere ordinato e pulito, beh, ecco il problema, capisce.” E a quel punto sembrò particolarmente cupo.

“Dove si trova cosa?” chiese il signor Pinch.

‘Il punto più grave sta proprio qui. Chiunque può essere di buon umore e avere un carattere gentile quando è ben vestito; in quel caso, non c’è davvero nulla di particolarmente notevole. Ma se fossi molto trasandato eppure molto allegro, allora sì che penserei di aver ottenuto qualcosa, signor Pinch.’

“So che poco fa stavi cantando, per così dire, per resistere al fatto di non essere vestito bene, vero, Mark?” disse Pinch.

“Le sue conversazioni sono sempre come se fossero scritte a stampa, signore,” ribatté Mark, con un ampio sorriso. “Ecco fatto.”

“‘Beh!’” esclamò Pinch, “sei davvero il giovane più strano che abbia mai conosciuto nella mia vita. Lo pensavo già prima; ma ora ne sono assolutamente certo. Anche io sto andando a Salisbury. Vuoi venire con me? Mi farebbe molto piacere la tua compagnia.”

Il giovane ringraziò e accettò l’offerta; salì direttamente nella carrozza e si sedette sul bordo estremo del sedile, con il suo corpo semi-infuori, per far capire che vi era solo per gentile concessione di Mr Pinch. Durante il viaggio, la conversazione proseguì in questo modo.

“Più della metà di noi, poco fa, vedendoti così intelligente,” disse Pinch, “pensava che sicuramente saresti andato a sposarti, Mark.”

“Beh, signore, anch’io ci ho pensato,” rispose. “Forse c’è del merito nel essere felici con la propria moglie, soprattutto quando i bambini hanno il morbillo e sono davvero molto capricciosi. Ma ho molta paura di provarci; non riesco a vedere chiaramente come fare.”

“Non sembri avere molta simpatia per nessuno, vero?” disse Pinch.

“Niente di particolare, signore, credo.”

“Ma il modo, sai, Mark, secondo le tue idee,” disse il signor Pinch, “sarebbe quello di sposare qualcuno che non ti piace e che è davvero molto sgradevole.”

“So che lo farebbe, signore; ma forse questo significherebbe applicare un principio un po’ troppo in modo estremo, non crede?”

“Forse potrebbe essere così,” disse il signor Pinch. E loro due risero felicemente.

“Che il Signore vi benedica, signore,” disse Mark, “ma in realtà voi non mi conoscete affatto. Non credo che esista mai stato un uomo capace di reagire con tanta forza in circostanze che avrebbero reso altri infelici, come potrei fare io, se solo ne avessi l’opportunità. Ma non ne ho alcuna. Penso che nessuno saprà mai davvero cosa c’è in me, a meno che non accada qualcosa di completamente inaspettato. E non vedo alcuna possibilità che ciò possa accadere. Me ne andrò dal Dragon, signore.”

“Me ne vado dal Drago!” esclamò il signor Pinch, guardandolo con grande stupore. “Ma insomma, Mark, mi lasci senza parole, ”

“Sì, signore,” rispose, guardando lontano davanti a sé, come fanno talvolta le persone quando riflettono profondamente. “A che servirebbe se mi fermassi al ‘Dragon’? Non è affatto il posto adatto PER ME. Quando ho lasciato Londra (sono nato nel Kent), e ho accettato questa situazione qui, ero convinto che fosse l’angolo più noioso e remoto d’Inghilterra. E pensavo che ci sarebbe stato del merito nell’essere felici in circostanze del genere. Ma, mio Dio, al ‘Dragon’ non c’è affatto noia! Giocattoli da tavolo, cricket, quoidi, bowling, canzoni comiche, cori. E compagnia intorno al camino ogni sera d’inverno. Chiunque potrebbe essere felice al ‘Dragon’. Non c’è certo nessun merito in questo.”

“Ma se le voci comuni fossero una volta tanto vere, Mark – e credo che lo siano – poiché posso confermarle con ciò che so personalmente,” disse il signor Pinch, “allora tu sei la causa di metà di questa allegria; sei tu ad averla iniziata.”

“Forse c’è del vero in quello che dice, signore,” rispose Mark. “Ma questo non rappresenta certo un conforto.”

“Beh!”, disse il signor Pinch dopo un breve silenzio; il suo tono solitamente sommesso era ancora più cupo del solito. “Non riesco proprio a capacitarmi di ciò che mi stai dicendo. Ma cosa ne sarà della signora Lupin, Mark?”

Mark guardò davanti a sé con maggiore attenzione, ancora più lontano, e rispose che non pensava che quell’offerta avesse molto valore per lei. C’erano molti giovani intelligenti che sarebbero stati felici di accettare quella posizione. Ne conosceva personalmente una dozzina.

‘That’s probable enough,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘but I am not at all sure that Mrs Lupin would be glad of them. Why, I always supposed that Mrs Lupin and you would make a match of it, Mark; and so did every one, as far as I know.’

‘I never,’ Mark replied, in some confusion, ‘said nothing as was in a direct way courting-like to her, nor she to me, but I don’t know what I mightn’t do one of these odd times, and what she mightn’t say in answer. Well, sir, THAT wouldn’t suit.’

‘Not to be landlord of the Dragon, Mark?’ cried Mr Pinch.

‘No, sir, certainly not,’ returned the other, withdrawing his gaze from the horizon, and looking at his fellow-traveller. ‘Why that would be the ruin of a man like me. I go and sit down comfortably for life, and no man never finds me out. What would be the credit of the landlord of the Dragon’s being jolly? Why, he couldn’t help it, if he tried.’

‘Does Mrs Lupin know you are going to leave her?’ Mr Pinch inquired.

‘I haven’t broke it to her yet, sir, but I must. I’m looking out this morning for something new and suitable,’ he said, nodding towards the city.

‘What kind of thing now?’ Mr Pinch demanded.

‘I was thinking,’ Mark replied, ‘of something in the grave-digging way.’

‘Good gracious, Mark?’ cried Mr Pinch.

‘It’s a good damp, wormy sort of business, sir,’ said Mark, shaking his head argumentatively, ‘and there might be some credit in being jolly, with one’s mind in that pursuit, unless grave-diggers is usually given that way; which would be a drawback. You don’t happen to know how that is in general, do you, sir?’

‘No,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘I don’t indeed. I never thought upon the subject.’

‘In case of that not turning out as well as one could wish, you know,’ said Mark, musing again, ‘there’s other businesses. Undertaking now. That’s gloomy. There might be credit to be gained there. A broker’s man in a poor neighbourhood wouldn’t be bad perhaps. A jailor sees a deal of misery. A doctor’s man is in the very midst of murder. A bailiff’s an’t a lively office nat’rally. Even a tax-gatherer must find his feelings rather worked upon, at times. There’s lots of trades in which I should have an opportunity, I think.’

Mr Pinch was so perfectly overwhelmed by these remarks that he could do nothing but occasionally exchange a word or two on some indifferent subject, and cast sidelong glances at the bright face of his odd friend (who seemed quite unconscious of his observation), until they reached a certain corner of the road, close upon the outskirts of the city, when Mark said he would jump down there, if he pleased.

‘But bless my soul, Mark,’ said Mr Pinch, who in the progress of his observation just then made the discovery that the bosom of his companion’s shirt was as much exposed as if it was Midsummer, and was ruffled by every breath of air, ‘why don’t you wear a waistcoat?’

‘What’s the good of one, sir?’ asked Mark.

‘Good of one?’ said Mr Pinch. ‘Why, to keep your chest warm.’

‘Lord love you, sir!’ cried Mark, ‘you don’t know me. My chest don’t want no warming. Even if it did, what would no waistcoat bring it to? Inflammation of the lungs, perhaps? Well, there’d be some credit in being jolly, with a inflammation of the lungs.’

As Mr Pinch returned no other answer than such as was conveyed in his breathing very hard, and opening his eyes very wide, and nodding his head very much, Mark thanked him for his ride, and without troubling him to stop, jumped lightly down. And away he fluttered, with his red neckerchief, and his open coat, down a cross-lane; turning back from time to time to nod to Mr Pinch, and looking one of the most careless, good-humoured comical fellows in life. His late companion, with a thoughtful face pursued his way to Salisbury.

Mr Pinch had a shrewd notion that Salisbury was a very desperate sort of place; an exceeding wild and dissipated city; and when he had put up the horse, and given the hostler to understand that he would look in again in the course of an hour or two to see him take his corn, he set forth on a stroll about the streets with a vague and not unpleasant idea that they teemed with all kinds of mystery and bedevilment. To one of his quiet habits this little delusion was greatly assisted by the circumstance of its being market-day, and the thoroughfares about the market-place being filled with carts, horses, donkeys, baskets, waggons, garden-stuff, meat, tripe, pies, poultry and huckster’s wares of every opposite description and possible variety of character. Then there were young farmers and old farmers with smock-frocks, brown great-coats, drab great-coats, red worsted comforters, leather-leggings, wonderful shaped hats, hunting-whips, and rough sticks, standing about in groups, or talking noisily together on the tavern steps, or paying and receiving huge amounts of greasy wealth, with the assistance of such bulky pocket-books that when they were in their pockets it was apoplexy to get them out, and when they were out it was spasms to get them in again. Also there were farmers’ wives in beaver bonnets and red cloaks, riding shaggy horses purged of all earthly passions, who went soberly into all manner of places without desiring to know why, and who, if required, would have stood stock still in a china shop, with a complete dinner-service at each hoof. Also a great many dogs, who were strongly interested in the state of the market and the bargains of their masters; and a great confusion of tongues, both brute and human.

Mr Pinch regarded everything exposed for sale with great delight, and was particularly struck by the itinerant cutlery, which he considered of the very keenest kind, insomuch that he purchased a pocket knife with seven blades in it, and not a cut (as he afterwards found out) among them. When he had exhausted the market-place, and watched the farmers safe into the market dinner, he went back to look after the horse. Having seen him eat unto his heart’s content he issued forth again, to wander round the town and regale himself with the shop windows; previously taking a long stare at the bank, and wondering in what direction underground the caverns might be where they kept the money; and turning to look back at one or two young men who passed him, whom he knew to be articled to solicitors in the town; and who had a sort of fearful interest in his eyes, as jolly dogs who knew a thing or two, and kept it up tremendously.

“È abbastanza probabile,” disse il signor Pinch, “ma non sono affatto sicuro che la signora Lupin ne sarebbe felice. Del resto, ho sempre pensato che voi due, la signora Lupin e tu, vi sareste adattati bene insieme, Mark; e lo pensavano tutti, per quel che ne so.”

“Mai,” rispose Mark, un po’ confuso, “non ho mai detto nulla che potesse essere considerato un approccio diretto da parte mia nei suoi confronti, né lei lo ha fatto con me; però non so cosa potrei fare in queste strane circostanze, o cosa potrebbe rispondere lei. Beh, signore, quello proprio non andrebbe bene.”

“Non essere il proprietario del Drago, Mark?”, gridò il signor Pinch.

“No, signore, assolutamente no,” rispose l’altro, distogliendo lo sguardo dall’orizzonte e guardando il suo compagno di viaggio. “Perché una cosa del genere significherebbe la rovina per un uomo come me. Finirei per sedermi comodamente per tutta la vita, senza che nessuno scoprisse mai nulla. Quale sarebbe allora il merito del proprietario del Dragon’s Inn nel essere “felice”? In fondo, non potrebbe farci nulla nemmeno se ci provasse, ”

“La signora Lupin sa che stai per lasciarla?” chiese il signor Pinch.

“Non gliel’ho ancora detto, signore, ma devo farlo. Stamattina controllerò qualcosa di nuovo e adatto,” disse, indicando con il capo la città.

“Che genere di cosa è questa ora?” chiese il signor Pinch.

“Stavo pensando,” rispose Mark, “a qualcosa che riguardasse la pratica della scavo delle tombe.”

“Mio Dio, Mark?”, esclamò il signor Pinch.

“È un lavoro piuttosto umido e pieno di difficoltà, signore,” disse Mark scuotendo la testa in modo persuasivo, “e potrebbe esserci anche del vantaggio nel divertirsi, nel concentrarsi completamente su quella attività, a meno che chi si dedica a questo lavoro non abbia per natura quel tipo di inclinazione; il che sarebbe un svantaggio. Non sapete per caso come sia in generale, vero, signore?”

“No,” disse il signor Pinch, “infatti no. Non ho mai pensato a questa questione.”

“Nel caso che le cose non andassero così bene come si potrebbe sperare, ”, disse Mark, riflettendo di nuovo, “ci sono altre attività a disposizione. Ad esempio, lavorare come intermediario in un quartiere povero. Potrebbe essere un’opportunità interessante. Un secondino assiste a molte situazioni tragiche; un medico si trova spesso nel mezzo di crimini; un ufficiale giudiziario ha sicuramente un lavoro poco piacevole. Anche un funzionario incaricato della riscossione delle tasse deve, a volte, affrontare situazioni difficili. Credo che ci siano molte professioni in cui potrei trovare opportunità.”

Il signor Pinch era così completamente sopraffatto da queste osservazioni che non riusciva a fare altro se non scambiare occasionalmente una parola o due su argomenti indifferenti, lanciando di tanto in tanto sguardi furtivi al viso sorridente del suo strano amico (che sembrava del tutto ignaro delle sue osservazioni). Fino a quando non raggiunsero un certo angolo della strada, vicino ai confini della >città, quando Mark disse che avrebbe voluto scendere lì, se gli fosse piaciuto.

“Ma per l’amor del cielo, Mark,” disse il signor Pinch, che in quel momento si rese conto che il petto della camicia del suo compagno era completamente esposto, come se fosse piena estate, e che ogni respiro lo agitava, “perché non indossi una giacca?”

“Di cosa serve uno solo, signore?”, chiese Mark.

“Che nobile gesto da parte sua, ”, disse il signor Pinch. “Beh, serve solo a tenere il petto caldo, no?”

“Lord amore vi ama, signore!” gridò Mark. “Voi non mi conoscete. Il mio petto non ha bisogno di essere riscaldato. Anche se ne avesse bisogno, che cosa potrebbe portare un gilet? Forse un’infiammazione dei polmoni. Beh, almeno avere il buon umore in quelle circostanze avrebbe qualche vantaggio, ”

Poiché il signor Pinch non rispose altro che con respiri affannosi, occhi spalancati e frequenti cenni del capo, Mark gli ringraziò per il passaggio e, senza disturbarlo ulteriormente, saltò giù leggermente. Poi se ne andò, con il suo fazzoletto rosso e il cappotto aperto, lungo una strada laterale; di tanto in tanto si voltava per salutare il signor Pinch, sembrando davvero uno dei tipi più spensierati e allegri che ci siano al mondo. Il suo compagno di viaggio, con un’espressione pensierosa, proseguì invece verso Salisbury.

Il signor Pinch aveva la netta sensazione che Salisbury fosse un luogo davvero disperato, una città estremamente selvaggia e dissoluta. Dopo aver sistemato il suo cavallo e fatto capire al locandiere che sarebbe tornato entro un’ora o due per controllare l’acquisto del grano, iniziò a passeggiare per le strade, con l’idea vaga ma piacevole che quelle vie fossero piene di misteri e insidie. Questa sua piccola illusione veniva ulteriormente alimentata dal fatto che quel giorno era giorno di mercato: le strade intorno al mercato erano piene di carri, cavalli, asini, cesti, carriole, prodotti agricoli, carne, interiora, torte, pollame e ogni sorta di merce offerta dai venditori ambulanti. C’erano giovani e anziani contadini con abiti semplici, grandi cappotti marroni o scialbi, coperte di lana rossa, calzamaglie di cuoio, cappelli dallo strano design, fruste da caccia e bastoni robusti; alcuni stavano in gruppi, altri chiacchieravano ad alta voce sulle scale delle taverne, altri ancora scambiavano ingenti somme di denaro con quegli enormi portafogli che, quando erano nelle tasche, rendevano impossibile tirarli fuori, e quando venivano tirati fuori, causavano vere e proprie convulsioni. C’erano anche mogli di contadini con cappelli di castoro e mantelli rossi, che cavalcavano cavalli spelacchiati, apparentemente privi di ogni passione terrena; queste donne entravano in ogni sorta di luogo senza nemmeno chiedersi il motivo. E, se necessario, sarebbero rimaste immobili anche dentro una bottega di porcellane, con un intero servizio da pranzo davanti ai piedi del loro cavallo. C’erano inoltre molti cani, profondamente interessati allo stato del mercato e alle trattative dei loro padroni. E, naturalmente, un gran caos di voci, sia umane che animali.

Il signor Pinch osservava con grande piacere tutto ciò che era esposto in vendita; fu particolarmente colpito dai coltelli da viaggio, che considerava di ottima qualità, tanto da acquistare un coltellino a sette lame, solo che, come scoprì in seguito, nessuna delle lame funzionava. Dopo aver esplorato tutto il mercato e visto i contadini tornare a casa per cena, tornò ad occuparsi del suo cavallo. Una volta certo che l’animale aveva mangiato a sazietà, uscì di nuovo per passeggiare per la città ammirando le vetrine dei negozi; si soffermò a lungo davanti alla banca, chiedendosi in quale direzione si trovassero le grotte sotterranee dove venivano conservati i soldi. Poi osservò alcuni giovani che lo superavano: sapeva che erano apprendisti di avvocati della città, e nei loro occhi leggeva un certo interesse, simile a quello di cani curiosi che conoscevano qualcosa di interessante, e ne approfittavano al massimo.

But the shops. First of all there were the jewellers’ shops, with all the treasures of the earth displayed therein, and such large silver watches hanging up in every pane of glass, that if they were anything but first-rate goers it certainly was not because the works could decently complain of want of room. In good sooth they were big enough, and perhaps, as the saying is, ugly enough, to be the most correct of all mechanical performers; in Mr Pinch’s eyes, however they were smaller than Geneva ware; and when he saw one very bloated watch announced as a repeater, gifted with the uncommon power of striking every quarter of an hour inside the pocket of its happy owner, he almost wished that he were rich enough to buy it.

But what were even gold and silver, precious stones and clockwork, to the bookshops, whence a pleasant smell of paper freshly pressed came issuing forth, awakening instant recollections of some new grammar had at school, long time ago, with ‘Master Pinch, Grove House Academy,’ inscribed in faultless writing on the fly-leaf! That whiff of russia leather, too, and all those rows on rows of volumes neatly ranged within—what happiness did they suggest! And in the window were the spick-and-span new works from London, with the title-pages, and sometimes even the first page of the first chapter, laid wide open; tempting unwary men to begin to read the book, and then, in the impossibility of turning over, to rush blindly in, and buy it! Here too were the dainty frontispiece and trim vignette, pointing like handposts on the outskirts of great cities, to the rich stock of incident beyond; and store of books, with many a grave portrait and time-honoured name, whose matter he knew well, and would have given mines to have, in any form, upon the narrow shell beside his bed at Mr Pecksniff’s. What a heart-breaking shop it was!

There was another; not quite so bad at first, but still a trying shop; where children’s books were sold, and where poor Robinson Crusoe stood alone in his might, with dog and hatchet, goat-skin cap and fowling-pieces; calmly surveying Philip Quarn and the host of imitators round him, and calling Mr Pinch to witness that he, of all the crowd, impressed one solitary footprint on the shore of boyish memory, whereof the tread of generations should not stir the lightest grain of sand. And there too were the Persian tales, with flying chests and students of enchanted books shut up for years in caverns; and there too was Abudah, the merchant, with the terrible little old woman hobbling out of the box in his bedroom; and there the mighty talisman, the rare Arabian Nights, with Cassim Baba, divided by four, like the ghost of a dreadful sum, hanging up, all gory, in the robbers’ cave. Which matchless wonders, coming fast on Mr Pinch’s mind, did so rub up and chafe that wonderful lamp within him, that when he turned his face towards the busy street, a crowd of phantoms waited on his pleasure, and he lived again, with new delight, the happy days before the Pecksniff era.

He had less interest now in the chemists’ shops, with their great glowing bottles (with smaller repositories of brightness in their very stoppers); and in their agreeable compromises between medicine and perfumery, in the shape of toothsome lozenges and virgin honey. Neither had he the least regard (but he never had much) for the tailors’, where the newest metropolitan waistcoat patterns were hanging up, which by some strange transformation always looked amazing there, and never appeared at all like the same thing anywhere else. But he stopped to read the playbill at the theatre and surveyed the doorway with a kind of awe, which was not diminished when a sallow gentleman with long dark hair came out, and told a boy to run home to his lodgings and bring down his broadsword. Mr Pinch stood rooted to the spot on hearing this, and might have stood there until dark, but that the old cathedral bell began to ring for vesper service, on which he tore himself away.

Now, the organist’s assistant was a friend of Mr Pinch’s, which was a good thing, for he too was a very quiet gentle soul, and had been, like Tom, a kind of old-fashioned boy at school, though well liked by the noisy fellow too. As good luck would have it (Tom always said he had great good luck) the assistant chanced that very afternoon to be on duty by himself, with no one in the dusty organ loft but Tom; so while he played, Tom helped him with the stops; and finally, the service being just over, Tom took the organ himself. It was then turning dark, and the yellow light that streamed in through the ancient windows in the choir was mingled with a murky red. As the grand tones resounded through the church, they seemed, to Tom, to find an echo in the depth of every ancient tomb, no less than in the deep mystery of his own heart. Great thoughts and hopes came crowding on his mind as the rich music rolled upon the air and yet among them—something more grave and solemn in their purpose, but the same—were all the images of that day, down to its very lightest recollection of childhood. The feeling that the sounds awakened, in the moment of their existence, seemed to include his whole life and being; and as the surrounding realities of stone and wood and glass grew dimmer in the darkness, these visions grew so much the brighter that Tom might have forgotten the new pupil and the expectant master, and have sat there pouring out his grateful heart till midnight, but for a very earthy old verger insisting on locking up the cathedral forthwith. So he took leave of his friend, with many thanks, groped his way out, as well as he could, into the now lamp-lighted streets, and hurried off to get his dinner.

All the farmers being by this time jogging homewards, there was nobody in the sanded parlour of the tavern where he had left the horse; so he had his little table drawn out close before the fire, and fell to work upon a well-cooked steak and smoking hot potatoes, with a strong appreciation of their excellence, and a very keen sense of enjoyment. Beside him, too, there stood a jug of most stupendous Wiltshire beer; and the effect of the whole was so transcendent, that he was obliged every now and then to lay down his knife and fork, rub his hands, and think about it. By the time the cheese and celery came, Mr Pinch had taken a book out of his pocket, and could afford to trifle with the viands; now eating a little, now drinking a little, now reading a little, and now stopping to wonder what sort of a young man the new pupil would turn out to be. He had passed from this latter theme and was deep in his book again, when the door opened, and another guest came in, bringing with him such a quantity of cold air, that he positively seemed at first to put the fire out.

Ma i negozi. Prima di tutto, c’erano i negozi di gioiellieri, dove erano esposti tutti i tesori della terra; grandi orologi d’argento pendevano in ogni vetrina, e se non fossero stati di altissima qualità, certamente non sarebbe stato per mancanza di spazio. In realtà, erano abbastanza grandi. E forse, come si suol dire, abbastanza brutti da essere considerati i migliori tra tutti gli orologi meccanici. Tuttavia, agli occhi del signor Pinch, erano più piccoli degli orologi svizzeri; e quando vide un orologio particolarmente ingombrante annunciato come “ripetitore”, dotato della straordinaria capacità di suonare ogni quarto d’ora direttamente nella tasca del suo proprietario, quasi desiderò essere abbastanza ricco da comprarlo.

Ma che cosa significavano, dopotutto, l’oro e l’argento, le pietre preziose e gli orologi meccanici, rispetto alle librerie da cui proveniva quel piacevole profumo di carta appena stampata, che risvegliava immediatamente ricordi di qualche nuova grammatica studiata a scuola, molto tempo fa, con la dicitura “Maestro Pinch, Accademia Grove House” scritta in caratteri perfetti sulla pagina di guardia! Anche quel profumo di pelle russa, e tutte quelle file e file di volumi ordinatamente disposti all’interno, che felicità rappresentavano! E nella vetrina c’erano i nuovi libri appena pubblicati a Londra, con le pagine del titolo, e a volte anche la prima pagina del primo capitolo completamente aperte; un vero invito per chi non fosse attento a iniziare a leggere il libro, solo per poi, impossibilitato a sfogliarlo, decidere di comprarlo all’istante! C’erano anche i delicati frontespizzi e le illustrazioni che, come indicazioni stradali, conducevano verso i contenuti più interessanti dei libri; inoltre, un’intera collezione di volumi, tra cui molti ritratti importanti e nomi rispettati nel corso del tempo, di cui conosceva bene il contenuto. E avrebbe dato tutto ciò che possedeva pur di averne anche solo una piccola parte, accanto al suo letto, nella casa di Mr Pecksniff. Che negozio straordinario!

C’era anche un altro negozio; all’inizio non sembrava così male, ma comunque piuttosto sgradevole. Lì si vendevano libri per bambini, e lì il povero Robinson Crusoe stava solo, con il suo cane, il suo coltello, il cappello di pelle di capra e le sue armi da caccia; osservava tranquillamente Philip Quarn e tutti gli imitatori intorno a lui, e chiamava il signor Pinch a testimoniare che, tra tutta quella folla, era stato l’unico ad lasciare un segno sulla riva della memoria infantile. Un segno che nessuna generazione avrebbe mai potuto cancellare. Lì c’erano anche le storie persiane, con i forzieri volanti e gli studenti di libri magici chiusi per anni nelle caverne; c’era anche Abudah, il mercante, con quella terribile vecchia donna che usciva barcollando dalla scatola nel suo letto. E poi c’erano i meravigliosi racconti delle Mille e una Notte arabe: Cassim Baba, diviso in quattro parti, come l’spettro di una somma enorme. Appeso lì, tutto insanguinato, nella caverna dei ladri. Tutti questi straordinari tesori, affiorando rapidamente nella mente del signor Pinch, accendevano ancora di più quella “meravigliosa lampada” dentro di lui. Così, quando guardava verso la strada affollata, una folla di fantasmi gli appariva davanti agli occhi; e lui riviveva, con nuova gioia, quei giorni felici precedenti l’era di Pecksniff.

Ora gli interessavano molto meno le botteghe dei chimici, con quelle grandi bottiglie scintillanti (e i piccoli contenitori di luce all’interno dei tappi); né gli importavano più quei compromessi gradevoli tra medicina e profumeria, rappresentati da pastille deliziose o miele vergine. Non provava nemmeno il minimo interesse per le botteghe dei sarti, dove erano appese le ultime mode per i gilet cittadini; queste mode, per qualche strana ragione, sembravano sempre incredibilmente belle lì dentro, ma mai uguali da nessun’altra parte. Tuttavia si fermava a leggere il cartellone del teatro e osservava con ammirazione l’ingresso. Questa ammirazione non diminuì nemmeno quando ne uscì un signore dal viso pallido, con i capelli lunghi e scuri, che ordinò a un ragazzo di correre a casa sua per prendere la spada. Sentendo questo, il signor Pinch rimase immobile sul posto; avrebbe potuto stare lì fino al calare della notte, se non fosse stato per il suono delle campane della vecchia cattedrale che annunciavano la funzione vespertina: allora si allontanò di scatto.

L’assistente dell’organista era un amico del signor Pinch, il che era una fortuna, perché anche lui era una persona molto tranquilla e gentile; proprio come Tom, era stato uno di quei ragazzi all’antica a scuola, anche se piaceva molto anche ai compagni più rumorosi. Per fortuna (Tom diceva sempre di avere molta fortuna), quel pomeriggio l’assistente fu di servizio da solo, senza nessuno nell’affollato sottotetto dell’organo tranne Tom; quindi mentre lui suonava, Tom lo aiutava con i registri. Alla fine, quando la funzione stava per finire, Tom prese in mano l’organo lui stesso. Ormai stava facendo buio, e la luce gialla che filtrava attraverso le antiche vetrate del coro si mescolava a un rosso cupo. Mentre i suoni maestosi risuonavano nella chiesa, a Tom sembrava che trovassero eco nelle profondità di ogni tomba antica, così come nel mistero più profondo del suo stesso cuore. Grandi pensieri e speranze gli affollavano la mente mentre quella musica ricca risuonava nell’aria. Ma tra di essi c’erano anche tutte le immagini di quel giorno, fino ai ricordi più lievi della sua infanzia. Aveva la sensazione che quei suoni, nel momento stesso in cui venivano creati, coinvolgessero tutta la sua vita e la sua esistenza; e mentre le realtà circostanti di pietra, legno e vetro diventavano sempre più sfocate nell’oscurità, quelle visioni diventavano sempre più vivide. Così vivide che Tom avrebbe potuto dimenticare il nuovo allievo e il maestro pieno di aspettative, e sedersi lì a esprimere tutta la sua gratitudine fino a mezzanotte. Se non fosse stato per un vecchio custode molto pratico che insisteva per chiudere subito la cattedrale. Così si congedò dal suo amico ringraziandolo mille volte, cercò di uscire nel modo migliore possibile, tra le strade ormai illuminate dalle luci delle lampade, e si affrettò a mangiare qualcosa.

A quell’ora, tutti gli agricoltori stavano tornando a casa a piedi; quindi non c’era nessuno nella sala della taverna, rivestita di sabbia, dove aveva lasciato il suo cavallo. Così tirò avanti il proprio piccolo tavolo vicino al >focolare e iniziò a mangiare una bistecca ben cotta e patate fumanti, apprezzandone davvero molto il sapore e godendosela con grande piacere. Accanto a lui c’era anche una giara di ottima birra del Wiltshire; l’insieme creava un’atmosfera così piacevole che, di tanto in tanto, doveva mettere da parte forchetta e coltello, strofinarsi le mani e riflettere su quanto fosse meraviglioso tutto ciò. Quando arrivò il formaggio e il sedano, il signor Pinch aveva già tirato fuori un libro dalla tasca e iniziò a mangiare un po’, bere un po’, leggere un po’, e ogni tanto fermarsi per chiedersi quale tipo di giovane sarebbe diventato il nuovo allievo. Aveva appena ripreso a leggere quando la porta si aprì e entrò un altro ospite, portando con sé tanta aria fredda che, per un attimo, sembrò davvero spegnere il >focolare.

‘Very hard frost to-night, sir,’ said the newcomer, courteously acknowledging Mr Pinch’s withdrawal of the little table, that he might have place: ‘Don’t disturb yourself, I beg.’

Though he said this with a vast amount of consideration for Mr Pinch’s comfort, he dragged one of the great leather-bottomed chairs to the very centre of the hearth, notwithstanding; and sat down in front of the fire, with a foot on each hob.

‘My feet are quite numbed. Ah! Bitter cold to be sure.’

‘You have been in the air some considerable time, I dare say?’ said Mr Pinch.

‘All day. Outside a coach, too.’

‘That accounts for his making the room so cool,’ thought Mr Pinch. ‘Poor fellow! How thoroughly chilled he must be!’

The stranger became thoughtful likewise, and sat for five or ten minutes looking at the fire in silence. At length he rose and divested himself of his shawl and great-coat, which (far different from Mr Pinch’s) was a very warm and thick one; but he was not a whit more conversational out of his great-coat than in it, for he sat down again in the same place and attitude, and leaning back in his chair, began to bite his nails. He was young—one-and-twenty, perhaps—and handsome; with a keen dark eye, and a quickness of look and manner which made Tom sensible of a great contrast in his own bearing, and caused him to feel even more shy than usual.

There was a clock in the room, which the stranger often turned to look at. Tom made frequent reference to it also; partly from a nervous sympathy with its taciturn companion; and partly because the new pupil was to inquire for him at half after six, and the hands were getting on towards that hour. Whenever the stranger caught him looking at this clock, a kind of confusion came upon Tom as if he had been found out in something; and it was a perception of his uneasiness which caused the younger man to say, perhaps, with a smile:

‘We both appear to be rather particular about the time. The fact is, I have an engagement to meet a gentleman here.’

‘So have I,’ said Mr Pinch.

‘At half-past six,’ said the stranger.

‘At half-past six,’ said Tom in the very same breath; whereupon the other looked at him with some surprise.

‘The young gentleman, I expect,’ remarked Tom, timidly, ‘was to inquire at that time for a person by the name of Pinch.’

‘Dear me!’ cried the other, jumping up. ‘And I have been keeping the fire from you all this while! I had no idea you were Mr Pinch. I am the Mr Martin for whom you were to inquire. Pray excuse me. How do you do? Oh, do draw nearer, pray!’

‘Thank you,’ said Tom, ‘thank you. I am not at all cold, and you are; and we have a cold ride before us. Well, if you wish it, I will. I—I am very glad,’ said Tom, smiling with an embarrassed frankness peculiarly his, and which was as plainly a confession of his own imperfections, and an appeal to the kindness of the person he addressed, as if he had drawn one up in simple language and committed it to paper: ‘I am very glad indeed that you turn out to be the party I expected. I was thinking, but a minute ago, that I could wish him to be like you.’

‘I am very glad to hear it,’ returned Martin, shaking hands with him again; ‘for I assure you, I was thinking there could be no such luck as Mr Pinch’s turning out like you.’

‘No, really!’ said Tom, with great pleasure. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Upon my word I am,’ replied his new acquaintance. ‘You and I will get on excellently well, I know; which it’s no small relief to me to feel, for to tell you the truth, I am not at all the sort of fellow who could get on with everybody, and that’s the point on which I had the greatest doubts. But they’re quite relieved now.—Do me the favour to ring the bell, will you?’

Mr Pinch rose, and complied with great alacrity—the handle hung just over Martin’s head, as he warmed himself—and listened with a smiling face to what his friend went on to say. It was:

‘If you like punch, you’ll allow me to order a glass apiece, as hot as it can be made, that we may usher in our friendship in a becoming manner. To let you into a secret, Mr Pinch, I never was so much in want of something warm and cheering in my life; but I didn’t like to run the chance of being found drinking it, without knowing what kind of person you were; for first impressions, you know, often go a long way, and last a long time.’

Mr Pinch assented, and the punch was ordered. In due course it came; hot and strong. After drinking to each other in the steaming mixture, they became quite confidential.

‘I’m a sort of relation of Pecksniff’s, you know,’ said the young man.

‘Indeed!’ cried Mr Pinch.

‘Yes. My grandfather is his cousin, so he’s kith and kin to me, somehow, if you can make that out. I can’t.’

‘Then Martin is your Christian name?’ said Mr Pinch, thoughtfully. ‘Oh!’

‘Of course it is,’ returned his friend: ‘I wish it was my surname for my own is not a very pretty one, and it takes a long time to sign. Chuzzlewit is my name.’

‘Dear me!’ cried Mr Pinch, with an involuntary start.

‘You’re not surprised at my having two names, I suppose?’ returned the other, setting his glass to his lips. ‘Most people have.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘not at all. Oh dear no! Well!’ And then remembering that Mr Pecksniff had privately cautioned him to say nothing in reference to the old gentleman of the same name who had lodged at the Dragon, but to reserve all mention of that person for him, he had no better means of hiding his confusion than by raising his own glass to his mouth. They looked at each other out of their respective tumblers for a few seconds, and then put them down empty.

‘I told them in the stable to be ready for us ten minutes ago,’ said Mr Pinch, glancing at the clock again. ‘Shall we go?’

‘If you please,’ returned the other.

‘Would you like to drive?’ said Mr Pinch; his whole face beaming with a consciousness of the splendour of his offer. ‘You shall, if you wish.’

“Una brina molto intensa fino a mezzanotte, signore,” disse il nuovo arrivato, ringraziando cortesemente il signor Pinch per aver spostato il tavolino in modo che potesse sedersi: “Non si disturbi per me, la prego.”

Anche se lo disse tenendo molto conto del comfort del signor Pinch, tirò comunque una di quelle grandi sedie con fondo di cuoio proprio al centro del camino e si sedette davanti al fuoco, con un piede su ciascuna delle piastre riscaldate.

“Le mie gambe sono completamente intorpidite. Ah! Fa davvero un freddo terribile.”

“Dovete essere stato in volo per un bel po’ di tempo, non credete?”, disse il signor Pinch.

“Per tutto il giorno, anche fuori da un vagone.”

“Ecco spiegato perché ha reso la stanza così fresca,” pensò il signor Pinch. “Poveretto. Deve essere davvero congelato!”

Anche lo sconosciuto divenne pensieroso e rimase seduto per cinque o dieci minuti, fissando il fuoco in silenzio. Alla fine si alzò, si tolse sciarpa e cappotto – che (molto diverso da quello del signor Pinch) era davvero caldo e spesso – ma non divenne affatto più loquace una volta senza di essi. Si rimise a sedere nello stesso posto, nella stessa posizione, appoggiandosi allo schienale della sedia e iniziò a mordersi le unghie. Era giovane, forse vent’anni, e attraente; aveva occhi scuri e luminosi, e un modo di comportarsi così rapido e deciso che fece sentire a Tom una grande differenza nel proprio modo di fare, facendolo sentire ancora più timido del solito.

Nella stanza c’era un orologio che lo sconosciuto guardava spesso. Anche Tom ne parlava frequentemente: in parte per una sorta di simpatia nervosa verso quel compagno silenzioso, e in parte perché il nuovo studente avrebbe dovuto cercarlo alle sei e mezza, e le lancette dell’orologio si stavano avvicinando a quell’ora. Ogni volta che lo sconosciuto lo sorprendeva a guardare quell’orologio, Tom provava una sorta di imbarazzo, come se fosse stato scoperto in qualche cosa; e fu proprio questa percezione del suo disagio a far sì che l’uomo più giovane, forse sorridendo, dicesse:

Sembriamo entrambi essere piuttosto esigenti riguardo all’orario. In realtà, ho un appuntamento con un signore qui.

“Anch’io lo so,” disse il signor Pinch.

“Alle sei e mezza,” disse lo sconosciuto.

“Alle sei e mezza,” disse Tom nello stesso istante; allora l’altro lo guardò con un po’ di sorpresa.

“Quel giovane gentiluomo, immagino,” osservò Tom in tono timido, “voleva chiedere informazioni su una persona di nome Pinch in quel momento.”

“Mio Dio!” esclamò l’altro, alzandosi in piedi. “E io ho tenuto nascosta la fiamma da voi per tutto questo tempo! Non sapevo affatto che foste il signor Pinch. Io sono il signor Martin, di cui dovevate informarvi. Vi prego di scusarmi. Come state? Oh, vi prego, avvicinatevi!”

“Grazie,” disse Tom, “grazie davvero. Non ho affatto freddo, mentre tu sì; e abbiamo ancora una lunga strada fredda davanti a noi. Beh, se lo desideri, lo farò. Sono molto felice,” aggiunse Tom, sorridendo con quella schiettezza imbarazzata che gli era tipica: una confessione aperta delle sue imperfezioni e un appello alla gentilezza della persona a cui si rivolgeva, come se avesse espresso tutto ciò in termini semplici e scritto su carta. “Sono davvero molto felice che tu sia proprio la persona che mi aspettavo. Un minuto fa, pensavo persino che sarebbe stato meglio se fosse stato come te.”

“Sono molto felice di saperlo,” rispose Martin, stringendogli di nuovo la mano; “perché vi assicuro che stavo pensando proprio che non potesse esistere una fortuna tale da far sì che il signor Pinch si rivelasse essere come voi.”

“No, davvero!” disse Tom, con grande piacere. “Sei serio?”

“Per la mia parola, lo sono,” rispose il suo nuovo conoscente. “So che noi due andremo d’accordo molto bene; e questo mi rassicura molto, perché, a dire la verità, non sono affatto il tipo di persona che riesce ad andare d’accordo con tutti. Ed era proprio questo il punto su cui avevo maggiori dubbi. Ma ora sono completamente tranquillo. Mi farebbe piacere se potesse suonare il campanello, per favore?”

Il signor Pinch prese la rosa e obbedì con grande sollecitudine; il manico della lampada pendeva proprio sopra la testa di Martin, mentre si scaldava. Ascoltò con un sorriso ciò che il suo amico continuò a dire. Ecco di cosa si trattava:

“Se vi piace il punch, permettetemi di ordinare un bicchiere per ciascuno, il più caldo possibile, così da inaugurare la nostra amicizia in modo appropriato. Per dirvi un segreto, signor Pinch. Non ho mai avuto tanto bisogno di qualcosa di caldo e rinvigorente in tutta la mia vita; ma non volevo correre il rischio di essere scoperto mentre lo bevevo, senza sapere che tipo di persona foste. Le prime impressioni, sapete, spesso contano molto e durano a lungo.”

Il signor Pinch acconsentì e ordinò il punch. Dopo poco arrivò: caldo e forte. Dopo aver brindato a vicenda con quella bevanda fumante, diventarono molto confidenziali l’uno con l’altro.

“Sono in qualche modo imparentato con la famiglia Pecksniff, sai,” disse il giovane uomo.

“Certamente!” esclamò il signor Pinch.

“Sì. Mio nonno è suo cugino, quindi in qualche modo lui è anche mio parente, se riesci a capirlo. Io però no.”

“Quindi Martin è il tuo nome cristiano?” disse il signor Pinch, pensieroso. “Oh!”

“Certo che lo è,” rispose il suo amico. “Vorrei che fosse il mio cognome. Il mio attuale non è molto bello, e ci vuole un sacco di tempo per scriverlo. Il mio nome è Chuzzlewit.”

“Mio Dio!”, esclamò il signor Pinch, sobbalzando involontariamente.

“Non sei sorpreso che io abbia due nomi, immagino?” rispose l’altro, portando il bicchiere alle labbra. “La maggior parte delle persone ne ha.”

“Oh, no,” disse il signor Pinch, “assolutamente no. Oh, mio Dio, no! Beh, ” Poi, ricordandosi che il signor Pecksniff gli aveva raccomandato di non dire nulla riguardo al vecchio gentiluomo omonimo che aveva soggiornato all’Osteria del Drago, ma di riservare ogni informazione su di lui a lui stesso, non trovò modo migliore per nascondere la propria confusione se non alzando il proprio bicchiere alle labbra. Si guardarono l’un l’altro attraverso i loro bicchieri per qualche secondo, poi li posarono vuoti.

“Ho detto loro di prepararsi per noi dieci minuti fa,” disse il signor Pinch, guardando di nuovo l’orologio. “Andiamo?”

“Se vuoi,” rispose l’altro.

“Vuoi guidare?” disse il signor Pinch; tutto il suo viso brillava di orgoglio per l’opportunità che gli offriva. “Puoi farlo, se lo desideri.”

‘Why, that depends, Mr Pinch,’ said Martin, laughing, ‘upon what sort of a horse you have. Because if he’s a bad one, I would rather keep my hands warm by holding them comfortably in my greatcoat pockets.’

He appeared to think this such a good joke, that Mr Pinch was quite sure it must be a capital one. Accordingly, he laughed too, and was fully persuaded that he enjoyed it very much. Then he settled his bill, and Mr Chuzzlewit paid for the punch; and having wrapped themselves up, to the extent of their respective means, they went out together to the front door, where Mr Pecksniff’s property stopped the way.

‘I won’t drive, thank you, Mr Pinch,’ said Martin, getting into the sitter’s place. ‘By the bye, there’s a box of mine. Can we manage to take it?’

‘Oh, certainly,’ said Tom. ‘Put it in, Dick, anywhere!’

It was not precisely of that convenient size which would admit of its being squeezed into any odd corner, but Dick the hostler got it in somehow, and Mr Chuzzlewit helped him. It was all on Mr Pinch’s side, and Mr Chuzzlewit said he was very much afraid it would encumber him; to which Tom said, ‘Not at all;’ though it forced him into such an awkward position, that he had much ado to see anything but his own knees. But it is an ill wind that blows nobody any good; and the wisdom of the saying was verified in this instance; for the cold air came from Mr Pinch’s side of the carriage, and by interposing a perfect wall of box and man between it and the new pupil, he shielded that young gentleman effectually; which was a great comfort.

It was a clear evening, with a bright moon. The whole landscape was silvered by its light and by the hoar-frost; and everything looked exquisitely beautiful. At first, the great serenity and peace through which they travelled, disposed them both to silence; but in a very short time the punch within them and the healthful air without, made them loquacious, and they talked incessantly. When they were halfway home, and stopped to give the horse some water, Martin (who was very generous with his money) ordered another glass of punch, which they drank between them, and which had not the effect of making them less conversational than before. Their principal topic of discourse was naturally Mr Pecksniff and his family; of whom, and of the great obligations they had heaped upon him, Tom Pinch, with the tears standing in his eyes, drew such a picture as would have inclined any one of common feeling almost to revere them; and of which Mr Pecksniff had not the slightest foresight or preconceived idea, or he certainly (being very humble) would not have sent Tom Pinch to bring the pupil home.

In this way they went on, and on, and on—in the language of the story-books—until at last the village lights appeared before them, and the church spire cast a long reflection on the graveyard grass; as if it were a dial (alas, the truest in the world!) marking, whatever light shone out of Heaven, the flight of days and weeks and years, by some new shadow on that solemn ground.

‘A pretty church!’ said Martin, observing that his companion slackened the slack pace of the horse, as they approached.

‘Is it not?’ cried Tom, with great pride. ‘There’s the sweetest little organ there you ever heard. I play it for them.’

‘Indeed?’ said Martin. ‘It is hardly worth the trouble, I should think. What do you get for that, now?’

‘Nothing,’ answered Tom.

‘Well,’ returned his friend, ‘you ARE a very strange fellow!’

To which remark there succeeded a brief silence.

‘When I say nothing,’ observed Mr Pinch, cheerfully, ‘I am wrong, and don’t say what I mean, because I get a great deal of pleasure from it, and the means of passing some of the happiest hours I know. It led to something else the other day; but you will not care to hear about that I dare say?’

‘Oh yes I shall. What?’

‘It led to my seeing,’ said Tom, in a lower voice, ‘one of the loveliest and most beautiful faces you can possibly picture to yourself.’

‘And yet I am able to picture a beautiful one,’ said his friend, thoughtfully, ‘or should be, if I have any memory.’

‘She came’ said Tom, laying his hand upon the other’s arm, ‘for the first time very early in the morning, when it was hardly light; and when I saw her, over my shoulder, standing just within the porch, I turned quite cold, almost believing her to be a spirit. A moment’s reflection got the better of that, of course, and fortunately it came to my relief so soon, that I didn’t leave off playing.’

‘Why fortunately?’

‘Why? Because she stood there, listening. I had my spectacles on, and saw her through the chinks in the curtains as plainly as I see you; and she was beautiful. After a while she glided off, and I continued to play until she was out of hearing.’

‘Why did you do that?’

‘Don’t you see?’ responded Tom. ‘Because she might suppose I hadn’t seen her; and might return.’

‘And did she?’

‘Certainly she did. Next morning, and next evening too; but always when there were no people about, and always alone. I rose earlier and sat there later, that when she came, she might find the church door open, and the organ playing, and might not be disappointed. She strolled that way for some days, and always stayed to listen. But she is gone now, and of all unlikely things in this wide world, it is perhaps the most improbable that I shall ever look upon her face again.’

‘You don’t know anything more about her?’

‘No.’

‘And you never followed her when she went away?’

‘Why should I distress her by doing that?’ said Tom Pinch. ‘Is it likely that she wanted my company? She came to hear the organ, not to see me; and would you have had me scare her from a place she seemed to grow quite fond of? Now, Heaven bless her!’ cried Tom, ‘to have given her but a minute’s pleasure every day, I would have gone on playing the organ at those times until I was an old man; quite contented if she sometimes thought of a poor fellow like me, as a part of the music; and more than recompensed if she ever mixed me up with anything she liked as well as she liked that!’

“Beh, dipende, signor Pinch,” disse Martin ridendo, “dal tipo di cavallo che avete. Perché se è un cavallo cattivo, preferirei tenere le mani al caldo tenendole comodamente nelle tasche del mio cappotto.”

Sembrava che trovasse questa battuta davvero molto divertente; il signor Pinch era quindi assolutamente convinto che si trattasse di una battuta davvero eccezionale. Anche lui rise, e fu pienamente persuaso di averla apprezzata moltissimo. Poi pagò il conto, e il signor Chuzzlewit si occupò del pagamento della bevanda; dopo essersi avvolti nel modo più appropriato alle loro risorse, uscirono insieme dalla porta d’ingresso, dove la proprietà del signor Pecksniff bloccava il passaggio.

“Non guiderò, grazie, signor Pinch,” disse Martin, mettendosi al posto del passeggero. “A proposito, c’è una scatola mia lì. Riusciremo a prenderla?”

“Certo,” disse Tom. “Mettilo dentro, Dick, ovunque tu voglia!”

Non aveva esattamente le dimensioni ideali per poter essere infilato in qualche angolo stretto, ma Dick il conducente riuscì comunque a sistemarlo in qualche modo, con l’aiuto di Mr Chuzzlewit. Tutto avveniva dal lato di Mr Pinch, e quest’ultimo disse di temere molto che quel bagaglio potesse rappresentare un ostacolo per lui; a cui Tom rispose: “Assolutamente no”, anche se il bagaglio lo costringeva in una posizione molto scomoda, tanto che gli risultava difficile vedere qualcosa al di fuori delle sue stesse ginocchia. Ma c’è sempre un vento che non porta alcun beneficio; e in questo caso la saggezza di quel detto si dimostrò vera: l’aria fredda proveniva dal lato di Mr Pinch del carro, e inserendo una sorta di “muro” formato da scatole e altri oggetti tra quella parte del carro e il nuovo passeggero, riuscì effettivamente a proteggere quel giovane gentiluomo, il che fu un grande conforto per lui.

Era una serata chiara, con una luna brillante. L’intero paesaggio era avvolto nella sua luce e nel gelido brinco; tutto sembrava estremamente bello. All’inizio, la grande tranquillità e pace del viaggio li spinsero entrambi al silenzio; ma in poco tempo, l’energia che avevano dentro e l’aria salutare che li circondava li resero loquaci, e parlarono senza sosta. Quando erano a metà strada verso casa e si fermarono per dare da bere al cavallo, Martin (che era molto generoso con i suoi soldi) ordinò un’altra coppa di punch, che bevvero insieme, ma questo non li rese meno loquaci di prima. L’argomento principale delle loro conversazioni era naturalmente il signor Pecksniff e la sua famiglia; riguardo a questi ultimi, e alle grandi responsabilità che avevano caricato sulle spalle del signor Pecksniff, Tom Pinch, con le lacrime agli occhi, descrisse una situazione tale da far sì che chiunque avesse un minimo di sensibilità fosse quasi portato a rispettarli. Ma il signor Pecksniff non aveva la minima idea di tutto ciò; anzi, essendo molto umile, sicuramente non avrebbe mai mandato Tom Pinch a riportare a casa lo studente home.

In questo modo continuarono, e ancora, e ancora, nel linguaggio dei libri di storie, fino a quando, finalmente, le luci del villaggio apparvero davanti a loro, e la guglia della chiesa proiettò un lungo riflesso sull’erba del cimitero; sembrava quasi un quadrante (ahimè, il più vero di tutto il mondo, ) che, con ogni luce proveniente dal Cielo, indicasse il trascorrere dei giorni, delle settimane e degli anni, attraverso qualche nuova ombra su quel luogo solenne.

“Una chiesa davvero bella!” disse Martin, notando che il suo compagno aveva rallentato il passo del cavallo man mano che si avvicinavano.

“Non è vero?”, esclamò Tom con grande orgoglio. “Quello è il più dolce organetto che abbiate mai sentito. Lo suono per loro.”

“Davvero?” disse Martin. “Non credo che valga la pena di tanto sforzo. Cosa si ottiene in cambio, ora?”

“Niente,” rispose Tom.

“Beh,” rispose il suo amico, “sei davvero un tipo molto strano!”

A quella osservazione seguì un breve silenzio.

“Quando non dico nulla,” osservò felicemente il signor Pinch, “in realtà sto sbagliando e non esprimo ciò che intendo davvero. Perché mi procura grande piacere, ed è proprio questo modo di trascorrere alcune delle ore più felici che conosca. L’altro giorno questa abitudine ha portato a qualcos’altro. Ma probabilmente non avrete voglia di ascoltare di cosa si tratta, vero?”

“Ah sì, lo farò. Cosa?”

“Quello fu ciò che mi permise di vedere,” disse Tom a voce più bassa, “uno dei volti più belli e affascinanti che si possano immaginare.”

“Eppure riesco a immaginare una persona bellissima,” disse il suo amico, pensieroso, “o almeno dovrei riuscirci, se avessi ancora un po’ di memoria.”

“È venuta,” disse Tom, mettendo una mano sul braccio dell’altro, “per la prima volta molto presto al mattino, quando non era ancora giorno; e quando la vidi, di spalle, in piedi proprio sulla soglia, mi sentii gelare, quasi credendo che fosse uno spirito. Naturalmente, dopo un attimo di riflessione, quella paura svanì, e per fortuna fu così rapidamente che continuai a giocare senza interrompermi.”

“Perché fortunatamente?”

“Perché? Perché stava lì, ad ascoltare. Indossavo gli occhiali e la vedevo chiaramente attraverso le fessure delle tende, proprio come vedo te ora; ed era bellissima. Dopo un po’ se ne andò silenziosamente, e io continuai a suonare finché non fu più in grado di sentirmi.”

“Perché l’hai fatto?”

“Non capisci?” rispose Tom. “Perché potrebbe pensare che non l’abbia vista, e potrebbe tornare.”

“E davvero lo fece?”

“Certo che lo fece. Il giorno dopo, e anche la sera seguente; ma sempre quando non c’era nessuno nei dintorni, e sempre da sola. Mi alzavo più presto e rimanevo lì fino a tardi, così che, quando arrivava, potesse trovare la porta della chiesa aperta e l’organo che suonava, e non rimanere delusa. Continuò a farlo per alcuni giorni, e ogni volta si fermava ad ascoltare. Ma ora se n’è andata. E, tra tutte le cose improbabili di questo vasto mondo, forse è la più improbabile che io possa rivedere mai il suo volto.”

“Non sai nulla di più su di lei?”

‘No.’

“E non l’hai mai seguita quando se n’è andata?”

“Perché dovrei angosciarla facendo una cosa del genere?” disse Tom Pinch. “È probabile che desiderasse la mia compagnia? È venuta ad ascoltare l’organo, non per vedermi; e vorresti davvero che io la spaventassi facendola allontanare da un posto che sembrava aver preso a piacerle molto? Oh, che il Cielo la benedica!” esclamò Tom. “Anche se le avessi procurato solo un minuto di felicità al giorno, avrei continuato a suonare l’organo fino ad essere diventato vecchio; sarei stato più che soddisfatto se, a volte, lei avesse pensato a un povero ragazzo come me come parte di quella musica. E sarei stato ancora più ricompensato se, qualche volta, mi avesse associato a qualcosa che le piacesse davvero tanto!”

The new pupil was clearly very much amazed by Mr Pinch’s weakness, and would probably have told him so, and given him some good advice, but for their opportune arrival at Mr Pecksniff’s door; the front door this time, on account of the occasion being one of ceremony and rejoicing. The same man was in waiting for the horse who had been adjured by Mr Pinch in the morning not to yield to his rabid desire to start; and after delivering the animal into his charge, and beseeching Mr Chuzzlewit in a whisper never to reveal a syllable of what he had just told him in the fullness of his heart, Tom led the pupil in, for instant presentation.

Mr Pecksniff had clearly not expected them for hours to come; for he was surrounded by open books, and was glancing from volume to volume, with a black lead-pencil in his mouth, and a pair of compasses in his hand, at a vast number of mathematical diagrams, of such extraordinary shapes that they looked like designs for fireworks. Neither had Miss Charity expected them, for she was busied, with a capacious wicker basket before her, in making impracticable nightcaps for the poor. Neither had Miss Mercy expected them, for she was sitting upon her stool, tying on the—oh good gracious!—the petticoat of a large doll that she was dressing for a neighbour’s child—really, quite a grown-up doll, which made it more confusing—and had its little bonnet dangling by the ribbon from one of her fair curls, to which she had fastened it lest it should be lost or sat upon. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to conceive a family so thoroughly taken by surprise as the Pecksniffs were, on this occasion.

Bless my life!’ said Mr Pecksniff, looking up, and gradually exchanging his abstracted face for one of joyful recognition. ‘Here already! Martin, my dear boy, I am delighted to welcome you to my poor house!’

With this kind greeting, Mr Pecksniff fairly took him to his arms, and patted him several times upon the back with his right hand the while, as if to express that his feelings during the embrace were too much for utterance.

‘But here,’ he said, recovering, ‘are my daughters, Martin; my two only children, whom (if you ever saw them) you have not beheld—ah, these sad family divisions!—since you were infants together. Nay, my dears, why blush at being detected in your everyday pursuits? We had prepared to give you the reception of a visitor, Martin, in our little room of state,’ said Mr Pecksniff, smiling, ‘but I like this better, I like this better!’

Oh blessed star of Innocence, wherever you may be, how did you glitter in your home of ether, when the two Miss Pecksniffs put forth each her lily hand, and gave the same, with mantling cheeks, to Martin! How did you twinkle, as if fluttering with sympathy, when Mercy, reminded of the bonnet in her hair, hid her fair face and turned her head aside; the while her gentle sister plucked it out, and smote her with a sister’s soft reproof, upon her buxom shoulder!

‘And how,’ said Mr Pecksniff, turning round after the contemplation of these passages, and taking Mr Pinch in a friendly manner by the elbow, ‘how has our friend used you, Martin?’

‘Very well indeed, sir. We are on the best terms, I assure you.’

‘Old Tom Pinch!’ said Mr Pecksniff, looking on him with affectionate sadness. ‘Ah! It seems but yesterday that Thomas was a boy fresh from a scholastic course. Yet years have passed, I think, since Thomas Pinch and I first walked the world together!’

Mr Pinch could say nothing. He was too much moved. But he pressed his master’s hand, and tried to thank him.

‘And Thomas Pinch and I,’ said Mr Pecksniff, in a deeper voice, ‘will walk it yet, in mutual faithfulness and friendship! And if it comes to pass that either of us be run over in any of those busy crossings which divide the streets of life, the other will convey him to the hospital in Hope, and sit beside his bed in Bounty!’

‘Well, well, well!’ he added in a happier tone, as he shook Mr Pinch’s elbow hard. ‘No more of this! Martin, my dear friend, that you may be at home within these walls, let me show you how we live, and where. Come!’

With that he took up a lighted candle, and, attended by his young relative, prepared to leave the room. At the door, he stopped.

‘You’ll bear us company, Tom Pinch?’

Aye, cheerfully, though it had been to death, would Tom have followed him; glad to lay down his life for such a man!

‘This,’ said Mr Pecksniff, opening the door of an opposite parlour, ‘is the little room of state, I mentioned to you. My girls have pride in it, Martin! This,’ opening another door, ‘is the little chamber in which my works (slight things at best) have been concocted. Portrait of myself by Spiller. Bust by Spoker. The latter is considered a good likeness. I seem to recognize something about the left-hand corner of the nose, myself.’

Martin thought it was very like, but scarcely intellectual enough. Mr Pecksniff observed that the same fault had been found with it before. It was remarkable it should have struck his young relation too. He was glad to see he had an eye for art.

‘Various books you observe,’ said Mr Pecksniff, waving his hand towards the wall, ‘connected with our pursuit. I have scribbled myself, but have not yet published. Be careful how you come upstairs. This,’ opening another door, ‘is my chamber. I read here when the family suppose I have retired to rest. Sometimes I injure my health rather more than I can quite justify to myself, by doing so; but art is long and time is short. Every facility you see for jotting down crude notions, even here.’

These latter words were explained by his pointing to a small round table on which were a lamp, divers sheets of paper, a piece of India rubber, and a case of instruments; all put ready, in case an architectural idea should come into Mr Pecksniff’s head in the night; in which event he would instantly leap out of bed, and fix it for ever.

Il nuovo allievo era chiaramente molto sorpreso dalla debolezza del signor Pinch, e probabilmente glielo avrebbe detto, dandogli anche alcuni buoni consigli, se non fosse stato per l’arrivo tempestivo alla porta del signor Pecksniff; quella volta la porta principale era aperta, poiché si trattava di un’occasione solenne e gioiosa. Lo stesso uomo stava aspettando il cavallo che, la mattina precedente, il signor Pinch aveva esortato a non cedere alla sua folle voglia di partire. Dopo aver consegnato l’animale alle sue cure, Tom pregò sottovoce il signor Chuzzlewit di non rivelare mai una parola di ciò che gli aveva appena detto con tutto il cuore. Poi condusse il nuovo allievo all’interno, per presentarlo immediatamente.

A quanto pare, il signor Pecksniff non si aspettava che arrivassero per molte ore ancora; era infatti circondato da libri aperti e stava sfogliandoli uno dopo l’altro, con una matita nera in bocca e un paio di compassi in mano, mentre studiava numerosi diagrammi matematici dalle forme così straordinarie da sembrare progetti per fuochi d’artificio. Nemmeno la signorina Charity se l’aspettava, poiché era impegnata a preparare coperte notturne in vimini per i poveri. La signorina Mercy, invece, sedeva sul suo sgabello e stava sistemando il gonnellino di una grande bambola che stava vestendo per il figlio di un vicino. Una bambola davvero “grande”, il che rendeva la situazione ancora più confusa. Il cappellino della bambola pendeva da una delle sue belle onde di capelli, fissato con un nastro affinché non si perdesse o venisse calpestato. Sarebbe stato difficile, se non addirittura impossibile, immaginare una famiglia colta così completamente alla sprovvista come i Pecksniff in quell’occasione.

“Che fortuna!” esclamò il signor Pecksniff alzando lo sguardo; il suo volto distaccato si trasformò gradualmente in uno di gioiosa riconoscenza. “Eccoti già qui! Martin, mio caro ragazzo. Sono molto felice di darti il benvenuto nella mia povera casa!”

Con questo tipo di saluto, il signor Pecksniff lo abbracciò affettuosamente e gli diede alcune pacche sulla schiena con la mano destra, come se volesse esprimere che i suoi sentimenti in quel momento fossero troppo intensi per essere espressi a parole.

“Ma eccole qui,” disse riprendendosi, “le mie figlie, Martin; le mie uniche due figlie, che (se mai le aveste viste) non avreste mai potuto immaginare, ah, queste tristi divisioni familiari, da quando eravate bambini insieme. No, mie care, perché arrossire per essere scoperte nelle vostre attività quotidiane? Avevamo preparato di ricevervi come ospiti nella nostra piccola stanza riservata agli ospiti,” disse il signor Pecksniff sorridendo, “ma a me piace di più così, mi piace molto di più!”

Oh stella benedetta dell’Innocenza, ovunque tu possa essere. Come brillavi nella tua dimora eterea, quando le due Miss Pecksniff porsero entrambe la loro mano, con guance arrossate, a Martin! Come lampeggiavi, come se vibrassi di compassione, quando Misericordia, ricordandosi del cappello che aveva in testa, nascose il suo bel viso e girò la testa da un’altra parte; mentre sua sorella gentile lo tolse via e le diede, con una dolce rimproverazione, una leggera punizione sulle sue spalle.

“E allora,” disse il signor Pecksniff, voltandosi dopo aver letto questi passaggi e prendendo il signor Pinch per il gomito in modo amichevole, “come vi ha trattato il nostro amico, Martin?”

“Molto bene, signore. Vi assicuro che le nostre relazioni sono delle migliori.”

“Vecchio Tom Pinch, ”, disse il signor Pecksniff, guardandolo con un affettuoso dolore. “Ah! Sembra che sia stato solo ieri che Thomas era ancora un ragazzo appena uscito dagli studi. Eppure sono passati molti anni da quando io e Thomas Pinch abbiamo iniziato a viaggiare insieme per il mondo, ”

Il signor Pinch non riusciva a dire nulla; era troppo commosso. Ma strinse la mano del suo padrone e cercò di ringraziarlo.

“E io e Thomas Pinch,” disse il signor Pecksniff con voce più profonda, “cammineremo ancora insieme, nella reciproca fedeltà e nell’amicizia! E se dovesse accadere che uno di noi venisse investito in una di quelle affollate incrocio che dividono le strade della vita, l’altro lo porterà all’ospedale di Hope e starà al suo fianco nel letto d’ospedale!”

‘Beh, beh, beh!’ aggiunse in tono più allegro, scuotendo con forza il gomito del signor Pinch. ‘Basta così! Martin, mio caro amico, poiché ora ti trovi tra queste mura, lascia che ti mostri come viviamo e dove. Vieni!’

Con quella candela accesa, e accompagnato dal suo giovane parente, si preparò ad uscire dalla stanza. Alla porta, si fermò.

“Ci farai compagnia, Tom Pinch?”

Sì, con gioia, anche se ci fosse stato da andare verso la morte, Tom lo avrebbe seguito; felice di dare la vita per un uomo del genere!

“Questo,” disse il signor Pecksniff, aprendo la porta di un salotto situato di fronte, “è quella piccola stanza che vi ho menzionato. Le mie ragazze ne sono molto orgogliose, Martin! Quest’altro,” aggiunse aprendo un’altra porta, “è la stanzetta in cui sono state realizzate le mie opere, cose piuttosto insignificanti, in verità. Il mio ritratto è stato dipinto da Spiller; il busto, invece, da Spoker. Quest’ultimo viene considerato abbastanza somigliante. Credo di riconoscere qualcosa nel angolo sinistro del mio naso, ”

A Martin sembrava molto simile, ma quasi non abbastanza intellettuale. Il signor Pecksniff osservò che lo stesso difetto era già stato riscontrato in precedenza; era sorprendente che fosse venuto anche a nota al suo giovane parente. Era contento di vedere che aveva un occhio per l’arte.

“Diverse opere, come potete vedere,” disse il signor Pecksniff, indicando con la mano verso il muro, “che hanno a che fare con le nostre ricerche. Le ho scritte io stesso, ma non le ho ancora pubblicate. Fate attenzione quando salite le scale. Questa,” aggiunse aprendo un’altra porta, “è la mia stanza. Leggo qui quando la famiglia pensa che mi sia ritirato a riposare. A volte, facendolo, danneggio la mia salute più di quanto possa giustificarmi; ma l’arte è lunga e il tempo è breve. Ogni comodità che vedete qui è stata messa a disposizione per prendere appunti, anche solo di idee rudimentali.”

Queste ultime parole furono spiegate quando indicò un piccolo tavolo rotondo su cui c’erano una lampada, diversi fogli di carta, un pezzo di gomma da masticare e una scatola contenente strumenti; tutto pronto, nel caso in cui a Mr Pecksniff venisse in mente un’idea architettonica durante la notte; in tal caso si sarebbe immediatamente alzato dal letto per realizzarla all’istante.

Mr Pecksniff opened another door on the same floor, and shut it again, all at once, as if it were a Blue Chamber. But before he had well done so, he looked smilingly round, and said, ‘Why not?’

Martin couldn’t say why not, because he didn’t know anything at all about it. So Mr Pecksniff answered himself, by throwing open the door, and saying:

‘My daughters’ room. A poor first-floor to us, but a bower to them. Very neat. Very airy. Plants you observe; hyacinths; books again; birds.’ These birds, by the bye, comprised, in all, one staggering old sparrow without a tail, which had been borrowed expressly from the kitchen. ‘Such trifles as girls love are here. Nothing more. Those who seek heartless splendour, would seek here in vain.’

With that he led them to the floor above.

‘This,’ said Mr Pecksniff, throwing wide the door of the memorable two-pair front; ‘is a room where some talent has been developed I believe. This is a room in which an idea for a steeple occurred to me that I may one day give to the world. We work here, my dear Martin. Some architects have been bred in this room; a few, I think, Mr Pinch?’

Tom fully assented; and, what is more, fully believed it.

‘You see,’ said Mr Pecksniff, passing the candle rapidly from roll to roll of paper, ‘some traces of our doings here. Salisbury Cathedral from the north. From the south. From the east. From the west. From the south-east. From the nor’west. A bridge. An almshouse. A jail. A church. A powder-magazine. A wine-cellar. A portico. A summer-house. An ice-house. Plans, elevations, sections, every kind of thing. And this,’ he added, having by this time reached another large chamber on the same story, with four little beds in it, ‘this is your room, of which Mr Pinch here is the quiet sharer. A southern aspect; a charming prospect; Mr Pinch’s little library, you perceive; everything agreeable and appropriate. If there is any additional comfort you would desire to have here at anytime, pray mention it. Even to strangers, far less to you, my dear Martin, there is no restriction on that point.’

It was undoubtedly true, and may be stated in corroboration of Mr Pecksniff, that any pupil had the most liberal permission to mention anything in this way that suggested itself to his fancy. Some young gentlemen had gone on mentioning the very same thing for five years without ever being stopped.

‘The domestic assistants,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘sleep above; and that is all.’ After which, and listening complacently as he went, to the encomiums passed by his young friend on the arrangements generally, he led the way to the parlour again.

Here a great change had taken place; for festive preparations on a rather extensive scale were already completed, and the two Miss Pecksniffs were awaiting their return with hospitable looks. There were two bottles of currant wine, white and red; a dish of sandwiches (very long and very slim); another of apples; another of captain’s biscuits (which are always a moist and jovial sort of viand); a plate of oranges cut up small and gritty; with powdered sugar, and a highly geological home-made cake. The magnitude of these preparations quite took away Tom Pinch’s breath; for though the new pupils were usually let down softly, as one may say, particularly in the wine department, which had so many stages of declension, that sometimes a young gentleman was a whole fortnight in getting to the pump; still this was a banquet; a sort of Lord Mayor’s feast in private life; a something to think of, and hold on by, afterwards.

To this entertainment, which apart from its own intrinsic merits, had the additional choice quality, that it was in strict keeping with the night, being both light and cool, Mr Pecksniff besought the company to do full justice.

‘Martin,’ he said, ‘will seat himself between you two, my dears, and Mr Pinch will come by me. Let us drink to our new inmate, and may we be happy together! Martin, my dear friend, my love to you! Mr Pinch, if you spare the bottle we shall quarrel.’

And trying (in his regard for the feelings of the rest) to look as if the wine were not acid and didn’t make him wink, Mr Pecksniff did honour to his own toast.

‘This,’ he said, in allusion to the party, not the wine, ‘is a mingling that repays one for much disappointment and vexation. Let us be merry.’ Here he took a captain’s biscuit. ‘It is a poor heart that never rejoices; and our hearts are not poor. No!’

With such stimulants to merriment did he beguile the time, and do the honours of the table; while Mr Pinch, perhaps to assure himself that what he saw and heard was holiday reality, and not a charming dream, ate of everything, and in particular disposed of the slim sandwiches to a surprising extent. Nor was he stinted in his draughts of wine; but on the contrary, remembering Mr Pecksniff’s speech, attacked the bottle with such vigour, that every time he filled his glass anew, Miss Charity, despite her amiable resolves, could not repress a fixed and stony glare, as if her eyes had rested on a ghost. Mr Pecksniff also became thoughtful at those moments, not to say dejected; but as he knew the vintage, it is very likely he may have been speculating on the probable condition of Mr Pinch upon the morrow, and discussing within himself the best remedies for colic.

Martin and the young ladies were excellent friends already, and compared recollections of their childish days, to their mutual liveliness and entertainment. Miss Mercy laughed immensely at everything that was said; and sometimes, after glancing at the happy face of Mr Pinch, was seized with such fits of mirth as brought her to the very confines of hysterics. But for these bursts of gaiety, her sister, in her better sense, reproved her; observing, in an angry whisper, that it was far from being a theme for jest; and that she had no patience with the creature; though it generally ended in her laughing too—but much more moderately—and saying that indeed it was a little too ridiculous and intolerable to be serious about.

Il signor Pecksniff aprì un’altra porta nello stesso piano e la richiuse subito, come se si trattasse di una “Camera Blu”. Ma prima ancora di averlo fatto del tutto, guardò intorno sorridendo e disse: “Perché no?”

Martin non riusciva a spiegare il perché del suo rifiuto, perché in realtà non sapeva assolutamente nulla al riguardo. Così il signor Pecksniff rispose da solo, aprendo la porta e dicendo:

“La stanza delle mie figlie. Per noi è solo un povero ambiente al primo piano, ma per loro è un vero angolo di paradiso. Molto ordinata, molto ariosa. Ci sono piante, iris, libri, e anche uccelli.” Questi uccelli, tra l’altro, consistevano in un vecchio passero senza coda, preso appositamente dalla cucina. “Qui ci sono tutte quelle cose che alle ragazze piacciono. Nient’altro. Chi cerca uno sfarzo eccessivo resterebbe deluso.”

Con questo li guidò al piano di sopra.

“Questo,” disse il signor Pecksniff, spalancando la porta di quell’imponente ingresso a due porte; “è una stanza in cui, credo, si è sviluppato del vero talento. È proprio in questa stanza che mi è venuta l’idea per quella guglia che un giorno potrò donare al mondo. Lavoriamo qui, mio caro Martin. Alcuni architetti sono stati formati in questa stanza; alcuni, penso, anche il signor Pinch, ”

Tom era completamente d’accordo; anzi, ci credeva davvero con tutto il cuore.

“Vedete,” disse il signor Pecksniff, passando rapidamente la candela da un rotolo di carta all’altro, “alcuni indizi delle nostre attività qui. La cattedrale di Salisbury, dal nord, dal sud, dall’est, dall’ovest, dal sud-est, dal nord-ovest. Un ponte, un ospizio, una prigione, una chiesa, un magazzino di polvere da sparo, una cantina, un portico, una casa estiva. Piani, progetti in scala, sezioni, di ogni tipo. E questa,” aggiunse, arrivando in quel momento in un’altra grande stanza dello stesso piano, con quattro piccoli letti, “questa è la vostra stanza; il signor Pinch ne condivide l’uso con voi. Affaccio a sud; una vista incantevole. La piccola biblioteca del signor Pinch. Tutto ciò che possa rendere la vita più confortevole e adatta alle vostre esigenze. Se desideraste qualche altro comfort, non esitate a chiederlo in qualsiasi momento. Anche con degli estranei, figuriamoci con voi, mio caro Martin. Non ci sono alcune restrizioni in questo senso.”

Era senza dubbio vero, e ciò può essere affermato a sostegno delle parole del signor Pecksniff: qualsiasi allievo aveva la massima libertà di menzionare qualsiasi cosa gli venisse in mente in questo modo. Alcuni giovani gentiluomini continuarono a menzionare esattamente la stessa cosa per cinque anni, senza mai essere fermati.

“Gli assistenti domestici,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “dormono di sopra; e basta.” Dopo aver detto questo, e ascoltando con soddisfazione i complimenti che il suo giovane amico faceva riguardo alle disposizioni generali, lo guidò di nuovo nel salotto.

Era avvenuto un grande cambiamento: le preparazioni festive, su una scala piuttosto ampia, erano già state completate e le due signorine Pecksniff attendevano il loro ritorno con sguardi ospitalieri. C’erano due bottiglie di vino di uva passa, sia bianco che rosso; un piatto di panini lunghi e sottili; un altro di mele; un altro di biscotti da capitano (che sono sempre una sorta di cibo umido e delizioso); un piatto di arance tagliate a pezzetti; zucchero a velo, e una torta fatta in casa, davvero squisita. L’entità di tutte queste preparazioni lasciò senza fiato Tom Pinch: anche se ai nuovi studenti veniva solitamente concesso qualcosa di piacevole, soprattutto per quanto riguardava il vino – che presentava molte fasi diverse nella sua preparazione, tanto che a volte un giovane signore impiegava ben due settimane per ottenerlo, comunque, questa volta si trattava davvero di un banchetto; una sorta di festa privata simile a quelle organizzate dal Lord Mayor; qualcosa su cui riflettere e di cui ricordarsi in seguito.

A questo intrattenimento, che oltre ai propri meriti intrinseci presentava anche il vantaggio di essere perfettamente in armonia con l’atmosfera notturna – essendo sia leggero che rinfrescante – il signor Pecksniff invitò tutti a goderselo appieno.

“Martin,” disse, “si siederà tra voi due, miei cari, e il signor Pinch verrà da me. Brindiamo al nostro nuovo ospite. Possiamo essere felici insieme! Martin, mio caro amico, la mia amore per te! Signor Pinch, se risparmiate quella bottiglia, finiremo per litigare.”

E cercando, nel rispetto dei sentimenti degli altri, di comportarsi come se il vino non fosse acido e non gli causasse lacrime agli occhi, il signor Pecksniff fece davvero onore al proprio brindisi.

“Questo,” disse, alludendo alla festa e non al vino, “è un incontro che compensa molte delusioni e fastidi. Rallegriamoci.” Poi prese un biscotto da capitano. “Un cuore povero è quello che mai si rallegra; ma il nostro cuore non è certo povero. No!”

Con tali stimoli alla gioia, egli trascorreva il tempo in modo piacevole e si dedicava con impegno ai pasti; mentre il signor Pinch, forse per assicurarsi che ciò che vedeva e sentiva fosse davvero realtà, e non un sogno incantevole, mangiava di tutto, soprattutto i deliziosi panini, che consumava in quantità sorprendenti. Non risparmiava nemmeno nei bicchieri di vino; anzi, ricordando le parole del signor Pecksniff, attaccava la bottiglia con tale vigore che ogni volta che riempiva il proprio bicchiere, la signorina Charity, nonostante le sue buone intenzioni, non riusciva a trattenere uno sguardo fisso e cupo, come se i suoi occhi avessero visto un fantasma. Anche il signor Pecksniff, in quei momenti, diventava pensieroso, per non dire depresso; ma conoscendo la qualità di quel vino, è molto probabile che stesse riflettendo sulle possibili conseguenze del comportamento del signor Pinch il giorno dopo, e cercando dentro di sé i migliori rimedi per alleviare eventuali problemi di salute.

Martin e le giovani signore erano già ottimi amici; confrontando i ricordi dei loro giorni d’infanzia, si divertivano a vicenda con la loro vivacità e le loro storie. La signorina Mercy rideva immensamente di tutto ciò che veniva detto; a volte, dopo aver lanciato uno sguardo al viso felice del signor Pinch, scoppiava in risate così intense da quasi arrivare all’isteria. Ma, se non fosse stato per queste esplosioni di allegria, sua sorella, con maggiore sensatezza, l’avrebbe rimproverata, sussurrando arrabbiata che quella non era certo una materia adatta a scherzi, e che lei non aveva alcuna pazienza con quel comportamento. Anche se, di solito, alla fine rideva anche lei – ma in modo molto più moderato – dicendo che, dopotutto, tutto ciò era davvero troppo ridicolo e insopportabile per prenderselo sul serio.

At length it became high time to remember the first clause of that great discovery made by the ancient philosopher, for securing health, riches, and wisdom; the infallibility of which has been for generations verified by the enormous fortunes constantly amassed by chimney-sweepers and other persons who get up early and go to bed betimes. The young ladies accordingly rose, and having taken leave of Mr Chuzzlewit with much sweetness, and of their father with much duty and of Mr Pinch with much condescension, retired to their bower. Mr Pecksniff insisted on accompanying his young friend upstairs for personal superintendence of his comforts; and taking him by the arm, conducted him once more to his bedroom, followed by Mr Pinch, who bore the light.

‘Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff, seating himself with folded arms on one of the spare beds. ‘I don’t see any snuffers in that candlestick. Will you oblige me by going down, and asking for a pair?’

Mr Pinch, only too happy to be useful, went off directly.

‘You will excuse Thomas Pinch’s want of polish, Martin,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a smile of patronage and pity, as soon as he had left the room. ‘He means well.’

‘He is a very good fellow, sir.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Yes. Thomas Pinch means well. He is very grateful. I have never regretted having befriended Thomas Pinch.’

‘I should think you never would, sir.’

‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘No. I hope not. Poor fellow, he is always disposed to do his best; but he is not gifted. You will make him useful to you, Martin, if you please. If Thomas has a fault, it is that he is sometimes a little apt to forget his position. But that is soon checked. Worthy soul! You will find him easy to manage. Good night!’

‘Good night, sir.’

By this time Mr Pinch had returned with the snuffers.

‘And good night to YOU, Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff. ‘And sound sleep to you both. Bless you! Bless you!’

Invoking this benediction on the heads of his young friends with great fervour, he withdrew to his own room; while they, being tired, soon fell asleep. If Martin dreamed at all, some clue to the matter of his visions may possibly be gathered from the after-pages of this history. Those of Thomas Pinch were all of holidays, church organs, and seraphic Pecksniffs. It was some time before Mr Pecksniff dreamed at all, or even sought his pillow, as he sat for full two hours before the fire in his own chamber, looking at the coals and thinking deeply. But he, too, slept and dreamed at last. Thus in the quiet hours of the night, one house shuts in as many incoherent and incongruous fancies as a madman’s head.

Finalmente arrivò l’ora di ricordare la prima parte di quella grande scoperta fatta dall’antico filosofo: un metodo per garantire salute, ricchezza e saggezza; l’infallibilità di tale metodo è stata verificata per generazioni dalle enormi fortune accumulate costantemente da spazzacamini e altre persone che si alzano presto la mattina e vanno a letto in tempo. Le giovani signore si alzarono quindi, salutarono il signor Chuzzlewit con grande affetto, il loro padre con profonda gratitudine e il signor Pinch con grande cortesia, per poi ritirarsi nel loro padiglione. Il signor Pecksniff insistette per accompagnare la sua giovane amica al piano di sopra, per assicurarsi personalmente che tutto fosse a posto; prese quindi il braccio della ragazza e la condusse nuovamente nella sua camera da letto, seguito dal signor Pinch, che portava la lampada.

“Signor Pinch,” disse Pecksniff, sedendosi con le braccia incrociate su uno dei letti liberi. “Non vedo nessun fazzoletto da naso in quel candelabro. Potrebbe gentilmente scendere e chiederne un paio?”

Il signor Pinch, più che felice di poter essere d’aiuto, se ne andò subito.

“Perdonerete la mancanza di raffinatezza di Thomas Pinch, Martin,” disse il signor Pecksniff, con un sorriso di condiscendenza e compassione, non appena lasciò la stanza. “Lui ha buone intenzioni.”

“È davvero un bravo ragazzo, signore.”

“Ah sì,” disse il signor Pecksniff. “Sì. Thomas Pinch è davvero una brava persona. È molto grato. Non ho mai rimpianto di essermi fatto amico di Thomas Pinch.”

“Non credo che lo fareste mai, signore.”

“No,” disse il signor Pecksniff. “No. Non lo spero proprio. Povero ragazzo, è sempre disposto a dare il meglio di sé; ma non è dotato. Potrai farne buon uso, Martin, se vuoi. Se Thomas ha un difetto, è che a volte tende a dimenticare la sua posizione. Ma questo si può facilmente correggere. Caro ragazzo! Lo troverai facile da gestire. Buona notte!”

“Buona notte, signore.”

A quell’ora, il signor Pinch era già tornato con i fazzoletti da naso.

“E buona notte a VOI, signor Pinch,” disse Pecksniff. “E sogni tranquilli a entrambi. Che Dio vi benedica!”

Invocando con grande fervore questa benedizione sui capi dei suoi giovani amici, si ritirò nella propria stanza; mentre loro, essendo stanchi, presto si addormentarono. Se Martin sognò qualcosa, qualche indizio riguardo ai contenuti delle sue visioni potrebbe forse essere trovato nelle pagine finali di questa storia. Quelle di Thomas Pinch erano piene di feste, organi da chiesa e di descrizioni di Pecksniff come angelo serafico. Passò un bel po’ prima che il signor Pecksniff stesso sognasse, o anche si recasse a letto: rimase infatti seduto per due ore davanti al focolare nella sua stanza, a fissare i carboni e a riflettere profondamente. Ma anche lui, alla fine, dormì e sognò. Così, nelle tranquille ore della notte, una singola casa racchiude in sé tante fantasie incoerenti e contraddittorie quante ne possiede la mente di un pazzo.

CHAPTER SIX

COMPRISES, AMONG OTHER IMPORTANT MATTERS, PECKSNIFFIAN AND ARCHITECTURAL, AND EXACT RELATION OF THE PROGRESS MADE BY MR PINCH IN THE CONFIDENCE AND FRIENDSHIP OF THE NEW PUPIL

It was morning; and the beautiful Aurora, of whom so much hath been written, said, and sung, did, with her rosy fingers, nip and tweak Miss Pecksniff’s nose. It was the frolicsome custom of the Goddess, in her intercourse with the fair Cherry, so to do; or in more prosaic phrase, the tip of that feature in the sweet girl’s countenance was always very red at breakfast-time. For the most part, indeed, it wore, at that season of the day, a scraped and frosty look, as if it had been rasped; while a similar phenomenon developed itself in her humour, which was then observed to be of a sharp and acid quality, as though an extra lemon (figuratively speaking) had been squeezed into the nectar of her disposition, and had rather damaged its flavour.

This additional pungency on the part of the fair young creature led, on ordinary occasions, to such slight consequences as the copious dilution of Mr Pinch’s tea, or to his coming off uncommonly short in respect of butter, or to other the like results. But on the morning after the Installation Banquet, she suffered him to wander to and fro among the eatables and drinkables, a perfectly free and unchecked man; so utterly to Mr Pinch’s wonder and confusion, that like the wretched captive who recovered his liberty in his old age, he could make but little use of his enlargement, and fell into a strange kind of flutter for want of some kind hand to scrape his bread, and cut him off in the article of sugar with a lump, and pay him those other little attentions to which he was accustomed. There was something almost awful, too, about the self-possession of the new pupil; who ‘troubled’ Mr Pecksniff for the loaf, and helped himself to a rasher of that gentleman’s own particular and private bacon, with all the coolness in life. He even seemed to think that he was doing quite a regular thing, and to expect that Mr Pinch would follow his example, since he took occasion to observe of that young man ‘that he didn’t get on’; a speech of so tremendous a character, that Tom cast down his eyes involuntarily, and felt as if he himself had committed some horrible deed and heinous breach of Mr Pecksniff’s confidence. Indeed, the agony of having such an indiscreet remark addressed to him before the assembled family, was breakfast enough in itself, and would, without any other matter of reflection, have settled Mr Pinch’s business and quenched his appetite, for one meal, though he had been never so hungry.

The young ladies, however, and Mr Pecksniff likewise, remained in the very best of spirits in spite of these severe trials, though with something of a mysterious understanding among themselves. When the meal was nearly over, Mr Pecksniff smilingly explained the cause of their common satisfaction.

‘It is not often,’ he said, ‘Martin, that my daughters and I desert our quiet home to pursue the giddy round of pleasures that revolves abroad. But we think of doing so to-day.’

‘Indeed, sir!’ cried the new pupil.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Pecksniff, tapping his left hand with a letter which he held in his right. ‘I have a summons here to repair to London; on professional business, my dear Martin; strictly on professional business; and I promised my girls, long ago, that whenever that happened again, they should accompany me. We shall go forth to-night by the heavy coach—like the dove of old, my dear Martin—and it will be a week before we again deposit our olive-branches in the passage. When I say olive-branches,’ observed Mr Pecksniff, in explanation, ‘I mean, our unpretending luggage.’

‘I hope the young ladies will enjoy their trip,’ said Martin.

‘Oh! that I’m sure we shall!’ cried Mercy, clapping her hands. ‘Good gracious, Cherry, my darling, the idea of London!’

‘Ardent child!’ said Mr Pecksniff, gazing on her in a dreamy way. ‘And yet there is a melancholy sweetness in these youthful hopes! It is pleasant to know that they never can be realised. I remember thinking once myself, in the days of my childhood, that pickled onions grew on trees, and that every elephant was born with an impregnable castle on his back. I have not found the fact to be so; far from it; and yet those visions have comforted me under circumstances of trial. Even when I have had the anguish of discovering that I have nourished in my breast on ostrich, and not a human pupil—even in that hour of agony, they have soothed me.’

At this dread allusion to John Westlock, Mr Pinch precipitately choked in his tea; for he had that very morning received a letter from him, as Mr Pecksniff very well knew.

‘You will take care, my dear Martin,’ said Mr Pecksniff, resuming his former cheerfulness, ‘that the house does not run away in our absence. We leave you in charge of everything. There is no mystery; all is free and open. Unlike the young man in the Eastern tale—who is described as a one-eyed almanac, if I am not mistaken, Mr Pinch?—’

‘A one-eyed calender, I think, sir,’ faltered Tom.

‘They are pretty nearly the same thing, I believe,’ said Mr Pecksniff, smiling compassionately; ‘or they used to be in my time. Unlike that young man, my dear Martin, you are forbidden to enter no corner of this house; but are requested to make yourself perfectly at home in every part of it. You will be jovial, my dear Martin, and will kill the fatted calf if you please!’

There was not the least objection, doubtless, to the young man’s slaughtering and appropriating to his own use any calf, fat or lean, that he might happen to find upon the premises; but as no such animal chanced at that time to be grazing on Mr Pecksniff’s estate, this request must be considered rather as a polite compliment that a substantial hospitality. It was the finishing ornament of the conversation; for when he had delivered it, Mr Pecksniff rose and led the way to that hotbed of architectural genius, the two-pair front.

CAPITOLO SEI

Comprende, tra altre questioni importanti di natura peckniffiana e architettonica, anche la relazione esatta dei progressi fatti da Mr Pinch nella fiducia e nell’amicizia del nuovo allievo.

Era mattina; e la bellissima Aurora, di cui si è scritto, cantato e parlato tanto, con le sue dita rosate pizzicò il naso della signorina Pecksniff. Era questa una delle scherzose abitudini della dea, nel suo rapporto con la graziosa Cherry; o, per esprimersi in termini più prosaici, la punta di quel tratto del viso della dolce ragazza era sempre molto rossa a colazione. Per lo più, infatti, in quella stagione del giorno, presentava un aspetto “grattugiato” e “gelido”, come se fosse stata raschiata; lo stesso fenomeno si verificava anche nel suo umore, che allora risultava acido e pungente, come se nell’“ nettare” della sua natura fosse stato aggiunto un limone in più, il che, per così dire, ne rovinava il sapore.

Questa maggiore “asprezza” da parte di quella giovane e bella creatura, nelle circostanze ordinarie, comportava conseguenze insignificanti: ad esempio, la diluizione eccessiva del tè del signor Pinch, o il fatto che gli venisse fornita una quantità insolitamente ridotta di burro. Ma la mattina seguente al banchetto di insediamento, lei lo lasciò libero di muoversi tra cibi e bevande senza alcun controllo; questo colpì profondamente il signor Pinch, che, come un povero prigioniero riacquistato in tarda età, non sapeva come sfruttare quella libertà. Gli mancava qualcuno che si prendesse cura di lui, che gli preparasse il pane, gli tagliasse lo zucchero e gli riservasse quelle piccole attenzioni a cui era abituato. C’era anche qualcosa di quasi spaventoso nella “autocontrollo” di quel nuovo allievo: disturbava il signor Pecksniff per chiedere del pane, si serviva liberamente della pancetta personale di quell’uomo con estrema calma. Sembrava persino considerare tutto questo normale, aspettandosi che anche il signor Pinch facesse lo stesso. Quelle parole così offensive fecero sì che Tom abbassasse involontariamente lo sguardo, sentendosi come se avesse commesso qualche atto orribile e tradito la fiducia del signor Pecksniff. In realtà, l’umiliazione di ricevere un commento così indiscreto davanti a tutta la famiglia era già di per sé sufficiente a far perdere completamente l’appetito al signor Pinch.

Le giovani signore, tuttavia, così come il signor Pecksniff, rimasero di ottimo umore nonostante queste dure prove, sebbene tra loro esistesse una sorta di comprensione misteriosa. Quando il pasto stava per finire, il signor Pecksniff spiegò sorridendo la causa della loro comune soddisfazione.

“Non succede spesso,” disse, “che io e le mie figlie abbandoniamo la nostra tranquilla casa per andare in cerca di quei piaceri effimeri che si trovano fuori. Ma oggi abbiamo deciso di farlo.”

“Certamente, signore!” esclamò il nuovo allievo.

“Sì,” disse il signor Pecksniff, battendo con la mano sinistra una lettera che teneva nella destra. “Ho ricevuto un invito a recarmi a Londra per affari professionali, caro Martin; esclusivamente per motivi professionali. E ho promesso alle mie ragazze, molto tempo fa, che ogni volta che ciò dovesse accadere di nuovo, le avrei portate con me. Partiremo stasera con la carrozza pesante, come l’antica colomba, caro Martin, e passerà una settimana prima che possiamo di nuovo ‘deporre i nostri rami d’olivo’ nel corridoio, ” Quando disse “rami d’olivo”, il signor Pecksniff spiegò: “Intendo, il nostro bagaglio semplice e senza fronzoli.”

“Spero che le giovani signore godano del loro viaggio,” disse Martin.

“Oh! Ne sono sicura che lo faremo!” esclamò Mercy battendo le mani. “Mio caro Cherry, l’idea di Londra, ”

“Un bambino appassionato, ”, disse il signor Pecksniff, guardandola con aria sognante. “Eppure in queste speranze giovanili c’è una dolcezza malinconica. È piacevole sapere che non potranno mai realizzarsi. Ricordo di aver pensato anch’io, nei giorni della mia infanzia, che le cipolle sottaceto crescessero sugli alberi e che ogni elefante nascesse con un castello inespugnabile sul dorso. Non ho trovato che le cose non fossero così; anzi, erano molto diverse. Eppure quelle fantasie mi hanno consolato nei momenti difficili. Anche quando ho scoperto con angoscia di aver nutrito nel mio cuore un’illusione, invece della realtà, anche in quell’ora di dolore, quelle fantasie mi hanno confortato.”

Di fronte a questa terribile allusione a John Westlock, il signor Pinch si soffocò precipitosamente nel suo tè; perché quella stessa mattina aveva ricevuto una lettera da lui, come il signor Pecksniff sapeva molto bene.

“Tu te ne occuperai, caro Martin,” disse il signor Pecksniff, riprendendo la sua solita allegria, “perché che la casa non vada in rovina durante la nostra assenza. Ti lasciamo responsabile di tutto. Non c’è alcun mistero; tutto è chiaro e trasparente. A differenza di quel giovane della storia orientale, che, se non sbaglio, viene descritto come un almanacco con un occhio solo, vero, signor Pinch?”

“Un calendario con un solo occhio, credo, signore,” balbettò Tom.

“Credo che siano quasi la stessa cosa,” disse il signor Pecksniff, sorridendo con compassione; “o almeno lo erano ai miei tempi. A differenza di quel giovane, caro Martin, a te è vietato entrare in nessuna parte di questa casa; ma ti si chiede di sentirti completamente a tuo agio in ogni suo angolo. Sarai allegro, caro Martin, e potrai anche mangiare tutto il manzo grasso che vorrai!”

Senza dubbio, non vi era la minima obiezione al fatto che il giovane uccidesse e si appropriasse a proprio uso qualsiasi vitello, grasso o magro che gli capitasse di trovare nella tenuta; ma poiché in quel momento nessun animale del genere pascolava nella proprietà del signor Pecksniff, questa richiesta doveva essere considerata più un gentile complimento che un vero e proprio atto di ospitalità. Fu l’elemento finale che completò la conversazione; infatti, dopo averla espressa, il signor Pecksniff si alzò e guidò i due verso quel capolavoro dell’architettura: la facciata a due piani.

‘Let me see,’ he said, searching among the papers, ‘how you can best employ yourself, Martin, while I am absent. Suppose you were to give me your idea of a monument to a Lord Mayor of London; or a tomb for a sheriff; or your notion of a cow-house to be erected in a nobleman’s park. Do you know, now,’ said Mr Pecksniff, folding his hands, and looking at his young relation with an air of pensive interest, ‘that I should very much like to see your notion of a cow-house?’

But Martin by no means appeared to relish this suggestion.

‘A pump,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘is very chaste practice. I have found that a lamp post is calculated to refine the mind and give it a classical tendency. An ornamental turnpike has a remarkable effect upon the imagination. What do you say to beginning with an ornamental turnpike?’

‘Whatever Mr Pecksniff pleased,’ said Martin, doubtfully.

‘Stay,’ said that gentleman. ‘Come! as you’re ambitious, and are a very neat draughtsman, you shall—ha ha!—you shall try your hand on these proposals for a grammar-school; regulating your plan, of course, by the printed particulars. Upon my word, now,’ said Mr Pecksniff, merrily, ‘I shall be very curious to see what you make of the grammar-school. Who knows but a young man of your taste might hit upon something, impracticable and unlikely in itself, but which I could put into shape? For it really is, my dear Martin, it really is in the finishing touches alone, that great experience and long study in these matters tell. Ha, ha, ha! Now it really will be,’ continued Mr Pecksniff, clapping his young friend on the back in his droll humour, ‘an amusement to me, to see what you make of the grammar-school.’

Martin readily undertook this task, and Mr Pecksniff forthwith proceeded to entrust him with the materials necessary for its execution; dwelling meanwhile on the magical effect of a few finishing touches from the hand of a master; which, indeed, as some people said (and these were the old enemies again!) was unquestionably very surprising, and almost miraculous; as there were cases on record in which the masterly introduction of an additional back window, or a kitchen door, or half-a-dozen steps, or even a water spout, had made the design of a pupil Mr Pecksniff’s own work, and had brought substantial rewards into that gentleman’s pocket. But such is the magic of genius, which changes all it handles into gold!

‘When your mind requires to be refreshed by change of occupation,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘Thomas Pinch will instruct you in the art of surveying the back garden, or in ascertaining the dead level of the road between this house and the finger-post, or in any other practical and pleasing pursuit. There are a cart-load of loose bricks, and a score or two of old flower-pots, in the back yard. If you could pile them up my dear Martin, into any form which would remind me on my return say of St. Peter’s at Rome, or the Mosque of St. Sophia at Constantinople, it would be at once improving to you and agreeable to my feelings. And now,’ said Mr Pecksniff, in conclusion, ‘to drop, for the present, our professional relations and advert to private matters, I shall be glad to talk with you in my own room, while I pack up my portmanteau.’

Martin attended him; and they remained in secret conference together for an hour or more; leaving Tom Pinch alone. When the young man returned, he was very taciturn and dull, in which state he remained all day; so that Tom, after trying him once or twice with indifferent conversation, felt a delicacy in obtruding himself upon his thoughts, and said no more.

He would not have had leisure to say much, had his new friend been ever so loquacious; for first of all Mr Pecksniff called him down to stand upon the top of his portmanteau and represent ancient statues there, until such time as it would consent to be locked; and then Miss Charity called him to come and cord her trunk; and then Miss Mercy sent for him to come and mend her box; and then he wrote the fullest possible cards for all the luggage; and then he volunteered to carry it all downstairs; and after that to see it safely carried on a couple of barrows to the old finger-post at the end of the lane; and then to mind it till the coach came up. In short, his day’s work would have been a pretty heavy one for a porter, but his thorough good-will made nothing of it; and as he sat upon the luggage at last, waiting for the Pecksniffs, escorted by the new pupil, to come down the lane, his heart was light with the hope of having pleased his benefactor.

‘I was almost afraid,’ said Tom, taking a letter from his pocket and wiping his face, for he was hot with bustling about though it was a cold day, ‘that I shouldn’t have had time to write it, and that would have been a thousand pities; postage from such a distance being a serious consideration, when one’s not rich. She will be glad to see my hand, poor girl, and to hear that Pecksniff is as kind as ever. I would have asked John Westlock to call and see her, and tell her all about me by word of mouth, but I was afraid he might speak against Pecksniff to her, and make her uneasy. Besides, they are particular people where she is, and it might have rendered her situation uncomfortable if she had had a visit from a young man like John. Poor Ruth!’

Tom Pinch seemed a little disposed to be melancholy for half a minute or so, but he found comfort very soon, and pursued his ruminations thus:

‘I’m a nice man, I don’t think, as John used to say (John was a kind, merry-hearted fellow; I wish he had liked Pecksniff better), to be feeling low, on account of the distance between us, when I ought to be thinking, instead, of my extraordinary good luck in having ever got here. I must have been born with a silver spoon in my mouth, I am sure, to have ever come across Pecksniff. And here have I fallen again into my usual good luck with the new pupil! Such an affable, generous, free fellow, as he is, I never saw. Why, we were companions directly! and he a relation of Pecksniff’s too, and a clever, dashing youth who might cut his way through the world as if it were a cheese! Here he comes while the words are on my lips’ said Tom; ‘walking down the lane as if the lane belonged to him.’

“Lasciami vedere,” disse, cercando tra i documenti, “come potresti impiegare al meglio il tuo tempo, Martin, mentre io sono assente. Supponiamo che tu mi proponga un’idea per un monumento in onore di un Lord Mayor di Londra; o una tomba per un sindaco; oppure la tua concezione di un edificio per il ricovero delle mucche da erigere in un parco nobiliare. Sai,” proseguì il signor Pecksniff, incrociando le mani e guardando il suo giovane parente con aria pensierosa e interessata, “che mi piacerebbe molto conoscere la tua idea riguardo a quell’edificio per le mucche?”

Ma Martin non sembrava affatto apprezzare questa proposta.

“Una pompa,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “è un oggetto di uso molto ‘pudico’. Ho scoperto che un palo del lampadario ha il potere di purificare la mente e darle una tendenza classica. Un cavalcavia ornamentale, inoltre, ha un effetto notevole sull’immaginazione. Che ne dite di iniziare con la costruzione di un cavalcavia ornamentale?”

“Qualunque cosa desideri, signor Pecksniff,” disse Martin, con esitazione.

“Rimani,” disse quel gentiluomo. “Vieni! Poiché sei ambizioso e un disegnatore molto abile, potresti, ah ah, provare a lavorare su queste proposte per una scuola elementare; naturalmente, regolando il tuo progetto in base alle informazioni stampate. Te lo giuro,” disse Mr Pecksniff, ridendo, “sarò molto curioso di vedere cosa ne uscirà. Chi sa, un giovane con i tuoi talenti potrebbe ideare qualcosa che, a prima vista, sembra impraticabile o improbabile, ma che io potrei poi realizzare? Perché, davvero, caro Martin, è proprio nelle ultime rifiniture che si dimostra la grande esperienza e lo studio approfondito in queste materie. Ah ah ah! Sarà davvero divertente,” continuò Mr Pecksniff, dandogli una pacca sulla schiena con il suo umore stravagante, “vedere cosa ne uscirà.”

Martin accettò volentieri questa incombenza, e subito il signor Pecksniff iniziò a affidargli i materiali necessari per eseguirla; nel frattempo sottolineava l’effetto magico di alcuni tocchi finali eseguiti da un maestro. Il che, infatti, come dicevano alcuni (e questi erano sempre gli stessi vecchi nemici di Pecksniff!), era indubbiamente sorprendente, quasi miracoloso: c’erano casi documentati in cui l’introduzione di una finestra posteriore aggiuntiva, di una porta della cucina, di mezza dozzina di gradini, o persino di un rubinetto d’acqua, aveva trasformato progetti che in origine appartenevano al signor Pecksniff stesso in opere davvero redditizie, portandogli notevoli guadagni. Ma questa è proprio la magia del genio: trasforma tutto ciò che tocca in oro!

“Quando la vostra mente ha bisogno di essere rinfrescata con un cambiamento d’attività,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “Thomas Pinch vi insegnerà l’arte di ispezionare il giardino posteriore, o di determinare il livello del terreno lungo la strada che va da questa casa al cartello indicatore, o qualsiasi altro compito pratico e piacevole. Nel cortile posteriore ci sono un carico intero di mattoni smessi e una dozzina di vecchi vasi da fiori; se riusciste a impilarli, mio caro Martin, in modo che al mio ritorno mi ricordassero, per esempio, la chiesa di San Pietro a Roma o la moschea di Santa Sofia a Costantinopoli, sarebbe sia utile per voi che gradito per i miei sentimenti. E ora,” concluse il signor Pecksniff, “per abbandonare, per il momento, le nostre relazioni professionali e passare a questioni private, sarò felice di parlare con voi nella mia stanza mentre preparo il mio bagaglio.”

Martin lo accompagnò; rimasero insieme in una conversazione segreta per un’ora o più, lasciando Tom Pinch da solo. Quando il giovane tornò, era molto taciturno e apatico, e rimase in quello stato per tutto il giorno; così Tom, dopo aver tentato di avviare una conversazione con lui un paio di volte senza ottenere risposta, ritenne opportuno non insistere.

Non avrebbe avuto il tempo di dire molto, se il suo nuovo amico fosse stato così loquace; perché prima di tutto il signor Pecksniff lo chiamò giù e gli fece mettersi in cima al proprio baulo per “rappresentare” delle antiche statue lì sopra, fino a quando il baulo non avesse deciso di essere chiuso a chiave; poi la signorina Charity lo chiamò per aiutarla a legare il suo baule; dopo la signorina Mercy lo mandò a riparare la sua scatola; quindi scrisse le cartoline più dettagliate possibili per tutto il bagaglio; in seguito si offrì volontario per portarlo tutti al piano di sotto; e infine si assicurò che venisse trasportato in sicurezza su un paio di carri fino all’antico palo indicatore alla fine della strada; e poi rimase lì ad aspettare che arrivasse la carrozza. In breve, il suo lavoro quotidiano sarebbe stato piuttosto impegnativo per un facchino, ma la sua grande buona volontà rendeva tutto facile; e quando finalmente si sedette sul bagaglio in attesa che i Pecksniff scendessero lungo la strada, accompagnati dal nuovo allievo, il suo cuore era pieno di speranza di aver soddisfatto il proprio benefattore.

“Ero quasi spaventato,” disse Tom, tirando fuori una lettera dalla tasca e asciugandosi il viso; faceva caldo nonostante fosse una giornata fredda, “che non avessi avuto il tempo di scriverla. Sarebbe stato davvero un peccato; le spese di spedizione da una distanza così grande rappresentano un problema serio, soprattutto quando non si è ricchi. Lei sarà felice di vedere la mia calligrafia, povera ragazza. E di sapere che Pecksniff è ancora così gentile come sempre. Avrei voluto chiedere a John Westlock di andare da lei e raccontarle tutto di me di persona, ma temevo che potesse parlare male di Pecksniff e farla preoccupare. Inoltre, dove vive lei, le persone sono molto rigide in queste cose. E una visita da parte di un giovane come John avrebbe potuto creare problemi. Povera Ruth, ”

Tom Pinch sembrava un po’ propenso ad essere malinconico per circa mezzo minuto, ma presto trovò conforto e continuò le sue riflessioni in questo modo:

“Sono un uomo gentile, non credo. Come diceva sempre John (John era una persona buona e di buon cuore; vorrei che gli fosse piaciuto di più Pecksniff), non dovrei sentirmi giù a causa della distanza che ci separa. Invece dovrei essere grato per la mia straordinaria fortuna ad essere arrivato fin qui. Devo essermi nato con una ‘cucchiaiata d’argento in bocca’, per essere riuscito a incontrare Pecksniff. E ora mi ritrovo di nuovo fortunato con questo nuovo studente! Che persona affabile, generosa e libera. Non ne ho mai vista una simile. Siamo diventati subito amici. E inoltre è anche un parente di Pecksniff. Un giovane intelligente e pieno di energia, che potrebbe farsi strada nel mondo come se fosse un pezzo di formaggio! Eccolo che arriva proprio mentre sto parlando, ” disse Tom. “Cammina lungo la strada come se appartenesse a lui, ”

In truth, the new pupil, not at all disconcerted by the honour of having Miss Mercy Pecksniff on his arm, or by the affectionate adieux of that young lady, approached as Mr Pinch spoke, followed by Miss Charity and Mr Pecksniff. As the coach appeared at the same moment, Tom lost no time in entreating the gentleman last mentioned, to undertake the delivery of his letter.

‘Oh!’ said Mr Pecksniff, glancing at the superscription. ‘For your sister, Thomas. Yes, oh yes, it shall be delivered, Mr Pinch. Make your mind easy upon that score. She shall certainly have it, Mr Pinch.’

He made the promise with so much condescension and patronage, that Tom felt he had asked a great deal (this had not occurred to his mind before), and thanked him earnestly. The Miss Pecksniffs, according to a custom they had, were amused beyond description at the mention of Mr Pinch’s sister. Oh the fright! The bare idea of a Miss Pinch! Good heavens!

Tom was greatly pleased to see them so merry, for he took it as a token of their favour, and good-humoured regard. Therefore he laughed too and rubbed his hands and wished them a pleasant journey and safe return, and was quite brisk. Even when the coach had rolled away with the olive-branches in the boot and the family of doves inside, he stood waving his hand and bowing; so much gratified by the unusually courteous demeanour of the young ladies, that he was quite regardless, for the moment, of Martin Chuzzlewit, who stood leaning thoughtfully against the finger-post, and who after disposing of his fair charge had hardly lifted his eyes from the ground.

The perfect silence which ensued upon the bustle and departure of the coach, together with the sharp air of the wintry afternoon, roused them both at the same time. They turned, as by mutual consent, and moved off arm-in-arm.

‘How melancholy you are!’ said Tom; ‘what is the matter?’

‘Nothing worth speaking of,’ said Martin. ‘Very little more than was the matter yesterday, and much more, I hope, than will be the matter to-morrow. I’m out of spirits, Pinch.’

‘Well,’ cried Tom, ‘now do you know I am in capital spirits today, and scarcely ever felt more disposed to be good company. It was a very kind thing in your predecessor, John, to write to me, was it not?’

‘Why, yes,’ said Martin carelessly; ‘I should have thought he would have had enough to do to enjoy himself, without thinking of you, Pinch.’

‘Just what I felt to be so very likely,’ Tom rejoined; ‘but no, he keeps his word, and says, “My dear Pinch, I often think of you,” and all sorts of kind and considerate things of that description.’

‘He must be a devilish good-natured fellow,’ said Martin, somewhat peevishly: ‘because he can’t mean that, you know.’

‘I don’t suppose he can, eh?’ said Tom, looking wistfully in his companion’s face. ‘He says so to please me, you think?’

‘Why, is it likely,’ rejoined Martin, with greater earnestness, ‘that a young man newly escaped from this kennel of a place, and fresh to all the delights of being his own master in London, can have much leisure or inclination to think favourably of anything or anybody he has left behind him here? I put it to you, Pinch, is it natural?’

After a short reflection, Mr Pinch replied, in a more subdued tone, that to be sure it was unreasonable to expect any such thing, and that he had no doubt Martin knew best.

‘Of course I know best,’ Martin observed.

‘Yes, I feel that,’ said Mr Pinch mildly. ‘I said so.’ And when he had made this rejoinder, they fell into a blank silence again, which lasted until they reached home; by which time it was dark.

Now, Miss Charity Pecksniff, in consideration of the inconvenience of carrying them with her in the coach, and the impossibility of preserving them by artificial means until the family’s return, had set forth, in a couple of plates, the fragments of yesterday’s feast. In virtue of which liberal arrangement, they had the happiness to find awaiting them in the parlour two chaotic heaps of the remains of last night’s pleasure, consisting of certain filmy bits of oranges, some mummied sandwiches, various disrupted masses of the geological cake, and several entire captain’s biscuits. That choice liquor in which to steep these dainties might not be wanting, the remains of the two bottles of currant wine had been poured together and corked with a curl-paper; so that every material was at hand for making quite a heavy night of it.

Martin Chuzzlewit beheld these roystering preparations with infinite contempt, and stirring the fire into a blaze (to the great destruction of Mr Pecksniff’s coals), sat moodily down before it, in the most comfortable chair he could find. That he might the better squeeze himself into the small corner that was left for him, Mr Pinch took up his position on Miss Mercy Pecksniff’s stool, and setting his glass down upon the hearthrug and putting his plate upon his knees, began to enjoy himself.

If Diogenes coming to life again could have rolled himself, tub and all, into Mr Pecksniff’s parlour and could have seen Tom Pinch as he sat on Mercy Pecksniff’s stool with his plate and glass before him he could not have faced it out, though in his surliest mood, but must have smiled good-temperedly. The perfect and entire satisfaction of Tom; his surpassing appreciation of the husky sandwiches, which crumbled in his mouth like saw-dust; the unspeakable relish with which he swallowed the thin wine by drops, and smacked his lips, as though it were so rich and generous that to lose an atom of its fruity flavour were a sin; the look with which he paused sometimes, with his glass in his hand, proposing silent toasts to himself; and the anxious shade that came upon his contented face when, after wandering round the room, exulting in its uninvaded snugness, his glance encountered the dull brow of his companion; no cynic in the world, though in his hatred of its men a very griffin, could have withstood these things in Thomas Pinch.

Nella verità, il nuovo studente, affatto indifferente all’onore di avere la signorina Mercy Pecksniff al suo braccio, né alle affettuose parole d’addio di quella giovane donna, si avvicinò mentre il signor Pinch parlava, seguito dalla signorina Charity e dal signor Pecksniff. Quando arrivò la carrozza, Tom non perse tempo a chiedere al suddetto gentiluomo di consegnare la sua lettera.

“Oh!” disse il signor Pecksniff, guardando l’intestazione. “Per vostra sorella, Thomas. Sì, sicuramente verrà consegnato, signor Pinch. Non preoccupatevi in merito: lei lo riceverà di certo.”

Fece quella promessa con tale condiscendenza e paternalismo che Tom si sentì di aver chiesto qualcosa di davvero eccessivo (cosa che prima non gli era mai passata per la mente) e lo ringraziò sinceramente. Le signorine Pecksniff, secondo una loro abitudine, furono divertite oltre ogni descrizione all’udire menzionare la sorella del signor Pinch. Oh, che orrore! Solo l’idea di una “signorina Pinch”. Buon Dio!

Tom fu molto felice di vederli così allegri, poiché considerò questo segno della loro simpatia e del loro buon umore. Così anche lui rise, si strofinò le mani e augurò loro un piacevole viaggio e un ritorno sicuro; era davvero di ottimo umore. Anche quando la carrozza si allontanò, con i rami d’olivo nel bagagliaio e la famiglia di colombe a bordo, lui rimase lì a salutare con la mano e a inchinarsi; era così compiaciuto dal comportamento insolitamente cortese delle giovani signore che, per il momento, non pensava affatto a Martin Chuzzlewit, che stava in piedi appoggiato al palo del cancello, con lo sguardo fisso a terra dopo aver affidato la sua bella passeggera alle cure degli altri.

Il perfetto silenzio che seguì il trambusto e la partenza della carrozza, insieme all’aria fresca di quel pomeriggio invernale, li risvegliò entrambi nello stesso momento. Si girarono, come se avessero concordato tra loro, e si incamminarono mano nella mano.

“Quanto sei malinconico!” disse Tom; “che cosa c’è?”

“Niente di particolare da dire,” disse Martin. “Più o meno la stessa situazione di ieri. E, spero io, molto meglio di domani. Sono di cattivo umore, Pinch.”

“Beh,” esclamò Tom, “adesso capisci che oggi sono di ottimo umore e mai come ora ho voglia di essere una compagnia piacevole. È stato davvero gentile da parte del tuo predecessore, John, scrivermi, non trovi?”

“Beh, sì,” disse Martin con noncuranza; “Avrei dovuto pensare che avesse abbastanza cose da fare per divertirsi, senza pensare a te, Pinch.”

“Esattamente quello che pensavo fosse molto probabile,” ribatté Tom; “ma no, lui mantiene la sua parola e dice cose del tipo: ‘Mia cara Pinch, penso spesso a te’, e un sacco di altre cose gentili e premurose.”

“Deve essere un tipo davvero di ottimo carattere,” disse Martin, con una certa irritazione: “perché non può davvero intendere quello che ha detto, capisci?”

“Non credo che possa farlo, vero?” disse Tom, guardando con aria malinconica il volto del suo compagno. “Pensi che lo dica solo per farmi contento?”

“Perché mai dovrebbe essere così,” ribatté Martin con maggiore serietà, “che un giovane appena fuggito da questo posto orribile, che ancora non conosce le gioie di essere il proprio padrone a Londra, abbia molto tempo libero o la voglia di pensare bene di qualcosa o di qualcuno che ha lasciato qui? Vi chiedo, Pinch, è davvero naturale?”

Dopo una breve riflessione, il signor Pinch rispose, con un tono più sommesso, che sicuramente era irragionevole aspettarsi qualcosa del genere, e che non aveva alcun dubbio sul fatto che Martin sapesse cosa fosse meglio.

“Certo che sono io a saperlo meglio,” osservò Martin.

“Sì, lo penso anch’io,” disse gentilmente il signor Pinch. “Lo avevo detto.” E dopo aver pronunciato queste parole, ricaddero in un silenzio imbarazzante, che durò fino a quando non arrivarono a casa; a quel punto era già buio.

Ora, la signorina Charity Pecksniff, considerando l’incomodità di portarle con sé in carrozza e l’impossibilità di conservarle con metodi artificiali fino al ritorno della famiglia, aveva disposto, su alcuni piatti, i resti del banchetto di ieri. Grazie a questa gentile organizzazione, ebbero la fortuna di trovare in salotto due mucchi disordinati dei resti delle delizie di quella notte: pezzetti di arancia, alcuni panini “mummificati”, varie porzioni del dolce geologico e diversi biscotti interi. Per quanto riguardava il liquido adatto per immergere queste prelibatezze, i resti delle due bottiglie di vino di uva passa erano stati uniti e tappati con della carta velina; in questo modo, tutto ciò che serviva era a disposizione per trascorrere una piacevole notte.

Martin Chuzzlewit osservava con infinito disprezzo tutte queste preparazioni baldriche; poi, ravvivando il fuoco fino a farlo divampare (con grande danno ai carboni del signor Pecksniff), si sedette davanti ad esso nella sedia più comoda che riuscì a trovare. Per potersi stringere ancora di più nel piccolo spazio che gli era rimasto, il signor Pinch prese posto sullo sgabello della signorina Mercy Pecksniff: posò il bicchiere sul focolare e il piatto sulle ginocchia, poi iniziò a godersi la situazione.

Se Diogeneo potesse tornare in vita e rotolarsi, insieme alla sua tinozza, nella stanza di Mr Pecksniff, e vedesse Tom Pinch seduto sullo sgabello di Mercy Pecksniff, con il suo piatto e il suo bicchiere davanti a sé, non riuscirebbe certo a rimanere serio, nemmeno nel suo umore più cupo; dovrebbe sorridere, invece, con gentilezza. La perfetta soddisfazione di Tom: la sua straordinaria apprezzazione per quei panini secchi che si sbriciolavano in bocca come polvere di sega; il piacere indescrivibile con cui ingoiava quel vino leggero, goccia dopo goccia, e si leccava le labbra, come se fosse così ricco e generoso da rendere un minimo spreco del suo sapore fruttato un vero peccato; lo sguardo con cui a volte si fermava, con il bicchiere in mano, per fare silenziosi brindisi a se stesso. E quell’ombra di ansia che appariva sul suo viso soddisfatto quando, dopo aver girato per la stanza esultando per la sua intimità inviolata, il suo sguardo incrociava la fronte cupa del suo compagno. Nessun cinico al mondo, per quanto possa odiare gli esseri umani, riuscirebbe a resistere a queste cose in Thomas Pinch.

Some men would have slapped him on the back, and pledged him in a bumper of the currant wine, though it had been the sharpest vinegar—aye, and liked its flavour too; some would have seized him by his honest hand, and thanked him for the lesson that his simple nature taught them. Some would have laughed with, and others would have laughed at him; of which last class was Martin Chuzzlewit, who, unable to restrain himself, at last laughed loud and long.

‘That’s right,’ said Tom, nodding approvingly. ‘Cheer up! That’s capital!’

At which encouragement young Martin laughed again; and said, as soon as he had breath and gravity enough:

‘I never saw such a fellow as you are, Pinch.’

‘Didn’t you though?’ said Tom. ‘Well, it’s very likely you do find me strange, because I have hardly seen anything of the world, and you have seen a good deal I dare say?’

‘Pretty well for my time of life,’ rejoined Martin, drawing his chair still nearer to the fire, and spreading his feet out on the fender. ‘Deuce take it, I must talk openly to somebody. I’ll talk openly to you, Pinch.’

‘Do!’ said Tom. ‘I shall take it as being very friendly of you,’

‘I’m not in your way, am I?’ inquired Martin, glancing down at Mr Pinch, who was by this time looking at the fire over his leg.

‘Not at all!’ cried Tom.

‘You must know then, to make short of a long story,’ said Martin, beginning with a kind of effort, as if the revelation were not agreeable to him; ‘that I have been bred up from childhood with great expectations, and have always been taught to believe that I should be, one day, very rich. So I should have been, but for certain brief reasons which I am going to tell you, and which have led to my being disinherited.’

‘By your father?’ inquired Mr Pinch, with open eyes.

‘By my grandfather. I have had no parents these many years. Scarcely within my remembrance.’

‘Neither have I,’ said Tom, touching the young man’s hand with his own and timidly withdrawing it again. ‘Dear me!’

‘Why, as to that, you know, Pinch,’ pursued the other, stirring the fire again, and speaking in his rapid, off-hand way; ‘it’s all very right and proper to be fond of parents when we have them, and to bear them in remembrance after they’re dead, if you have ever known anything of them. But as I never did know anything about mine personally, you know, why, I can’t be expected to be very sentimental about ‘em. And I am not; that’s the truth.’

Mr Pinch was just then looking thoughtfully at the bars. But on his companion pausing in this place, he started, and said ‘Oh! of course’—and composed himself to listen again.

‘In a word,’ said Martin, ‘I have been bred and reared all my life by this grandfather of whom I have just spoken. Now, he has a great many good points—there is no doubt about that; I’ll not disguise the fact from you—but he has two very great faults, which are the staple of his bad side. In the first place, he has the most confirmed obstinacy of character you ever met with in any human creature. In the second, he is most abominably selfish.’

‘Is he indeed?’ cried Tom.

‘In those two respects,’ returned the other, ‘there never was such a man. I have often heard from those who know, that they have been, time out of mind, the failings of our family; and I believe there’s some truth in it. But I can’t say of my own knowledge. All I have to do, you know, is to be very thankful that they haven’t descended to me, and, to be very careful that I don’t contract ‘em.’

‘To be sure,’ said Mr Pinch. ‘Very proper.’

‘Well, sir,’ resumed Martin, stirring the fire once more, and drawing his chair still closer to it, ‘his selfishness makes him exacting, you see; and his obstinacy makes him resolute in his exactions. The consequence is that he has always exacted a great deal from me in the way of respect, and submission, and self-denial when his wishes were in question, and so forth. I have borne a great deal from him, because I have been under obligations to him (if one can ever be said to be under obligations to one’s own grandfather), and because I have been really attached to him; but we have had a great many quarrels for all that, for I could not accommodate myself to his ways very often—not out of the least reference to myself, you understand, but because—’ he stammered here, and was rather at a loss.

Mr Pinch being about the worst man in the world to help anybody out of a difficulty of this sort, said nothing.

‘Well! as you understand me,’ resumed Martin, quickly, ‘I needn’t hunt for the precise expression I want. Now I come to the cream of my story, and the occasion of my being here. I am in love, Pinch.’

Mr Pinch looked up into his face with increased interest.

‘I say I am in love. I am in love with one of the most beautiful girls the sun ever shone upon. But she is wholly and entirely dependent upon the pleasure of my grandfather; and if he were to know that she favoured my passion, she would lose her home and everything she possesses in the world. There is nothing very selfish in THAT love, I think?’

‘Selfish!’ cried Tom. ‘You have acted nobly. To love her as I am sure you do, and yet in consideration for her state of dependence, not even to disclose—’

‘What are you talking about, Pinch?’ said Martin pettishly: ‘don’t make yourself ridiculous, my good fellow! What do you mean by not disclosing?’

‘I beg your pardon,’ answered Tom. ‘I thought you meant that, or I wouldn’t have said it.’

‘If I didn’t tell her I loved her, where would be the use of my being in love?’ said Martin: ‘unless to keep myself in a perpetual state of worry and vexation?’

‘That’s true,’ Tom answered. ‘Well! I can guess what SHE said when you told her,’ he added, glancing at Martin’s handsome face.

‘Why, not exactly, Pinch,’ he rejoined, with a slight frown; ‘because she has some girlish notions about duty and gratitude, and all the rest of it, which are rather hard to fathom; but in the main you are right. Her heart was mine, I found.’

Alcuni uomini gli avrebbero dato una pacca sulla spalla e lo avrebbero ringraziato con un bicchiere di vino rosso, anche se in realtà si trattava di aceto molto forte, sì, e a loro piaceva persino il suo sapore; altri lo avrebbero afferrato per la mano onesta e gli avrebbero espresso gratitudine per la lezione che la sua semplice >natura gli aveva insegnato. Alcuni avrebbero riso insieme a lui, mentre altri si sarebbero burlati di lui. Tra questi ultimi c’era Martin Chuzzlewit, il quale, non riuscendo a trattenersi, alla fine scoppiò in una risata forte e lunga.

“Esatto,” disse Tom, annuendo in approvazione. “Risali il morale! È davvero ottimo!”

A questo incoraggiamento, il giovane Martin rise di nuovo; e appena ebbe abbastanza fiato e serietà, disse:

“Non ho mai visto un tipo come te, Pinch.”

“Non è vero?” disse Tom. “Beh, è molto probabile che tu mi trovi strano, perché io quasi non ho visto nulla del mondo, mentre tu, ne sono sicuro, ne hai visto molto.”

“Abbastanza bene, considerando la mia età,” rispose Martin, avvicinando ancora di più la sedia al fuoco e allargando le gambe sul parapetto. “Dio mio, devo parlare apertamente con qualcuno. Parlerò apertamente con te, Pinch.”

“Fai pure!”, disse Tom. “Lo considererò un gesto di grande amicizia da parte tua.”

“Non ti sto intralciando, vero?”, chiese Martin, guardando Mr Pinch, che a quel momento stava fissando il fuoco che ardeva accanto alle sue gambe.

“Assolutamente no!” gridò Tom.

“Dovete quindi sapere, per farla breve,” disse Martin, con un certo impegno, come se quella rivelazione non gli fosse gradita; “che sono stato cresciuto fin dall’infanzia con grandi aspettative, e mi è sempre stato insegnato di credere che un giorno sarei diventato molto ricco. Così sarebbe dovuto essere, se non fossero stati alcuni motivi brevi che vi racconterò e che hanno portato al mio esclusione dall’eredità.”

“Di tuo padre?”, chiese il signor Pinch, con gli occhi spalancati.

“Per mio nonno. Non ho avuto genitori per tutti questi anni. A malapena me lo ricordo.”

“Nemmeno io,” disse Tom, toccando la mano del giovane con la propria e poi ritirandola timidamente. “Dio mio!”

“Beh, in merito a questo, sai, Pinch,” proseguì l’altro, ravvivando di nuovo il fuoco e parlando con quel suo modo rapido e disinvolto, “è tutto molto giusto e appropriato amare i propri genitori quando li si ha, e ricordarli anche dopo la loro morte, se si è mai conosciuti davvero. Ma poiché io personalmente non ho mai conosciuto i miei genitori, beh, non si può certo aspettarsi che io sia molto sentimentale al riguardo. E infatti non lo sono; questa è la verità.”

In quel momento, il signor Pinch stava fissando pensieroso le sbarre. Ma quando il suo compagno si fermò in quel punto, lui disse: “Oh! Certo, ” e si preparò ad ascoltare di nuovo.

“In breve,” disse Martin, “sono stato cresciuto e educato per tutta la mia vita da questo nonno di cui ho appena parlato. Ora, ha molti pregi. Non c’è >dubbio al riguardo; non nasconderò questo fatto davanti a voi. Ma ha due difetti molto gravi che rappresentano il cuore delle sue cattive qualità. Prima di tutto, possiede l’ostinazione più irremovibile che si possa incontrare in una persona umana. In secondo luogo, è estremamente egoista.”

“Davvero lo è?” esclamò Tom.

“In quei due aspetti,” rispose l’altro, “non è mai esistito un uomo del genere. Ho spesso sentito da persone che ne sanno qualcosa dire che, a volte, i difetti della nostra famiglia li hanno portati a perdere la ragione; e credo che ci sia una certa verità in questo. Ma non posso dirlo basandomi sulla mia esperienza personale. Tutto quello che devo fare, come sai, è essere molto grato che tali difetti non siano ereditati da me e, soprattutto, fare molta attenzione a non contralarli io stesso.”

“Certamente,” disse il signor Pinch. “Molto appropriato.”

“Beh, signore,” riprese Martin, rimestando di nuovo nel fuoco e avvicinando ancora di più la sedia al camino, “la sua egoismo lo rende esigente; inoltre, la sua ostinazione lo fa perseverare nelle sue richieste. Di conseguenza, ha sempre preteso molto da me in termini di rispetto, sottomissione e sacrificio personale quando i suoi desideri erano in gioco. Ho sopportato molte cose per lui, perché mi sentivo in debito nei suoi confronti (se si può davvero parlare di debiti verso il proprio nonno) e perché provavo davvero affetto per lui; tuttavia abbiamo avuto moltissime discussioni a causa di questo. Non perché io volessi mettere in discussione i suoi modi di comportarsi, ma perché, ” Esitò un attimo, senza sapere come continuare.

Il signor Pinch, essendo probabilmente la peggiore persona al mondo nel prestare aiuto alle persone in difficoltà di questo genere, non disse nulla.

‘Beh!’ continuò Martin rapidamente, ‘come capite, non ho bisogno di cercare l’espressione precisa che desidero. Ora arrivo al punto clou della mia storia, e alla ragione per cui sono qui. Sono innamorato, Pinch.’

Il signor Pinch alzò lo sguardo verso di lui, con un interesse crescente.

“Dico di essere innamorato. Sono innamorato di una delle ragazze più belle che il sole abbia mai illuminato. Ma lei dipende interamente dal piacere di mio nonno; e se lui scoprisse che lei ricambia i miei sentimenti, perderebbe la sua >casa e tutto ciò che possiede al mondo. Non c’è nulla di troppo egoistico in questo amore, penso, ”

“Egoista!” esclamò Tom. “Hai agito nobilmente. Amarla come sicuramente la ami, eppure, considerando la sua condizione di dipendenza, non hai nemmeno voluto rivelarlo, ”

“Di cosa stai parlando, Pinch?” disse Martin in tono irritato: “Non fare la figura dello sciocco, amico mio. Cosa intendi per ‘non rivelare’?”

“Mi scusi,” rispose Tom. “Pensavo che intendesse proprio quello, altrimenti non l’avrei detto.”

“Se non le dicessi che la amo, a cosa servirebbe il mio essere innamorato?”, disse Martin: “A meno che non sia per mantenermi in uno stato perpetuo di preoccupazione e angoscia, ”

“È vero,” rispose Tom. “Beh. Posso immaginare cosa ha detto quando gliel’hai raccontato,” aggiunse, guardando il bel viso di Martin.

“Beh, non proprio, Pinch,” rispose lui, con un leggero cipiglio; “perché lei ha queste idee da ragazza riguardo al dovere e alla gratitudine, e tutte quelle cose lì, che sono piuttosto difficili da comprendere; ma nel complesso hai ragione. Il suo cuore era mio, ho scoperto.”

‘Just what I supposed,’ said Tom. ‘Quite natural!’ and, in his great satisfaction, he took a long sip out of his wine-glass.

‘Although I had conducted myself from the first with the utmost circumspection,’ pursued Martin, ‘I had not managed matters so well but that my grandfather, who is full of jealousy and distrust, suspected me of loving her. He said nothing to her, but straightway attacked me in private, and charged me with designing to corrupt the fidelity to himself (there you observe his selfishness), of a young creature whom he had trained and educated to be his only disinterested and faithful companion, when he should have disposed of me in marriage to his heart’s content. Upon that, I took fire immediately, and told him that with his good leave I would dispose of myself in marriage, and would rather not be knocked down by him or any other auctioneer to any bidder whomsoever.’

Mr Pinch opened his eyes wider, and looked at the fire harder than he had done yet.

‘You may be sure,’ said Martin, ‘that this nettled him, and that he began to be the very reverse of complimentary to myself. Interview succeeded interview; words engendered words, as they always do; and the upshot of it was, that I was to renounce her, or be renounced by him. Now you must bear in mind, Pinch, that I am not only desperately fond of her (for though she is poor, her beauty and intellect would reflect great credit on anybody, I don’t care of what pretensions who might become her husband), but that a chief ingredient in my composition is a most determined—’

‘Obstinacy,’ suggested Tom in perfect good faith. But the suggestion was not so well received as he had expected; for the young man immediately rejoined, with some irritation,

‘What a fellow you are, Pinch!’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Tom, ‘I thought you wanted a word.’

‘I didn’t want that word,’ he rejoined. ‘I told you obstinacy was no part of my character, did I not? I was going to say, if you had given me leave, that a chief ingredient in my composition is a most determined firmness.’

‘Oh!’ cried Tom, screwing up his mouth, and nodding. ‘Yes, yes; I see!’

‘And being firm,’ pursued Martin, ‘of course I was not going to yield to him, or give way by so much as the thousandth part of an inch.’

‘No, no,’ said Tom.

‘On the contrary, the more he urged, the more I was determined to oppose him.’

‘To be sure!’ said Tom.

‘Very well,’ rejoined Martin, throwing himself back in his chair, with a careless wave of both hands, as if the subject were quite settled, and nothing more could be said about it—‘There is an end of the matter, and here am I!’

Mr Pinch sat staring at the fire for some minutes with a puzzled look, such as he might have assumed if some uncommonly difficult conundrum had been proposed, which he found it impossible to guess. At length he said:

‘Pecksniff, of course, you had known before?’

‘Only by name. No, I had never seen him, for my grandfather kept not only himself but me, aloof from all his relations. But our separation took place in a town in the adjoining country. From that place I came to Salisbury, and there I saw Pecksniff’s advertisement, which I answered, having always had some natural taste, I believe, in the matters to which it referred, and thinking it might suit me. As soon as I found it to be his, I was doubly bent on coming to him if possible, on account of his being—’

‘Such an excellent man,’ interposed Tom, rubbing his hands: ‘so he is. You were quite right.’

‘Why, not so much on that account, if the truth must be spoken,’ returned Martin, ‘as because my grandfather has an inveterate dislike to him, and after the old man’s arbitrary treatment of me, I had a natural desire to run as directly counter to all his opinions as I could. Well! As I said before, here I am. My engagement with the young lady I have been telling you about is likely to be a tolerably long one; for neither her prospects nor mine are very bright; and of course I shall not think of marrying until I am well able to do so. It would never do, you know, for me to be plunging myself into poverty and shabbiness and love in one room up three pair of stairs, and all that sort of thing.’

‘To say nothing of her,’ remarked Tom Pinch, in a low voice.

‘Exactly so,’ rejoined Martin, rising to warm his back, and leaning against the chimney-piece. ‘To say nothing of her. At the same time, of course it’s not very hard upon her to be obliged to yield to the necessity of the case; first, because she loves me very much; and secondly, because I have sacrificed a great deal on her account, and might have done much better, you know.’

It was a very long time before Tom said ‘Certainly;’ so long, that he might have taken a nap in the interval, but he did say it at last.

‘Now, there is one odd coincidence connected with this love-story,’ said Martin, ‘which brings it to an end. You remember what you told me last night as we were coming here, about your pretty visitor in the church?’

‘Surely I do,’ said Tom, rising from his stool, and seating himself in the chair from which the other had lately risen, that he might see his face. ‘Undoubtedly.’

‘That was she.’

‘I knew what you were going to say,’ cried Tom, looking fixedly at him, and speaking very softly. ‘You don’t tell me so?’

‘That was she,’ repeated the young man. ‘After what I have heard from Pecksniff, I have no doubt that she came and went with my grandfather.—Don’t you drink too much of that sour wine, or you’ll have a fit of some sort, Pinch, I see.’

‘It is not very wholesome, I am afraid,’ said Tom, setting down the empty glass he had for some time held. ‘So that was she, was it?’

Martin nodded assent; and adding, with a restless impatience, that if he had been a few days earlier he would have seen her; and that now she might be, for anything he knew, hundreds of miles away; threw himself, after a few turns across the room, into a chair, and chafed like a spoilt child.

“Esattamente come pensavo,” disse Tom. “Del tutto naturale!” E, estremamente soddisfatto, bevve un lungo sorso dal suo bicchiere di vino.

“Anche se fin dall’inizio mi sono comportato con la massima prudenza,” continuò Martin, “non sono riuscito comunque a gestire le cose così bene da non far sospettare a mio nonno, che è pieno di gelosia e sfiducia, che io fossi innamorato di lei. Non le ha detto nulla, ma mi ha immediatamente rimproverato in privato, accusandomi di voler corrompere la sua fedeltà verso di lui (ecco dunque la sua egoismo): una giovane donna che lui stesso aveva cresciuto e educato affinché fosse la sua unica compagna leale e disinteressata, quando invece avrebbe potuto sposarmi, secondo i suoi desideri. Di fronte a queste accuse, ho risposto immediatamente che, con il suo permesso o senza, mi sarei comunque sposato, e preferivo essere dato in moglie da lui stesso o da qualsiasi altro “astaio” a chiunque fosse interessato.”

Il signor Pinch aprì gli occhi ancora di più e guardò il fuoco con maggiore attenzione di prima.

“Puoi esserne certo,” disse Martin, “che questo lo ha infastidito molto, e che ha iniziato a parlare di me in termini assolutamente negativi. Incontro dopo incontro, parole ne generarono altre, come sempre; e alla fine la conclusione fu che dovevo rinunciare a lei, o essere rinnegato da lui. Ora devi ricordare, Pinch, che non solo sono terribilmente innamorato di lei (perché, anche se è povera, la sua bellezza e il suo intelletto le darebbero grande prestigio in qualsiasi ambiente; non mi interessa affatto chi potrebbe diventare suo marito), ma che un elemento fondamentale della mia personalità è proprio una determinazione assoluta, ”

“Testardaggine”, suggerì Tom con perfetta buona fede. Ma la proposta non fu accolta così bene come si aspettava; infatti il giovane rispose immediatamente, con un certo fastidio.

“Che tipo di persona sei, Pinch!”

“Scusi,” disse Tom, “pensavo volesse parlarmi.”

“Non volevo quella parola,” ribatté. “Vi ho detto che l’ostinazione non fa parte del mio carattere, vero? Volevo dire che, se mi aveste dato il permesso, una delle componenti principali della mia personalità è una fermezza assoluta.”

“Oh!”, esclamò Tom, stringendo le labbra e annuendo. “Sì, sì. Capisco!”

“E essendo deciso,” proseguì Martin, “naturalmente non intendevo cedere davanti a lui, né arretrare nemmeno di un millesimo di pollice.”

“No, no,” disse Tom.

“Al contrario, più lui insisteva, più io ero decisa a oppormi a lui.”

“Certo che sì!” disse Tom.

“Molto bene,” riprese Martin, appoggiandosi di nuovo allo schienale della sedia e facendo un gesto noncurante con entrambe le mani, come se la questione fosse ormai risolta e non ci fosse nulla altro da aggiungere: “La faccenda è conclusa, ed eccomi qui!”

Il signor Pinch rimase seduto a fissare il fuoco per alcuni minuti con un’espressione perplessa, come se gli fosse stato proposto qualche enigma insolitamente difficile da risolvere e di cui non riuscisse a intuire la soluzione. Alla fine disse:

“Pecksniff, naturalmente, lo conoscevi già, vero?”

“Solo di nome. No, non l’avevo mai visto, perché mio nonno teneva sia se stesso che me lontani da tutti i suoi parenti. Ma la nostra separazione avvenne in una città del paese vicino; da lì sono venuto a Salisbury, e là ho visto l’annuncio di Pecksniff, al quale ho risposto. Poiché, credo, avevo sempre un certo interesse naturale per le cose di cui parlava quell’annuncio, e pensavo che potesse essere adatto a me. Non appena ho scoperto che si trattava proprio di lui, sono stato ancora più deciso a andare da lui, se possibile. Perché lui era, ”

“Un uomo davvero eccellente,” intervenne Tom, strofinandosi le mani: “Proprio così. Avevi perfettamente ragione.”

“Beh, non tanto per quel motivo, se proprio bisogna dire la verità, ”, rispose Martin, “ma perché mio nonno nutre un profondo disprezzo per lui; e dopo il modo arbitrario in cui quell’uomo mi ha trattato, ho naturalmente desiderato agire il più possibile contro tutte le sue opinioni. Comunque, come ho già detto, eccomi qui. Il fidanzamento con la giovane donna di cui vi ho parlato probabilmente durerà a lungo; poiché né le sue prospettive né le mie sono molto rosee. E ovviamente non penserò mai a sposarmi finché non sarò davvero in grado di farlo. Non sarebbe affatto giusto, capite, che mi gettassi nella povertà, nella miseria e, nell’amore in una casa situata al terzo piano, con tre gradini da salire, ”

“Per non parlare di lei,” osservò Tom Pinch a bassa voce.

‘Esattamente,’ riprese Martin, alzandosi per scaldarsi la schiena e appoggiandosi al camino. ‘Per non parlare di lei. Naturalmente, non è troppo difficile per lei dover cedere alle esigenze della situazione; innanzitutto, perché mi ama molto; e in secondo luogo, perché ho sacrificato molto per lei. E avrei potuto fare ancora di più, sai.’

Trascorse molto tempo prima che Tom dicesse “Certo”; così tanto tempo, che avrebbe potuto anche fare un pisolino nel frattempo, ma alla fine lo disse comunque.

“Ora, c’è una strana coincidenza legata a questa storia d’amore,” disse Martin, “che la porta alla fine. Ricordi quello che mi hai raccontato l’ultima notte mentre venivamo qui, riguardo alla tua bella visitatrice in chiesa?”

“Certo che sì,” disse Tom, alzandosi dallo sgabello e sedendosi sulla sedia da cui l’altro si era appena alzato, in modo da poter vedere il suo viso. “Senza dubbio.”

“Era proprio lei.”

“Sapevo cosa stavi per dire,” esclamò Tom, guardandolo fisso e parlando molto sottovoce. “Non me lo dici davvero?”

“Era proprio lei,” ripeté il giovane. “Dopo quello che ho sentito da Pecksniff, non ho alcun dubbio che sia venuta e se ne sia andata con mio nonno. Non bevi troppo di quel vino acido, Pinch; altrimenti potresti avere qualche problema.”

“Non è molto salutare, temo,” disse Tom, posando il bicchiere vuoto che teneva in mano da un po’. “Quindi era lei, giusto?”

Martin annuì in segno di assenso; e aggiunse, con un’impazienza irrequieta, che se fosse arrivato qualche giorno prima l’avrebbe vista; e che ora, chissà dove, poteva trovarsi a centinaia di miglia di distanza; dopo aver camminato avanti e indietro per la stanza, si lasciò cadere su una sedia, frustrato come un bambino viziato.

Tom Pinch’s heart was very tender, and he could not bear to see the most indifferent person in distress; still less one who had awakened an interest in him, and who regarded him (either in fact, or as he supposed) with kindness, and in a spirit of lenient construction. Whatever his own thoughts had been a few moments before—and to judge from his face they must have been pretty serious—he dismissed them instantly, and gave his young friend the best counsel and comfort that occurred to him.

‘All will be well in time,’ said Tom, ‘I have no doubt; and some trial and adversity just now will only serve to make you more attached to each other in better days. I have always read that the truth is so, and I have a feeling within me, which tells me how natural and right it is that it should be. That never ran smooth yet,’ said Tom, with a smile which, despite the homeliness of his face, was pleasanter to see than many a proud beauty’s brightest glance; ‘what never ran smooth yet, can hardly be expected to change its character for us; so we must take it as we find it, and fashion it into the very best shape we can, by patience and good-humour. I have no power at all; I needn’t tell you that; but I have an excellent will; and if I could ever be of use to you, in any way whatever, how very glad I should be!’

‘Thank you,’ said Martin, shaking his hand. ‘You’re a good fellow, upon my word, and speak very kindly. Of course you know,’ he added, after a moment’s pause, as he drew his chair towards the fire again, ‘I should not hesitate to avail myself of your services if you could help me at all; but mercy on us!’—Here he rumpled his hair impatiently with his hand, and looked at Tom as if he took it rather ill that he was not somebody else—‘you might as well be a toasting-fork or a frying-pan, Pinch, for any help you can render me.’

‘Except in the inclination,’ said Tom, gently.

‘Oh! to be sure. I meant that, of course. If inclination went for anything, I shouldn’t want help. I tell you what you may do, though, if you will, and at the present moment too.’

‘What is that?’ demanded Tom.

‘Read to me.’

‘I shall be delighted,’ cried Tom, catching up the candle with enthusiasm. ‘Excuse my leaving you in the dark a moment, and I’ll fetch a book directly. What will you like? Shakespeare?’

‘Aye!’ replied his friend, yawning and stretching himself. ‘He’ll do. I am tired with the bustle of to-day, and the novelty of everything about me; and in such a case, there’s no greater luxury in the world, I think, than being read to sleep. You won’t mind my going to sleep, if I can?’

‘Not at all!’ cried Tom.

‘Then begin as soon as you like. You needn’t leave off when you see me getting drowsy (unless you feel tired), for it’s pleasant to wake gradually to the sounds again. Did you ever try that?’

‘No, I never tried that,’ said Tom

‘Well! You can, you know, one of these days when we’re both in the right humour. Don’t mind leaving me in the dark. Look sharp!’

Mr Pinch lost no time in moving away; and in a minute or two returned with one of the precious volumes from the shelf beside his bed. Martin had in the meantime made himself as comfortable as circumstances would permit, by constructing before the fire a temporary sofa of three chairs with Mercy’s stool for a pillow, and lying down at full-length upon it.

‘Don’t be too loud, please,’ he said to Pinch.

‘No, no,’ said Tom.

‘You’re sure you’re not cold’

‘Not at all!’ cried Tom.

‘I am quite ready, then.’

Mr Pinch accordingly, after turning over the leaves of his book with as much care as if they were living and highly cherished creatures, made his own selection, and began to read. Before he had completed fifty lines his friend was snoring.

‘Poor fellow!’ said Tom, softly, as he stretched out his head to peep at him over the backs of the chairs. ‘He is very young to have so much trouble. How trustful and generous in him to bestow all this confidence in me. And that was she, was it?’

But suddenly remembering their compact, he took up the poem at the place where he had left off, and went on reading; always forgetting to snuff the candle, until its wick looked like a mushroom. He gradually became so much interested, that he quite forgot to replenish the fire; and was only reminded of his neglect by Martin Chuzzlewit starting up after the lapse of an hour or so, and crying with a shiver.

‘Why, it’s nearly out, I declare! No wonder I dreamed of being frozen. Do call for some coals. What a fellow you are, Pinch!’

Il cuore di Tom Pinch era molto tenero; non riusciva a sopportare di vedere una persona anche solo indifferentemente in difficoltà, figuriamoci qualcuno che aveva suscitato in lui interesse e che lo trattava (sia realmente che lui pensasse) con gentilezza e comprensione. Qualunque fossero stati i suoi pensieri poco prima – e a giudicare dal suo viso dovevano essere piuttosto seri – li scacciò immediatamente e fornì al suo giovane amico i migliori consigli e conforti che gli vennero in mente.

“Tutto andrà bene col tempo,” disse Tom, “non ho alcun dubbio al riguardo; anzi, le prove e le avversità che abbiamo appena attraversato serviranno solo a farvi stare ancora più uniti nei giorni futuri. Ho sempre letto che è proprio così, e ho una sensazione dentro di me che mi dice quanto sia naturale e giusto che le cose vadano in questo modo. Cose che finora non sono andate lisce, difficilmente cambieranno carattere per noi; quindi dobbiamo accettarle così come sono e cercare di plasmarle nel miglior modo possibile, con pazienza e buon umore. Non ho alcun potere reale, non c’è bisogno che ve lo dica, ma ho una volontà forte. Se mai potessi esservi di qualche aiuto, in qualsiasi modo sia, quanto sarei felice!”

“Grazie,” disse Martin stringendogli la mano. “Sei davvero una brava persona, te lo assicuro, e parli in modo molto gentile. Ovviamente sai,” aggiunse dopo un momento di pausa, avvicinando di nuovo la sedia al focolare, “che non esiterei a chiederti aiuto se potessi essermi d’aiuto; ma per l’amor del cielo, ” Qui si arruffò impazientemente i capelli con la mano e guardò Tom come se fosse molto deluso dal fatto che lui non fosse qualcun altro, “Potresti benissimo essere una forchetta da tostare o una padella, Pinch, per qualsiasi aiuto tu possa offrirmi.”

“Tranne per quella inclinazione,” disse Tom con dolcezza.

“Oh! Certo, intendevo proprio quello. Se ci fosse una preferenza da parte mia, non vorrei certo alcun aiuto. Comunque, ti dico cosa puoi fare, se vuoi, e anche in questo momento stesso.”

“Cos’è quello?” chiese Tom.

“Leggimi ad alta voce.”

“Ne sarò molto felice,” esclamò Tom, afferrando la candela con entusiasmo. “Scusatemi se vi lascio al buio per un momento; vado subito a prendere un libro. Di cosa avete voglia? Shakespeare?”

“Sì!” rispose il suo amico, sbadigliando e stiracchiandosi. “Andrà bene. Sono stanco del trambusto di oggi, della novità di tutto ciò che mi circonda; in questi casi, non c’è lusso più grande al mondo, penso, che farsi leggere qualcosa fino ad addormentarsi. Non ti dispiacerà se vado a dormire, vero?”

“Assolutamente no!” gridò Tom.

“Allora inizia pure quando vuoi. Non c’è bisogno di smettere non appena mi vedi addormentarmi (a meno che tu non sia stanco), perché è piacevole risvegliarsi gradualmente al suono di quelle voci. L’hai mai provato?”

“No, non l’ho mai provato,” disse Tom.

‘Beh! Puoi farlo, sai, uno di questi giorni, quando entrambi saremo nello stesso umore. Non ti preoccupare di tenermi all’oscuro. Stai attento!’

Il signor Pinch non perse tempo ad allontanarsi; in un minuto o due tornò con uno dei preziosi volumi dall’ scaffale accanto al suo letto. Nel frattempo, Martin si era sistemato il più comodamente possibile, utilizzando tre sedie e lo sgabello di Mercy come cuscino per costruire un divano temporaneo davanti al focolare, poi vi si sdraiò completamente.

“Per favore, non fare troppo rumore,” disse a Pinch.

“No, no,” disse Tom.

“Sei sicuro di non avere freddo?”

“Assolutamente no!” gridò Tom.

“Allora, sono davvero pronto.”

Pertanto, il signor Pinch, dopo aver sfogliato le pagine del suo libro con la stessa cura con cui avrebbe trattato creature viventi e molto care a lui, fece la sua scelta e iniziò a leggere. Prima ancora di arrivare alle cinquanta righe, il suo amico aveva già iniziato a russare.

“Povero ragazzo, ”, disse Tom sottovoce, mentre sporgeva la testa per guardarlo oltre le spalle delle sedie. “È troppo giovane per avere tanti problemi. Che fiducia e generosità da parte sua nel affidarmi tutto questo. E quella era lei, vero?”

Ma all’improvviso, ricordandosi del loro accordo, riprese a leggere il poema dal punto in cui si era interrotto; continuò a leggere senza mai spegnere la candela, fino a quando la sua stoppa non assunse l’aspetto di un fungo. Divenne talmente assorto nella lettura che dimenticò completamente di rifornire il fuoco; solo dopo circa un’ora, quando Martin Chuzzlewit riaccese la candela tremando per il freddo, si rese conto del proprio errore.

“Ma guarda, sta per finire davvero! Non c’è da meravigliarsi che abbia sognato di congelarmi. Chiamate subito qualcuno a portare del carbone. Che tipo sei tu, Pinch!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

IN WHICH MR CHEVY SLYME ASSERTS THE INDEPENDENCE OF HIS SPIRIT, AND THE BLUE DRAGON LOSES A LIMB

Martin began to work at the grammar-school next morning, with so much vigour and expedition, that Mr Pinch had new reason to do homage to the natural endowments of that young gentleman, and to acknowledge his infinite superiority to himself. The new pupil received Tom’s compliments very graciously; and having by this time conceived a real regard for him, in his own peculiar way, predicted that they would always be the very best of friends, and that neither of them, he was certain (but particularly Tom), would ever have reason to regret the day on which they became acquainted. Mr Pinch was delighted to hear him say this, and felt so much flattered by his kind assurances of friendship and protection, that he was at a loss how to express the pleasure they afforded him. And indeed it may be observed of this friendship, such as it was, that it had within it more likely materials of endurance than many a sworn brotherhood that has been rich in promise; for so long as the one party found a pleasure in patronizing, and the other in being patronised (which was in the very essence of their respective characters), it was of all possible events among the least probable, that the twin demons, Envy and Pride, would ever arise between them. So in very many cases of friendship, or what passes for it, the old axiom is reversed, and like clings to unlike more than to like.

They were both very busy on the afternoon succeeding the family’s departure—Martin with the grammar-school, and Tom in balancing certain receipts of rents, and deducting Mr Pecksniff’s commission from the same; in which abstruse employment he was much distracted by a habit his new friend had of whistling aloud while he was drawing—when they were not a little startled by the unexpected obtrusion into that sanctuary of genius, of a human head which, although a shaggy and somewhat alarming head in appearance, smiled affably upon them from the doorway, in a manner that was at once waggish, conciliatory, and expressive of approbation.

‘I am not industrious myself, gents both,’ said the head, ‘but I know how to appreciate that quality in others. I wish I may turn grey and ugly, if it isn’t in my opinion, next to genius, one of the very charmingest qualities of the human mind. Upon my soul, I am grateful to my friend Pecksniff for helping me to the contemplation of such a delicious picture as you present. You remind me of Whittington, afterwards thrice Lord Mayor of London. I give you my unsullied word of honour, that you very strongly remind me of that historical character. You are a pair of Whittingtons, gents, without the cat; which is a most agreeable and blessed exception to me, for I am not attached to the feline species. My name is Tigg; how do you do?’

Martin looked to Mr Pinch for an explanation; and Tom, who had never in his life set eyes on Mr Tigg before, looked to that gentleman himself.

‘Chevy Slyme?’ said Mr Tigg, interrogatively, and kissing his left hand in token of friendship. ‘You will understand me when I say that I am the accredited agent of Chevy Slyme; that I am the ambassador from the court of Chiv? Ha ha!’

‘Heyday!’ asked Martin, starting at the mention of a name he knew. ‘Pray, what does he want with me?’

‘If your name is Pinch’—Mr Tigg began.

‘It is not’ said Martin, checking himself. ‘That is Mr Pinch.’

‘If that is Mr Pinch,’ cried Tigg, kissing his hand again, and beginning to follow his head into the room, ‘he will permit me to say that I greatly esteem and respect his character, which has been most highly commended to me by my friend Pecksniff; and that I deeply appreciate his talent for the organ, notwithstanding that I do not, if I may use the expression, grind myself. If that is Mr Pinch, I will venture to express a hope that I see him well, and that he is suffering no inconvenience from the easterly wind?’

‘Thank you,’ said Tom. ‘I am very well.’

‘That is a comfort,’ Mr Tigg rejoined. ‘Then,’ he added, shielding his lips with the palm of his hand, and applying them close to Mr Pinch’s ear, ‘I have come for the letter.’

‘For the letter,’ said Tom, aloud. ‘What letter?’

‘The letter,’ whispered Tigg in the same cautious manner as before, ‘which my friend Pecksniff addressed to Chevy Slyme, Esquire, and left with you.’

‘He didn’t leave any letter with me,’ said Tom.

‘Hush!’ cried the other. ‘It’s all the same thing, though not so delicately done by my friend Pecksniff as I could have wished. The money.’

‘The money!’ cried Tom quite scared.

‘Exactly so,’ said Mr Tigg. With which he rapped Tom twice or thrice upon the breast and nodded several times, as though he would say that he saw they understood each other; that it was unnecessary to mention the circumstance before a third person; and that he would take it as a particular favour if Tom would slip the amount into his hand, as quietly as possible.

Mr Pinch, however, was so very much astounded by this (to him) inexplicable deportment, that he at once openly declared there must be some mistake, and that he had been entrusted with no commission whatever having any reference to Mr Tigg or to his friend, either. Mr Tigg received this declaration with a grave request that Mr Pinch would have the goodness to make it again; and on Tom’s repeating it in a still more emphatic and unmistakable manner, checked it off, sentence for sentence, by nodding his head solemnly at the end of each. When it had come to a close for the second time, Mr Tigg sat himself down in a chair and addressed the young men as follows:

‘Then I tell you what it is, gents both. There is at this present moment in this very place, a perfect constellation of talent and genius, who is involved, through what I cannot but designate as the culpable negligence of my friend Pecksniff, in a situation as tremendous, perhaps, as the social intercourse of the nineteenth century will readily admit of. There is actually at this instant, at the Blue Dragon in this village—an ale-house, observe; a common, paltry, low-minded, clodhopping, pipe-smoking ale-house—an individual, of whom it may be said, in the language of the Poet, that nobody but himself can in any way come up to him; who is detained there for his bill. Ha! ha! For his bill. I repeat it—for his bill. Now,’ said Mr Tigg, ‘we have heard of Fox’s Book of Martyrs, I believe, and we have heard of the Court of Requests, and the Star Chamber; but I fear the contradiction of no man alive or dead, when I assert that my friend Chevy Slyme being held in pawn for a bill, beats any amount of cockfighting with which I am acquainted.’

CAPITOLO SETTE

In cui il signor Chevy Slime afferma l’indipendenza della sua anima, e il Drago Blu perde un arto.

Il giorno seguente, Martin iniziò a lavorare nella scuola media con tale vigore e efficienza che il signor Pinch ebbe nuove ragioni per ammirare i talenti naturali di quel giovane gentiluomo e riconoscere la sua infinita superiorità rispetto a sé stesso. Il nuovo alunno accettò molto gentilmente gli elogi di Tom; e, avendo ormai sviluppato per lui un vero affetto, predisse che sarebbero sempre stati i migliori amici e che nessuno dei due, ne era certo (soprattutto Tom), avrebbe mai avuto motivo di rimpiangere il giorno in cui si erano conosciuti. Il signor Pinch fu molto felice di sentirlo dire queste cose e si sentì profondamente lusingato dalle sue gentili dichiarazioni d’amicizia e protezione; non sapeva proprio come esprimere la gioia che gli procuravano. In effetti, si può affermare che quel tipo di amicizia contenesse elementi più solidi per durare nel tempo rispetto a molte altre promettenti alleanze: finché una delle parti trovava piacere nell’offrire protezione e l’altra nel riceverla (e questo era proprio nell’essenza dei loro caratteri rispettivi), era molto improbabile che tra di loro sorgessero sentimenti negativi come invidia o orgoglio. In molti casi, dunque, l’antico detto si ribalta: le persone simili tendono a legarsi più facilmente a quelle diverse da sé rispetto a quelle simili.

Erano entrambi molto impegnati il pomeriggio successivo alla partenza della famiglia: Martin con la scuola media, e Tom a verificare alcune ricevute relative agli affitti e a detrarre la commissione del signor Pecksniff da esse; in quell’attività complessa, Tom veniva spesso distratto dall’abitudine del suo nuovo amico di fischiare ad alta voce mentre disegnava. Quando, improvvisamente, una testa umana fece irruzione in quel “sanctuario del genio”, loro rimasero piuttosto sorpresi: quella testa, sebbene dall’aspetto arruffato e un po’ inquietante, li sorrise affabilmente dalla soglia, con un’espressione che era al contempo scherzosa, conciliante e piena di approvazione.

“Anch’io personalmente non sono molto laborioso, signori,” disse il capo, “ma so come apprezzare questa qualità negli altri. Vorrei diventare grigio e brutto, se non fosse che, a mio parere, accanto al genio, questa è una delle qualità più affascinanti dell’intelligenza umana. Sul mio ‘anima, sono grato al mio amico Pecksniff per avermi aiutato a contemplare un quadro così delizioso come quello che avete davanti agli occhi. Mi ricordate Whittington, che in seguito divenne tre volte Lord Mayor di )Londra. Vi do la mia parola d’onore, vi assomigliate molto a quel personaggio storico. Siete davvero una coppia di Whittington, signori, senza però il gatto; il che, per me, è un’eccezione molto piacevole e fortunata, poiché non ho alcuna affinità con i felini. Il mio nome è Tigg; come state?”

Martin chiese spiegazioni a Mr Pinch; mentre Tom, che in tutta la sua vita non aveva mai visto Mr Tigg prima d’allora, guardò direttamente quel signore stesso.

“Chevy Slyme?” chiese Mr Tigg con tono interrogativo, baciandosi la mano sinistra in segno di amicizia. “Capirai quando ti dirò che sono l’agente ufficiale di Chevy Slyme; che sono l’inviato della >corte di Chiv. Ha ha!”

“L’apice delle mie fortune!”, esclamò Martin non appena sentì menzionare quel nome che conosceva.
“Per favore, cosa vuole da me?”

“Se il tuo nome è Pinch, ” – iniziò il signor Tigg.

“Non è così”, disse Martin, controllandosi. “Quello è il signor Pinch.”

“Se quello è il signor Pinch,” esclamò Tigg, baciandogli di nuovo la mano e iniziando a seguirlo nella stanza, “allora mi permetterà sicuramente di dire che stimo molto il suo carattere, del quale mio amico Pecksniff mi ha parlato con grande entusiasmo; inoltre apprezzo profondamente il suo talento per l’organo, anche se, beh, non mi dedico assiduamente a questo hobby. Se quello è davvero il signor Pinch, oso sperare che stia bene e che non soffra a causa del vento orientale, ”

“Grazie,” disse Tom. “Sto molto bene.”

“Questo è un conforto,” riprese il signor Tigg. “Allora,” aggiunse, coprendosi le labbra con il palmo della mano e avvicinandole all’orecchio del signor Pinch, “sono venuto per quella lettera.”

“Per quella lettera, ”, disse Tom ad alta voce. “Quale lettera?”

“La lettera,” sussurrò Tigg con lo stesso tono cauto di prima,
“quella che il mio amico Pecksniff ha indirizzato a Chevy Slyme, Esquire, e che vi ha lasciato.”

“Non mi ha lasciato nessuna lettera,” disse Tom.

“Zitta!” gridò l’altro. “È la stessa cosa, anche se non è stata eseguita con la stessa delicatezza da mio amico Pecksniff come avrei voluto. Quel denaro.”

“Il denaro!” gridò Tom, molto spaventato.

“Esattamente,” disse il signor Tigg. Poi batté due o tre volte sulla spalla di Tom e annuì più volte, come per dire che capiva che si erano intesi; che non era necessario menzionare quella circostanza davanti a una terza persona; e che avrebbe considerato un grande favore se Tom gli avesse passato la somma di denaro il più silenziosamente possibile.

Tuttavia, il signor Pinch fu così profondamente sbalordito da questo comportamento (per lui) inesplicabile, che dichiarò immediatamente apertamente che doveva esserci qualche errore, e che non gli era stato affidato alcun incarico relativo al signor Tigg o al suo amico. Il signor Tigg accolse questa dichiarazione con una richiesta molto seria, chiedendo al signor Pinch di ripeterla; e quando Tom la ripeté in modo ancora più enfatico e inequivocabile, il signor Tigg la verificò parola per parola, annuendo solennemente alla fine di ogni frase. Quando arrivò alla fine per la seconda volta, il signor Tigg si sedette su una sedia e si rivolse ai giovani nel seguente modo:

“Allora vi dico di cosa si tratta, signori. In questo preciso momento, in questo stesso luogo, c’è una combinazione perfetta di talento e genio, persone coinvolte, a causa della negligenza colpevole di mio amico Pecksniff, in una situazione forse davvero straordinaria, come solo le interazioni sociali del XIX secolo possono permettersi. In questo preciso istante, al Blue Dragon di questo villaggio, un semplice, umile, meschino pub, c’è un individuo, per usare le parole di un poeta, di cui nessun altro può eguagliare il livello; e lui è lì trattenuto a causa del suo conto. Ah! Ah, a causa del suo conto. Lo ripeto: a causa del suo conto.” “Ora,” proseguì Mr Tigg, “abbiamo sentito parlare del ‘Libro dei Martiri’ di Fox, e anche della Corte delle Richieste e della Camera Stellata. Ma non temo alcuna obiezione da parte di nessuno, vivo o morto, quando affermo che mio amico Chevy Slyme, trattenuto in pegno per un conto, rappresenta qualcosa di davvero straordinario, molto più di qualsiasi combattimento di galli di cui io abbia conoscenza.”

Martin and Mr Pinch looked, first at each other, and afterwards at Mr Tigg, who with his arms folded on his breast surveyed them, half in despondency and half in bitterness.

‘Don’t mistake me, gents both,’ he said, stretching forth his right hand. ‘If it had been for anything but a bill, I could have borne it, and could still have looked upon mankind with some feeling of respect; but when such a man as my friend Slyme is detained for a score—a thing in itself essentially mean; a low performance on a slate, or possibly chalked upon the back of a door—I do feel that there is a screw of such magnitude loose somewhere, that the whole framework of society is shaken, and the very first principles of things can no longer be trusted. In short, gents both,’ said Mr Tigg with a passionate flourish of his hands and head, ‘when a man like Slyme is detained for such a thing as a bill, I reject the superstitions of ages, and believe nothing. I don’t even believe that I DON’T believe, curse me if I do!’

‘I am very sorry, I am sure,’ said Tom after a pause, ‘but Mr Pecksniff said nothing to me about it, and I couldn’t act without his instructions. Wouldn’t it be better, sir, if you were to go to—to wherever you came from—yourself, and remit the money to your friend?’

‘How can that be done, when I am detained also?’ said Mr Tigg; ‘and when moreover, owing to the astounding, and I must add, guilty negligence of my friend Pecksniff, I have no money for coach-hire?’

Tom thought of reminding the gentleman (who, no doubt, in his agitation had forgotten it) that there was a post-office in the land; and that possibly if he wrote to some friend or agent for a remittance it might not be lost upon the road; or at all events that the chance, however desperate, was worth trusting to. But, as his good-nature presently suggested to him certain reasons for abstaining from this hint, he paused again, and then asked:

‘Did you say, sir, that you were detained also?’

‘Come here,’ said Mr Tigg, rising. ‘You have no objection to my opening this window for a moment?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Tom.

‘Very good,’ said Mr Tigg, lifting the sash. ‘You see a fellow down there in a red neckcloth and no waistcoat?’

‘Of course I do,’ cried Tom. ‘That’s Mark Tapley.’

‘Mark Tapley is it?’ said the gentleman. ‘Then Mark Tapley had not only the great politeness to follow me to this house, but is waiting now, to see me home again. And for that attention, sir,’ added Mr Tigg, stroking his moustache, ‘I can tell you, that Mark Tapley had better in his infancy have been fed to suffocation by Mrs Tapley, than preserved to this time.’

Mr Pinch was not so dismayed by this terrible threat, but that he had voice enough to call to Mark to come in, and upstairs; a summons which he so speedily obeyed, that almost as soon as Tom and Mr Tigg had drawn in their heads and closed the window again, he, the denounced, appeared before them.

‘Come here, Mark!’ said Mr Pinch. ‘Good gracious me! what’s the matter between Mrs Lupin and this gentleman?’

‘What gentleman, sir?’ said Mark. ‘I don’t see no gentleman here sir, excepting you and the new gentleman,’ to whom he made a rough kind of bow—‘and there’s nothing wrong between Mrs Lupin and either of you, Mr Pinch, I am sure.’

‘Nonsense, Mark!’ cried Tom. ‘You see Mr—’

‘Tigg,’ interposed that gentleman. ‘Wait a bit. I shall crush him soon. All in good time!’

‘Oh HIM!’ rejoined Mark, with an air of careless defiance. ‘Yes, I see HIM. I could see him a little better, if he’d shave himself, and get his hair cut.’

Mr Tigg shook his head with a ferocious look, and smote himself once upon the breast.

‘It’s no use,’ said Mark. ‘If you knock ever so much in that quarter, you’ll get no answer. I know better. There’s nothing there but padding; and a greasy sort it is.’

‘Nay, Mark,’ urged Mr Pinch, interposing to prevent hostilities, ‘tell me what I ask you. You’re not out of temper, I hope?’

‘Out of temper, sir!’ cried Mark, with a grin; ‘why no, sir. There’s a little credit—not much—in being jolly, when such fellows as him is a-going about like roaring lions; if there is any breed of lions, at least, as is all roar and mane. What is there between him and Mrs Lupin, sir? Why, there’s a score between him and Mrs Lupin. And I think Mrs Lupin lets him and his friend off very easy in not charging ‘em double prices for being a disgrace to the Dragon. That’s my opinion. I wouldn’t have any such Peter the Wild Boy as him in my house, sir, not if I was paid race-week prices for it. He’s enough to turn the very beer in the casks sour with his looks; he is! So he would, if it had judgment enough.’

‘You’re not answering my question, you know, Mark,’ observed Mr Pinch.

‘Well, sir,’ said Mark, ‘I don’t know as there’s much to answer further than that. Him and his friend goes and stops at the Moon and Stars till they’ve run a bill there; and then comes and stops with us and does the same. The running of bills is common enough Mr Pinch; it an’t that as we object to; it’s the ways of this chap. Nothing’s good enough for him; all the women is dying for him he thinks, and is overpaid if he winks at ‘em; and all the men was made to be ordered about by him. This not being aggravation enough, he says this morning to me, in his usual captivating way, “We’re going to-night, my man.” “Are you, sir?” says I. “Perhaps you’d like the bill got ready, sir?” “Oh no, my man,” he says; “you needn’t mind that. I’ll give Pecksniff orders to see to that.” In reply to which, the Dragon makes answer, “Thankee, sir, you’re very kind to honour us so far, but as we don’t know any particular good of you, and you don’t travel with luggage, and Mr Pecksniff an’t at home (which perhaps you mayn’t happen to be aware of, sir), we should prefer something more satisfactory;” and that’s where the matter stands. And I ask,’ said Mr Tapley, pointing, in conclusion, to Mr Tigg, with his hat, ‘any lady or gentleman, possessing ordinary strength of mind, to say whether he’s a disagreeable-looking chap or not!’

Martin e il signor Pinch si guardarono prima l’uno con l’altro, poi fissarono il signor Tigg, che li osservava con le braccia incrociate sul petto, con un’espressione a metà di disperazione e a metà di amarezza.

“Non fraintendetemi, signori,” disse, tendendo la mano destra. “Se si fosse trattato di qualcos’altro che un conto da pagare, avrei potuto sopportarlo e continuare a guardare l’umanità con un certo rispetto; ma quando una persona come mio amico Slyme viene trattenuta per una somma così piccola – una cosa in sé di scarsa importanza, magari solo scritta su una lavagna o addirittura sul dorso di una porta – allora sì che mi sembra che qualcosa di fondamentale nella struttura della società sia andato storto, e che i principi più basilari non possano più essere considerati affidabili. In breve, signori,” concluse il signor Tigg, gesticolando con fervore, “quando una persona come Slyme viene trattenuta per una questione del genere, rifiuto tutte le superstizioni accumulate nel corso dei secoli, e non credo più in nulla. Anzi, non credo nemmeno di non crederci. Maledizione!”

“Mi dispiace molto, ne sono sicuro,” disse Tom dopo una pausa, “ma il signor Pecksniff non mi ha detto nulla al riguardo, e non avrei potuto agire senza le sue istruzioni. Non sarebbe meglio, signore, se lei andasse personalmente, doveunque sia venuto, e inviasse i soldi a suo amico?”

“Come è possibile farlo, se anch’io sono trattenuto?” disse il signor Tigg; “e inoltre, a causa della terribile – e devo aggiungere, colpevole – negligenza di mio amico Pecksniff, non ho nemmeno i soldi per noleggiare una carrozza.”

Tom pensò di ricordare al gentiluomo (che, senza dubbio, nella sua agitazione doveva averlo dimenticato) che esisteva una posta in quel luogo; e che forse, se avesse scritto a un amico o a un intermediario per chiedere un rimborso, il denaro non sarebbe andato perso lungo la strada; o comunque, anche se la possibilità sembrava disperata, valeva la pena provarci. Ma, poiché la sua buona natura gli suggerì subito alcuni motivi per astenersi da questo consiglio, esitò di nuovo e poi chiese:

“Ha detto davvero, signore, che anche lei è stato trattenuto?”

“Vieni qui,” disse il signor Tigg alzandosi. “Non hai obiezioni se apro questa finestra per un momento?”

“Certamente no,” disse Tom.

“Molto bene,” disse il signor Tigg, sollevando la cintura. “Vedete quel tizio laggiù, con il colletto rosso e senza gilet?”

“Certo che lo conosco,” gridò Tom. “Quello è Mark Tapley.”

“‘Mark Tapley?’ disse il gentiluomo. “Allora Mark Tapley non solo ha avuto la grande cortesia di seguirmi in questa casa, ma sta anche aspettando ora per accompagnarmi di nuovo a casa. E per tale attenzione, signore,” aggiunse il signor Tigg accarezzandosi la barba, “posso dirvi che sarebbe stato meglio per Mark Tapley essere soffocato da sua madre quando era bambino, piuttosto che sopravvivere fino a questo momento.”

Il signor Pinch non fu così scoraggiato da questa terribile minaccia; anzi, aveva abbastanza voce per chiamare Mark e farlo salire al piano di sopra. A quell’invito Mark obbedì immediatamente: quasi nel momento stesso in cui Tom e il signor Tigg avevano tirato dentro la testa e richiuso la finestra, lui, il denunciato, apparve davanti a loro.

“Vieni qui, Mark!” disse il signor Pinch. “Mio Dio, che cosa sta succedendo tra la signora Lupin e questo gentiluomo?”

“Quale gentiluomo, signore?”, disse Mark. “Non vedo nessun gentiluomo qui, signore, tranne voi e quel nuovo gentiluomo, ”, aggiunse facendo un inchino goffo verso di lui. “E sono sicuro che non ci sia nulla tra la signora Lupin e nessuno di voi due, signor Pinch.”

“Sciocchezze, Mark!”, esclamò Tom. “Vedi il signor, ”

“Tigg,” intervenne quel gentiluomo. “Aspetta un attimo. Presto lo schiacerò. Tutto a suo tempo!”

“Oh LUI!” esclamò Mark con un tono di disinvolta sfida. “Sì, lo vedo. Lo potrei vedere ancora meglio se si rasasse e si tagliasse i capelli.”

Il signor Tigg scosse la testa con un’espressione feroce e si colpì una volta il petto.

“Non serve a nulla,” disse Mark. “Per quanto tu bussi in quella zona, non otterrai alcuna risposta. Lo so bene: lì dentro non c’è niente se non imbottitura, e di tipo molto untuoso, per giunta.”

“No, Mark,” insistette il signor Pinch, intervenendo per evitare che scoppiassero ostilità, “dimmi ciò che ti chiedo. Spero tu non sia di cattivo umore, ”

“Sono di cattivo umore, signore!” gridò Mark, sorridendo; “E perché no, signore? C’è pur qualcosa di lodevole, anche se poco, nell’essere felici, quando ci sono individui come lui che si comportano come leoni ruggenti; almeno, se esistono davvero leoni del genere. Quello che c’è tra lui e la signora Lupin, signore? Beh, ci sono molte cose in gioco. E penso che la signora Lupin sia molto tollerante con lui e il suo amico, per non far loro pagare prezzi doppi solo perché rappresentano una vergogna per il “Drago”. Questa è la mia opinione. Io, personalmente, non vorrei avere in casa un individuo del genere, nemmeno se mi pagassero cifre astronomiche. Il suo aspetto è così disgustoso da far marcire persino la birra nelle botti. Davvero! E sarebbe ancora peggio se avesse anche un minimo di buon senso.”

“Non stai rispondendo alla mia domanda, lo sai, Mark,” osservò il signor Pinch.

“Beh, signore,” disse Mark, “non so davvero cosa ci sia altro da aggiungere. Lui e il suo amico vanno da la Luna e dalle Stelle finché non hanno saldato i loro conti lì; poi vengono da noi e fanno lo stesso. Saldare i conti è una cosa abbastanza comune, signor Pinch. Non è questo che ci dispiace; è il modo in cui si comporta quest’uomo. Niente gli sembra mai abbastanza buono: pensa che tutte le donne siano innamorate di lui e che venga pagato troppo se solo li lusinga un po’; inoltre, tutti gli uomini dovrebbero obbedire ai suoi ordini. E per farla breve, stamattina mi ha detto, con quel suo solito modo affascinante: ‘Stasera andremo, ’ ‘Davvero, signore?’ ho risposto io. ‘Forse vorrebbe che il conto fosse pronto, signore?’ ‘Oh no,’ ha detto lui; ‘non ci pensi nemmeno. Dirò a Pecksniff di occuparsene.’ A questo, il Dragon ha replicato: ‘Grazie, signore. È molto gentile da parte sua onorarci in questo modo. Ma poiché non conosciamo alcun vero merito suo, e lei non viaggia con bagagli, e il signor Pecksniff non è a casa (forse lei non lo sa, signore), preferiremmo qualcosa di più sicuro, ’ E così stanno le cose.” “E io chiedo,” disse Mr Tapley, indicando infine il signor Tigg con il suo cappello, “se qualche signora o signore, dotato di un minimo di buon senso, potrebbe dire se sia davvero un tipo sgradevole da avere intorno, ”

‘Let me inquire,’ said Martin, interposing between this candid speech and the delivery of some blighting anathema by Mr Tigg, ‘what the amount of this debt may be?’

‘In point of money, sir, very little,’ answered Mark. ‘Only just turned of three pounds. But it an’t that; it’s the—’

‘Yes, yes, you told us so before,’ said Martin. ‘Pinch, a word with you.’

‘What is it?’ asked Tom, retiring with him to a corner of the room.

‘Why, simply—I am ashamed to say—that this Mr Slyme is a relation of mine, of whom I never heard anything pleasant; and that I don’t want him here just now, and think he would be cheaply got rid of, perhaps, for three or four pounds. You haven’t enough money to pay this bill, I suppose?’

Tom shook his head to an extent that left no doubt of his entire sincerity.

‘That’s unfortunate, for I am poor too; and in case you had had it, I’d have borrowed it of you. But if we told this landlady we would see her paid, I suppose that would answer the same purpose?’

‘Oh dear, yes!’ said Tom. ‘She knows me, bless you!’

‘Then let us go down at once and tell her so; for the sooner we are rid of their company the better. As you have conducted the conversation with this gentleman hitherto, perhaps you’ll tell him what we purpose doing; will you?’

Mr Pinch, complying, at once imparted the intelligence to Mr Tigg, who shook him warmly by the hand in return, assuring him that his faith in anything and everything was again restored. It was not so much, he said, for the temporary relief of this assistance that he prized it, as for its vindication of the high principle that Nature’s Nobs felt with Nature’s Nobs, and that true greatness of soul sympathized with true greatness of soul, all the world over. It proved to him, he said, that like him they admired genius, even when it was coupled with the alloy occasionally visible in the metal of his friend Slyme; and on behalf of that friend, he thanked them; as warmly and heartily as if the cause were his own. Being cut short in these speeches by a general move towards the stairs, he took possession at the street door of the lapel of Mr Pinch’s coat, as a security against further interruption; and entertained that gentleman with some highly improving discourse until they reached the Dragon, whither they were closely followed by Mark and the new pupil.

The rosy hostess scarcely needed Mr Pinch’s word as a preliminary to the release of her two visitors, of whom she was glad to be rid on any terms; indeed, their brief detention had originated mainly with Mr Tapley, who entertained a constitutional dislike to gentleman out-at-elbows who flourished on false pretences; and had conceived a particular aversion to Mr Tigg and his friend, as choice specimens of the species. The business in hand thus easily settled, Mr Pinch and Martin would have withdrawn immediately, but for the urgent entreaties of Mr Tigg that they would allow him the honour of presenting them to his friend Slyme, which were so very difficult of resistance that, yielding partly to these persuasions and partly to their own curiosity, they suffered themselves to be ushered into the presence of that distinguished gentleman.

He was brooding over the remains of yesterday’s decanter of brandy, and was engaged in the thoughtful occupation of making a chain of rings on the top of the table with the wet foot of his drinking-glass. Wretched and forlorn as he looked, Mr Slyme had once been in his way, the choicest of swaggerers; putting forth his pretensions boldly, as a man of infinite taste and most undoubted promise. The stock-in-trade requisite to set up an amateur in this department of business is very slight, and easily got together; a trick of the nose and a curl of the lip sufficient to compound a tolerable sneer, being ample provision for any exigency. But, in an evil hour, this off-shoot of the Chuzzlewit trunk, being lazy, and ill qualified for any regular pursuit and having dissipated such means as he ever possessed, had formally established himself as a professor of Taste for a livelihood; and finding, too late, that something more than his old amount of qualifications was necessary to sustain him in this calling, had quickly fallen to his present level, where he retained nothing of his old self but his boastfulness and his bile, and seemed to have no existence separate or apart from his friend Tigg. And now so abject and so pitiful was he—at once so maudlin, insolent, beggarly, and proud—that even his friend and parasite, standing erect beside him, swelled into a Man by contrast.

‘Chiv,’ said Mr Tigg, clapping him on the back, ‘my friend Pecksniff not being at home, I have arranged our trifling piece of business with Mr Pinch and friend. Mr Pinch and friend, Mr Chevy Slyme! Chiv, Mr Pinch and friend!’

‘These are agreeable circumstances in which to be introduced to strangers,’ said Chevy Slyme, turning his bloodshot eyes towards Tom Pinch. ‘I am the most miserable man in the world, I believe!’

Tom begged he wouldn’t mention it; and finding him in this condition, retired, after an awkward pause, followed by Martin. But Mr Tigg so urgently conjured them, by coughs and signs, to remain in the shadow of the door, that they stopped there.

‘I swear,’ cried Mr Slyme, giving the table an imbecile blow with his fist, and then feebly leaning his head upon his hand, while some drunken drops oozed from his eyes, ‘that I am the wretchedest creature on record. Society is in a conspiracy against me. I’m the most literary man alive. I’m full of scholarship. I’m full of genius; I’m full of information; I’m full of novel views on every subject; yet look at my condition! I’m at this moment obliged to two strangers for a tavern bill!’

Mr Tigg replenished his friend’s glass, pressed it into his hand, and nodded an intimation to the visitors that they would see him in a better aspect immediately.

“Permettetemi di chiedere,” disse Martin, intervenendo tra questo sincero discorso e l’emissione di qualche maledizione distruttiva da parte del signor Tigg, “di quanto ammonti esattamente questo debito?”

“Per quanto riguarda i soldi, signore, molto pochi,” rispose Mark. “Appena tre sterline. Ma non è questo il problema, è il–”

“Sì, sì, me l’avevate detto anche prima,” disse Martin. “Un attimo, devo parlarti.”

“Che cos’è?” chiese Tom, allontanandosi con lui in un angolo della stanza.

“Beh, semplicemente, mi vergogno ad ammetterlo, ma questo signor Slyme è un mio parente, di cui non ho mai sentito nulla di positivo; inoltre, in questo momento non voglio che sia qui, e penso che si possa sbarazzarsi di lui facilmente, forse per tre o quattro sterline. Immagino che non abbiate abbastanza soldi per pagare il conto, vero?”

Tom scosse la testa in modo tale che non rimase alcun >dubbio sulla sua totale sincerità.

“È davvero sfortunato, anch’io sono povero; e se l’avessi avuto, te lo avrei prestato. Ma se dicessimo a questa padrona di casa che ci occuperemo noi di pagarla, credo che otterremmo lo stesso risultato.”

“Oddio, sì!”, disse Tom. “Mi conosce, grazie al cielo!”

“Allora andiamo subito a dirglielo; tanto più presto ci libereremo della loro compagnia, meglio sarà. Poiché sei stata tu ad avere questa conversazione con questo signore finora, forse potresti dirgli quale intenzione abbiamo; vuoi farlo?”

Il signor Pinch, obbedendo all’ordine ricevuto, immediatamente comunicò la notizia al signor Tigg, il quale gli strinse calorosamente la mano in segno di ringraziamento, assicurandogli che la sua >fede in tutto e per tutto era stata nuovamente ristabilita. Disse che non era tanto la temporanea assistenza ricevuta ad essere preziosa per lui, quanto il fatto che essa avvalorasse il principio fondamentale condiviso da tutti coloro che si attenevano alle leggi della >Natura: ovvero che la vera _grandezza dell’‘anima andava di pari passo con la vera _grandezza dell’anima, in tutto il mondo. Gli dimostrò, inoltre, che anche loro, come lui, ammiravano il genio, anche quando questo era mescolato a tratti negativi, come quelli talvolta presenti nel carattere del suo amico Slyme; e per conto di quest’ultimo ringraziò tutti quanti con grande calore, come se si trattasse della sua stessa causa. Interrotto in questi discorsi da un movimento generale verso le scale, afferrò alla porta d’uscita il bavero del cappotto del signor Pinch per evitare ulteriori interruzioni; e continuò a conversare con quel gentiluomo su argomenti molto istruttivi fino a quando non raggiunsero il locale chiamato “Il Drago”, dove furono immediatamente seguiti da Mark e dal nuovo allievo.

La gentile padrona di casa non ebbe quasi bisogno delle parole del signor Pinch per permettere ai suoi due ospiti di andarsene; anzi, era felice di liberarsi di loro in qualsiasi modo possibile. In realtà, la loro breve detenzione era stata causata principalmente dal signor Tapley, il quale nutriva un profondo disprezzo per quei gentiluomini che si avvalevano di false pretese per ottenere ciò che volevano; in particolare, provava un’antipatia particolare verso il signor Tigg e il suo amico, considerandoli esempi rappresentativi di quel genere di persone. La questione quindi si risolse facilmente, e il signor Pinch e Martin avrebbero potuto andarsene subito, se non fosse stato per le insistenti suppliche del signor Tigg, che li pregò di concedergli l’onore di presentarli al suo amico Slyme. Queste suppliche erano così difficili da rifiutare che, in parte cedendo a esse e in parte spinti dalla propria curiosità, acconsentirono ad essere introdotti davanti a quel distinto gentiluomo.

Era immerso nei pensieri riguardanti i resti della bottiglia di brandy di ieri, e si dedicava con aria assorta alla complessione di una catena di anelli sulla superficie del tavolo, utilizzando il bordo umido del suo bicchiere da bere. Per quanto apparisse misero e abbandonato, il signor Slyme un tempo era stato uno dei più eleganti e presuntuosi individui: esibiva con audacia le proprie pretese, presentandosi come un uomo dal gusto infinito e dalle maggiori promesse. I mezzi necessari per avviare una “carriera” in questo campo erano molto semplici e facilmente reperibili: un certo modo di muovere il naso e di incurvare le labbra bastavano a comporre uno sguardo sprezzante, più che sufficiente ad affrontare qualsiasi situazione. Ma, in un momento di sfortuna, questo discendente della famiglia Chuzzlewit, essendo pigro e inadatto a qualsiasi attività regolare, e avendo dissipato tutti i mezzi che possedeva, si era ritrovato costretto a guadagnarsi da vivere come “professore di gusto”. Tuttavia, scoprendo troppo tardi che per continuare in questa professione erano necessarie qualità ben superiori a quelle che aveva un tempo, era rapidamente sceso al livello attuale: non gli restava più nulla della sua vecchia personalità, se non la sua presunzione e il suo astio; sembrava non esistere come individuo separato dal suo amico Tigg. Ora era così miserabile e patetico – allo stesso tempo sentimentale, insolente, povero e orgoglioso – che persino il suo amico e parassita, standogli accanto, sembrava diventare una persona “normale” in confronto a lui.

“Chiv,” disse il signor Tigg dandogli una pacca sulla schiena, “poiché il mio amico Pecksniff non è a >casa, ho sistemato la nostra piccola faccenda con il signor Pinch e il suo amico. Il signor Pinch e il suo amico, il signor Chevy Slyme! Chiv, il signor Pinch e il suo amico!”

“Sono circostanze davvero adatte per fare conoscenza con degli sconosciuti,” disse Chevy Slyme, rivolgendo i suoi occhi arrossati verso Tom Pinch. “Credo di essere l’uomo più sfortunato del mondo, ”

Tom pregò che non ne parlasse; e vedendolo in quelle condizioni, dopo un imbarazzante silenzio, se ne andarono, seguiti da Martin. Ma il signor Tigg, con dei colpi di tosse e dei gesti, li esortò con insistenza a rimanere nell’ombra della porta, così che si fermarono lì.

“Giuro,” gridò il signor Slyme, dando alla tavola un colpo stupido con il pugno, poi appoggiando debolmente la testa sulla mano mentre alcune gocce di alcol gli uscivano dagli occhi, “che sono la creatura più sfortunata che esista. La società è in una cospirazione contro di me. Sono l’uomo più colto che ci sia; sono pieno di erudizione, di genio, di informazioni. Ho punti di vista originali su ogni argomento. Eppure guardate la mia situazione! In questo momento sono costretto a chiedere aiuto a due sconosciuti per pagare il conto del taverniere!”

Il signor Tigg riempì di nuovo il bicchiere del suo amico, glielo porse e fece un cenno ai visitatori, indicando che li avrebbe visti in condizioni migliori molto presto.

‘Obliged to two strangers for a tavern bill, eh!’ repeated Mr Slyme, after a sulky application to his glass. ‘Very pretty! And crowds of impostors, the while, becoming famous; men who are no more on a level with me than—Tigg, I take you to witness that I am the most persecuted hound on the face of the earth.’

With a whine, not unlike the cry of the animal he named, in its lowest state of humiliation, he raised his glass to his mouth again. He found some encouragement in it; for when he set it down he laughed scornfully. Upon that Mr Tigg gesticulated to the visitors once more, and with great expression, implying that now the time was come when they would see Chiv in his greatness.

‘Ha, ha, ha,’ laughed Mr Slyme. ‘Obliged to two strangers for a tavern bill! Yet I think I’ve a rich uncle, Tigg, who could buy up the uncles of fifty strangers! Have I, or have I not? I come of a good family, I believe! Do I, or do I not? I’m not a man of common capacity or accomplishments, I think! Am I, or am I not?’

‘You are the American aloe of the human race, my dear Chiv,’ said Mr Tigg, ‘which only blooms once in a hundred years!’

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ laughed Mr Slyme again. ‘Obliged to two strangers for a tavern bill! I obliged to two architect’s apprentices. Fellows who measure earth with iron chains, and build houses like bricklayers. Give me the names of those two apprentices. How dare they oblige me!’

Mr Tigg was quite lost in admiration of this noble trait in his friend’s character; as he made known to Mr Pinch in a neat little ballet of action, spontaneously invented for the purpose.

‘I’ll let ‘em know, and I’ll let all men know,’ cried Chevy Slyme, ‘that I’m none of the mean, grovelling, tame characters they meet with commonly. I have an independent spirit. I have a heart that swells in my bosom. I have a soul that rises superior to base considerations.’

‘Oh Chiv, Chiv,’ murmured Mr Tigg, ‘you have a nobly independent nature, Chiv!’

‘You go and do your duty, sir,’ said Mr Slyme, angrily, ‘and borrow money for travelling expenses; and whoever you borrow it of, let ‘em know that I possess a haughty spirit, and a proud spirit, and have infernally finely-touched chords in my nature, which won’t brook patronage. Do you hear? Tell ‘em I hate ‘em, and that that’s the way I preserve my self-respect; and tell ‘em that no man ever respected himself more than I do!’

He might have added that he hated two sorts of men; all those who did him favours, and all those who were better off than himself; as in either case their position was an insult to a man of his stupendous merits. But he did not; for with the apt closing words above recited, Mr Slyme; of too haughty a stomach to work, to beg, to borrow, or to steal; yet mean enough to be worked or borrowed, begged or stolen for, by any catspaw that would serve his turn; too insolent to lick the hand that fed him in his need, yet cur enough to bite and tear it in the dark; with these apt closing words Mr Slyme fell forward with his head upon the table, and so declined into a sodden sleep.

‘Was there ever,’ cried Mr Tigg, joining the young men at the door, and shutting it carefully behind him, ‘such an independent spirit as is possessed by that extraordinary creature? Was there ever such a Roman as our friend Chiv? Was there ever a man of such a purely classical turn of thought, and of such a toga-like simplicity of nature? Was there ever a man with such a flow of eloquence? Might he not, gents both, I ask, have sat upon a tripod in the ancient times, and prophesied to a perfectly unlimited extent, if previously supplied with gin-and-water at the public cost?’

Mr Pinch was about to contest this latter position with his usual mildness, when, observing that his companion had already gone downstairs, he prepared to follow him.

‘You are not going, Mr Pinch?’ said Tigg.

‘Thank you,’ answered Tom. ‘Yes. Don’t come down.’

‘Do you know that I should like one little word in private with you Mr Pinch?’ said Tigg, following him. ‘One minute of your company in the skittle-ground would very much relieve my mind. Might I beseech that favour?’

‘Oh, certainly,’ replied Tom, ‘if you really wish it.’ So he accompanied Mr Tigg to the retreat in question; on arriving at which place that gentleman took from his hat what seemed to be the fossil remains of an antediluvian pocket-handkerchief, and wiped his eyes therewith.

‘You have not beheld me this day,’ said Mr Tigg, ‘in a favourable light.’

‘Don’t mention that,’ said Tom, ‘I beg.’

‘But you have NOT,’ cried Tigg. ‘I must persist in that opinion. If you could have seen me, Mr Pinch, at the head of my regiment on the coast of Africa, charging in the form of a hollow square, with the women and children and the regimental plate-chest in the centre, you would not have known me for the same man. You would have respected me, sir.’

Tom had certain ideas of his own upon the subject of glory; and consequently he was not quite so much excited by this picture as Mr Tigg could have desired.

‘But no matter!’ said that gentleman. ‘The school-boy writing home to his parents and describing the milk-and-water, said “This is indeed weakness.” I repeat that assertion in reference to myself at the present moment; and I ask your pardon. Sir, you have seen my friend Slyme?’

‘No doubt,’ said Mr Pinch.

‘Sir, you have been impressed by my friend Slyme?’

‘Not very pleasantly, I must say,’ answered Tom, after a little hesitation.

‘I am grieved but not surprised,’ cried Mr Tigg, detaining him with both hands, ‘to hear that you have come to that conclusion; for it is my own. But, Mr Pinch, though I am a rough and thoughtless man, I can honour Mind. I honour Mind in following my friend. To you of all men, Mr Pinch, I have a right to make appeal on Mind’s behalf, when it has not the art to push its fortune in the world. And so, sir—not for myself, who have no claim upon you, but for my crushed, my sensitive and independent friend, who has—I ask the loan of three half-crowns. I ask you for the loan of three half-crowns, distinctly, and without a blush. I ask it, almost as a right. And when I add that they will be returned by post, this week, I feel that you will blame me for that sordid stipulation.’

“Costretto a dovere qualcosa a due sconosciuti per pagare il conto della taverna, eh!”, ripeté il signor Slyme, dopo aver bevuto con aria cupa dal suo bicchiere. “Davvero molto carino. E intanto, folle di impostori diventano famosi; uomini che non sono affatto alla mia stessa levatura. Tigg, giuri che sono il cane più perseguitato sulla faccia della terra.”

Con un lamento simile al grido di quell’animale che aveva chiamato, nel suo stato più profondo di umiliazione, sollevò di nuovo il bicchiere alle labbra. Ne trasse un certo conforto; perché quando lo posò, rise con disprezzo. A quel punto, il signor Tigg fece nuovamente dei gesti ai visitatori, con grande enfasi, indicando che ora era arrivato il momento in cui avrebbero visto Chiv nella sua grandezza.

‘Ha, ha, ha,’ rise il signor Slyme. ‘Costretto a chiedere aiuto a due sconosciuti per pagare il conto della taverna! Eppure credo di avere un zio molto ricco, Tigg, che potrebbe comprare tutti gli zii di cinquanta sconosciuti! Ho ragione o no? Provenisco da una buona famiglia, credo. Ho ragione o no? Non sono certo un uomo di capacità o realizzazioni ordinarie, penso. Ho ragione o no?’

“Sei l’aloe americano dell’umanità, mio caro Chiv,” disse il signor Tigg, “quello che fiorisce soltanto una volta ogni cento anni!”

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ rise di nuovo il signor Slyme. ‘Costretto a chiedere aiuto a due sconosciuti per pagare il conto della taverna! Due apprendisti architetti. Tipi che misurano la terra con catene di ferro e costruiscono case come muratori qualsiasi. Ditemi i nomi di quei due apprendisti. Come osano farmi questo!’

Il signor Tigg era completamente affascinato da questo nobile tratto del carattere di suo amico; e lo fece sapere al signor Pinch attraverso una serie di gesti ben coordinati, inventati apposta per l’occasione.

“Li farò sapere, e farò sapere a tutti,” gridò Chevy Slyme, “che non sono uno di quei personaggi meschini, umilianti e servili che la gente incontra di solito. Ho un spirito indipendente; ho un cuore che si gonfia nel mio petto; ho una ‘anima che si eleva al di sopra di considerazioni volgari.”

“Oh Chiv, Chiv,” mormorò il signor Tigg, “hai una natura nobile e indipendente. Chiv!”

“Vai pure a svolgere il tuo dovere, signore,” disse Mr Slyme con rabbia, “e prendi in prestito dei soldi per le spese di viaggio; e chiunque tu ne prenda in prestito, digli che io ho un carattere orgoglioso e sprezzante, e che nella mia natura ci sono delle sensibilità estremamente delicate, che non tollerano alcun tipo di paternalismo. Hai capito? Digli che li odio, e che è proprio così che mantengo il mio rispetto per me stesso; e digli anche che nessuno si è mai rispettato di più di quanto faccia io!”

Avrebbe potuto aggiungere che odiava due tipi di uomini: tutti coloro che gli facevano del bene, e tutti coloro che erano più fortunati di lui; in entrambi i casi, la loro posizione rappresentava un insulto per una persona dalle sue straordinarie qualità. Ma non lo fece; con le parole conclusive appena citate, il signor Slyme, troppo orgoglioso per lavorare, mendicare, chiedere in prestito o rubare; eppure abbastanza meschino da essere sfruttato, derubato, implorato o rapinato da chiunque fosse disposto a servirgli i suoi scopi, troppo insolente per leccare la mano che lo nutriva nei momenti di bisogno, eppure abbastanza vile da morderla e strapparla nel buio. Con queste parole, il signor Slyme si abbatté in avanti, la testa sul tavolo, e così cadde in un sonno profondo.

“Esistette mai,” gridò il signor Tigg, unendosi ai giovani alla porta e chiudendola con cura dietro di sé, “uno spirito così indipendente come quello posseduto da quella straordinaria creatura? Esistette mai un uomo del genere di nostro amico Chiv? Esistette mai qualcuno con un modo di pensare così puramente classico e una natura così semplice, così ‘toccata’ dalla cultura antica? Esistette mai qualcuno con un tale flusso di eloquenza? Non potrebbe forse, signori miei, in tempi antichi essere salito su un tripode e profetizzare in modo assolutamente illimitato, se solo gli fossero stati forniti gin e acqua a spese pubbliche?”

Il signor Pinch stava per contestare questa ultima affermazione con la sua solita dolcezza, quando, notando che il suo compagno era già sceso al piano di sotto, si preparò a seguirlo.

“Non ci andrà, signor Pinch?” disse Tigg.

“Grazie,” rispose Tom. “Sì, non scendere.”

“Sa che vorrei parlare un attimo in privato con lei, signor Pinch?” disse Tigg, seguendolo. “Un minuto della sua compagnia nel cortile mi aiuterebbe molto a rilassarmi. Potrebbe concedermi questa gentilezza?”

“Oh, certamente,” rispose Tom, “se davvero lo desideri.” Così accompagnò il signor Tigg fino al luogo in questione; arrivati lì, quel gentiluomo tirò fuori dal proprio cappello ciò che sembravano essere i resti fossili di un fazzoletto d’epoca antediluviana e si asciugò gli occhi con esso.

“Oggi non mi avete visto sotto una luce favorevole“, disse il signor Tigg.

“Non parliamone nemmeno,” disse Tom, “te lo prego.”

“Ma voi NON l’avete fatto,” gridò Tigg. “Devo insistere su questa opinione. Se solo aveste potuto vedermi, signor Pinch, alla testa del mio reggimento sulla costa dell’Africa, mentre caricavamo in formazione a quadrato, con donne e bambini al centro e gli scudi del reggimento davanti a noi, non mi avreste riconosciuto. Mi avreste rispettato, signore.”

Tom aveva le sue idee personali riguardo al concetto di gloria; per questo motivo, quella immagine non lo eccitava del tutto quanto il signor Tigg avrebbe desiderato.

“Ma non importa!” disse quel gentiluomo. “Il ragazzo che ha scritto a casa ai suoi genitori descrivendo il latte e l’acqua, ha detto: ‘Questo è davvero un segno di debolezza.’ Ripeto questa affermazione riferendola a me stesso in questo momento; e chiedo scusa. Signore, avete visto mio amico Slyme?”

“Nessun dubbio,” disse il signor Pinch.

“Signore, sono stato impressionato dal mio amico Slyme?”

“Non molto piacevolmente, devo dire,” rispose Tom, dopo un breve esitare.

“Sono addolorato, ma non sorpreso,” esclamò il signor Tigg, trattenendolo con entrambe le mani, “di sapere che siate giunto a tale conclusione; perché è proprio quella che io stesso avrei raggiunto. Ma, signor Pinch, anche se sono un uomo rozzo e impulsivo, so cosa significa onore. Seguo il mio amico per onore. Più di chiunque altro, ho il diritto di chiedervi questo in nome dell’onore. Quando quest’uomo non possiede le capacità necessarie per farsi strada nel mondo. Vi chiedo, senza vergogna, tre mezzo-crown. Come se fosse un mio diritto. E quando aggiungo che vi saranno restituite per posta, questa settimana, temo che mi rimprovererete per questa condizione così meschina, ”

Mr Pinch took from his pocket an old-fashioned red-leather purse with a steel clasp, which had probably once belonged to his deceased grandmother. It held one half-sovereign and no more. All Tom’s worldly wealth until next quarter-day.

‘Stay!’ cried Mr Tigg, who had watched this proceeding keenly. ‘I was just about to say, that for the convenience of posting you had better make it gold. Thank you. A general direction, I suppose, to Mr Pinch at Mr Pecksniff’s—will that find you?’

‘That’ll find me,’ said Tom. ‘You had better put Esquire to Mr Pecksniff’s name, if you please. Direct to me, you know, at Seth Pecksniff’s, Esquire.’

‘At Seth Pecksniff’s, Esquire,’ repeated Mr Tigg, taking an exact note of it with a stump of pencil. ‘We said this week, I believe?’

‘Yes; or Monday will do,’ observed Tom.

‘No, no, I beg your pardon. Monday will NOT do,’ said Mr Tigg. ‘If we stipulated for this week, Saturday is the latest day. Did we stipulate for this week?’

‘Since you are so particular about it,’ said Tom, ‘I think we did.’

Mr Tigg added this condition to his memorandum; read the entry over to himself with a severe frown; and that the transaction might be the more correct and business-like, appended his initials to the whole. That done, he assured Mr Pinch that everything was now perfectly regular; and, after squeezing his hand with great fervour, departed.

Tom entertained enough suspicion that Martin might possibly turn this interview into a jest, to render him desirous to avoid the company of that young gentleman for the present. With this view he took a few turns up and down the skittle-ground, and did not re-enter the house until Mr Tigg and his friend had quitted it, and the new pupil and Mark were watching their departure from one of the windows.

‘I was just a-saying, sir, that if one could live by it,’ observed Mark, pointing after their late guests, ‘that would be the sort of service for me. Waiting on such individuals as them would be better than grave-digging, sir.’

‘And staying here would be better than either, Mark,’ replied Tom. ‘So take my advice, and continue to swim easily in smooth water.’

‘It’s too late to take it now, sir,’ said Mark. ‘I have broke it to her, sir. I am off to-morrow morning.’

‘Off!’ cried Mr Pinch, ‘where to?’

‘I shall go up to London, sir.’

‘What to be?’ asked Mr Pinch.

‘Well! I don’t know yet, sir. Nothing turned up that day I opened my mind to you, as was at all likely to suit me. All them trades I thought of was a deal too jolly; there was no credit at all to be got in any of ‘em. I must look for a private service, I suppose, sir. I might be brought out strong, perhaps, in a serious family, Mr Pinch.’

‘Perhaps you might come out rather too strong for a serious family’s taste, Mark.’

‘That’s possible, sir. If I could get into a wicked family, I might do myself justice; but the difficulty is to make sure of one’s ground, because a young man can’t very well advertise that he wants a place, and wages an’t so much an object as a wicked sitivation; can he, sir?’

‘Why, no,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘I don’t think he can.’

‘An envious family,’ pursued Mark, with a thoughtful face; ‘or a quarrelsome family, or a malicious family, or even a good out-and-out mean family, would open a field of action as I might do something in. The man as would have suited me of all other men was that old gentleman as was took ill here, for he really was a trying customer. Howsever, I must wait and see what turns up, sir; and hope for the worst.’

‘You are determined to go then?’ said Mr Pinch.

‘My box is gone already, sir, by the waggon, and I’m going to walk on to-morrow morning, and get a lift by the day coach when it overtakes me. So I wish you good-bye, Mr Pinch—and you too, sir—and all good luck and happiness!’

They both returned his greeting laughingly, and walked home arm-in-arm. Mr Pinch imparting to his new friend, as they went, such further particulars of Mark Tapley’s whimsical restlessness as the reader is already acquainted with.

In the meantime Mark, having a shrewd notion that his mistress was in very low spirits, and that he could not exactly answer for the consequences of any lengthened TETE-A-TETE in the bar, kept himself obstinately out of her way all the afternoon and evening. In this piece of generalship he was very much assisted by the great influx of company into the taproom; for the news of his intention having gone abroad, there was a perfect throng there all the evening, and much drinking of healths and clinking of mugs. At length the house was closed for the night; and there being now no help for it, Mark put the best face he could upon the matter, and walked doggedly to the bar-door.

‘If I look at her,’ said Mark to himself, ‘I’m done. I feel that I’m a-going fast.’

‘You have come at last,’ said Mrs Lupin.

Aye, Mark said: There he was.

‘And you are determined to leave us, Mark?’ cried Mrs Lupin.

‘Why, yes; I am,’ said Mark; keeping his eyes hard upon the floor.

‘I thought,’ pursued the landlady, with a most engaging hesitation, ‘that you had been—fond—of the Dragon?’

‘So I am,’ said Mark.

‘Then,’ pursued the hostess—and it really was not an unnatural inquiry—‘why do you desert it?’

But as he gave no manner of answer to this question; not even on its being repeated; Mrs Lupin put his money into his hand, and asked him—not unkindly, quite the contrary—what he would take?

It is proverbial that there are certain things which flesh and blood cannot bear. Such a question as this, propounded in such a manner, at such a time, and by such a person, proved (at least, as far as, Mark’s flesh and blood were concerned) to be one of them. He looked up in spite of himself directly; and having once looked up, there was no looking down again; for of all the tight, plump, buxom, bright-eyed, dimple-faced landladies that ever shone on earth, there stood before him then, bodily in that bar, the very pink and pineapple.

Il signor Pinch tirò fuori dalla tasca una vecchia borsa di pelle rossa con cerniera in acciaio, che probabilmente era appartenuta a sua nonna defunta. Dentro c’era soltanto mezzo sovrano d’oro; tutto il patrimonio terreno di Tom, fino al prossimo giorno di pagamento.

“Restate!” gridò il signor Tigg, che aveva osservato attentamente tutta la scena. “Stavo proprio per dire che, per facilitare le operazioni di spedizione, sarebbe meglio trasformarla in oro. Grazie. Immagino che una comunicazione generale al signor Pinch presso il signor Pecksniff possa esservi d’aiuto, ”

“Quello non mi troverà mai,” disse Tom. “Sarebbe meglio che scriveste ‘Esquire’ dopo il nome del signor Pecksniff. Indirizzate la lettera a me, capite? A Seth Pecksniff’s, Esquire.”

“‘Presso il signor Seth Pecksniff’, Esquire”, ripeté il signor Tigg, prendendo appunti con un mozzicone di matita. “Credo che l’abbiamo detto questa settimana, vero?”

“Sì; o anche lunedì va bene,” osservò Tom.

“No, no, mi scusi. Lunedì NON va bene,” disse il signor Tigg. “Se abbiamo concordato di farlo questa settimana, sabato è l’ultimo giorno possibile. Abbiamo davvero concordato di farlo questa settimana?”

“Visto che sei così insistente al riguardo,” disse Tom, “penso che abbiamo fatto ciò che volevi.”

Il signor Tigg aggiunse questa condizione al suo memorandum; la lesse ad alta voce con un’espressione severa sul viso; e per rendere l’operazione ancora più corretta e professionale, vi appose le sue iniziali. Una volta fatto ciò, assicurò al signor Pinch che ora tutto fosse perfettamente in regola; dopo aver stretto vigorosamente la sua mano, se ne andò.

Tom nutriva abbastanza sospetti sul fatto che Martin potesse trasformare questo colloquio in una sorta di scherzo, quindi decise di evitare per il momento la compagnia di quel giovane signore. Con questo intento fece alcuni giri intorno al campo da biliardo e non rientrò nella casa fino a quando il signor Tigg e il suo amico se ne furono andati, e il nuovo allievo insieme a Mark stavano osservando la loro partenza da una delle finestre.

“Stavo solo dicendo, signore, che se si potesse vivere facendo questo, ” osservò Mark, indicando i loro ospiti appena partiti, “quello sarebbe il tipo di lavoro adatto a me. Servire persone del genere sarebbe meglio che scavare tombe, signore.”

“Rimanere qui sarebbe meglio di entrambe le opzioni, Mark,” rispose Tom. “Quindi segui il mio consiglio e continua a nuotare tranquillamente in acque tranquille.”

“È troppo tardi per prenderlo ora, signore,” disse Mark. “Gliel’ho detto, signore. Parto domani mattina.”

“Via!” gridò il signor Pinch, “ma dove?”

“Andrò a Londra, signore.”

“Che cosa dovrei essere?”, chiese il signor Pinch.

‘Beh! Non lo so ancora, signore. Quel giorno non ho trovato nulla che potesse essermi utile o vantaggioso per me; tutte le attività commerciali che avevo pensato erano troppo rischiose. Non c’era alcun profitto possibile in nessuna di esse. Immagino che dovrò cercare un lavoro più stabile, signore. Forse potrei trovare fortuna in una famiglia rispettabile, Mr Pinch.’

“Forse sei un po’ troppo aggressivo per i gusti di una famiglia seria, Mark.”

“È possibile, signore. Se riuscissi ad entrare in una famiglia disonesta, forse potrei realizzare i miei scopi; ma il problema è trovare un modo sicuro per farlo. Un giovane, infatti, non può certo annunciare apertamente di cercare un posto del genere, e inoltre, avere uno stipendio non è l’obiettivo principale: ciò che conta davvero è ottenere una posizione vantaggiosa all’interno di quella famiglia disonesta. Capisce, signore?”

“Mai e poi mai,” disse il signor Pinch, “non credo che possa farlo.”

“Una famiglia invidiosa,” proseguì Mark, con un’espressione pensierosa; “o una famiglia litigiosa, o malvagia. Anche una famiglia apparentemente gentile ma in realtà meschina potrebbe offrirmi opportunità di agire. L’uomo che più mi sarebbe adatto tra tutti era quel vecchio signore che si è ammalato qui: davvero, era un cliente particolarmente difficile da gestire. Comunque, devo aspettare e vedere cosa succederà, signore. E sperare nel peggio.”

“Allora sei deciso ad andare?” disse il signor Pinch.

“La mia scatola è già sparita, signore; l’hanno portata via con il carro. Domani mattina continuerò a piedi e cercherò di prendere un passaggio sul treno diurno quando mi raggiungerà. Quindi vi saluto, signor Pinch, e anche voi, signori, auguro buona fortuna e felicità!”

Risero entrambi alle sue parole di saluto e tornarono a casa tenendosi per mano. Lungo la strada, il signor Pinch raccontò al suo nuovo amico ulteriori dettagli sulla stravagante inquietudine di Mark Tapley, che il lettore già conosce.

Nel frattempo, Mark, intuendo che la sua amante fosse di cattivo umore e che non potesse affrontare le conseguenze di un ulteriore prolungamento delle loro conversazioni al bar, si tenne deliberatamente lontano da lei per tutto il pomeriggio e la sera. In questo suo “piano strategico”, fu molto aiutato dall’enorme afflusso di clienti nel locale: poiché la notizia della sua intenzione era ormai trapelata, il bar era pieno zeppo tutta la sera, con molte brindisi e tintinnio di bicchieri. Alla fine, il locale chiuse per la notte; non avendo altra scelta, Mark si fece forza e si diresse risolutamente verso l’ingresso del bar.

“Se la guardo, ”, si disse Mark, “sono finito. Ho l’impressione di stare per morire.”

“Finalmente sei arrivato,” disse la signora Lupin.

Sì, Mark disse: Ecco che era lì.

“E sei davvero deciso a lasciarci, Mark?” gridò la signora Lupin.

“Sì, certo che lo sono,” disse Mark, tenendo lo sguardo fisso sul pavimento.

“Pensavo, ”, proseguì la padrona di casa con un’esitazione davvero affascinante, “che voi foste, affezionato al Drago, ”

“Lo so,” disse Mark.

“Allora,” proseguì la padrona di casa – e davvero non si trattava di una domanda insolita – “perché lo abbandoni?”

Ma poiché non diede alcuna risposta a questa domanda, nemmeno dopo che fu ripetuta più volte, la signora Lupin gli mise i soldi in mano e gli chiese – senza alcun tono scortese, anzi al contrario – quale somma volesse prendere.

È proverbiale che ci siano certe cose che la carne e il sangue umano non possono sopportare. Una domanda del genere, posta in quel modo, a quell’ora, da quella persona, dimostrò (almeno per quanto riguardava la carne e il sangue di Marco) di appartenere proprio a quelle cose insopportabili. Non poté fare a meno di alzare lo sguardo; e una volta fatto ciò, non fu più possibile abbassarlo. Perché tra tutte le padrone di casa formose, piene di vita, con occhi luminosi e guance rosee che fossero mai esistite sulla terra, in quel bar, davanti a lui, c’era proprio lei: la rosa più bella, la più incantevole.

‘Why, I tell you what,’ said Mark, throwing off all his constraint in an instant and seizing the hostess round the waist—at which she was not at all alarmed, for she knew what a good young man he was—‘if I took what I liked most, I should take you. If I only thought what was best for me, I should take you. If I took what nineteen young fellows in twenty would be glad to take, and would take at any price, I should take you. Yes, I should,’ cried Mr Tapley, shaking his head expressively enough, and looking (in a momentary state of forgetfulness) rather hard at the hostess’s ripe lips. ‘And no man wouldn’t wonder if I did!’

Mrs Lupin said he amazed her. She was astonished how he could say such things. She had never thought it of him.

‘Why, I never thought if of myself till now!’ said Mark, raising his eyebrows with a look of the merriest possible surprise. ‘I always expected we should part, and never have no explanation; I meant to do it when I come in here just now; but there’s something about you, as makes a man sensible. Then let us have a word or two together; letting it be understood beforehand,’ he added this in a grave tone, to prevent the possibility of any mistake, ‘that I’m not a-going to make no love, you know.’

There was for just one second a shade, though not by any means a dark one, on the landlady’s open brow. But it passed off instantly, in a laugh that came from her very heart.

‘Oh, very good!’ she said; ‘if there is to be no love-making, you had better take your arm away.’

‘Lord, why should I!’ cried Mark. ‘It’s quite innocent.’

‘Of course it’s innocent,’ returned the hostess, ‘or I shouldn’t allow it.’

‘Very well!’ said Mark. ‘Then let it be.’

There was so much reason in this that the landlady laughed again, suffered it to remain, and bade him say what he had to say, and be quick about it. But he was an impudent fellow, she added.

‘Ha ha! I almost think I am!’ cried Mark, ‘though I never thought so before. Why, I can say anything to-night!’

‘Say what you’re going to say if you please, and be quick,’ returned the landlady, ‘for I want to get to bed.’

‘Why, then, my dear good soul,’ said Mark, ‘and a kinder woman than you are never drawed breath—let me see the man as says she did!—what would be the likely consequence of us two being—’

‘Oh nonsense!’ cried Mrs Lupin. ‘Don’t talk about that any more.’

‘No, no, but it an’t nonsense,’ said Mark; ‘and I wish you’d attend. What would be the likely consequence of us two being married? If I can’t be content and comfortable in this here lively Dragon now, is it to be looked for as I should be then? By no means. Very good. Then you, even with your good humour, would be always on the fret and worrit, always uncomfortable in your own mind, always a-thinking as you was getting too old for my taste, always a-picturing me to yourself as being chained up to the Dragon door, and wanting to break away. I don’t know that it would be so,’ said Mark, ‘but I don’t know that it mightn’t be. I am a roving sort of chap, I know. I’m fond of change. I’m always a-thinking that with my good health and spirits it would be more creditable in me to be jolly where there’s things a-going on to make one dismal. It may be a mistake of mine you see, but nothing short of trying how it acts will set it right. Then an’t it best that I should go; particular when your free way has helped me out to say all this, and we can part as good friends as we have ever been since first I entered this here noble Dragon, which,’ said Mr Tapley in conclusion, ‘has my good word and my good wish to the day of my death!’

The hostess sat quite silent for a little time, but she very soon put both her hands in Mark’s and shook them heartily.

‘For you are a good man,’ she said; looking into his face with a smile, which was rather serious for her. ‘And I do believe have been a better friend to me to-night than ever I have had in all my life.’

‘Oh! as to that, you know,’ said Mark, ‘that’s nonsense. But love my heart alive!’ he added, looking at her in a sort of rapture, ‘if you ARE that way disposed, what a lot of suitable husbands there is as you may drive distracted!’

She laughed again at this compliment; and, once more shaking him by both hands, and bidding him, if he should ever want a friend, to remember her, turned gayly from the little bar and up the Dragon staircase.

‘Humming a tune as she goes,’ said Mark, listening, ‘in case I should think she’s at all put out, and should be made down-hearted. Come, here’s some credit in being jolly, at last!’

With that piece of comfort, very ruefully uttered, he went, in anything but a jolly manner, to bed.

He rose early next morning, and was a-foot soon after sunrise. But it was of no use; the whole place was up to see Mark Tapley off; the boys, the dogs, the children, the old men, the busy people and the idlers; there they were, all calling out ‘Good-b’ye, Mark,’ after their own manner, and all sorry he was going. Somehow he had a kind of sense that his old mistress was peeping from her chamber-window, but he couldn’t make up his mind to look back.

‘Good-b’ye one, good-b’ye all!’ cried Mark, waving his hat on the top of his walking-stick, as he strode at a quick pace up the little street. ‘Hearty chaps them wheelwrights—hurrah! Here’s the butcher’s dog a-coming out of the garden—down, old fellow! And Mr Pinch a-going to his organ—good-b’ye, sir! And the terrier-bitch from over the way—hie, then, lass! And children enough to hand down human natur to the latest posterity—good-b’ye, boys and girls! There’s some credit in it now. I’m a-coming out strong at last. These are the circumstances that would try a ordinary mind; but I’m uncommon jolly. Not quite as jolly as I could wish to be, but very near. Good-b’ye! good-b’ye!’

“Perché, vi dico io,” disse Mark, gettando via ogni inibizione all’istante e afferrando la padrona di casa per la vita. Lei non si spaventò affatto, perché sapeva che era un bravo giovane, “Se prendessi ciò che mi piace di più, ti prenderei. Se pensassi solo a ciò che è meglio per me, ti prenderei. Se prendessi ciò che diciannove altri giovani sarebbero felici di prendere, e lo farebbero a qualsiasi prezzo. Sì, te lo prenderei,” esclamò il signor Tapley, scuotendo la testa con enfasi e guardando (in un momento di distrazione) le labbra piene della padrona di casa. “E nessuno si meraviglierebbe se lo facessi!”

La signora Lupin disse che lui la aveva stupita. Era sorpresa dal fatto che riuscisse a dire cose del genere; non se l’aspettava affatto da lui.

“Perché, fino ad ora non ho mai pensato a me stesso!” disse Mark, alzando le sopracciglia con un’espressione di sorpresa davvero gioiosa. “Sempre pensavo che ci saremmo separati senza alcuna spiegazione; avevo intenzione di farlo appena entrato qui. Ma c’è qualcosa in te che fa sì che una persona diventi ragionevole. Allora, parliamoci un po’, chiaro fin dall’inizio,” aggiunse con tono serio, per evitare qualsiasi malinteso. “Non voglio certo dare l’impressione di non provare alcun affetto per te, capisci.”

Per un solo istante, una leggera ombra apparve sulla fronte scoperta della padrona di casa; tuttavia non era affatto scura. Ma scomparve immediatamente, sostituita da una risata che proveniva dal profondo del suo cuore.

“Oh, molto bene!” disse lei; “se non deve esserci alcun momento di intimità, sarebbe meglio che ti togliessi il braccio.”

“Signore, perché dovrei farlo?”, gridò Mark. “È davvero tutto innocente.”

“Certo che è innocente,” rispose la padrona di casa, “altrimenti non lo permetterei.”

“Molto bene!”, disse Mark. “Allora che sia così.”

C’era davvero molto senso in tutto ciò, quindi la padrona di casa rise di nuovo, lasciò che le cose continuassero così e gli disse di dire quello che aveva da dire, e di farlo in fretta. Ma era un tipo impudente, aggiunse lei.

“Ah ah! Credo quasi di esserlo!” esclamò Mark, “anche se prima non l’avevo mai pensato. Accidenti, ora posso dire qualsiasi cosa di notte!”

“Dì pure quello che hai da dire, per favore, e sbrigati,” rispose la padrona di casa, “perché voglio andare a letto.”

“Dunque, mia cara e buona ‘anima,” disse Mark, “una donna più gentile di te non è mai esistita. Lasciami vedere quell’uomo che afferma il contrario. Quali conseguenze potrebbero derivare dal fatto che noi due diventassimo, ”

“Ma che sciocchezze!” esclamò la signora Lupin. “Non parlatene più.”

“No, no, ma non è assurdo,” disse Mark; “e vorrei che tu partecipassi anche tu. Quali sarebbero le conseguenze probabili se noi due ci sposassimo? Se ora non riesco a essere felice e a stare bene in questo vivace ‘Drago’, come potrei aspettarmi di esserlo in futuro? Assolutamente no. Molto bene. Allora anche tu, nonostante il tuo buon umorismo, saresti sempre preoccupata e ansiosa, sempre a disagio con te stessa, pensando sempre che io fossi ormai troppo vecchio per i tuoi gusti, immaginandomi sempre legato alla porta di questo ‘Drago’ e desideroso di liberarmene. Non so se sia davvero così,” disse Mark, “ma non posso escluderlo. So di essere una persona piuttosto nomade, amante del cambiamento. Penso sempre che, con la mia buona salute e il mio spirito allegro, sarebbe più dignitoso da parte mia divertirmi in luoghi dove succedono cose che altrimenti potrebbero rendere la vita triste. Forse è un errore da parte mia, ma non c’è modo di scoprirlo se non provando. Quindi forse è meglio che me ne vada. Soprattutto ora che il tuo libero modo di parlare mi ha aiutato a esprimere tutto questo, e possiamo separarci come buoni amici, proprio come siamo sempre stati da quando sono entrato in questo nobile ‘Drago’, ” Concluse il signor Tapley, “E con queste parole, lascio a te la mia gratitudine e i miei migliori auguri, fino al giorno della mia morte!”

La cameriera rimase seduta in silenzio per un po’, ma molto presto mise entrambe le mani nelle mani di Mark e le strinse calorosamente.

“Perché sei un uomo buono,” disse lei, guardandolo in faccia con un sorriso che, per lei, era piuttosto serio. “E credo davvero di essere stata una migliore amica per te questa notte di quanto lo sia mai stata in tutta la mia vita.”

“Oh! Per quanto riguarda quello, sai, è assurdo,” disse Mark. “Ma l’amore, oh, il mio cuore vive per l’amore!” aggiunse, guardandola con un certo trasporto. “Se davvero sei di questa opinione, ci sono tantissimi mariti adatti, potresti scegliere a piacimento!”

Rispose di nuovo alle sue lodi; poi, stringendogli nuovamente entrambe le mani e invitandolo, nel caso avesse mai bisogno di un amico, a ricordarsi di lei, se ne andò felice dal piccolo bar e salì la scala del Drago.

“Cantando una canzone mentre cammina,” disse Mark ascoltandola, “nel caso pensassi che fosse triste o depressa. Dai, essere felici è davvero qualcosa di positivo!”

Con quelle parole di conforto, pronunciate con grande rimpianto, andò a letto, ma non certo in vena di allegria.

Si alzò presto la mattina seguente e poco dopo l’alba era già in cammino. Ma non servì a nulla; tutta la gente si era radunata per salutare Mark Tapley che se ne andava: i ragazzi, i cani, i bambini, gli anziani, le persone impegnate e quelle oziose. Tutti gridavano “Addio, Mark!” a modo loro, dispiaciuti che se ne andasse. In qualche modo ebbe la sensazione che la sua vecchia padrona lo stesse spiando dalla finestra della sua stanza, ma non riuscì a decidere di guardare indietro.

“Addio a tutti!” gridò Mark, agitando il cappello sulla punta del suo bastone da passeggio mentre camminava velocemente lungo la stradina. “Che bravi ragazzi quei falegnami. Evviva! Ecco il cane del macellaio che esce dal giardino. Vai giù, vecchio mio! E il signor Pinch che va a suonare l’organo. Addio, signore! E anche quella cagnolina terrier dall’altra parte. Forza, ragazza! E poi tanti bambini. Che continueranno la specie umana fino all’ultima generazione. Addio, ragazzi e ragazze! Ora finalmente mi sento davvero felice. Queste sono situazioni che metterebbero alla prova anche una mente normale. Ma io sono davvero molto contento. Non proprio quanto vorrei essere, ma quasi. Addio! Addio!”

CHAPTER EIGHT

ACCOMPANIES MR PECKSNIFF AND HIS CHARMING DAUGHTERS TO THE CITY OF LONDON; AND RELATES WHAT FELL OUT UPON THEIR WAY THITHER

When Mr Pecksniff and the two young ladies got into the heavy coach at the end of the lane, they found it empty, which was a great comfort; particularly as the outside was quite full and the passengers looked very frosty. For as Mr Pecksniff justly observed—when he and his daughters had burrowed their feet deep in the straw, wrapped themselves to the chin, and pulled up both windows—it is always satisfactory to feel, in keen weather, that many other people are not as warm as you are. And this, he said, was quite natural, and a very beautiful arrangement; not confined to coaches, but extending itself into many social ramifications. ‘For’ (he observed), ‘if every one were warm and well-fed, we should lose the satisfaction of admiring the fortitude with which certain conditions of men bear cold and hunger. And if we were no better off than anybody else, what would become of our sense of gratitude; which,’ said Mr Pecksniff with tears in his eyes, as he shook his fist at a beggar who wanted to get up behind, ‘is one of the holiest feelings of our common nature.’

His children heard with becoming reverence these moral precepts from the lips of their father, and signified their acquiescence in the same, by smiles. That he might the better feed and cherish that sacred flame of gratitude in his breast, Mr Pecksniff remarked that he would trouble his eldest daughter, even in this early stage of their journey, for the brandy-bottle. And from the narrow neck of that stone vessel he imbibed a copious refreshment.

‘What are we?’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘but coaches? Some of us are slow coaches’—

‘Goodness, Pa!’ cried Charity.

‘Some of us, I say,’ resumed her parent with increased emphasis, ‘are slow coaches; some of us are fast coaches. Our passions are the horses; and rampant animals too—!’

‘Really, Pa,’ cried both the daughters at once. ‘How very unpleasant.’

‘And rampant animals too’ repeated Mr Pecksniff with so much determination, that he may be said to have exhibited, at the moment a sort of moral rampancy himself;’—and Virtue is the drag. We start from The Mother’s Arms, and we run to The Dust Shovel.’

When he had said this, Mr Pecksniff, being exhausted, took some further refreshment. When he had done that, he corked the bottle tight, with the air of a man who had effectually corked the subject also; and went to sleep for three stages.

The tendency of mankind when it falls asleep in coaches, is to wake up cross; to find its legs in its way; and its corns an aggravation. Mr Pecksniff not being exempt from the common lot of humanity found himself, at the end of his nap, so decidedly the victim of these infirmities, that he had an irresistible inclination to visit them upon his daughters; which he had already begun to do in the shape of divers random kicks, and other unexpected motions of his shoes, when the coach stopped, and after a short delay the door was opened.

‘Now mind,’ said a thin sharp voice in the dark. ‘I and my son go inside, because the roof is full, but you agree only to charge us outside prices. It’s quite understood that we won’t pay more. Is it?’

‘All right, sir,’ replied the guard.

‘Is there anybody inside now?’ inquired the voice.

‘Three passengers,’ returned the guard.

‘Then I ask the three passengers to witness this bargain, if they will be so good,’ said the voice. ‘My boy, I think we may safely get in.’

In pursuance of which opinion, two people took their seats in the vehicle, which was solemnly licensed by Act of Parliament to carry any six persons who could be got in at the door.

‘That was lucky!’ whispered the old man, when they moved on again. ‘And a great stroke of policy in you to observe it. He, he, he! We couldn’t have gone outside. I should have died of the rheumatism!’

Whether it occurred to the dutiful son that he had in some degree over-reached himself by contributing to the prolongation of his father’s days; or whether the cold had effected his temper; is doubtful. But he gave his father such a nudge in reply, that that good old gentleman was taken with a cough which lasted for full five minutes without intermission, and goaded Mr Pecksniff to that pitch of irritation, that he said at last—and very suddenly:

‘There is no room! There is really no room in this coach for any gentleman with a cold in his head!’

‘Mine,’ said the old man, after a moment’s pause, ‘is upon my chest, Pecksniff.’

The voice and manner, together, now that he spoke out; the composure of the speaker; the presence of his son; and his knowledge of Mr Pecksniff; afforded a clue to his identity which it was impossible to mistake.

‘Hem! I thought,’ said Mr Pecksniff, returning to his usual mildness, ‘that I addressed a stranger. I find that I address a relative, Mr Anthony Chuzzlewit and his son Mr Jonas—for they, my dear children, are our travelling companions—will excuse me for an apparently harsh remark. It is not MY desire to wound the feelings of any person with whom I am connected in family bonds. I may be a Hypocrite,’ said Mr Pecksniff, cuttingly; ‘but I am not a Brute.’

‘Pooh, pooh!’ said the old man. ‘What signifies that word, Pecksniff? Hypocrite! why, we are all hypocrites. We were all hypocrites t’other day. I am sure I felt that to be agreed upon among us, or I shouldn’t have called you one. We should not have been there at all, if we had not been hypocrites. The only difference between you and the rest was—shall I tell you the difference between you and the rest now, Pecksniff?’

‘If you please, my good sir; if you please.’

‘Why, the annoying quality in YOU, is,’ said the old man, ‘that you never have a confederate or partner in YOUR juggling; you would deceive everybody, even those who practise the same art; and have a way with you, as if you—he, he, he!—as if you really believed yourself. I’d lay a handsome wager now,’ said the old man, ‘if I laid wagers, which I don’t and never did, that you keep up appearances by a tacit understanding, even before your own daughters here. Now I, when I have a business scheme in hand, tell Jonas what it is, and we discuss it openly. You’re not offended, Pecksniff?’

CAPITOLO OTTO

Acompagna il signor Pecksniff e le sue affascinanti figlie nella città di Londra; racconta inoltre ciò che accadde lungo la strada.

Quando il signor Pecksniff e le due giovani signore salirono sul pesante carro alla fine della strada, lo trovarono vuoto, il che fu un grande sollievo; soprattutto perché all’esterno c’erano molte altre persone, e sembravano molto infreddolite. Come osservò giustamente il signor Pecksniff – quando lui e le sue figlie si sistemarono bene tra la paglia, si avvolsero fino al mento e chiusero entrambe le finestre – in tempo freddo è sempre confortante rendersi conto che molte altre persone non sono altrettanto calde di te. E questo, disse, era del tutto naturale e rappresentava un bellissimo aspetto della vita sociale; non limitato ai carri, ma esteso a molti altri ambiti. “Perché”, osservò, “se tutti fossero caldi e ben nutriti, perderemmo il piacere di ammirare la forza d’animo con cui alcune persone sopportano freddo e fame. E se fossimo allo stesso livello degli altri, che fine farebbe il nostro senso di gratitudine. Il quale”, disse il signor Pecksniff con le lacrime agli occhi, mentre faceva un gesto minaccioso verso un mendicante che cercava di salire sul carro dietro di loro, “è uno dei sentimenti più sacri della nostra natura umana.”

I suoi figli ascoltavano con dovuta reverenza questi precetti morali uscire dalle labbra di loro padre, e manifestavano il loro assenso con dei sorrisi. Affinché potesse alimentare e coltivare ancora di più quella sacra fiamma di gratitudine nel proprio cuore, il signor Pecksniff decise che, anche in questa fase iniziale del loro viaggio, avrebbe chiesto alla sua figlia maggiore di procurargli la bottiglia di brandy. E dal collo stretto di quel recipiente di pietra bevve una abbondante quantità di liquido.

“Che cosa siamo noi?” disse il signor Pecksniff, “se non semplici cocchieri? Alcuni di noi sono soltanto cocchieri lenti, ”

“Mio Dio, papà!”, gridò Charity.

“Alcuni di noi,” riprese sua madre con maggiore enfasi, “sono come carri lenti; altri sono come carri veloci. Le nostre passioni sono i cavalli, e anche gli animali selvaggi!”

“Davvero, papà,” esclamarono entrambe le figlie all’unisono. “È davvero molto sgradevole.”

“E anche gli animali selvaggi e indomabili, ” ripeté il signor Pecksniff con tale determinazione che si potrebbe dire che in quel momento mostrasse lui stesso una sorta di “selvaggia moralità”; e la Virtù, invece, rappresenta proprio quel freno. Partiamo dalle braccia della madre, e finiamo con la pala per raccogliere la polvere.

Dopo aver detto questo, il signor Pecksniff, essendo esausto, si rinfrescò ulteriormente. Una volta fatto ciò, chiuse ermeticamente la bottiglia, con l’aria di un uomo che avesse effettivamente “chiuso a chiave” anche l’argomento in questione; poi andò a dormire per tre fasi consecutive.

La tendenza dell’umanità quando si addormenta nei vagoni ferroviari è quella di svegliarsi con le gambe intralciate; inoltre, l’insorgere dei calli rappresenta un ulteriore fastidio. Il signor Pecksniff, non essendo esente da questa comune sorte umana, si ritrovò, al termine del suo pisolino, vittima di queste “infermità” in modo così evidente che provò una irresistibile tentazione di trasferirle anche sulle sue figlie. Già aveva iniziato a farlo con diversi calci casuali e altri movimenti improvvisi delle sue scarpe. Quando il treno si fermò, dopo un breve ritardo, la porta fu aperta.

“Ora ascolta bene,” disse una voce sottile e acuta nel buio. “Io e mio figlio entriamo dentro, perché il tetto è pieno, ma tu accetti di farci pagare solo i prezzi esterni. È chiaro che non pagheremo di più, giusto?”

“Va bene, signore,” rispose la guardia.

“C’è qualcuno dentro adesso?” chiese la voce.

“Tre passeggeri,” rispose la guardia.

“Allora chiedo ai tre passeggeri di testimoniare questo accordo, se sono così gentili,” disse la voce. “Mio ragazzo, penso che possiamo entrare senza problemi.”

In conformità con tale opinione, due persone presero posto nell’veicolo, il quale era stato ufficialmente autorizzato dal Parlamento a trasportare fino a sei persone, le quali potevano entrare attraverso la porta.

“Che fortuna!” sussurrò l’uomo anziano quando ripresero il cammino. “E è stata davvero una grande mossa da parte tua averlo notato. Ah, non avremmo mai potuto uscire. Sarei morto di reumatismo!”

Se al figlio devoto sia venuto in mente che, in qualche modo, aveva esagerato contribuendo ad allungare la vita di suo padre; o se fosse stato il freddo a influenzare il suo umore, è difficile dirlo. Comunque, con quel suo gesto, fece sì che quel buon vecchio signore scoprisse un accesso di tosse che durò ben cinque minuti senza interruzioni; e questo portò il signor Pecksniff a tal punto di irritazione che, alla fine, disse, molto improvvisamente:

“Non c’è spazio! Davvero non c’è posto in questo treno per nessun gentiluomo che abbia il raffreddore, ”

“Mio,” disse l’uomo anziano dopo un momento di pausa, “è sopra il mio petto, Pecksniff.”

La voce e il modo di parlare, insieme al fatto che avesse deciso finalmente di confessare; la calma del parlante; la presenza di suo figlio; e la sua conoscenza di Mr Pecksniff, tutto ciò fornì indizi sulla sua identità che non potevano essere confusi.

“Ehm! Pensavo, ”, disse il signor Pecksniff, tornando alla sua solita dolcezza, “di aver parlato con uno sconosciuto. In realtà, mi sono rivolto a un parente: il signor Anthony Chuzzlewit e suo figlio, il signor Jonas. Poiché loro, miei cari, sono i nostri compagni di viaggio. Perdonatemi se le mie parole possono sembrare dure. Non è affatto la mia intenzione ferire i sentimenti di chiunque sia legato a me da vincoli familiari. Forse sono un ipocrita, ”, aggiunse il signor Pecksniff, in tono tagliente, “ma non sono certo una bestia.”

“Puf, puf!”, disse l’uomo anziano. “Che significato ha quella parola, Pecksniff? Ipocrita. In realtà, siamo tutti ipocriti. Anche noi lo eravamo il giorno prima. Sono sicuro che tutti noi concordassimo su questo punto, altrimenti non ti avrei chiamato così. Non saremmo nemmeno dovuti essere lì, se non fossimo stati ipocriti. L’unica differenza tra te e gli altri è. Devo dirti ora quale sia questa differenza, Pecksniff?”

“Per favore, mio buon signore, per favore.”

“Beh, la qualità più fastidiosa in te,” disse l’uomo anziano, “è che non hai mai un compagno o un alleato nelle tue ‘frodi’; inganni tutti, persino coloro che praticano lo stesso mestiere. E fai sempre finta di crederci davvero. Scommetterei volentieri,” aggiunse, “anche se non lo faccio mai, che mantieni queste apparenze grazie a un tacito accordo, anche davanti alle tue stesse figlie qui presenti. Io, invece, quando ho un piano da realizzare, ne parlo apertamente con Jonas. Non ti offendi, Pecksniff?”

‘Offended, my good sir!’ cried that gentleman, as if he had received the highest compliments that language could convey.

‘Are you travelling to London, Mr Pecksniff?’ asked the son.

‘Yes, Mr Jonas, we are travelling to London. We shall have the pleasure of your company all the way, I trust?’

‘Oh! ecod, you had better ask father that,’ said Jonas. ‘I am not a-going to commit myself.’

Mr Pecksniff was, as a matter of course, greatly entertained by this retort. His mirth having subsided, Mr Jonas gave him to understand that himself and parent were in fact travelling to their home in the metropolis; and that, since the memorable day of the great family gathering, they had been tarrying in that part of the country, watching the sale of certain eligible investments, which they had had in their copartnership eye when they came down; for it was their custom, Mr Jonas said, whenever such a thing was practicable, to kill two birds with one stone, and never to throw away sprats, but as bait for whales. When he had communicated to Mr Pecksniff these pithy scraps of intelligence, he said, ‘That if it was all the same to him, he would turn him over to father, and have a chat with the gals;’ and in furtherance of this polite scheme, he vacated his seat adjoining that gentleman, and established himself in the opposite corner, next to the fair Miss Mercy.

The education of Mr Jonas had been conducted from his cradle on the strictest principles of the main chance. The very first word he learnt to spell was ‘gain,’ and the second (when he got into two syllables), ‘money.’ But for two results, which were not clearly foreseen perhaps by his watchful parent in the beginning, his training may be said to have been unexceptionable. One of these flaws was, that having been long taught by his father to over-reach everybody, he had imperceptibly acquired a love of over-reaching that venerable monitor himself. The other, that from his early habits of considering everything as a question of property, he had gradually come to look, with impatience, on his parent as a certain amount of personal estate, which had no right whatever to be going at large, but ought to be secured in that particular description of iron safe which is commonly called a coffin, and banked in the grave.

‘Well, cousin!’ said Mr Jonas—‘Because we ARE cousins, you know, a few times removed—so you’re going to London?’

Miss Mercy replied in the affirmative, pinching her sister’s arm at the same time, and giggling excessively.

‘Lots of beaux in London, cousin!’ said Mr Jonas, slightly advancing his elbow.

‘Indeed, sir!’ cried the young lady. ‘They won’t hurt us, sir, I dare say.’ And having given him this answer with great demureness she was so overcome by her own humour, that she was fain to stifle her merriment in her sister’s shawl.

‘Merry,’ cried that more prudent damsel, ‘really I am ashamed of you. How can you go on so? You wild thing!’ At which Miss Merry only laughed the more, of course.

‘I saw a wildness in her eye, t’other day,’ said Mr Jonas, addressing Charity. ‘But you’re the one to sit solemn! I say—You were regularly prim, cousin!’

‘Oh! The old-fashioned fright!’ cried Merry, in a whisper. ‘Cherry my dear, upon my word you must sit next him. I shall die outright if he talks to me any more; I shall, positively!’ To prevent which fatal consequence, the buoyant creature skipped out of her seat as she spoke, and squeezed her sister into the place from which she had risen.

‘Don’t mind crowding me,’ cried Mr Jonas. ‘I like to be crowded by gals. Come a little closer, cousin.’

‘No, thank you, sir,’ said Charity.

‘There’s that other one a-laughing again,’ said Mr Jonas; ‘she’s a-laughing at my father, I shouldn’t wonder. If he puts on that old flannel nightcap of his, I don’t know what she’ll do! Is that my father a-snoring, Pecksniff?’

‘Yes, Mr Jonas.’

‘Tread upon his foot, will you be so good?’ said the young gentleman. ‘The foot next you’s the gouty one.’

Mr Pecksniff hesitating to perform this friendly office, Mr Jonas did it himself; at the same time crying:

‘Come, wake up, father, or you’ll be having the nightmare, and screeching out, I know.—Do you ever have the nightmare, cousin?’ he asked his neighbour, with characteristic gallantry, as he dropped his voice again.

‘Sometimes,’ answered Charity. ‘Not often.’

‘The other one,’ said Mr Jonas, after a pause. ‘Does SHE ever have the nightmare?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied Charity. ‘You had better ask her.’

‘She laughs so,’ said Jonas; ‘there’s no talking to her. Only hark how she’s a-going on now! You’re the sensible one, cousin!’

‘Tut, tut!’ cried Charity.

‘Oh! But you are! You know you are!’

‘Mercy is a little giddy,’ said Miss Charity. But she’ll sober down in time.’

‘It’ll be a very long time, then, if she does at all,’ rejoined her cousin. ‘Take a little more room.’

‘I am afraid of crowding you,’ said Charity. But she took it notwithstanding; and after one or two remarks on the extreme heaviness of the coach, and the number of places it stopped at, they fell into a silence which remained unbroken by any member of the party until supper-time.

Although Mr Jonas conducted Charity to the hotel and sat himself beside her at the board, it was pretty clear that he had an eye to ‘the other one’ also, for he often glanced across at Mercy, and seemed to draw comparisons between the personal appearance of the two, which were not unfavourable to the superior plumpness of the younger sister. He allowed himself no great leisure for this kind of observation, however, being busily engaged with the supper, which, as he whispered in his fair companion’s ear, was a contract business, and therefore the more she ate, the better the bargain was. His father and Mr Pecksniff, probably acting on the same wise principle, demolished everything that came within their reach, and by that means acquired a greasy expression of countenance, indicating contentment, if not repletion, which it was very pleasant to contemplate.

“Offeso, mio caro signore!” esclamò quel gentiluomo, come se avesse ricevuto i più grandi complimenti che la lingua potesse esprimere.

“Vi state recando a Londra, signor Pecksniff?”, chiese il figlio.

“Sì, signor Jonas, stiamo viaggiando verso Londra. Spero che avremo il piacere della sua compagnia per tutto il tragitto, vero?”

“Oh! Ecod, sarebbe meglio che tu chiedesselo a papà,” disse Jonas. “Io non intendo assumermi alcuna responsabilità.”

Naturalmente, il signor Pecksniff fu molto divertito da questa risposta. Dopo che la sua ilarità si era placata, il signor Jonas gli spiegò che lui e suo padre stavano effettivamente viaggiando verso la loro casa nella capitale; e che, da quel memorabile giorno della grande riunione familiare, erano rimasti in quella zona del paese per osservare la vendita di alcune opportunità di investimento, che avevano preso in considerazione fin dall’inizio del loro viaggio. Infatti, secondo il signor Jonas, era loro abitudine, ogni volta che fosse possibile, “uccidere due uccelli con una pietra” e mai sprecare nulla, ma utilizzarlo sempre a vantaggio proprio. Dopo aver comunicato queste informazioni al signor Pecksniff, aggiunse: “Se per lei non fa differenza, glielo lascio e vado a parlare con le ragazze”; quindi si alzò dal posto accanto a quel gentiluomo e si sistemò nell’angolo opposto, vicino alla bella signorina Mercy.

L’educazione del signor Jonas era stata impartita fin dalla sua infanzia secondo i principi più rigorosi legati all’idea della “prima opportunità”. La prima parola che imparò a scrivere fu “guadagno”, e la seconda (quando la parola divenne composta da due sillabe) fu “denaro”. Tuttavia, per due aspetti che forse i suoi genitori attenti non avevano previsto all’inizio, si può dire che il suo percorso educativo fosse stato senza eccezioni. Uno di questi difetti era che, essendo stato da tempo insegnato dal padre ad “superare tutti”, aveva gradualmente sviluppato un’ossessione per l’eccesso in ogni azione, tale da superare persino i limiti imposti da quel rigido educatore. L’altro difetto derivava dalle sue abitudini fin da piccolo di considerare tutto come una questione di proprietà: gradualmente aveva iniziato a vedere i propri genitori come una sorta di “beni personali” che non avevano alcun diritto di essere liberi, ma dovevano essere “conservati” in quella particolare forma di “sicurezza”, comunemente definita bara, e depositati nella tomba.

“Beh, cugino!” disse il signor Jonas, “Dopotutto siamo cugini, anche se di qualche generazione più lontana. Quindi andrai a Londra?”

La signorina Mercy rispose affermativamente, pizzicando al contempo il braccio di sua sorella e ridendo in modo eccessivo.

“Ci sono molti bei ragazzi a Londra, cugina!” disse il signor Jonas, spingendo leggermente in avanti il gomito.

“Certamente, signore!” esclamò la giovane signorina. “Non ci faranno del male, signore, oserei dire.” E dopo avergli dato questa risposta con grande timidezza, fu talmente sopraffatta dal proprio umorismo che dovette trattenere le risate dentro il scialle di sua sorella.

“Merry,” esclamò quella più saggia delle ragazze, “davvero mi vergogno di te. Come puoi continuare a comportarti in questo modo? Sei proprio una sciocca!” A queste parole, naturalmente, Miss Merry rise ancora di più.

“Un giorno ho visto una certa selvaggiazza nei suoi occhi,” disse il signor Jonas rivolgendosi a Carity. “Ma sei tu quella che sembra sempre così seria. Dico davvero: eri sempre così rigida e composta, cugina!”

“Oh! Che modo così antiquato di spaventare le persone!” esclamò Merry sottovoce. “Cara Cherry, devi assolutamente sederti accanto a lui. Morirò se continuerà a parlarmi; davvero!” Per evitare questa conseguenza fatale, la vivace ragazza si alzò dal suo posto e spinse sua sorella nel posto che aveva appena lasciato libero.

“Non vi preoccupate se mi stringete un po’,” gridò il signor Jonas. “Mi piace essere circondato da ragazze. Avvicinatevi di più, cugina.”

“No, grazie, signore,” disse Charity.

“C’è quella là che ride di nuovo,” disse il signor Jonas; “ride di mio padre, non dovrebbe sorprendermi. Se si mette quella vecchia berretta di flanella, chissà cosa farà! Mio padre sta russando, Pecksniff?”

“Sì, signor Jonas.”

“Calpesterai il suo piede, davvero sarai così gentile?” disse il giovane signore.
“Il piede accanto a te è quello affetto da gotta.”

Il signor Pecksniff esitava ad adempiere a questo gentile dovere, ma il signor Jonas lo fece da solo; nel frattempo piangeva.

“Su, svegliati, padre, altrimenti farai l’incubo e inizierai a urlare. Lo so per certo. Tu hai mai fatto l’incubo, cugino?” chiese al suo vicino con la solita galanteria, abbassando di nuovo la voce.

“A volte,” rispose Carità. “Non molto spesso.”

“L’altra,” disse il signor Jonas dopo una pausa. “Lei ha mai avuto quel incubo?”

“Non lo so,” rispose Charity. “È meglio che le chiedi tu.”

“Ride in quel modo, ”, disse Jonas; “non c’è modo di parlare con lei. Ascoltate solo come sta ridendo adesso! Tu sei la persona sensata, cugino!”

“Tut, tut!” gridò Carità.

“Oh! Ma lo sei davvero. Lo sai che lo sei!”

“‘Misericordia’ è un po’ stordita,” disse la signorina Carità. Ma si riprenderà con il tempo.

“Allora ci vorrà molto tempo, se mai dovesse succedere,” ribatté sua cugina. “Prenditi un po’ più di spazio.”

“Temo di intralciarti,” disse Charity. Ma lo prese comunque; dopo alcune osservazioni sull’estrema pesantezza della carrozza e sul numero di fermate che faceva, calò un silenzio che nessuno dei presenti interruppe fino all’ora di cena.

Sebbene il signor Jonas organizzasse opere di carità nell’hotel e si sedesse accanto a lei durante i pasti, era abbastanza evidente che prestasse attenzione anche a Mercy, lanciandole spesso sguardi e facendo paragoni tra il loro aspetto fisico; questi paragoni risultavano piuttosto favorevoli alla forma più rotonda della sorella minore. Tuttavia, non si concedeva molto tempo per queste osservazioni, essendo troppo impegnato a preparare i pasti, che, come sussurrava all’orecchio della sua bella compagna, rappresentavano in realtà un “affare”: più lei mangiava, migliore era l’accordo. Anche suo padre e il signor Pecksniff, probabilmente seguendo lo stesso principio, divoravano qualsiasi cosa fosse a loro portata di mano; di conseguenza, il loro viso assumeva un aspetto untuoso, segno di soddisfazione, se non addirittura sazietà, il che era davvero piacevole da osservare.

When they could eat no more, Mr Pecksniff and Mr Jonas subscribed for two sixpenny-worths of hot brandy-and-water, which the latter gentleman considered a more politic order than one shillingsworth; there being a chance of their getting more spirit out of the innkeeper under this arrangement than if it were all in one glass. Having swallowed his share of the enlivening fluid, Mr Pecksniff, under pretence of going to see if the coach were ready, went secretly to the bar, and had his own little bottle filled, in order that he might refresh himself at leisure in the dark coach without being observed.

These arrangements concluded, and the coach being ready, they got into their old places and jogged on again. But before he composed himself for a nap, Mr Pecksniff delivered a kind of grace after meat, in these words:

‘The process of digestion, as I have been informed by anatomical friends, is one of the most wonderful works of nature. I do not know how it may be with others, but it is a great satisfaction to me to know, when regaling on my humble fare, that I am putting in motion the most beautiful machinery with which we have any acquaintance. I really feel at such times as if I was doing a public service. When I have wound myself up, if I may employ such a term,’ said Mr Pecksniff with exquisite tenderness, ‘and know that I am Going, I feel that in the lesson afforded by the works within me, I am a Benefactor to my Kind!’

As nothing could be added to this, nothing was said; and Mr Pecksniff, exulting, it may be presumed, in his moral utility, went to sleep again.

The rest of the night wore away in the usual manner. Mr Pecksniff and Old Anthony kept tumbling against each other and waking up much terrified, or crushed their heads in opposite corners of the coach and strangely tattooed the surface of their faces—Heaven knows how—in their sleep. The coach stopped and went on, and went on and stopped, times out of number. Passengers got up and passengers got down, and fresh horses came and went and came again, with scarcely any interval between each team as it seemed to those who were dozing, and with a gap of a whole night between every one as it seemed to those who were broad awake. At length they began to jolt and rumble over horribly uneven stones, and Mr Pecksniff looking out of window said it was to-morrow morning, and they were there.

Very soon afterwards the coach stopped at the office in the city; and the street in which it was situated was already in a bustle, that fully bore out Mr Pecksniff’s words about its being morning, though for any signs of day yet appearing in the sky it might have been midnight. There was a dense fog too; as if it were a city in the clouds, which they had been travelling to all night up a magic beanstalk; and there was a thick crust upon the pavement like oilcake; which, one of the outsides (mad, no doubt) said to another (his keeper, of course), was Snow.

Taking a confused leave of Anthony and his son, and leaving the luggage of himself and daughters at the office to be called for afterwards, Mr Pecksniff, with one of the young ladies under each arm, dived across the street, and then across other streets, and so up the queerest courts, and down the strangest alleys and under the blindest archways, in a kind of frenzy; now skipping over a kennel, now running for his life from a coach and horses; now thinking he had lost his way, now thinking he had found it; now in a state of the highest confidence, now despondent to the last degree, but always in a great perspiration and flurry; until at length they stopped in a kind of paved yard near the Monument. That is to say, Mr Pecksniff told them so; for as to anything they could see of the Monument, or anything else but the buildings close at hand, they might as well have been playing blindman’s buff at Salisbury.

Mr Pecksniff looked about him for a moment, and then knocked at the door of a very dingy edifice, even among the choice collection of dingy edifices at hand; on the front of which was a little oval board like a tea-tray, with this inscription—‘Commercial Boarding-House: M. Todgers.’

It seemed that M. Todgers was not up yet, for Mr Pecksniff knocked twice and rang thrice, without making any impression on anything but a dog over the way. At last a chain and some bolts were withdrawn with a rusty noise, as if the weather had made the very fastenings hoarse, and a small boy with a large red head, and no nose to speak of, and a very dirty Wellington boot on his left arm, appeared; who (being surprised) rubbed the nose just mentioned with the back of a shoe-brush, and said nothing.

‘Still a-bed my man?’ asked Mr Pecksniff.

‘Still a-bed!’ replied the boy. ‘I wish they wos still a-bed. They’re very noisy a-bed; all calling for their boots at once. I thought you was the Paper, and wondered why you didn’t shove yourself through the grating as usual. What do you want?’

Considering his years, which were tender, the youth may be said to have preferred this question sternly, and in something of a defiant manner. But Mr Pecksniff, without taking umbrage at his bearing put a card in his hand, and bade him take that upstairs, and show them in the meanwhile into a room where there was a fire.

‘Or if there’s one in the eating parlour,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘I can find it myself.’ So he led his daughters, without waiting for any further introduction, into a room on the ground-floor, where a table-cloth (rather a tight and scanty fit in reference to the table it covered) was already spread for breakfast; displaying a mighty dish of pink boiled beef; an instance of that particular style of loaf which is known to housekeepers as a slack-baked, crummy quartern; a liberal provision of cups and saucers; and the usual appendages.

Inside the fender were some half-dozen pairs of shoes and boots, of various sizes, just cleaned and turned with the soles upwards to dry; and a pair of short black gaiters, on one of which was chalked—in sport, it would appear, by some gentleman who had slipped down for the purpose, pending his toilet, and gone up again—‘Jinkins’s Particular,’ while the other exhibited a sketch in profile, claiming to be the portrait of Jinkins himself.

Quando non poterono più mangiare, il signor Pecksniff e il signor Jonas ordinarono due porzioni di brandy caldo miscelato con acqua, per un totale di sei pence ciascuna; quest’ultimo riteneva che tale ordinazione fosse più astuta rispetto a quella di un solo shilling, poiché in questo modo c’era la possibilità di ottenere più alcol dall’oste che se avessero ordinato tutto in una sola volta. Dopo aver bevuto la propria porzione di liquore inebriante, il signor Pecksniff, con l’scusa di andare a controllare se il calesse fosse pronto, si recò di nascosto al bar e fece riempire una bottiglietta personale, in modo da potersi rinfrescare tranquillamente nel calesse buio senza essere visto.

Una volta terminati questi accordi e il preparatore fisico essere pronto, tornarono alle loro solite posizioni e ripresero a correre. Ma prima di mettersi a dormire, il signor Pecksniff pronunciò una sorta di discorso di ringraziamento, dicendo:

“Il processo di digestione, come mi hanno spiegato degli amici anatomisti, è uno dei più meravigliosi fenomeni offerti dalla natura. Non so come funzioni in altri casi, ma per me rappresenta una grande soddisfazione sapere che, mangiando il mio cibo semplice e umile, sto mettendo in movimento il meccanismo più straordinario di cui siamo a conoscenza. In quei momenti, ho davvero la sensazione di rendere un servizio pubblico. Quando mi preparo, per così dire, ”, disse il signor Pecksniff con estrema tenerezza, “e so che sto per iniziare il mio compito, provo la certezza di essere un benefattore del mio prossimo, attraverso le conoscenze che questi meccanismi interiori mi forniscono!”

Poiché nulla poteva essere aggiunto a ciò che era stato detto, nessuno parlò più; e il signor Pecksniff, probabilmente esultante per la propria “utilità morale”, andò di nuovo a dormire.

Il resto della notte trascorse nel solito modo. Il signor Pecksniff e il vecchio Anthony continuavano a sbattere l’uno contro l’altro, svegliandosi spesso in preda al terrore, oppure si schiacciavano la testa negli angoli opposti del carro, segnando stranamente la superficie dei loro volti. Chissà come, mentre dormivano. Il carro si fermava e ripartiva, ancora e ancora, innumerevoli volte. I passeggeri salivano e scendevano; cavalli freschi arrivavano e se ne andavano senza quasi alcun intervallo tra un gruppo e l’altro. Per coloro che dormivano sembrava tutto avvenisse continuamente, mentre per quelli completamente svegli ogni cambiamento di cavallo rappresentava un intero periodo di notte. Alla fine iniziarono a sobbalzare su pietre terribilmente irregolari; il signor Pecksniff, guardando fuori dalla finestra, annunciò che era la mattina seguente. E loro erano finalmente arrivati a destinazione.

Poco dopo, l’auto si fermò presso l’ufficio situato nella città; la strada in cui si trovava era già piena di movimento, il che confermava appieno le parole del signor Pecksniff riguardo all’arrivo della mattina, anche se, a giudicare da nessun segno di luce nel cielo, avrebbe potuto essere mezzanotte. C’era anche una fitta nebbia; sembrava quasi che si trattasse di una città sospesa tra le nuvole, verso cui avevano viaggiato per tutta la notte, salendo su un stelo magico; inoltre, sul marciapiede c’era uno strato spesso di sostanza simile a pastella d’olio. Uno dei passeggeri (pazzo, senza alcun dubbio) disse all’altro (il suo accompagnatore, ovviamente) che si trattava di neve.

Dopo essersi congedato in modo confuso da Anthony e suo figlio, e aver lasciato i propri bagagli insieme a quelli delle sue figlie nell’ufficio per essere ritirati in seguito, il signor Pecksniff, tenendo una giovane donna sotto ciascun braccio, attraversò di corsa la strada, poi altre strade ancora, entrando in cortili bizzarri, percorrendo vicoli strani e passando sotto archi oscuri, in uno stato di frenesia: a volte saltava sopra dei canili, a volte fuggiva per salvarsi da una carrozza; a volte pensava di essersi perso, altre volte che avesse finalmente trovato la direzione giusta; ora era pieno di fiducia, ora disperato al massimo grado, ma sempre in preda all’agitazione e alla confusione. Fino a quando, infine, si fermarono in un cortile lastricato vicino al Monumento. Almeno così disse il signor Pecksniff; perché, per quanto riguardava ciò che riuscivano a vedere del Monumento, o di qualsiasi altra cosa oltre agli edifici immediatamente intorno a loro, avrebbero potuto benissimo essere impegnati in un gioco del “cieco” a Salisbury.

Il signor Pecksniff guardò intorno per un momento, poi bussò alla porta di un edificio molto trasandato, tra la serie di edifici simili che si trovavano lì; sulla facciata c’era una piccola targa ovale, simile a un vassoio da tè, con questa iscrizione: ‘Casa di Pensione Commerciale: M. Todgers.’

Sembra che il signor Todgers non fosse ancora sveglio, perché il signor Pecksniff bussò due volte e suonò il campanello tre volte, senza ottenere alcuna risposta, tranne da parte di un cane che abitava nelle vicinanze. Alla fine, con un rumore arrugginito, vennero tirati fuori una catena e alcuni lucchetti; poi apparve un ragazzino piccolo, con la testa rossa e praticamente senza naso, e con un grosso stivale Wellington molto sporco sul braccio sinistro. Sorpreso, si pulì il naso con il dorso di una spazzola da scarpe e non disse nulla.

“Ancora a letto, mio caro?” chiese il signor Pecksniff.

“Sono ancora a letto! Vorrei che fossero ancora a letto. Fanno un gran rumore a letto: chiedono tutti le loro scarpe contemporaneamente. Pensavo fossi tu il “Paper” e mi chiedevo perché non ti fossi infilato attraverso la grata come al solito. Cosa vuoi?”

Considerando la sua giovane età, si può dire che quel ragazzo avesse scelto di affrontare questa questione in modo deciso e quasi provocatorio. Ma il signor Pecksniff, senza offendersi per il suo comportamento, gli diede una carta e gli ordinò di portarla di sopra; nel frattempo, doveva farli entrare in una stanza dove c’era un fuoco.

“O se ne trova una nella sala da pranzo,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “posso trovarla da solo.” Così condusse le sue figlie, senza aspettare alcuna ulteriore presentazione, in una stanza al piano terra, dove una tovaglia (abbastanza stretta e insufficiente rispetto alla dimensione del tavolo che copriva) era già stesa per la colazione; c’era un enorme piatto di manzo bollito rosa; un esempio di quel particolare tipo di pane che le casalinghe definiscono “cattivo e poco cotto”; una generosa provvista di tazze e piattini; e tutti gli altri oggetti necessari.

All’interno del paraurti c’erano circa sei paia di scarpe e stivali, di varie dimensioni, appena puliti e rivolti con la suola verso l’alto per asciugare; inoltre, c’era un paio di calzamaglie nere corte, su una delle quali era stato scritto a gesso – a quanto pare a scopo sportivo – da qualche gentiluomo che si era chinato per farlo mentre si preparava per il bagno e poi si era rialzato: “Jinkins’s Particular”; l’altra calzamaglia presentava invece un schizzo in profilo, che sembrava essere il ritratto dello stesso Jinkins.

M. Todgers’s Commercial Boarding-House was a house of that sort which is likely to be dark at any time; but that morning it was especially dark. There was an odd smell in the passage, as if the concentrated essence of all the dinners that had been cooked in the kitchen since the house was built, lingered at the top of the kitchen stairs to that hour, and like the Black Friar in Don Juan, ‘wouldn’t be driven away.’ In particular, there was a sensation of cabbage; as if all the greens that had ever been boiled there, were evergreens, and flourished in immortal strength. The parlour was wainscoted, and communicated to strangers a magnetic and instinctive consciousness of rats and mice. The staircase was very gloomy and very broad, with balustrades so thick and heavy that they would have served for a bridge. In a sombre corner on the first landing, stood a gruff old giant of a clock, with a preposterous coronet of three brass balls on his head; whom few had ever seen—none ever looked in the face—and who seemed to continue his heavy tick for no other reason than to warn heedless people from running into him accidentally. It had not been papered or painted, hadn’t Todgers’s, within the memory of man. It was very black, begrimed, and mouldy. And, at the top of the staircase, was an old, disjointed, rickety, ill-favoured skylight, patched and mended in all kinds of ways, which looked distrustfully down at everything that passed below, and covered Todgers’s up as if it were a sort of human cucumber-frame, and only people of a peculiar growth were reared there.

Mr Pecksniff and his fair daughters had not stood warming themselves at the fire ten minutes, when the sound of feet was heard upon the stairs, and the presiding deity of the establishment came hurrying in.

M. Todgers was a lady, rather a bony and hard-featured lady, with a row of curls in front of her head, shaped like little barrels of beer; and on the top of it something made of net—you couldn’t call it a cap exactly—which looked like a black cobweb. She had a little basket on her arm, and in it a bunch of keys that jingled as she came. In her other hand she bore a flaming tallow candle, which, after surveying Mr Pecksniff for one instant by its light, she put down upon the table, to the end that she might receive him with the greater cordiality.

‘Mr Pecksniff!’ cried Mrs Todgers. ‘Welcome to London! Who would have thought of such a visit as this, after so—dear, dear!—so many years! How do you DO, Mr Pecksniff?’

‘As well as ever; and as glad to see you, as ever;’ Mr Pecksniff made response. ‘Why, you are younger than you used to be!’

‘YOU are, I am sure!’ said Mrs Todgers. ‘You’re not a bit changed.’

‘What do you say to this?’ cried Mr Pecksniff, stretching out his hand towards the young ladies. ‘Does this make me no older?’

‘Not your daughters!’ exclaimed the lady, raising her hands and clasping them. ‘Oh, no, Mr Pecksniff! Your second, and her bridesmaid!’

Mr Pecksniff smiled complacently; shook his head; and said, ‘My daughters, Mrs Todgers. Merely my daughters.’

‘Ah!’ sighed the good lady, ‘I must believe you, for now I look at ‘em I think I should have known ‘em anywhere. My dear Miss Pecksniffs, how happy your Pa has made me!’

She hugged them both; and being by this time overpowered by her feelings or the inclemency of the morning, jerked a little pocket handkerchief out of the little basket, and applied the same to her face.

‘Now, my good madam,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘I know the rules of your establishment, and that you only receive gentlemen boarders. But it occurred to me, when I left home, that perhaps you would give my daughters house room, and make an exception in their favour.’

‘Perhaps?’ cried Mrs Todgers ecstatically. ‘Perhaps?’

‘I may say then, that I was sure you would,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘I know that you have a little room of your own, and that they can be comfortable there, without appearing at the general table.’

‘Dear girls!’ said Mrs Todgers. ‘I must take that liberty once more.’

Mrs Todgers meant by this that she must embrace them once more, which she accordingly did with great ardour. But the truth was that the house being full with the exception of one bed, which would now be occupied by Mr Pecksniff, she wanted time for consideration; and so much time too (for it was a knotty point how to dispose of them), that even when this second embrace was over, she stood for some moments gazing at the sisters, with affection beaming in one eye, and calculation shining out of the other.

‘I think I know how to arrange it,’ said Mrs Todgers, at length. ‘A sofa bedstead in the little third room which opens from my own parlour.—Oh, you dear girls!’

Thereupon she embraced them once more, observing that she could not decide which was most like their poor mother (which was highly probable, seeing that she had never beheld that lady), but that she rather thought the youngest was; and then she said that as the gentlemen would be down directly, and the ladies were fatigued with travelling, would they step into her room at once?

It was on the same floor; being, in fact, the back parlour; and had, as Mrs Todgers said, the great advantage (in London) of not being overlooked; as they would see when the fog cleared off. Nor was this a vainglorious boast, for it commanded at a perspective of two feet, a brown wall with a black cistern on the top. The sleeping apartment designed for the young ladies was approached from this chamber by a mightily convenient little door, which would only open when fallen against by a strong person. It commanded from a similar point of sight another angle of the wall, and another side of the cistern. ‘Not the damp side,’ said Mrs Todgers. ‘THAT is Mr Jinkins’s.’

In the first of these sanctuaries a fire was speedily kindled by the youthful porter, who, whistling at his work in the absence of Mrs Todgers (not to mention his sketching figures on his corduroys with burnt firewood), and being afterwards taken by that lady in the fact, was dismissed with a box on his ears. Having prepared breakfast for the young ladies with her own hands, she withdrew to preside in the other room; where the joke at Mr Jinkins’s expense seemed to be proceeding rather noisily.

‘I won’t ask you yet, my dears,’ said Mr Pecksniff, looking in at the door, ‘how you like London. Shall I?’

‘We haven’t seen much of it, Pa!’ cried Merry.

‘Nothing, I hope,’ said Cherry. (Both very miserably.)

‘Indeed,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘that’s true. We have our pleasure, and our business too, before us. All in good time. All in good time!’

Whether Mr Pecksniff’s business in London was as strictly professional as he had given his new pupil to understand, we shall see, to adopt that worthy man’s phraseology, ‘all in good time.’

La Casa di pensione commerciale del signor Todgers era proprio quel tipo di luogo che probabilmente è sempre buio in qualsiasi momento; ma quella mattina era particolarmente cupo. Nel corridoio c’era un odore strano, come se l’essenza concentrata di tutti i pasti cucinati in quella cucina da quando la Casa era stata costruita aleggiasse ancora sulle scale. E, proprio come il Frate Nero nel “Don Juan”, quell’odore non sembrava voler andarsene. In particolare, si percepiva un forte odore di cavolo: come se tutti i verduri che erano mai stati cucinati lì fossero piante sempreverdi, che crescevano con una forza “immortale”. La sala da pranzo aveva le pareti rivestite in legno; a chiunque vi entrasse trasmetteva immediatamente l’impressione di essere circondato da topi e ratti. Le scale erano molto buie e larghe, con balaustre così spesse e pesanti da poter fungere quasi da ponte. In un angolo cupo del primo piano c’era un enorme orologio vecchio e malandato, con una assurda corona di tre sfere di bronzo sulla sommità; pochi lo avevano mai visto. Nessuno si era mai fermato a guardarlo in faccia. Sembrava continuare a ticchettare soltanto per avvertire le persone incaute di non inciamparci accidentalmente. Le pareti non erano state rivestite né dipinte. Da quando esisteva la memoria umana, quella casa non era mai stata modificata. Era molto nera, sporca e piena di muffa. In cima alle scale c’era una vecchia finestra rotta, riparata in tutti i modi possibili; guardava con sospetto tutto ciò che passava sotto di sé. E sembrava “coprire” l’interno della casa del signor Todgers, come se fosse una sorta di gabbia umana. Lì dentro, probabilmente, crescevano soltanto persone di statura particolare.

Il signor Pecksniff e le sue belle figlie non erano ancora stati davanti al focolare per scaldarsi da dieci minuti, quando si sentì il rumore di passi sulle scale, e il padrone di casa entrò di corsa.

La signora Todgers era una donna piuttosto magra e dal viso austero; aveva una serie di riccioli davanti alla testa, simili a piccoli barili di birra, e in cima a essi qualcosa fatto di rete. Non si poteva proprio definirlo un cappello, sembrava più una ragnatela nera. Portava al braccio un piccolo cestino, dentro cui c’erano un mazzo di chiavi che tintinnavano mentre camminava; nell’altra mano teneva una candela di sego accesa. Dopo aver esaminato il signor Pecksniff per un istante alla luce della candela, la posò sul tavolo, così da poterlo accogliere con ancora più cordialità.

“Signor Pecksniff!” esclamò la signora Todgers. “Benvenuto a Londra! Chi avrebbe mai pensato a una visita del genere, dopo tanti, cari, cari, anni! Come sta, signor Pecksniff?”

“Esattamente come sempre; e sono altrettanto felice di vedervi, come sempre,” rispose il signor Pecksniff. “Ma guardate, siete persino più giovane di prima!”

“Sei proprio tu, ne sono sicura!”, disse la signora Todgers. “Non sei affatto cambiata.”

“Che ne dite di questo?” esclamò il signor Pecksniff, tendendo la mano verso le giovani signore. “Questo non mi rende forse più vecchio?”

“Non sono vostre figlie!” esclamò la signora, alzando le mani e stringendole. “Oh, no, signor Pecksniff. È vostra seconda figlia, e anche la sua damigella d’onore!”

Il signor Pecksniff sorrise compiaciuto, scosse la testa e disse: “Le mie figlie, la signora Todgers. Solo le mie figlie.”

“Ah!” sospirò la gentile signora, “Devo credervi. Ora che li guardo, penso di riconoscerli ovunque. Mia cara signorina Pecksniff, quanto mio marito mi abbia resa felice!”

Li abbracciò entrambi; e in quel momento, sopraffatta dai suoi sentimenti o dall’asprezza della mattina, tirò fuori un piccolo fazzoletto dalla cestolina e se lo premette sul viso.

“Ora, mia cara signora,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “conosco le regole della vostra istituzione e so che accettate soltanto gentiluomini come ospiti. Ma quando sono partito da >casa, mi è venuto in mente che forse potreste concedere alle mie figlie una stanza e fare un’eccezione a loro favore.”

“Forse?”, esclamò la signora Todgers con entusiasmo. “Forse?”

“Allora posso dire che ero sicuro che lo avreste fatto,” disse il signor Pecksniff. “So che avete una vostra piccola stanza personale, e che lì possono stare comodamente, senza dover partecipare al pasto comune.”

“Care ragazze!”, disse la signora Todgers. “Devo prendermi questa libertà un’altra volta.”

Mrs Todgers intendeva dire con questo che doveva abbracciarle di nuovo, e così fece con grande entusiasmo. Ma la verità era che la casa era piena, tranne per un letto che ora sarebbe stato occupato da Mr Pecksniff; quindi voleva prendersi del tempo per riflettere. E ne ebbe davvero bisogno (poiché era una questione complicata decidere cosa fare di loro), tanto che anche dopo questo secondo abbraccio rimase lì per qualche momento a fissare le sorelle, con affetto negli occhi e calcolo nell’altro.

“Credo di sapere come sistemare la cosa,” disse finalmente la signora Todgers. “Un divano-letto nella piccola stanza numero tre che si affaccia sul mio salotto. Oh, care ragazze!”

Allora li abbracciò ancora una volta, osservando che non riusciva a decidere quale dei due assomigliasse di più alla loro povera madre (il che era molto probabile, visto che non aveva mai visto quella signora), ma pensava che fosse il più giovane; quindi disse che poiché gli uomini sarebbero scesi subito e le donne erano stanche dal viaggio, avrebbero potuto entrare nella sua stanza immediatamente?

Si trovava nello stesso piano; in realtà, era la sala posteriore della casa; e aveva, come diceva la signora Todgers, il grande vantaggio (a Londra) di non essere visibile da nessuna parte; questo si sarebbe potuto constatare non appena la nebbia si fosse dissipata. E non si trattava certo di una vanteria vana, poiché da quella posizione si poteva vedere, a una distanza di circa due piedi, un muro marrone con una cisterna nera in cima. L’appartamento destinato alle giovani signore si raggiungeva da questa stanza attraverso una piccola porta molto comoda, che si apriva soltanto se spinta con forza da qualcuno. Da quella stessa posizione si poteva osservare un altro angolo del muro e un’altra faccia della cisterna. “Non il lato umido,” disse la signora Todgers. “Quello appartiene al signor Jinkins.”

Nel primo di questi santuari, un fuoco fu rapidamente acceso dal giovane portiere, il quale, mentre svolgeva il suo lavoro fischiettando – in assenza della signora Todgers, per non parlare dei disegni che faceva sulle sue giacche di velluto con la legna da ardere bruciata – fu in seguito scoperto dalla stessa signora e licenziato con un ceffone. Dopo aver preparato personalmente la colazione per le giovani signore, si ritirò nell’altra stanza, dove sembrava che le battute a spese del signor Jinkins proseguissero in modo piuttosto rumoroso.

“Non vi chiederò ancora, miei cari,” disse il signor Pecksniff, guardando attraverso la porta, “come vi piace Londra. Dovrei farlo?”

“Non l’abbiamo visto molto, papà!”, gridò Merry.

“Niente, spero,” disse Cherry. (Entrambe molto infelici.)

“Certamente,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “è vero. Abbiamo i nostri piaceri, e anche i nostri affari da sbrigare. Tutto a suo tempo. Tutto a suo tempo!”

Se gli affari di Mr Pecksniff a Londra fossero davvero così strettamente professionali come aveva fatto credere al suo nuovo allievo, lo scopriremo, per usare le parole di quell’uomo degno, “tutto a tempo debito”.

CHAPTER NINE

TOWN AND TODGER’S

Surely there never was, in any other borough, city, or hamlet in the world, such a singular sort of a place as Todgers’s. And surely London, to judge from that part of it which hemmed Todgers’s round and hustled it, and crushed it, and stuck its brick-and-mortar elbows into it, and kept the air from it, and stood perpetually between it and the light, was worthy of Todgers’s, and qualified to be on terms of close relationship and alliance with hundreds and thousands of the odd family to which Todgers’s belonged.

You couldn’t walk about Todgers’s neighbourhood, as you could in any other neighbourhood. You groped your way for an hour through lanes and byways, and court-yards, and passages; and you never once emerged upon anything that might be reasonably called a street. A kind of resigned distraction came over the stranger as he trod those devious mazes, and, giving himself up for lost, went in and out and round about and quietly turned back again when he came to a dead wall or was stopped by an iron railing, and felt that the means of escape might possibly present themselves in their own good time, but that to anticipate them was hopeless. Instances were known of people who, being asked to dine at Todgers’s, had travelled round and round for a weary time, with its very chimney-pots in view; and finding it, at last, impossible of attainment, had gone home again with a gentle melancholy on their spirits, tranquil and uncomplaining. Nobody had ever found Todgers’s on a verbal direction, though given within a few minutes’ walk of it. Cautious emigrants from Scotland or the North of England had been known to reach it safely, by impressing a charity-boy, town-bred, and bringing him along with them; or by clinging tenaciously to the postman; but these were rare exceptions, and only went to prove the rule that Todgers’s was in a labyrinth, whereof the mystery was known but to a chosen few.

Several fruit-brokers had their marts near Todgers’s; and one of the first impressions wrought upon the stranger’s senses was of oranges—of damaged oranges—with blue and green bruises on them, festering in boxes, or mouldering away in cellars. All day long, a stream of porters from the wharves beside the river, each bearing on his back a bursting chest of oranges, poured slowly through the narrow passages; while underneath the archway by the public-house, the knots of those who rested and regaled within, were piled from morning until night. Strange solitary pumps were found near Todgers’s hiding themselves for the most part in blind alleys, and keeping company with fire-ladders. There were churches also by dozens, with many a ghostly little churchyard, all overgrown with such straggling vegetation as springs up spontaneously from damp, and graves, and rubbish. In some of these dingy resting-places which bore much the same analogy to green churchyards, as the pots of earth for mignonette and wall-flower in the windows overlooking them did to rustic gardens, there were trees; tall trees; still putting forth their leaves in each succeeding year, with such a languishing remembrance of their kind (so one might fancy, looking on their sickly boughs) as birds in cages have of theirs. Here, paralysed old watchmen guarded the bodies of the dead at night, year after year, until at last they joined that solemn brotherhood; and, saving that they slept below the ground a sounder sleep than even they had ever known above it, and were shut up in another kind of box, their condition can hardly be said to have undergone any material change when they, in turn, were watched themselves.

Among the narrow thoroughfares at hand, there lingered, here and there, an ancient doorway of carved oak, from which, of old, the sounds of revelry and feasting often came; but now these mansions, only used for storehouses, were dark and dull, and, being filled with wool, and cotton, and the like—such heavy merchandise as stifles sound and stops the throat of echo—had an air of palpable deadness about them which, added to their silence and desertion, made them very grim. In like manner, there were gloomy courtyards in these parts, into which few but belated wayfarers ever strayed, and where vast bags and packs of goods, upward or downward bound, were for ever dangling between heaven and earth from lofty cranes There were more trucks near Todgers’s than you would suppose whole city could ever need; not active trucks, but a vagabond race, for ever lounging in the narrow lanes before their masters’ doors and stopping up the pass; so that when a stray hackney-coach or lumbering waggon came that way, they were the cause of such an uproar as enlivened the whole neighbourhood, and made the bells in the next churchtower vibrate again. In the throats and maws of dark no-thoroughfares near Todgers’s, individual wine-merchants and wholesale dealers in grocery-ware had perfect little towns of their own; and, deep among the foundations of these buildings, the ground was undermined and burrowed out into stables, where cart-horses, troubled by rats, might be heard on a quiet Sunday rattling their halters, as disturbed spirits in tales of haunted houses are said to clank their chains.

To tell of half the queer old taverns that had a drowsy and secret existence near Todgers’s, would fill a goodly book; while a second volume no less capacious might be devoted to an account of the quaint old guests who frequented their dimly lighted parlours. These were, in general, ancient inhabitants of that region; born, and bred there from boyhood, who had long since become wheezy and asthmatical, and short of breath, except in the article of story-telling; in which respect they were still marvellously long-winded. These gentry were much opposed to steam and all new-fangled ways, and held ballooning to be sinful, and deplored the degeneracy of the times; which that particular member of each little club who kept the keys of the nearest church, professionally, always attributed to the prevalence of dissent and irreligion; though the major part of the company inclined to the belief that virtue went out with hair-powder, and that Old England’s greatness had decayed amain with barbers.

CAPITOLO NOVE

Città e il bambino piccolo

Di certo non esisteva mai, in nessun altro quartiere, città o villaggio del mondo, un luogo così particolare come Todgers’s. E certamente Londra, a giudicare da quella parte sua che circondava Todgers’s, soffocandola, schiacciandola, invadendola con i suoi edifici in mattoni e cemento, impedendole di respirare l’aria fresca e tenendola sempre all’ombra, meritava davvero di essere considerata simile a Todgers’s, e era degna di stabilire rapporti stretti e alleanze con le centinaia di migliaia di famiglie strane e uniche come quella a cui apparteneva Todgers’s.

Non si poteva camminare per il quartiere di Todgers come si farebbe in qualsiasi altro quartiere. Si doveva procedere a tentoni per un’ora attraverso vicoli, cortili e passaggi; mai si arrivava su ciò che potesse essere ragionevolmente definito una strada. Il viaggiatore, mentre percorreva quei labirinti tortuosi, finiva per rassegnarsi all’idea di essersi perso; entrava, usciva, girava in tondo, e poi tornava indietro quando si trovava davanti a un muro impenetrabile o bloccato da una ringhiera di ferro. Sapeva che forse l’uscita sarebbe apparsa “nel suo momento giusto”, ma cercarla anticipatamente era impossibile. Erano stati casi in cui persone, invitate a cena da Todgers, avevano girato in tondo per molto tempo, con la ciminiera dello stesso posto sempre visibile davanti ai loro occhi; alla fine, riconoscendo che non sarebbe stato possibile raggiungerlo, se ne erano tornate a casa con un leggero senso di malinconia, tranquille e senza lamentarsi. Nessuno era mai riuscito a trovare Todgers seguendo indicazioni verbali, anche se queste fornite erano a pochi minuti di distanza dal luogo. Si sapeva che alcuni emigranti cauti provenienti dalla Scozia o dal Nord dell’Inghilterra ci erano riusciti, convincendo un ragazzo di beneficenza cresciuto in città a accompagnarli, oppure attaccandosi tenacemente al postino. Ma questi erano casi rari, e servivano soltanto a confermare la regola secondo cui Todgers’s si trovava in un vero labirinto, il cui mistero era conosciuto solo da pochi eletti.

Diversi commercianti di frutta avevano i loro mercati vicino a Todgers’s; e una delle prime impressioni che colpirono i sensi dello straniero furono quelle legate alle arance: arance danneggiate, con macchie blu e verdi, marcite nelle scatole o in decomposizione nei sotterranei. Per tutto il giorno, un flusso continuo di portatori provenienti dai moli vicino al fiume, ciascuno con una scatola piena di arance sulle spalle, attraversava lentamente i passaggi stretti; mentre sotto l’arco accanto alla casa pubblica, mucchi di persone che si riposavano e si divertivano all’interno si accumulavano dal mattino fino alla notte. Vicino a Todgers’s si trovavano anche strani macchinari solitari, nascosti per lo più in vicoli ciechi, insieme alle scale antincendio. C’erano anche dozzine di chiese, con molti piccoli cimiteri desolati, tutti invasi da una vegetazione selvaggia che cresceva spontaneamente tra tombe e rifiuti. In alcuni di questi luoghi tristi, simili in qualche modo a piccoli cimiteri verdi – proprio come i vasi di terra nei quali venivano piantate piante aromatiche alle finestre che si affacciavano su di loro ricordavano giardini rustici – crescevano alberi; alberi alti, che ogni anno continuavano a mettere fuori le loro foglie, con un aspetto così malaticcio da far pensare, guardando i loro rami deboli, alle condizioni in cui si trovavano gli uccelli in gabbia. Qui, vecchi custodi paralizzati vegliavano sui corpi dei morti di notte, anno dopo anno, fino a quando non si univano a quella solenne comunità dei defunti; e, a parte il fatto che dormivano sottoterra in un sonno più profondo di quanto avessero mai conosciuto in vita loro, e che erano racchiusi in “scatole” diverse da quelle in cui avevano vissuto, la loro condizione non subiva praticamente alcun cambiamento, quando a loro volta venivano a loro volta “guardati”.

Tra i vicoli stretti di quella zona, qua e là si trovavano antiche porte di quercia intagliata; un tempo da lì provenivano spesso suoni di baldoria e banchetti. Ora, però, quelle case, utilizzate soltanto come magazzini, erano oscure e desolate. Piene di lana, cotone e altre merci pesanti che soffocavano i suoni e impedivano alle eco di risuonare, avevano un’atmosfera di morte palpabile; questo, unito al loro silenzio e alla loro abbandono, le rendeva davvero tetre. Anche gli cortili erano cupi e pochi vi si avventuravano, se non viaggiatori solitari e in ritardo. Lì, enormi sacchi di merci, diretti verso l’alto o il basso, pendevano per sempre tra cielo e terra, sospesi a gru alte. Nei pressi di Todgers’s c’erano più carri di quanti si potesse immaginare che avesse bisogno un’intera città; non carri attivi, ma una folla oziosa che se ne stava sempre nei vicoli davanti alle porte dei loro padroni, bloccando il passaggio. Quando arrivava qualche carrozza o carretto, scatenavano un tale trambusto da ravvivare l’intera zona e far vibrare di nuovo le campane della chiesa più vicina. Nei vicoli oscuri e desolati intorno a Todgers’s, piccoli commercianti di vini e grossisti di alimentari avevano creato delle vere e proprie “cittadine” private; in profondità, sotto le fondamenta di quegli edifici, il terreno era stato scavato per creare stalle, dove i cavalli da carico, disturbati dai topi, si udivano a volte mormorare tranquillamente nei giorni di domenica, proprio come gli spiriti infestati nelle storie di case hantate si dice che facciano tintinnare le loro catene.

Per raccontare metà di quelle strane vecchie taverne che esistevano in modo silenzioso e segreto vicino a Todgers’s, si potrebbe riempire un intero libro; mentre un secondo volume, altrettanto voluminoso, potrebbe essere dedicato ai curiosi e antichi clienti che frequentavano i loro locali scarsamente illuminati. Questi erano, in generale, abitanti anziani di quella zona: nati e cresciuti lì fin dall’infanzia, ormai affetti da problemi respiratori, ma ancora straordinariamente prolissi nel raccontare storie. Questi signori erano fermamente contrari all’utilizzo della steam e a tutte le innovazioni moderne; consideravano il pallone aerostatico un’attività peccaminosa e deploravano la decadenza dei tempi, attribuendo tale fenomeno, in modo particolare, alla diffusione dell’eresia e dell’irreligiosità; sebbene la maggior parte di loro fosse incline a credere che la virtù fosse scomparsa insieme ai prodotti per i capelli, e che la grandezza dell’antica Inghilterra fosse andata in declino con l’avvento dei barbieri.

As to Todgers’s itself—speaking of it only as a house in that neighbourhood, and making no reference to its merits as a commercial boarding establishment—it was worthy to stand where it did. There was one staircase-window in it, at the side of the house, on the ground floor; which tradition said had not been opened for a hundred years at least, and which, abutting on an always dirty lane, was so begrimed and coated with a century’s mud, that no one pane of glass could possibly fall out, though all were cracked and broken twenty times. But the grand mystery of Todgers’s was the cellarage, approachable only by a little back door and a rusty grating; which cellarage within the memory of man had had no connection with the house, but had always been the freehold property of somebody else, and was reported to be full of wealth; though in what shape—whether in silver, brass, or gold, or butts of wine, or casks of gun-powder—was matter of profound uncertainty and supreme indifference to Todgers’s and all its inmates.

The top of the house was worthy of notice. There was a sort of terrace on the roof, with posts and fragments of rotten lines, once intended to dry clothes upon; and there were two or three tea-chests out there, full of earth, with forgotten plants in them, like old walking-sticks. Whoever climbed to this observatory, was stunned at first from having knocked his head against the little door in coming out; and after that, was for the moment choked from having looked perforce, straight down the kitchen chimney; but these two stages over, there were things to gaze at from the top of Todgers’s, well worth your seeing too. For first and foremost, if the day were bright, you observed upon the house-tops, stretching far away, a long dark path; the shadow of the Monument; and turning round, the tall original was close beside you, with every hair erect upon his golden head, as if the doings of the city frightened him. Then there were steeples, towers, belfries, shining vanes, and masts of ships; a very forest. Gables, housetops, garret-windows, wilderness upon wilderness. Smoke and noise enough for all the world at once.

After the first glance, there were slight features in the midst of this crowd of objects, which sprung out from the mass without any reason, as it were, and took hold of the attention whether the spectator would or no. Thus, the revolving chimney-pots on one great stack of buildings seemed to be turning gravely to each other every now and then, and whispering the result of their separate observation of what was going on below. Others, of a crook-backed shape, appeared to be maliciously holding themselves askew, that they might shut the prospect out and baffle Todgers’s. The man who was mending a pen at an upper window over the way, became of paramount importance in the scene, and made a blank in it, ridiculously disproportionate in its extent, when he retired. The gambols of a piece of cloth upon the dyer’s pole had far more interest for the moment than all the changing motion of the crowd. Yet even while the looker-on felt angry with himself for this, and wondered how it was, the tumult swelled into a roar; the hosts of objects seemed to thicken and expand a hundredfold, and after gazing round him, quite scared, he turned into Todgers’s again, much more rapidly than he came out; and ten to one he told M. Todgers afterwards that if he hadn’t done so, he would certainly have come into the street by the shortest cut; that is to say, head-foremost.

So said the two Miss Pecksniffs, when they retired with Mrs Todgers from this place of espial, leaving the youthful porter to close the door and follow them downstairs; who, being of a playful temperament, and contemplating with a delight peculiar to his sex and time of life, any chance of dashing himself into small fragments, lingered behind to walk upon the parapet.

It being the second day of their stay in London, the Miss Pecksniffs and Mrs Todgers were by this time highly confidential, insomuch that the last-named lady had already communicated the particulars of three early disappointments of a tender nature; and had furthermore possessed her young friends with a general summary of the life, conduct, and character of Mr Todgers. Who, it seemed, had cut his matrimonial career rather short, by unlawfully running away from his happiness, and establishing himself in foreign countries as a bachelor.

‘Your pa was once a little particular in his attentions, my dears,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘but to be your ma was too much happiness denied me. You’d hardly know who this was done for, perhaps?’

She called their attention to an oval miniature, like a little blister, which was tacked up over the kettle-holder, and in which there was a dreamy shadowing forth of her own visage.

‘It’s a speaking likeness!’ cried the two Miss Pecksniffs.

‘It was considered so once,’ said Mrs Todgers, warming herself in a gentlemanly manner at the fire; ‘but I hardly thought you would have known it, my loves.’

They would have known it anywhere. If they could have met with it in the street, or seen it in a shop window, they would have cried ‘Good gracious! Mrs Todgers!’

‘Presiding over an establishment like this, makes sad havoc with the features, my dear Miss Pecksniffs,’ said Mrs Todgers. ‘The gravy alone, is enough to add twenty years to one’s age, I do assure you.’

‘Lor’!’ cried the two Miss Pecksniffs.

‘The anxiety of that one item, my dears,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘keeps the mind continually upon the stretch. There is no such passion in human nature, as the passion for gravy among commercial gentlemen. It’s nothing to say a joint won’t yield—a whole animal wouldn’t yield—the amount of gravy they expect each day at dinner. And what I have undergone in consequence,’ cried Mrs Todgers, raising her eyes and shaking her head, ‘no one would believe!’

Per quanto riguarda la casa stessa di Todgers – parlando di essa soltanto come di un’abitazione in quella zona, senza fare riferimento alle sue qualità come istituto commerciale per l’alloggio e il pasto – meritava davvero di trovarsi lì dove si trovava. All’interno c’era una scala situata vicino alla finestra, al piano terra; si diceva che non fosse stata aperta da almeno cento anni, ed essendo adiacente a un vicolo sempre sporco, era così coperta di sporcizia e fango accumulati nel corso del tempo che nessun vetro avrebbe mai potuto rompersi, anche se tutti erano crepati o rotti da venti volte. Ma il vero mistero di Todgers risiedeva nel seminterrato, accessibile soltanto attraverso una piccola porta posteriore e una grata arrugginita; quel seminterrato, nella memoria degli uomini, non aveva mai avuto alcuna connessione con la casa stessa, ma era sempre stato di proprietà di qualcun altro ed era noto per essere pieno di ricchezze, anche se in che forma – argento, bronzo, oro, bottiglie di vino o barili di polvere da sparo – rimaneva un mistero profondo e del tutto indifferente per Todgers e tutti i suoi abitanti.

La parte superiore della casa meritava davvero di essere osservata. C’era una sorta di terrazza sul tetto, con pilastri e frammenti di corde marce, un tempo utilizzati per stendere i panni ad asciugare; inoltre, lì fuori c’erano due o tre cassapanche piene di terra, contenenti piante dimenticate, simili a vecchi bastoni da passeggio. Chiunque salisse su questa “torre di osservazione” rimaneva dapprima sorpreso nello sbattere la testa contro la piccola porta posta all’uscita; in seguito, veniva quasi soffocato dall’immagine dello scarico del camino della cucina che si presentava davanti ai suoi occhi. Ma una volta superati questi due ostacoli, c’erano molte cose degne di essere ammirate dalla sommità della casa dei Todgers. Davvero valeva la pena vederle. Per prima cosa, se il giorno era sereno, si potevano osservare, sulle altre cime delle case, un lungo sentiero scuro che si estendeva lontano; l’ombra del Monumento. E voltandosi, si vedeva l’edificio originale, alto e imponente, con ogni singola ciocca di capelli eretta sulla sua testa dorata, come se le attività della città lo spaventassero. C’erano inoltre campanili, torri, guglie, vele scintillanti e alberi maestri di navi; una vera e propria “foresta” di edifici. Grondaie, tetti, finestre dei sottotetti. Un caos di forme e luci. Fumo e rumore sufficienti per tutto il mondo.

Dopo il primo sguardo, in mezzo a quella folla di oggetti si notavano alcune caratteristiche particolari: sembravano emergere dal tutto senza alcun motivo apparente e attiravano l’attenzione del osservatore, che lo volesse o no. Ad esempio, i comignoli in movimento su un grande edificio parevano girarsi l’uno verso l’altro di tanto in tanto, come se si scambiassero segreti riguardo a ciò che accadeva sotto di loro. Altri oggetti, dalla forma curva, sembravano intenzionalmente posizionati in modo da oscurare la vista e confondere chi li osservava. L’uomo che stava riparando una penna alla finestra sopra di lui divenne improvvisamente l’elemento centrale della scena; il suo ritiro lasciò un vuoto nel panorama, ridicolmente grande rispetto al resto degli oggetti presenti. I movimenti di un pezzo di stoffa appeso al palo del tintore suscitavano molto più interesse in quel momento di tutta la frenesia della folla. Eppure, nonostante il osservatore si rimproverasse per questo, il tumulto crebbe fino a diventare un vero e proprio ruggito; gli oggetti sembrarono moltiplicarsi e ingrandirsi all’infinito. Dopo aver guardato intorno con paura, tornò immediatamente da Todgers, molto più velocemente di quanto fosse uscito. E con ogni probabilità raccontò a M. Todgers che, se non l’avesse fatto, sarebbe sicuramente finito in strada per la via più breve, cioè, dritto davanti a tutti gli altri.

Così dissero le due signorine Pecksniff quando si ritirarono insieme alla signora Todgers da questo luogo di spionaggio, lasciando il giovane portiere a chiudere la porta e seguirle al piano di sotto; lui, essendo di temperamento giocoso e immaginando con un piacere tipico del suo sesso e della sua età qualsiasi possibilità di rompersi in mille pezzi, si trattenne indietro per camminare sul parapetto.

Essendo il secondo giorno del loro soggiorno a Londra, la signorina Pecksniff e la signora Todgers ormai erano molto intime l’una con l’altra; anzi, quest’ultima aveva già raccontato ai suoi giovani amici i dettagli di tre delusioni amorose subite da una persona dal cuore tenero. Inoltre, aveva fornito loro un resoconto generale sulla vita, sul comportamento e sul carattere del signor Todgers. A quanto pare, quest’ultimo aveva interrotto prematuramente la sua carriera matrimoniale, fuggendo illegalmente dalla propria felicità per stabilirsi all’estero da scapolo.

“Vostro padre un tempo era molto esigente nelle sue attenzioni, mie care,” disse la signora Todgers, “ma diventare vostra madre è stata una felicità troppo grande da poter essere mia. Forse nemmeno voi sapete a chi fossero destinate queste attenzioni, vero?”

Attirò la loro attenzione su una piccola miniatura ovale, simile a una piccola vescica, fissata sopra il supporto della teiera; al suo interno si vedeva l’immagine del suo volto, rappresentato in modo suggestivo attraverso ombreggiature.

“È una somiglianza incredibile!” esclamarono le due signorine Pecksniff.

“Una volta si considerava così,” disse la signora Todgers, riscaldandosi con grazia accanto al focolare; “ma non pensavo che voi ne foste a conoscenza, mie care.”

L’avrebbero riconosciuto ovunque. Anche se lo avessero incontrato per strada o visto nella vetrina di un negozio, avrebbero esclamato: “Mio Dio! La signora Todgers!”

“Dirigere un’istituzione del genere provoca davvero dei danni gravi alle sue caratteristiche originali, cara signorina Pecksniffs,” disse la signora Todgers. “Solo il sugo, vi assicuro, è sufficiente per far invecchiare di vent’anni, ”

“Loro!” gridarono le due signorine Pecksniff.

“L’ansia per quell’unica cosa, miei cari,” disse la signora Todgers, “mantiene la mente costantemente sotto pressione. Non esiste alcuna passione nell’>natura umana paragonabile alla passione per il sugo da parte dei gentiluomini d’affari. Non è nemmeno il caso di dire che una sola carne non possa essere utilizzata, un intero animale potrebbe essere consumato, ma la quantità di sugo che si aspettano ogni giorno a cena. E quello che ho dovuto sopportare a causa di questo,” esclamò la signora Todgers, alzando gli occhi e scuotendo la testa, “nessuno lo crederebbe!”

‘Just like Mr Pinch, Merry!’ said Charity. ‘We have always noticed it in him, you remember?’

‘Yes, my dear,’ giggled Merry, ‘but we have never given it him, you know.’

‘You, my dears, having to deal with your pa’s pupils who can’t help themselves, are able to take your own way,’ said Mrs Todgers; ‘but in a commercial establishment, where any gentleman may say any Saturday evening, “Mrs Todgers, this day week we part, in consequence of the cheese,” it is not so easy to preserve a pleasant understanding. Your pa was kind enough,’ added the good lady, ‘to invite me to take a ride with you to-day; and I think he mentioned that you were going to call upon Miss Pinch. Any relation to the gentleman you were speaking of just now, Miss Pecksniff?’

‘For goodness sake, Mrs Todgers,’ interposed the lively Merry, ‘don’t call him a gentleman. My dear Cherry, Pinch a gentleman! The idea!’

‘What a wicked girl you are!’ cried Mrs Todgers, embracing her with great affection. ‘You are quite a quiz, I do declare! My dear Miss Pecksniff, what a happiness your sister’s spirits must be to your pa and self!’

‘He’s the most hideous, goggle-eyed creature, Mrs Todgers, in existence,’ resumed Merry: ‘quite an ogre. The ugliest, awkwardest frightfullest being, you can imagine. This is his sister, so I leave you to suppose what SHE is. I shall be obliged to laugh outright, I know I shall!’ cried the charming girl, ‘I never shall be able to keep my countenance. The notion of a Miss Pinch presuming to exist at all is sufficient to kill one, but to see her—oh my stars!’

Mrs Todgers laughed immensely at the dear love’s humour, and declared she was quite afraid of her, that she was. She was so very severe.

‘Who is severe?’ cried a voice at the door. ‘There is no such thing as severity in our family, I hope!’ And then Mr Pecksniff peeped smilingly into the room, and said, ‘May I come in, Mrs Todgers?’

Mrs Todgers almost screamed, for the little door of communication between that room and the inner one being wide open, there was a full disclosure of the sofa bedstead in all its monstrous impropriety. But she had the presence of mind to close this portal in the twinkling of an eye; and having done so, said, though not without confusion, ‘Oh yes, Mr Pecksniff, you can come in, if you please.’

‘How are we to-day,’ said Mr Pecksniff, jocosely, ‘and what are our plans? Are we ready to go and see Tom Pinch’s sister? Ha, ha, ha! Poor Thomas Pinch!’

‘Are we ready,’ returned Mrs Todgers, nodding her head with mysterious intelligence, ‘to send a favourable reply to Mr Jinkins’s round-robin? That’s the first question, Mr Pecksniff.’

‘Why Mr Jinkins’s robin, my dear madam?’ asked Mr Pecksniff, putting one arm round Mercy, and the other round Mrs Todgers, whom he seemed, in the abstraction of the moment, to mistake for Charity. ‘Why Mr Jinkins’s?’

‘Because he began to get it up, and indeed always takes the lead in the house,’ said Mrs Todgers, playfully. ‘That’s why, sir.’

‘Jinkins is a man of superior talents,’ observed Mr Pecksniff. ‘I have conceived a great regard for Jinkins. I take Jinkins’s desire to pay polite attention to my daughters, as an additional proof of the friendly feeling of Jinkins, Mrs Todgers.’

‘Well now,’ returned that lady, ‘having said so much, you must say the rest, Mr Pecksniff; so tell the dear young ladies all about it.’

With these words she gently eluded Mr Pecksniff’s grasp, and took Miss Charity into her own embrace; though whether she was impelled to this proceeding solely by the irrepressible affection she had conceived for that young lady, or whether it had any reference to a lowering, not to say distinctly spiteful expression which had been visible in her face for some moments, has never been exactly ascertained. Be this as it may, Mr Pecksniff went on to inform his daughters of the purport and history of the round-robin aforesaid, which was in brief, that the commercial gentlemen who helped to make up the sum and substance of that noun of multitude signifying many, called Todgers’s, desired the honour of their presence at the general table, so long as they remained in the house, and besought that they would grace the board at dinner-time next day, the same being Sunday. He further said, that Mrs Todgers being a consenting party to this invitation, he was willing, for his part, to accept it; and so left them that he might write his gracious answer, the while they armed themselves with their best bonnets for the utter defeat and overthrow of Miss Pinch.

Tom Pinch’s sister was governess in a family, a lofty family; perhaps the wealthiest brass and copper founders’ family known to mankind. They lived at Camberwell; in a house so big and fierce, that its mere outside, like the outside of a giant’s castle, struck terror into vulgar minds and made bold persons quail. There was a great front gate; with a great bell, whose handle was in itself a note of admiration; and a great lodge; which being close to the house, rather spoilt the look-out certainly but made the look-in tremendous. At this entry, a great porter kept constant watch and ward; and when he gave the visitor high leave to pass, he rang a second great bell, responsive to whose note a great footman appeared in due time at the great halldoor, with such great tags upon his liveried shoulder that he was perpetually entangling and hooking himself among the chairs and tables, and led a life of torment which could scarcely have been surpassed, if he had been a blue-bottle in a world of cobwebs.

To this mansion Mr Pecksniff, accompanied by his daughters and Mrs Todgers, drove gallantly in a one-horse fly. The foregoing ceremonies having been all performed, they were ushered into the house; and so, by degrees, they got at last into a small room with books in it, where Mr Pinch’s sister was at that moment instructing her eldest pupil; to wit, a premature little woman of thirteen years old, who had already arrived at such a pitch of whalebone and education that she had nothing girlish about her, which was a source of great rejoicing to all her relations and friends.

“Proprio come il signor Pinch, Merry!” disse Charity. “Lo abbiamo sempre notato in lui, ricordi?”

“Sì, caro mio,” ridacchiò Merry, “ma in realtà non gliel’abbiamo mai data, lo sai.”

“Voi, mie care, essendo costrette a convivere con gli studenti di vostro padre che non riescono a controllarsi, potete seguire la strada che ritenete giusta,” disse la signora Todgers; “ma in un ambiente commerciale, dove qualsiasi gentiluomo può dire, ogni sabato sera: ‘Signora Todgers, questa settimana ci separiamo a causa del formaggio, ’, non è così facile mantenere buone relazioni. Vostro padre è stato così gentile,” aggiunse la brava donna, “da invitarmi ad andare a fare una passeggiata con voi oggi; e credo abbia menzionato che avreste fatto visita alla signorina Pinch. Qualche parentela con il gentiluomo di cui parlavate poco fa, signorina Pecksniff?”

“Per l’amor del cielo, signora Todgers,” intervenne la vivace Merry, “non chiamatelo gentiluomo. Cara Cherry, come potete pensare che sia un gentiluomo? Che idea assurda!”

“Che ragazza cattiva che sei!” esclamò la signora Todgers, abbracciandola con grande affetto. “Sei davvero birichina, lo devo ammettere! Mia cara signorina Pecksniff, che felicità deve essere per tuo padre e per te stesso il fatto che tua sorella sia così allegra!”

“È la creatura più orribile e stravagante che esista, signora Todgers,” continuò Merry: “un vero mostro. L’essere più brutto, goffo e spaventoso che si possa immaginare. Questa è sua sorella; lascio a voi immaginare COME sia lei. Sarà impossibile per me trattenere una risata, lo so!” esclamò la graziosa ragazza. “L’idea che una certa Miss Pinch possa anche solo esistere è già sufficiente a uccidere qualcuno. Ma vederla, oh mio Dio!”

La signora Todgers rideva moltissimo dello umorismo di quel caro amore e dichiarava di averne davvero paura. Era davvero molto severa.

“Chi è così severo?” gridò una voce alla porta. “Nella nostra famiglia non esiste nulla del genere, spero!” Poi il signor Pecksniff sbirciò dentro la stanza sorridendo e disse: “Posso entrare, signora Todgers?”

La signora Todgers quasi urlò: poiché la piccola porta di comunicazione tra quella stanza e l’altra era completamente aperta, il divano-letto veniva completamente visibile, nella sua orribile deformità. Ma lei ebbe la presenza di spirito di chiuderla in un istante; e dopo averlo fatto, disse, sebbene con qualche confusione: “Oh sì, signor Pecksniff, potete entrare, se volete.”

“Come stiamo oggi,” disse il signor Pecksniff in tono scherzoso, “e quali sono i nostri piani? Siamo pronti ad andare a trovare la sorella di Tom Pinch? Ahahah! Povero Thomas Pinch, ”

“Siamo pronti,” rispose la signora Todgers, annuendo con un’aria di misteriosa saggezza, “a inviare una risposta positiva alla richiesta del signor Jinkins? Questa è la prima domanda, signor Pecksniff.”

“Perché il pettirosso di Mr Jinkins, mia cara signora?” chiese Mr Pecksniff, mettendo un braccio intorno a Mercy e l’altro intorno a Mrs Todgers, che, in quel momento di distrazione, sembrava confondere con Charity. “Perché il pettirosso di Mr Jinkins?”

“Perché ha iniziato a farlo, e infatti è sempre lui ad assumersi l’iniziativa in casa,” disse la signora Todgers, scherzando. “Ecco il motivo, signore.”

“Jinkins è un uomo di notevoli talenti,” osservò il signor Pecksniff. “Ho grande stima per Jinkins. Il fatto che Jinkins desideri mostrare cortesia verso le mie figlie rappresenta, a mio avviso, un ulteriore segno della sua amichevole disposizione nei confronti di Mrs Todgers.”

“Beh,” rispose quella signora, “dopo aver detto così tanto, deve raccontare il resto, signor Pecksniff; quindi dica tutto alle care giovani signore.”

Con queste parole, lei sfuggì dolcemente alla presa del signor Pecksniff e abbracciò la signorina Charity; tuttavia non si è mai potuto stabilire con certezza se questo suo gesto fosse motivato esclusivamente dall’affetto incontenibile che provava per quella giovane donna, o se avesse a che fare con un’espressione cupa, per non dire addirittura maliziosa, apparsa sul suo viso per alcuni momenti. Comunque sia, il signor Pecksniff continuò a spiegare alle sue figlie lo scopo e la storia di quella riunione: in breve, i gentiluomini d’affari che avevano contribuito a raccogliere i fondi necessari per quell’iniziativa desideravano che loro partecipassero al banchetto, purché rimanessero nella casa, e le invitarono ad accomodarsi a tavola la sera seguente, ovvero il )domenica. Aggiunse inoltre che poiché la signora Todgers era d’accordo con quell’invito, lui stesso era disposto ad accettarlo; quindi le lasciò per scrivere la sua risposta cortese, mentre loro si preparavano con i loro migliori cappelli, pronte a infliggere una sconfitta totale e decisiva alla signorina Pinch.

La sorella di Tom Pinch era istituttrice in una famiglia nobile; forse la più ricca famiglia di produttori di rame e ottone conosciuta dall’umanità. Vivevano a Camberwell, in una casa così grande e imponente che il suo semplice aspetto esterno, simile all’esterno di un gigantesco _castello, incuteva terrore nelle persone comuni e faceva tremare anche i più coraggiosi. C’era un grande cancello d’ingresso, con una grande campana il cui manico stesso era motivo di ammirazione; inoltre, c’era una grande guardiola situata vicino alla casa, che, sebbene rovinasse in parte la vista dall’esterno, rendeva l’interno ancora più imponente. All’ingresso, un enorme portiere montava costantemente la guardia; quando permetteva a qualcuno di entrare, suonava una seconda campana, e subito dopo appariva un servitore con abiti eleganti, i cui ornamenti lo facevano continuamente inciampare nelle sedie e nei tavoli, conducendolo in una vita di tormenti che difficilmente avrebbe potuto essere superata, anche se fosse stato un insetto in un mondo pieno di ragnatele.

In questa dimora, il signor Pecksniff, accompagnato dalle sue figlie e dalla signora Todgers, arrivò con eleganza su una carrozza trainata da un solo cavallo. Dopo che tutte le cerimonie previste furono svolte, furono fatti entrare in casa; gradualmente, arrivarono infine in una piccola stanza piena di libri, dove la sorella del signor Pinch stava in quel momento insegnando alla sua allieva più anziana: si trattava di una giovane donna di tredici anni che aveva già raggiunto un livello di istruzione tale da non avere più nulla di “giovane” in sé, il che costituiva motivo di grande gioia per tutti i suoi parenti e amici.

‘Visitors for Miss Pinch!’ said the footman. He must have been an ingenious young man, for he said it very cleverly; with a nice discrimination between the cold respect with which he would have announced visitors to the family, and the warm personal interest with which he would have announced visitors to the cook.

‘Visitors for Miss Pinch!’

Miss Pinch rose hastily; with such tokens of agitation as plainly declared that her list of callers was not numerous. At the same time, the little pupil became alarmingly upright, and prepared herself to take mental notes of all that might be said and done. For the lady of the establishment was curious in the natural history and habits of the animal called Governess, and encouraged her daughters to report thereon whenever occasion served; which was, in reference to all parties concerned, very laudable, improving, and pleasant.

It is a melancholy fact; but it must be related, that Mr Pinch’s sister was not at all ugly. On the contrary, she had a good face; a very mild and prepossessing face; and a pretty little figure—slight and short, but remarkable for its neatness. There was something of her brother, much of him indeed, in a certain gentleness of manner, and in her look of timid trustfulness; but she was so far from being a fright, or a dowdy, or a horror, or anything else, predicted by the two Miss Pecksniffs, that those young ladies naturally regarded her with great indignation, feeling that this was by no means what they had come to see.

Miss Mercy, as having the larger share of gaiety, bore up the best against this disappointment, and carried it off, in outward show at least, with a titter; but her sister, not caring to hide her disdain, expressed it pretty openly in her looks. As to Mrs Todgers, she leaned on Mr Pecksniff’s arm and preserved a kind of genteel grimness, suitable to any state of mind, and involving any shade of opinion.

‘Don’t be alarmed, Miss Pinch,’ said Mr Pecksniff, taking her hand condescendingly in one of his, and patting it with the other. ‘I have called to see you, in pursuance of a promise given to your brother, Thomas Pinch. My name—compose yourself, Miss Pinch—is Pecksniff.’

The good man emphasised these words as though he would have said, ‘You see in me, young person, the benefactor of your race; the patron of your house; the preserver of your brother, who is fed with manna daily from my table; and in right of whom there is a considerable balance in my favour at present standing in the books beyond the sky. But I have no pride, for I can afford to do without it!’

The poor girl felt it all as if it had been Gospel truth. Her brother writing in the fullness of his simple heart, had often told her so, and how much more! As Mr Pecksniff ceased to speak, she hung her head, and dropped a tear upon his hand.

‘Oh very well, Miss Pinch!’ thought the sharp pupil, ‘crying before strangers, as if you didn’t like the situation!’

‘Thomas is well,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘and sends his love and this letter. I cannot say, poor fellow, that he will ever be distinguished in our profession; but he has the will to do well, which is the next thing to having the power; and, therefore, we must bear with him. Eh?’

‘I know he has the will, sir,’ said Tom Pinch’s sister, ‘and I know how kindly and considerately you cherish it, for which neither he nor I can ever be grateful enough, as we very often say in writing to each other. The young ladies too,’ she added, glancing gratefully at his two daughters, ‘I know how much we owe to them.’

‘My dears,’ said Mr Pecksniff, turning to them with a smile: ‘Thomas’s sister is saying something you will be glad to hear, I think.’

‘We can’t take any merit to ourselves, papa!’ cried Cherry, as they both apprised Tom Pinch’s sister, with a curtsey, that they would feel obliged if she would keep her distance. ‘Mr Pinch’s being so well provided for is owing to you alone, and we can only say how glad we are to hear that he is as grateful as he ought to be.’

‘Oh very well, Miss Pinch!’ thought the pupil again. ‘Got a grateful brother, living on other people’s kindness!’

‘It was very kind of you,’ said Tom Pinch’s sister, with Tom’s own simplicity and Tom’s own smile, ‘to come here; very kind indeed; though how great a kindness you have done me in gratifying my wish to see you, and to thank you with my own lips, you, who make so light of benefits conferred, can scarcely think.’

‘Very grateful; very pleasant; very proper,’ murmured Mr Pecksniff.

‘It makes me happy too,’ said Ruth Pinch, who now that her first surprise was over, had a chatty, cheerful way with her, and a single-hearted desire to look upon the best side of everything, which was the very moral and image of Tom; ‘very happy to think that you will be able to tell him how more than comfortably I am situated here, and how unnecessary it is that he should ever waste a regret on my being cast upon my own resources. Dear me! So long as I heard that he was happy, and he heard that I was,’ said Tom’s sister, ‘we could both bear, without one impatient or complaining thought, a great deal more than ever we have had to endure, I am very certain.’ And if ever the plain truth were spoken on this occasionally false earth, Tom’s sister spoke it when she said that.

‘Ah!’ cried Mr Pecksniff whose eyes had in the meantime wandered to the pupil; ‘certainly. And how do YOU do, my very interesting child?’

‘Quite well, I thank you, sir,’ replied that frosty innocent.

‘A sweet face this, my dears,’ said Mr Pecksniff, turning to his daughters. ‘A charming manner!’

Both young ladies had been in ecstasies with the scion of a wealthy house (through whom the nearest road and shortest cut to her parents might be supposed to lie) from the first. Mrs Todgers vowed that anything one quarter so angelic she had never seen. ‘She wanted but a pair of wings, a dear,’ said that good woman, ‘to be a young syrup’—meaning, possibly, young sylph, or seraph.

“Visiti per la signorina Pinch!” disse il maggiordomo. Doveva essere un giovane ingegnoso, perché lo disse in modo molto astuto; dimostrò una bella capacità di distinguere tra il rispetto formale con cui avrebbe annunciato i visitatori alla famiglia e l’interesse personale con cui avrebbe annunciato i visitatori, diciamo, per la cuoca.

“Visitatori per la signorina Pinch!”

La signorina Pinch sistemò le rose in fretta e furia; i suoi gesti agitati dimostravano chiaramente che il numero delle persone venute a farle visita non era elevato. Nello stesso tempo, la piccola allieva si mise in posizione eretta, pronta ad annotare mentalmente tutto ciò che veniva detto e fatto. La direttrice dell’istituto, infatti, era molto curiosa riguardo alle caratteristiche naturali e alle abitudini di quell’“animale” chiamato “insegnante”, e incoraggiava le sue figlie a riferirle ogni volta che se ne presentasse l’occasione; il che, per tutte le parti coinvolte, era senz’altro molto lodevole, utile e piacevole.

È un fatto melanconico; ma bisogna dire che la sorella di Mr Pinch non era affatto brutta. Al contrario, aveva un bel viso: molto dolce e attraente; e una figura graziosa, snella e piccola, ma notevolmente ordinata. C’era qualcosa del fratello in lei, anzi molto di lui, nella sua gentilezza nel comportamento e nel suo sguardo timido e fiducioso; ma era così lontana dall’essere una persona repellente, o insignificante, o orribile, o qualsiasi altra cosa avessero previsto le due signorine Pecksniff, che quelle giovani donne la consideravano naturalmente con grande indignazione, sentendo che lei non era affatto ciò che erano venute a vedere.

La signorina Mercy, avendo la parte maggiore di allegria, riuscì a sopportare meglio questa delusione e, almeno in apparenza, ne fece fronte con una risatina; ma sua sorella, senza alcuna intenzione di nascondere il proprio disprezzo, lo esprimeva apertamente nel suo comportamento. Quanto alla signora Todgers, si appoggiava al braccio del signor Pecksniff e manteneva un’espressione seria e distinta, adatta a qualsiasi stato d’animo o opinione.

“Non allarmatevi, signorina Pinch,” disse il signor Pecksniff, prendendole la mano con aria condiscendente e accarezzandola con l’altra. “Sono venuto a trovarvi per mantenere una promessa fatta a vostro fratello, Thomas Pinch. Il mio nome, calmatevi, signorina Pinch, è Pecksniff.”

Quell’uomo buono sottolineò queste parole come se volesse dire: “Vedi in me, giovane, il benefattore della tua razza; il protettore della tua casa; colui che mantiene tuo fratello, il quale ogni giorno riceve manna dalla mia tavola; e a suo favore, nei registri, esiste attualmente un saldo considerevole. Ma non provo alcuna orgoglio, perché posso benissimo fare a meno di esso!”

La povera ragazza percepiva tutto come se si trattasse di verità sacre, di insegnamenti divini. Suo fratello, scrivendo con la semplicità del proprio cuore, le aveva spesso detto cose del genere. E molto di più! Quando il signor Pecksniff smise di parlare, lei abbassò lo sguardo e lasciò cadere una lacrima sulla sua mano.

“Ah, davvero molto bene, signorina Pinch!”, pensò quella studentessa astuta, “piangere davanti agli sconosciuti, come se non vi piacesse la situazione!”

“Thomas se la sta bene,” disse il signor Pecksniff; “e manda i suoi saluti e questa lettera. Non posso dire, povero ragazzo, che un giorno possa distinguersi nella nostra professione; ma ha la volontà di fare del suo meglio, il che è già molto; quindi dobbiamo avere pazienza con lui, eh?”

“So che ha la volontà necessaria, signore,” disse la sorella di Tom Pinch, “e so quanto gentilmente e premurosamente voi la coltiviate. Per questo, né lui né io potremo mai essere abbastanza grati, come spesso ci scriviamo a vicenda. Anche le giovani signore,” aggiunse, guardando con riconoscenza le sue due figlie, “so quanto dobbiamo a loro.”

“Miei cari,” disse il signor Pecksniff, rivolgendosi a loro con un sorriso, “la sorella di Thomas sta per dire qualcosa che penso vi farà piacere ascoltare.”

“Non possiamo attribuirci alcun merito, papà!” gridò Cherry, mentre entrambe, con un inchino, informavano la sorella di Tom Pinch che si sarebbero sentite in dovere se lei avesse mantenuto le distanze. “Il fatto che il signor Pinch sia così ben provvisto è dovuto esclusivamente a voi, e possiamo solo dire quanto siamo felici di sapere che sia grato come dovrebbe essere.”

“Ah, molto bene davvero, signorina Pinch!” pensò di nuovo la studentessa. “Ha un fratello grato, che vive grazie alla gentilezza degli altri, ”

“È stato molto gentile da parte tua,” disse la sorella di Tom Pinch con la stessa semplicità e lo stesso sorriso di Tom, “venire qui; davvero molto gentile. Anche se, quale immensa gentilezza hai dimostrato accontentando il mio desiderio di vederti e permettendomi di ringraziarti con le mie stesse parole! Tu, che consideri così naturali i benefici che offri, probabilmente nemmeno te ne rendi conto.”

“Molto grato; molto piacevole; molto appropriato,” mormorò il signor Pecksniff.

“Anche a me fa piacere,” disse Ruth Pinch; ora che la sua prima sorpresa era passata, parlava in modo chiacchieroso e allegramente, con un sincero desiderio di vedere sempre il lato positivo delle cose, proprio come faceva Tom. “Mi rende molto felice pensare che potrai raccontargli quanto bene mi vada qui, e quanto sia inutile che si preoccupi per il fatto che debba cavarmela da sola. Oh, mio Dio! Finché so che lui è felice, e so che lo sono anch’io,” disse la sorella di Tom, “siamo entrambi in grado di sopportare molto di più di quanto abbiamo dovuto sopportare finora, ne sono certa.” E se mai sulla questa terra, a volte ingannevole, venisse detta la semplice verità, allora la sorella di Tom l’aveva appena detta.

“Ah!” esclamò il signor Pecksniff, i cui occhi intanto si erano posati sullo studente; “certamente. E come stai tu, mio molto interessante bambino?”

“Molto bene, grazie signore,” rispose quella fredda e innocente persona.

“Che viso dolce, mie care,” disse il signor Pecksniff rivolgendosi alle sue figlie. “Un modo di comportarsi davvero incantevole!”

Entrambe le giovani signore erano state immediatamente conquistate dal discendente di una ricca famiglia (dalla quale, si poteva presumere, partisse la strada più breve per raggiungere i loro genitori). La signora Todgers giurò che non aveva mai visto nulla di così angelico. “Le mancavano soltanto un paio d’ali, cara,” disse quella brava donna, “per poter diventare una giovane silfide, o forse un serafino.”

‘If you will give that to your distinguished parents, my amiable little friend,’ said Mr Pecksniff, producing one of his professional cards, ‘and will say that I and my daughters—’

‘And Mrs Todgers, pa,’ said Merry.

‘And Mrs Todgers, of London,’ added Mr Pecksniff; ‘that I, and my daughters, and Mrs Todgers, of London, did not intrude upon them, as our object simply was to take some notice of Miss Pinch, whose brother is a young man in my employment; but that I could not leave this very chaste mansion, without adding my humble tribute, as an Architect, to the correctness and elegance of the owner’s taste, and to his just appreciation of that beautiful art to the cultivation of which I have devoted a life, and to the promotion of whose glory and advancement I have sacrified a—a fortune—I shall be very much obliged to you.’

‘Missis’s compliments to Miss Pinch,’ said the footman, suddenly appearing, and speaking in exactly the same key as before, ‘and begs to know wot my young lady is a-learning of just now.’

‘Oh!’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘Here is the young man. HE will take the card. With my compliments, if you please, young man. My dears, we are interrupting the studies. Let us go.’

Some confusion was occasioned for an instant by Mrs Todgers’s unstrapping her little flat hand-basket, and hurriedly entrusting the ‘young man’ with one of her own cards, which, in addition to certain detailed information relative to the terms of the commercial establishment, bore a foot-note to the effect that M. T. took that opportunity of thanking those gentlemen who had honoured her with their favours, and begged they would have the goodness, if satisfied with the table, to recommend her to their friends. But Mr Pecksniff, with admirable presence of mind, recovered this document, and buttoned it up in his own pocket.

Then he said to Miss Pinch—with more condescension and kindness than ever, for it was desirable the footman should expressly understand that they were not friends of hers, but patrons:

‘Good morning. Good-bye. God bless you! You may depend upon my continued protection of your brother Thomas. Keep your mind quite at ease, Miss Pinch!’

‘Thank you,’ said Tom’s sister heartily; ‘a thousand times.’

‘Not at all,’ he retorted, patting her gently on the head. ‘Don’t mention it. You will make me angry if you do. My sweet child’—to the pupil—‘farewell! That fairy creature,’ said Mr Pecksniff, looking in his pensive mood hard at the footman, as if he meant him, ‘has shed a vision on my path, refulgent in its nature, and not easily to be obliterated. My dears, are you ready?’

They were not quite ready yet, for they were still caressing the pupil. But they tore themselves away at length; and sweeping past Miss Pinch with each a haughty inclination of the head and a curtsey strangled in its birth, flounced into the passage.

The young man had rather a long job in showing them out; for Mr Pecksniff’s delight in the tastefulness of the house was such that he could not help often stopping (particularly when they were near the parlour door) and giving it expression, in a loud voice and very learned terms. Indeed, he delivered, between the study and the hall, a familiar exposition of the whole science of architecture as applied to dwelling-houses, and was yet in the freshness of his eloquence when they reached the garden.

‘If you look,’ said Mr Pecksniff, backing from the steps, with his head on one side and his eyes half-shut that he might the better take in the proportions of the exterior: ‘If you look, my dears, at the cornice which supports the roof, and observe the airiness of its construction, especially where it sweeps the southern angle of the building, you will feel with me—How do you do, sir? I hope you’re well?’

Interrupting himself with these words, he very politely bowed to a middle-aged gentleman at an upper window, to whom he spoke—not because the gentleman could hear him (for he certainly could not), but as an appropriate accompaniment to his salutation.

‘I have no doubt, my dears,’ said Mr Pecksniff, feigning to point out other beauties with his hand, ‘that this is the proprietor. I should be glad to know him. It might lead to something. Is he looking this way, Charity?’

‘He is opening the window pa!’

‘Ha, ha!’ cried Mr Pecksniff softly. ‘All right! He has found I’m professional. He heard me inside just now, I have no doubt. Don’t look! With regard to the fluted pillars in the portico, my dears—’

‘Hallo!’ cried the gentleman.

‘Sir, your servant!’ said Mr Pecksniff, taking off his hat. ‘I am proud to make your acquaintance.’

‘Come off the grass, will you!’ roared the gentleman.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, doubtful of his having heard aright. ‘Did you—?’

‘Come off the grass!’ repeated the gentleman, warmly.

‘We are unwilling to intrude, sir,’ Mr Pecksniff smilingly began.

‘But you ARE intruding,’ returned the other, ‘unwarrantably intruding. Trespassing. You see a gravel walk, don’t you? What do you think it’s meant for? Open the gate there! Show that party out!’

With that he clapped down the window again, and disappeared.

Mr Pecksniff put on his hat, and walked with great deliberation and in profound silence to the fly, gazing at the clouds as he went, with great interest. After helping his daughters and Mrs Todgers into that conveyance, he stood looking at it for some moments, as if he were not quite certain whether it was a carriage or a temple; but having settled this point in his mind, he got into his place, spread his hands out on his knees, and smiled upon the three beholders.

But his daughters, less tranquil-minded, burst into a torrent of indignation. This came, they said, of cherishing such creatures as the Pinches. This came of lowering themselves to their level. This came of putting themselves in the humiliating position of seeming to know such bold, audacious, cunning, dreadful girls as that. They had expected this. They had predicted it to Mrs Todgers, as she (Todgers) could depone, that very morning. To this, they added, that the owner of the house, supposing them to be Miss Pinch’s friends, had acted, in their opinion, quite correctly, and had done no more than, under such circumstances, might reasonably have been expected. To that they added (with a trifling inconsistency), that he was a brute and a bear; and then they merged into a flood of tears, which swept away all wandering epithets before it.

“Se vorrete dare questo ai vostri stimati genitori, mio caro piccolo amico,” disse il signor Pecksniff, estraendo una delle sue carte da visita professionali, “e direte che io e le mie figlie, ”

“E la signora Todgers, papà,” disse Merry.

‘E poi c’è la signora Todgers, di Londra,’ aggiunse il signor Pecksniff; ‘io, le mie figlie e la signora Todgers, di Londra, non abbiamo inteso invadere la loro privacy, poiché il nostro scopo era semplicemente quello di osservare un po’ la signorina Pinch, la cui fratello lavora per me; ma non avrei potuto lasciare questa dimora così elegante senza esprimere, in qualità di architetto, il mio profondo rispetto per la correttezza e l’eleganza dei gusti del suo proprietario, nonché per la sua giusta apprezzazione di quell’arte meravigliosa alla cui promozione ho dedicato tutta la mia vita, e per la quale ho sacrificato, una fortuna. Vi sarei molto grato.’

“Le lodi della signora sono per la signorina Pinch,” disse il valletto, apparso all’improvviso e parlando esattamente con lo stesso tono di prima, “e chiede di sapere cosa stia imparando la mia giovane padrona in questo momento.”

“Ohi!”, disse il signor Pecksniff, “Ecco qui il giovane. Lui prenderà la carta. Con i miei complimenti, per favore, giovane. Carissimi, stiamo interrompendo gli studi. Andiamo.”

Per un momento si creò una certa confusione quando la signora Todgers tolse dalla propria borsa a mano piatta e consegnò in fretta al “giovane uomo” uno dei suoi biglietti da visita. Su quel biglietto, oltre a alcune informazioni dettagliate riguardanti le condizioni dell’attività commerciale, c’era anche una nota che recitava: “La signora Todgers approfitta di questa occasione per ringraziare quei gentiluomini che le hanno dimostrato la loro stima e chiede loro, se soddisfatti del servizio offerto, di consigliarla ai propri amici”. Ma il signor Pecksniff, con notevole presenza di spirito, recuperò quel documento e se lo infilò in tasca.

Poi disse a Miss Pinch – con più condiscendenza e gentilezza del solito, poiché era necessario che il valletto capisse chiaramente che non erano suoi amici, ma semplicemente suoi clienti:

“Buongiorno. Addio. Che Dio vi benedica! Potete contare sulla mia continua protezione per vostro fratello Thomas. Non preoccupatevi, signorina Pinch!”

“Grazie mille,” disse con sincerità la sorella di Tom.

“Assolutamente no,” ribatté lui, accarezzandole dolcemente la testa. “Non parlarne nemmeno. Mi arrabbieresti se lo facessi. Mio caro bambino, ” continuò, rivolgendosi al ragazzo, “addio! Quella creatura fatata,” disse il signor Pecksniff, fissando pensieroso il valletto, come se si riferisse proprio a lui, “ha lasciato sulla mia strada un’immagine splendente nella sua natura, e non è facile cancellarla. Carissimi, siete pronti?”

Non erano ancora del tutto pronti, perché continuavano ad accarezzare quella studentessa.
Ma alla fine si staccarono da lei; passando accanto a Miss Pinch con un’aria di superiorità e un inchino appena accennato, si precipitarono nel corridoio.

Il giovane dovette impiegare un bel po’ di tempo per accompagnarli fuori; infatti, il signor Pecksniff era così entusiasta della raffinatezza dell’casa che non poteva fare a meno di fermarsi spesso (soprattutto quando erano vicini alla porta del salotto) per esprimere i suoi sentimenti ad alta voce e usando termini molto tecnici. Infatti, lungo il tragitto tra lo studio e l’atrio, fornì una dettagliata spiegazione di tutta la scienza architettonica applicata alle abitazioni; e quando finalmente raggiunsero l’giardino, la sua eloquenza era ancora piena di vigore.

“Se osservate bene,” disse il signor Pecksniff, allontanandosi dai gradini con la testa inclinata da un lato e gli occhi semichiusi per poter meglio apprezzare le proporzioni dell’edificio esterno, “se osservate la cornice che sostiene il tetto e notate quanto sia leggera nella sua costruzione, soprattutto nel punto in cui si estende lungo l’angolo sud dell’edificio, allora capirete ciò che provo io. Come state, signore? Spero che siate in buona salute.”

Interrompendosi con queste parole, fece un inchino molto cortese a un signore di mezza età che si trovava vicino a una finestra superiore; parlò con lui non perché il signore potesse sentirlo (certamente non poteva), ma come un complemento appropriato al suo saluto.

“Non ho alcun dubbio, mie care,” disse il signor Pecksniff, fingendo di indicare altre bellezze con la mano, “che questo sia il proprietario. Mi piacerebbe conoscerlo. Potrebbe portare a qualcosa. Sta guardando da questa parte, Charity?”

“Sta aprendo la finestra, pa!”

“Ha, ha!” esclamò sottovoce il signor Pecksniff. “Bene! Ha capito che sono un professionista. Mi ha sentito dentro poco fa, ne sono sicuro. Non guardate! Per quanto riguarda quei pilastri a canne nel portico, mie care, ”

“Salve!”, gridò il gentiluomo.

“Signore, a vostra disposizione!” disse il signor Pecksniff togliendosi il cappello. “Sono onorato di conoscervi.”

“Scendi immediatamente dall’erba, per favore!” gridò il gentiluomo.

“Perdonatemi, signore,” disse il signor Pecksniff, dubitando di aver capito bene. “Avete detto, ”

“Scendi dal prato!” ripeté il gentiluomo con calore.

“Non desideriamo intrometterci, signore,” cominciò Mr Pecksniff sorridendo.

“Ma voi state violando la proprietà privata,” ribatté l’altro, “vi state intromettendo senza alcun motivo. State commettendo un atto illegale. Vedete quel sentiero di ghiaia, vero? A cosa pensate che serva? Aprite quel cancello! Fateli andare via!”

Con quel gesto chiuse di nuovo la finestra e scomparve.

Il signor Pecksniff si mise il cappello e, con grande calma e nel più profondo silenzio, si avvicinò alla carrozza, osservando con grande interesse le nuvole intorno a lui. Dopo aver aiutato le sue figlie e la signora Todgers a salire su quel mezzo di trasporto, rimase fermo a guardarla per qualche momento, come se non fosse del tutto sicuro che si trattasse di una carrozza o di un tempio; ma una volta risolto questo dubbio, prese il suo posto, appoggiò le mani sulle ginocchia e sorrise alle tre persone presenti.

Ma le sue figlie, meno tranquille di mente, scoppiarono in un fiume di indignazione. Dissero che tutto ciò derivava dal fatto che amavano persone del genere delle Pinch; derivava dal fatto che si abbassavano al loro livello; derivava dal fatto che si mettevano in una posizione umiliante, fingendo di conoscere ragazze così audaci, spregevoli e pericolose. L’avevano previsto. Lo avevano detto proprio quella mattina alla signora Todgers, come lei stessa poteva testimoniare. Aggiunsero anche che il proprietario della casa, supponendo che fossero amiche di Miss Pinch, aveva agito, a loro parere, in modo del tutto corretto; non aveva fatto altro di ciò che, in quelle circostanze, si sarebbe potuto ragionevolmente aspettarsi da lui. A questo aggiunsero (con una piccola contraddizione) che fosse un bruto. Poi scoppiarono in lacrime, che spazzarono via ogni altra parola superflua.

Perhaps Miss Pinch was scarcely so much to blame in the matter as the Seraph, who, immediately on the withdrawal of the visitors, had hastened to report them at head-quarters, with a full account of their having presumptuously charged her with the delivery of a message afterwards consigned to the footman; which outrage, taken in conjunction with Mr Pecksniff’s unobtrusive remarks on the establishment, might possibly have had some share in their dismissal. Poor Miss Pinch, however, had to bear the brunt of it with both parties; being so severely taken to task by the Seraph’s mother for having such vulgar acquaintances, that she was fain to retire to her own room in tears, which her natural cheerfulness and submission, and the delight of having seen Mr Pecksniff, and having received a letter from her brother, were at first insufficient to repress.

As to Mr Pecksniff, he told them in the fly, that a good action was its own reward; and rather gave them to understand, that if he could have been kicked in such a cause, he would have liked it all the better. But this was no comfort to the young ladies, who scolded violently the whole way back, and even exhibited, more than once, a keen desire to attack the devoted Mrs Todgers; on whose personal appearance, but particularly on whose offending card and hand-basket, they were secretly inclined to lay the blame of half their failure.

Todgers’s was in a great bustle that evening, partly owing to some additional domestic preparations for the morrow, and partly to the excitement always inseparable in that house from Saturday night, when every gentleman’s linen arrived at a different hour in its own little bundle, with his private account pinned on the outside. There was always a great clinking of pattens downstairs, too, until midnight or so, on Saturdays; together with a frequent gleaming of mysterious lights in the area; much working at the pump; and a constant jangling of the iron handle of the pail. Shrill altercations from time to time arose between Mrs Todgers and unknown females in remote back kitchens; and sounds were occasionally heard, indicative of small articles of iron mongery and hardware being thrown at the boy. It was the custom of that youth on Saturdays, to roll up his shirt sleeves to his shoulders, and pervade all parts of the house in an apron of coarse green baize; moreover, he was more strongly tempted on Saturdays than on other days (it being a busy time), to make excursive bolts into the neighbouring alleys when he answered the door, and there to play at leap-frog and other sports with vagrant lads, until pursued and brought back by the hair of his head or the lobe of his ear; thus he was quite a conspicuous feature among the peculiar incidents of the last day in the week at Todgers’s.

He was especially so on this particular Saturday evening, and honoured the Miss Pecksniffs with a deal of notice; seldom passing the door of Mrs Todgers’s private room, where they sat alone before the fire, working by the light of a solitary candle, without putting in his head and greeting them with some such compliments as, ‘There you are agin!’ ‘An’t it nice?’—and similar humorous attentions.

‘I say,’ he whispered, stopping in one of his journeys to and fro, ‘young ladies, there’s soup to-morrow. She’s a-making it now. An’t she a-putting in the water? Oh! not at all neither!’

In the course of answering another knock, he thrust in his head again.

‘I say! There’s fowls to-morrow. Not skinny ones. Oh no!’

Presently he called through the key-hole:

‘There’s a fish to-morrow. Just come. Don’t eat none of him!’ And, with this special warning, vanished again.

By-and-bye, he returned to lay the cloth for supper; it having been arranged between Mrs Todgers and the young ladies, that they should partake of an exclusive veal-cutlet together in the privacy of that apartment. He entertained them on this occasion by thrusting the lighted candle into his mouth, and exhibiting his face in a state of transparency; after the performance of which feat, he went on with his professional duties; brightening every knife as he laid it on the table, by breathing on the blade and afterwards polishing the same on the apron already mentioned. When he had completed his preparations, he grinned at the sisters, and expressed his belief that the approaching collation would be of ‘rather a spicy sort.’

‘Will it be long, before it’s ready, Bailey?’ asked Mercy.

‘No,’ said Bailey, ‘it IS cooked. When I come up, she was dodging among the tender pieces with a fork, and eating of ‘em.’

But he had scarcely achieved the utterance of these words, when he received a manual compliment on the head, which sent him staggering against the wall; and Mrs Todgers, dish in hand, stood indignantly before him.

‘Oh you little villain!’ said that lady. ‘Oh you bad, false boy!’

‘No worse than yerself,’ retorted Bailey, guarding his head, on a principle invented by Mr Thomas Cribb. ‘Ah! Come now! Do that again, will yer?’

‘He’s the most dreadful child,’ said Mrs Todgers, setting down the dish, ‘I ever had to deal with. The gentlemen spoil him to that extent, and teach him such things, that I’m afraid nothing but hanging will ever do him any good.’

‘Won’t it!’ cried Bailey. ‘Oh! Yes! Wot do you go a-lowerin the table-beer for then, and destroying my constitooshun?’

‘Go downstairs, you vicious boy,’ said Mrs Todgers, holding the door open. ‘Do you hear me? Go along!’

After two or three dexterous feints, he went, and was seen no more that night, save once, when he brought up some tumblers and hot water, and much disturbed the two Miss Pecksniffs by squinting hideously behind the back of the unconscious Mrs Todgers. Having done this justice to his wounded feelings, he retired underground; where, in company with a swarm of black beetles and a kitchen candle, he employed his faculties in cleaning boots and brushing clothes until the night was far advanced.

Forse la signorina Pinch non era davvero così colpevole in questa faccenda quanto il “Serafino”, che, non appena gli ospiti se ne furono andati, si affrettò a riferire tutto al quartier generale, descrivendo in dettaglio come avessero osato accusarla di dover consegnare un messaggio che in realtà era stato affidato al valletto; tale comportamento, unito alle osservazioni poco lusinghiere del signor Pecksniff riguardo all’istituto stesso, potrebbe aver contribuito alla loro destituzione. Povera signorina Pinch, dovette subire le conseguenze di tutto ciò da entrambe le parti: la madre del “Serafino” la rimproverò aspramente per avere relazioni così volgari, tanto che lei fu costretta a ritirarsi nella sua stanza in lacrime. Tuttavia, la sua natura allegra e sottomessa, nonché la gioia di aver visto il signor Pecksniff e di aver ricevuto una lettera dal fratello, riuscirono inizialmente a farle superare quel momento difficile.

Per quanto riguarda il signor Pecksniff, egli disse loro in fretta che un’azione buona è di per sé la propria ricompensa; e fece persino capire che, se avesse potuto essere colpito a causa di una simile azione, l’avrebbe gradito ancora di più. Ma questo non fu alcun conforto per le giovani signore, le quali rimproverarono violentemente per tutto il tragitto di ritorno, e persino mostrarono più volte un forte desiderio di attaccare la devota signora Todgers; sulla cui apparenza personale, ma soprattutto sul suo cartoncino e sulla sua cestina da lavoro, erano segretamente incline a attribuire metà dei loro fallimenti.

Quella sera, nella casa dei Toddgers regnava un grande trambusto: in parte a causa di alcune preparazioni domestiche per il giorno seguente, e in parte per l’agitazione che, in quella casa, era sempre insita nelle sere di sabato, quando i lenzuola di ogni signore arrivavano alle diverse ore, ciascuno avvolto nel proprio piccolo pacco, con il conto personale fissato sul davanti. Al piano di sotto si sentiva sempre un gran rumore di passi, fino a mezzanotte circa; inoltre, nelle zone più remote della casa lampeggiavano spesso luci misteriose, si udiva molto rumore provenire dalla pompa dell’acqua, e il manico di ferro dei secchi tintinnava continuamente. Di tanto in tanto scoppiavano aspre discussioni tra la signora Toddgers e donne sconosciute nelle cucine posteriori; occasionalmente si sentivano anche rumori che indicavano che oggetti di ferro venivano gettati contro quel ragazzo. Il sabato, era abitudine di quel giovane arrotolare le maniche della camicia fino alle spalle e aggirare tutta la casa indossando un grembiule di tela verde grezza; inoltre, nei giorni di sabato – essendo un periodo molto impegnativo – era ancora più tentato di uscire di corsa nelle strade adiacenti quando andava ad aprire la porta, per giocare a salti e altre attività con ragazzi randagi, fino a quando non veniva rincorso e riportato indietro per i capelli o l’orecchio. Così, diventava davvero un personaggio molto noto tra gli strani avvenimenti che si verificavano nell’ultima giornata della settimana nella casa dei Toddgers.

Lo era particolarmente in quella specifica serata di sabato, e riservava alla signorina Pecksniff molta attenzione; raramente oltrepassava la porta della stanza privata della signora Todgers, dove loro sedevano da sole davanti al focolare, lavorando alla luce di una singola candela. Non si affacciava mai e non le rivolgeva complimenti del tipo: “Eccovi di nuovo!”, “Non è bello?”, né altre attenzioni umoristiche simili.

“Dico,” sussurrò, fermandosi durante uno dei suoi andirivieni, “signorine, domani ci sarà zuppa. La sta preparando proprio ora. Non starà mica mettendo l’acqua? Oh no, affatto!”

Mentre rispondeva a un altro bussare, infilò di nuovo la testa dentro.

“Dico io. Domani ci saranno polli da mangiare. Non quelli magri, per favore!”

“In quel momento chiamò attraverso la fessura della serratura:”

“Domani c’è un pesce. Vieni pure, ma non mangiarlo tutto!” E, con questo particolare avvertimento, scomparve di nuovo.

Dopo un po’, tornò per preparare la tavola per la cena; infatti, tra la signora Todgers e le giovani signore era stato concordato che mangiassero insieme una costoletta di vitello in privato, in quell’appartamento. In quell’occasione, per intrattenerle, mise una candela accesa in bocca e mostrò loro il proprio viso, rendendolo “trasparente”; dopo questo “spettacolo”, continuò con i suoi compiti professionali: lucidava ogni coltello posandolo sul tavolo soffiando sulla lama e poi pulendola con il grembiule menzionato in precedenza. Una volta terminati i preparativi, sorrise alle sorelle e dichiarò che la cena imminente sarebbe stata “abbastanza piccante”.

“Ci vorrà molto tempo prima che sia pronto, Bailey?” chiese Mercy.

“No,” disse Bailey, “è davvero cotta. Quando sono salito, lei stava cercando di prendere i pezzi più teneri con una forchetta e li stava mangiando.”

Ma appena ebbe finito di pronunciare queste parole, ricevette un colpo violento sulla testa che lo fece barcollare contro il muro; e la signora Todgers, con un piatto in mano, si fermò davanti a lui, piena di indignazione.

“Oh, piccolo malvagio!” disse quella signora. “Oh, cattivo, bugiardo ragazzo!”

“Nessuno peggio di te stesso,” ribatté Bailey, proteggendosi la testa, seguendo un principio inventato dal signor Thomas Cribb. “Ah! Dai, prova ancora una volta, vuoi?”

“È il bambino più terribile che abbia mai avuto a che fare,” disse la signora Todgers posando il piatto, “quei signori lo viziano troppo e gli insegnano cose del genere, temo che solo la forca possa ancora fargli del bene.”

“Non lo farà mica!” gridò Bailey. “Oh! Sì. E allora perché butti giù la birra dal tavolo e distruggi il mio organismo?”

“Scendi giù, ragazzo malvagio,” disse la signora Todgers, tenendo la porta aperta. “Mi senti? Vai!”

Dopo due o tre abili finte, se ne andò e non fu più visto per tutta quella notte, tranne una volta quando portò su alcuni bicchieri e dell’acqua calda, disturbando molto le due signorine Pecksniff facendo degli orribili occhiolini dietro la schiena della svenuta signora Todgers. Dopo aver così “risolto” i suoi sentimenti feriti, si ritirò sottoterra; lì, in compagnia di un nugolo di scarafaggi neri e di una candela da cucina, impiegò le sue capacità per pulire stivali e spazzolare vestiti fino a quando la notte non fu ormai avanzata.

Benjamin was supposed to be the real name of this young retainer but he was known by a great variety of names. Benjamin, for instance, had been converted into Uncle Ben, and that again had been corrupted into Uncle; which, by an easy transition, had again passed into Barnwell, in memory of the celebrated relative in that degree who was shot by his nephew George, while meditating in his garden at Camberwell. The gentlemen at Todgers’s had a merry habit, too, of bestowing upon him, for the time being, the name of any notorious malefactor or minister; and sometimes when current events were flat they even sought the pages of history for these distinctions; as Mr Pitt, Young Brownrigg, and the like. At the period of which we write, he was generally known among the gentlemen as Bailey junior; a name bestowed upon him in contradistinction, perhaps, to Old Bailey; and possibly as involving the recollection of an unfortunate lady of the same name, who perished by her own hand early in life, and has been immortalised in a ballad.

The usual Sunday dinner-hour at Todgers’s was two o’clock—a suitable time, it was considered for all parties; convenient to Mrs Todgers, on account of the bakers; and convenient to the gentlemen with reference to their afternoon engagements. But on the Sunday which was to introduce the two Miss Pecksniffs to a full knowledge of Todgers’s and its society, the dinner was postponed until five, in order that everything might be as genteel as the occasion demanded.

When the hour drew nigh, Bailey junior, testifying great excitement, appeared in a complete suit of cast-off clothes several sizes too large for him, and in particular, mounted a clean shirt of such extraordinary magnitude, that one of the gentlemen (remarkable for his ready wit) called him ‘collars’ on the spot. At about a quarter before five, a deputation, consisting of Mr Jinkins, and another gentleman, whose name was Gander, knocked at the door of Mrs Todgers’s room, and, being formally introduced to the two Miss Pecksniffs by their parent who was in waiting, besought the honour of conducting them upstairs.

The drawing-room at Todgers’s was out of the common style; so much so indeed, that you would hardly have taken it to be a drawingroom, unless you were told so by somebody who was in the secret. It was floor-clothed all over; and the ceiling, including a great beam in the middle, was papered. Besides the three little windows, with seats in them, commanding the opposite archway, there was another window looking point blank, without any compromise at all about it into Jinkins’s bedroom; and high up, all along one side of the wall was a strip of panes of glass, two-deep, giving light to the staircase. There were the oddest closets possible, with little casements in them like eight-day clocks, lurking in the wainscot and taking the shape of the stairs; and the very door itself (which was painted black) had two great glass eyes in its forehead, with an inquisitive green pupil in the middle of each.

Here the gentlemen were all assembled. There was a general cry of ‘Hear, hear!’ and ‘Bravo Jink!’ when Mr Jinkins appeared with Charity on his arm; which became quite rapturous as Mr Gander followed, escorting Mercy, and Mr Pecksniff brought up the rear with Mrs Todgers.

Then the presentations took place. They included a gentleman of a sporting turn, who propounded questions on jockey subjects to the editors of Sunday papers, which were regarded by his friends as rather stiff things to answer; and they included a gentleman of a theatrical turn, who had once entertained serious thoughts of ‘coming out,’ but had been kept in by the wickedness of human nature; and they included a gentleman of a debating turn, who was strong at speech-making; and a gentleman of a literary turn, who wrote squibs upon the rest, and knew the weak side of everybody’s character but his own. There was a gentleman of a vocal turn, and a gentleman of a smoking turn, and a gentleman of a convivial turn; some of the gentlemen had a turn for whist, and a large proportion of the gentlemen had a strong turn for billiards and betting. They had all, it may be presumed, a turn for business; being all commercially employed in one way or other; and had, every one in his own way, a decided turn for pleasure to boot. Mr Jinkins was of a fashionable turn; being a regular frequenter of the Parks on Sundays, and knowing a great many carriages by sight. He spoke mysteriously, too, of splendid women, and was suspected of having once committed himself with a Countess. Mr Gander was of a witty turn being indeed the gentleman who had originated the sally about ‘collars;’ which sparkling pleasantry was now retailed from mouth to mouth, under the title of Gander’s Last, and was received in all parts of the room with great applause. Mr Jinkins it may be added, was much the oldest of the party; being a fish-salesman’s book-keeper, aged forty. He was the oldest boarder also; and in right of his double seniority, took the lead in the house, as Mrs Todgers had already said.

There was considerable delay in the production of dinner, and poor Mrs Todgers, being reproached in confidence by Jinkins, slipped in and out, at least twenty times to see about it; always coming back as though she had no such thing upon her mind, and hadn’t been out at all. But there was no hitch in the conversation nevertheless; for one gentleman, who travelled in the perfumery line, exhibited an interesting nick-nack, in the way of a remarkable cake of shaving soap which he had lately met with in Germany; and the gentleman of a literary turn repeated (by desire) some sarcastic stanzas he had recently produced on the freezing of the tank at the back of the house. These amusements, with the miscellaneous conversation arising out of them, passed the time splendidly, until dinner was announced by Bailey junior in these terms:

Benjamin era probabilmente il vero nome di questo giovane servitore, ma era conosciuto con una grande varietà di nomi. Ad esempio, Benjamin veniva spesso chiamato “Zio Ben”, e poi questo nome si trasformava in semplicemente “Zio”; da lì, con un facile passaggio, diventava “Barnwell”, in memoria del famoso parente di quel grado che fu ucciso dal proprio nipote George mentre meditava nel suo giardino a Camberwell. Gli uomini di Todgers avevano anche l’abitudine di dargli, a seconda delle circostanze, il nome di qualche noto criminale o funzionario; a volte, quando gli eventi attuali non offrivano materiale sufficiente per questi scherzi, cercavano addirittura nelle pagine della storia nomi appropriati, come “Mr Pitt” o “Young Brownrigg”. Nel periodo di cui scriviamo, era generalmente conosciuto come “Bailey junior”, un nome scelto forse per distinguerlo da “Old Bailey”; oppure forse in memoria di una sfortunata signora omonima che si tolse la vita in giovane età e fu immortalizzata in una ballata.

L’ora abituale per la cena del domenica da Todgers era le due di mattina: un’ora appropriata, ritenuta conveniente per tutte le parti coinvolte; comoda per la signora Todgers, a causa dei panettieri; e comoda anche per gli uomini, considerando i loro impegni pomeridiani. Ma il domenica in cui le due signorine Pecksniff dovevano conoscere meglio Todgers e la sua società, la cena fu posticipata alle cinque, affinché tutto fosse quanto più elegante richiedesse l’occasione.

Quando l’ora si avvicinò, Bailey junior, visibilmente eccitato, apparve indossando un completo di abiti smessi che gli erano di diverse taglie più grandi; in particolare, portava una camicia così enorme che uno dei signori (noto per la sua arguzia) lo chiamò immediatamente “colletti”. Intorno alle quattro e mezza del pomeriggio, un gruppo composto da Mr Jinkins e un altro signore di nome Gander bussò alla porta della stanza di Mrs Todgers; dopo essere stati formalmente presentati alle due Miss Pecksniff dalla loro madre che era lì ad attendere, chiesero l’onore di essere accompagnati al piano di sopra.

Il salotto di Todgers’s era di uno stile assolutamente insolito; tanto che a prima vista si sarebbe quasi potuto scambiare per qualcos’altro, se non fosse stato detto esplicitamente. Il pavimento era completamente coperto da tappeti; il soffitto, compresa una grande trave al centro, era rivestito di carta da parati. Oltre alle tre piccole finestre dotate di sedili che si affacciavano sull’arco opposto, c’era un’altra finestra che si apriva direttamente sul letto di Jinkins’s; in alto, lungo tutta una parete, correva una striscia di vetri alti due metri che illuminavano la scala. C’erano anche armadietti davvero bizzarri, con piccole finestrelle simili a quelle degli orologi da otto giorni, nascosti nelle modanature e disposti seguendo la forma della scala; persino la porta stessa (pitturata di nero) presentava due grandi vetri “oculari” sul davanti, con un’iride verde e curiosa al centro di ciascuno.

Qui erano riuniti tutti i signori. Si levò un coro generale di “Ascoltate, ascoltate!” e “Bravo Jink!”, quando il signor Jinkins apparve con Charity al suo braccio; l’entusiasmo raggiunse il culmine quando il signor Gander lo seguì, scortando Mercy, mentre il signor Pecksniff chiudeva la processione insieme alla signora Todgers.

Poi ebbero luogo le presentazioni. Tra di esse c’era un gentiluomo dal temperamento sportivo, che pose ai redattori dei giornali del domenica domande riguardanti il mondo degli allevatori di cavalli; queste domande venivano considerate dai suoi amici piuttosto difficili da rispondere. C’era anche un gentiluomo dal temperamento teatrale, che un tempo aveva seriamente pensato di “esibirsi” in pubblico, ma era stato trattenuto dalla malvagità della natura umana. Inoltre c’erano un gentiluomo abile nel dibattito e uno dotato per la letteratura; quest’ultimo scriveva sarcastiche critiche sugli altri e conosceva perfettamente i punti deboli del carattere di tutti, tranne che del proprio. C’era anche un gentiluomo appassionato di canto, uno di fumo e uno dal temperamento conviviale; alcuni avevano una passione per il whist, mentre molti altri erano grandi giocatori di biliardo e appassionati di scommesse. Si può presumere che tutti avessero anche un certo talento negli affari, essendo impegnati in qualche attività commerciale; ognuno, a modo suo, trovava comunque il tempo per divertirsi. Il signor Jinkins apparteneva al gruppo dei gentiluomini alla moda: frequentava regolarmente i parchi la domenica e riconosceva molte carrozze al volo. Parlava anche in modo misterioso di donne straordinarie. Si sospettava che avesse avuto una relazione con una contessa. Il signor Gander, invece, era un uomo molto spiritoso; era proprio lui il responsabile di quella battuta sulle “cravatte” che ora veniva ripetuta ovunque con grande successo. Si può aggiungere che il signor Jinkins fosse senz’altro l’uomo più anziano del gruppo: lavorava come contabile in un negozio di pesce e aveva quarant’anni. Era anche il pensionante più anziano. E, grazie alla sua doppia anzianità, prendeva sempre l’iniziativa nella casa, proprio come aveva già detto la signora Todgers.

Ci fu un notevole ritardo nella preparazione della cena; povera signora Todgers, rimproverata in privato da Jinkins, entrò e uscì almeno venti volte per occuparsene. Tornava sempre indietro come se non avesse nulla a che fare con quella faccenda e non fosse mai uscita affatto. Ma la conversazione proseguì senza intoppi: un signore che lavorava nel settore della profumeria raccontò di una strana novità riguardante un tipo particolare di sapone da barba che aveva recentemente incontrato in Germania; un altro signore, dal temperamento letterario, ripeté (su richiesta degli altri) alcune strofe sarcastiche che aveva scritto riguardo al congelamento del serbatoio situato dietro la casa. Questi aneddoti, insieme alle varie conversazioni che ne derivarono, resero l’ora molto piacevole. Fino a quando Bailey junior annunciò la cena con queste parole:

‘The wittles is up!’

On which notice they immediately descended to the banquet-hall; some of the more facetious spirits in the rear taking down gentlemen as if they were ladies, in imitation of the fortunate possessors of the two Miss Pecksniffs.

Mr Pecksniff said grace—a short and pious grace, involving a blessing on the appetites of those present, and committing all persons who had nothing to eat, to the care of Providence; whose business (so said the grace, in effect) it clearly was, to look after them. This done, they fell to with less ceremony than appetite; the table groaning beneath the weight, not only of the delicacies whereof the Miss Pecksniffs had been previously forewarned, but of boiled beef, roast veal, bacon, pies and abundance of such heavy vegetables as are favourably known to housekeepers for their satisfying qualities. Besides which, there were bottles of stout, bottles of wine, bottles of ale, and divers other strong drinks, native and foreign.

All this was highly agreeable to the two Miss Pecksniffs, who were in immense request; sitting one on either hand of Mr Jinkins at the bottom of the table; and who were called upon to take wine with some new admirer every minute. They had hardly ever felt so pleasant, and so full of conversation, in their lives; Mercy, in particular, was uncommonly brilliant, and said so many good things in the way of lively repartee that she was looked upon as a prodigy. ‘In short,’ as that young lady observed, ‘they felt now, indeed, that they were in London, and for the first time too.’

Their young friend Bailey sympathized in these feelings to the fullest extent, and, abating nothing of his patronage, gave them every encouragement in his power; favouring them, when the general attention was diverted from his proceedings, with many nods and winks and other tokens of recognition, and occasionally touching his nose with a corkscrew, as if to express the Bacchanalian character of the meeting. In truth, perhaps even the spirits of the two Miss Pecksniffs, and the hungry watchfulness of Mrs Todgers, were less worthy of note than the proceedings of this remarkable boy, whom nothing disconcerted or put out of his way. If any piece of crockery, a dish or otherwise, chanced to slip through his hands (which happened once or twice), he let it go with perfect good breeding, and never added to the painful emotions of the company by exhibiting the least regret. Nor did he, by hurrying to and fro, disturb the repose of the assembly, as many well-trained servants do; on the contrary, feeling the hopelessness of waiting upon so large a party, he left the gentlemen to help themselves to what they wanted, and seldom stirred from behind Mr Jinkins’s chair, where, with his hands in his pockets, and his legs planted pretty wide apart, he led the laughter, and enjoyed the conversation.

The dessert was splendid. No waiting either. The pudding-plates had been washed in a little tub outside the door while cheese was on, and though they were moist and warm with friction, still there they were again, up to the mark, and true to time. Quarts of almonds; dozens of oranges; pounds of raisins; stacks of biffins; soup-plates full of nuts.—Oh, Todgers’s could do it when it chose! mind that.

Then more wine came on; red wines and white wines; and a large china bowl of punch, brewed by the gentleman of a convivial turn, who adjured the Miss Pecksniffs not to be despondent on account of its dimensions, as there were materials in the house for the decoction of half a dozen more of the same size. Good gracious, how they laughed! How they coughed when they sipped it, because it was so strong; and how they laughed again when somebody vowed that but for its colour it might have been mistaken, in regard of its innocuous qualities, for new milk! What a shout of ‘No!’ burst from the gentlemen when they pathetically implored Mr Jinkins to suffer them to qualify it with hot water; and how blushingly, by little and little, did each of them drink her whole glassful, down to its very dregs!

Now comes the trying time. The sun, as Mr Jinkins says (gentlemanly creature, Jinkins—never at a loss!), is about to leave the firmament. ‘Miss Pecksniff!’ says Mrs Todgers, softly, ‘will you—?’ ‘Oh dear, no more, Mrs Todgers.’ Mrs Todgers rises; the two Miss Pecksniffs rise; all rise. Miss Mercy Pecksniff looks downward for her scarf. Where is it? Dear me, where CAN it be? Sweet girl, she has it on; not on her fair neck, but loose upon her flowing figure. A dozen hands assist her. She is all confusion. The youngest gentleman in company thirsts to murder Jinkins. She skips and joins her sister at the door. Her sister has her arm about the waist of Mrs Todgers. She winds her arm around her sister. Diana, what a picture! The last things visible are a shape and a skip. ‘Gentlemen, let us drink the ladies!’

The enthusiasm is tremendous. The gentleman of a debating turn rises in the midst, and suddenly lets loose a tide of eloquence which bears down everything before it. He is reminded of a toast—a toast to which they will respond. There is an individual present; he has him in his eye; to whom they owe a debt of gratitude. He repeats it—a debt of gratitude. Their rugged natures have been softened and ameliorated that day, by the society of lovely woman. There is a gentleman in company whom two accomplished and delightful females regard with veneration, as the fountain of their existence. Yes, when yet the two Miss Pecksniffs lisped in language scarce intelligible, they called that individual ‘Father!’ There is great applause. He gives them ‘Mr Pecksniff, and God bless him!’ They all shake hands with Mr Pecksniff, as they drink the toast. The youngest gentleman in company does so with a thrill; for he feels that a mysterious influence pervades the man who claims that being in the pink scarf for his daughter.

“La battaglia è iniziata!”

All’annuncio, scesero immediatamente nella sala da banchetto; alcuni tra i più spiritosi, alle spalle del gruppo, presero in giro gli uomini fingendo che fossero donne, imitando così i fortunati possessori delle due signorine Pecksniff.

Il signor Pecksniff recitò una breve e devota preghiera, nella quale benediceva gli appetiti di tutti i presenti e affidava coloro che non avevano nulla da mangiare alle cure della Provvidenza, la cui missione, secondo quanto dichiarato nella stessa preghiera, era proprio quella di prendersi cura di loro. Una volta terminata la preghiera, tutti si misero a mangiare con grande appetito; il tavolo tremava sotto il peso delle delizie di cui le signorine Pecksniff avevano precedentemente parlato, oltre che di carne bollita, vitello arrosto, pancetta, torte e una quantità abbondante di verdure pesanti, apprezzate dalle casalinghe per le loro qualità nutrizionali. Inoltre, c’erano bottiglie di birra forte, vino, ale e vari altri alcolici, sia nazionali che stranieri.

Tutto ciò era estremamente gradito alle due signorine Pecksniff, che erano molto richieste; sedevano una su ciascun lato del signor Jinkins in fondo al tavolo e venivano chiamate a bere vino con nuovi ammiratori ogni minuto. Raramente si erano sentite così a loro agio e così piene di conversazione nella loro vita; in particolare, Mercy era eccezionalmente brillante e diceva tante cose divertenti e intelligenti che veniva considerata un vero prodigio. “In breve,” osservò quella giovane signorina, “ora si sentivano davvero di essere a Londra, e per la prima volta nella loro vita.”

Il loro giovane amico Bailey condivideva appieno questi sentimenti e, senza mai diminuire il proprio sostegno, li incoraggiava in ogni modo possibile; quando l’attenzione generale veniva distolta dalle sue azioni, gli mostrava segni di approvazione con cenni del capo, occhiolamenti e altri gesti, e talvolta si toccava il naso con un cavatappi, come per sottolineare l’aspetto festoso dell’incontro. In verità, forse persino gli spiriti delle due signorine Pecksniff e la costante attenzione della signora Todgers meritavano meno attenzione dei comportamenti di questo straordinario ragazzo, il quale non si lasciava mai turbare o ostacolare nelle sue azioni. Se per caso qualche pezzo di stoviglie gli sfuggiva di mano (cosa che accadeva una o due volte), lo lasciava andare con la massima educazione, senza mai mostrare il minimo rimorso. Né disturbava il riposo del gruppo correndo avanti e indietro, come fanno molti servitori ben addestrati; al contrario, riconoscendo l’impossibilità di servire un così numeroso gruppo, lasciava che gli uomini si servissero da soli e raramente si allontanava dalla sedia del signor Jinkins, dove, con le mani in tasca e le gambe ben divaricate, rideva e partecipava alle conversazioni con grande piacere.

Il dessert era squisito. Non c’è stata nemmeno attesa. Le piattine con il budino erano state lavate in una piccola bacinella fuori dalla porta mentre il formaggio si scioglieva; anche se erano umide e calde a causa dell’uso, erano comunque pronte, esattamente come previsto, e in tempo. Quarti di mandorle, dozzine di arance, libbre di uvetta. Oh, Todgers’s sapeva davvero come fare quando voleva! Bisogna ammetterlo.

Poi arrivò ancora del vino: vini rossi e vini bianchi; e anche una grande ciotola di punch, preparato da un signore amante delle feste, il quale esortò la signorina Pecksniff a non scoraggiarsi per le sue dimensioni, poiché in casa c’erano materiali sufficienti per prepararne altre mezza dozzina dello stesso formato. Buon Dio, quanto risero! E quanto tossirono mentre lo bevevano, perché era davvero molto forte. E poi risero di nuovo quando qualcuno affermò che, se non fosse stato per il colore, si sarebbe potuto scambiarlo, per le sue proprietà innocue, per latte fresco! Che grido di “No!” echeggiò tra i signori quando supplicarono disperatamente il signor Jinkins di permetter loro di diluirlo con acqua calda. E quanto arrossirono, bevendo poco a poco tutta la loro coppa, fino all’ultima goccia!

Ora arriva quel difficile momento. Il sole, come dice il signor Jinkins (un vero gentiluomo, Jinkins, che non si lascia mai prendere dal panico!), sta per lasciare il firmamento. “Signorina Pecksniff!”, dice dolcemente la signora Todgers, “vorrebbe,?” “Oh no, signora Todgers, basta davvero.” La signora Todgers si alza; le due signorine Pecksniff si alzano; tutti si alzano. La signorina Mercy Pecksniff cerca il suo scialle. Dove sarà? Oddio, DOV’EREBBE POTER ESSERE? Povera ragazza. L’ha addosso, ma non sul suo bel collo, bensì lungo la sua figura snella. Una dozzina di mani l’aiutano. È un vero caos. Il più giovane dei presenti ha voglia di uccidere Jinkins. Lei salta e raggiunge sua sorella alla porta; sua sorella le tiene un braccio intorno alla vita della signora Todgers, mentre lei ne avvolge uno attorno a quella di sua sorella. Diana, che quadro! Le ultime cose visibili sono una figura e dei passi leggeri, “Signori, beviamo insieme per le signore!”

L’entusiasmo è enorme. Un gentiluomo, esperto nel dibattito, si alza in mezzo alla compagnia e improvvisamente scatena un flusso di eloquenza che travolge tutto ciò che gli ostacola la strada. A tutti viene ricordato un brindisi, un brindisi a cui risponderanno certamente. Tra i presenti c’è una persona particolare; quel gentiluomo la tiene d’occhio, poiché loro gli devono gratitudine. Ripete: “Un debito di gratitudine”. Quel giorno, le loro nature ruvide sono state addolcite e migliorate grazie alla compagnia di donne incantevoli. Tra i presenti c’è anche un gentiluomo che due donne eccezionalmente belle considerano la fonte della loro esistenza. Sì, anche quando le due signorine Pecksniff pronunciavano parole a malapena comprensibili, chiamavano quell’uomo “Padre”! Si levano grandi applausi. Lui risponde: “Signor Pecksniff, e che Dio lo benedica!”. Tutti stringono la mano al signor Pecksniff mentre brindano. Il più giovane tra i presenti lo fa con emozione, perché sente che un’influenza misteriosa aleggia intorno a quell’uomo che si proclama il “protettore” di sua figlia.

What saith Mr Pecksniff in reply? Or rather let the question be, What leaves he unsaid? Nothing. More punch is called for, and produced, and drunk. Enthusiasm mounts still higher. Every man comes out freely in his own character. The gentleman of a theatrical turn recites. The vocal gentleman regales them with a song. Gander leaves the Gander of all former feasts whole leagues behind. HE rises to propose a toast. It is, The Father of Todgers’s. It is their common friend Jink—it is old Jink, if he may call him by that familiar and endearing appellation. The youngest gentleman in company utters a frantic negative. He won’t have it—he can’t bear it—it mustn’t be. But his depth of feeling is misunderstood. He is supposed to be a little elevated; and nobody heeds him.

Mr Jinkins thanks them from his heart. It is, by many degrees, the proudest day in his humble career. When he looks around him on the present occasion, he feels that he wants words in which to express his gratitude. One thing he will say. He hopes it has been shown that Todgers’s can be true to itself; and that, an opportunity arising, it can come out quite as strong as its neighbours—perhaps stronger. He reminds them, amidst thunders of encouragement, that they have heard of a somewhat similar establishment in Cannon Street; and that they have heard it praised. He wishes to draw no invidious comparisons; he would be the last man to do it; but when that Cannon Street establishment shall be able to produce such a combination of wit and beauty as has graced that board that day, and shall be able to serve up (all things considered) such a dinner as that of which they have just partaken, he will be happy to talk to it. Until then, gentlemen, he will stick to Todgers’s.

More punch, more enthusiasm, more speeches. Everybody’s health is drunk, saving the youngest gentleman’s in company. He sits apart, with his elbow on the back of a vacant chair, and glares disdainfully at Jinkins. Gander, in a convulsing speech, gives them the health of Bailey junior; hiccups are heard; and a glass is broken. Mr Jinkins feels that it is time to join the ladies. He proposes, as a final sentiment, Mrs Todgers. She is worthy to be remembered separately. Hear, hear. So she is; no doubt of it. They all find fault with her at other times; but every man feels now, that he could die in her defence.

They go upstairs, where they are not expected so soon; for Mrs Todgers is asleep, Miss Charity is adjusting her hair, and Mercy, who has made a sofa of one of the window-seats is in a gracefully recumbent attitude. She is rising hastily, when Mr Jinkins implores her, for all their sakes, not to stir; she looks too graceful and too lovely, he remarks, to be disturbed. She laughs, and yields, and fans herself, and drops her fan, and there is a rush to pick it up. Being now installed, by one consent, as the beauty of the party, she is cruel and capricious, and sends gentlemen on messages to other gentlemen, and forgets all about them before they can return with the answer, and invents a thousand tortures, rending their hearts to pieces. Bailey brings up the tea and coffee. There is a small cluster of admirers round Charity; but they are only those who cannot get near her sister. The youngest gentleman in company is pale, but collected, and still sits apart; for his spirit loves to hold communion with itself, and his soul recoils from noisy revellers. She has a consciousness of his presence and adoration. He sees it flashing sometimes in the corner of her eye. Have a care, Jinkins, ere you provoke a desperate man to frenzy!

Mr Pecksniff had followed his younger friends upstairs, and taken a chair at the side of Mrs Todgers. He had also spilt a cup of coffee over his legs without appearing to be aware of the circumstance; nor did he seem to know that there was muffin on his knee.

‘And how have they used you downstairs, sir?’ asked the hostess.

‘Their conduct has been such, my dear madam,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘as I can never think of without emotion, or remember without a tear. Oh, Mrs Todgers!’

‘My goodness!’ exclaimed that lady. ‘How low you are in your spirits, sir!’

‘I am a man, my dear madam,’ said Mr Pecksniff, shedding tears and speaking with an imperfect articulation, ‘but I am also a father. I am also a widower. My feelings, Mrs Todgers, will not consent to be entirely smothered, like the young children in the Tower. They are grown up, and the more I press the bolster on them, the more they look round the corner of it.’

He suddenly became conscious of the bit of muffin, and stared at it intently; shaking his head the while, in a forlorn and imbecile manner, as if he regarded it as his evil genius, and mildly reproached it.

‘She was beautiful, Mrs Todgers,’ he said, turning his glazed eye again upon her, without the least preliminary notice. ‘She had a small property.’

‘So I have heard,’ cried Mrs Todgers with great sympathy.

‘Those are her daughters,’ said Mr Pecksniff, pointing out the young ladies, with increased emotion.

Mrs Todgers had no doubt about it.

‘Mercy and Charity,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘Charity and Mercy. Not unholy names, I hope?’

‘Mr Pecksniff!’ cried Mrs Todgers. ‘What a ghastly smile! Are you ill, sir?’

He pressed his hand upon her arm, and answered in a solemn manner, and a faint voice, ‘Chronic.’

‘Cholic?’ cried the frightened Mrs Todgers.

‘Chron-ic,’ he repeated with some difficulty. ‘Chron-ic. A chronic disorder. I have been its victim from childhood. It is carrying me to my grave.’

‘Heaven forbid!’ cried Mrs Todgers.

‘Yes, it is,’ said Mr Pecksniff, reckless with despair. ‘I am rather glad of it, upon the whole. You are like her, Mrs Todgers.’

‘Don’t squeeze me so tight, pray, Mr Pecksniff. If any of the gentlemen should notice us.’

‘For her sake,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Permit me—in honour of her memory. For the sake of a voice from the tomb. You are VERY like her Mrs Todgers! What a world this is!’

Cosa risponde il signor Pecksniff? O, meglio ancora, cosa lascia inespresso? Niente. È necessario altro entusiasmo: ne viene prodotto e bevuto ancora. L’entusiasmo cresce sempre di più; ognuno esprime liberamente se stesso. Il signore dal temperamento teatrale recita; il signore dotato di voce li delizia con una cantata. Gander lascia tutti gli altri banchetti molto indietro. Si alza per proporre un brindisi: “Al Padre di Todgers”. È il loro amico comune, Jink, vecchio Jink, se si può chiamarlo con quel nome affettuoso e familiare. Il più giovane tra i presenti scatta in una furiosa opposizione: “No, non lo voglio. Non posso sopportarlo. Non deve succedere”. Ma la profondità dei suoi sentimenti viene fraintesa; si pensa che sia un po’ troppo presuntuoso. E nessuno gli dà retta.

Il signor Jinkins li ringrazia sinceramente. Questo è, di gran lunga, il giorno più orgoglioso della sua umile carriera. Guardandosi intorno in questa occasione, sente il bisogno di trovare parole per esprimere la propria gratitudine. Una cosa vuole dire con certezza: spera che sia stato dimostrato che Todgers’s può rimanere fedele a se stesso; e che, qualora ne sorgesse l’occasione, possa emergere altrettanto forte quanto i suoi concorrenti, forse persino di più. Tra mille incoraggiamenti, ricorda loro che hanno sentito parlare di un’attività simile in Cannon Street, e che è stata lodata per le sue qualità. Non vuole fare paragoni ingiusti; sarebbe l’ultima persona a farlo. Ma quando anche quell’attività di Cannon Street riuscirà a offrire una combinazione di intelligenza e bellezza paragonabile a quella che è stata dimostrata quel giorno, e a servire cene del tutto all’altezza di quelle di cui hanno appena goduto, sarà felice di confrontarsi con essa. Fino ad allora, signori, rimarrà fedele a Todgers’s.

Più slancio, più entusiasmo, più discorsi. Tutti sono ubriachi di salute, tranne il giovane gentiluomo presente nella compagnia. Lui se ne sta in disparte, con il gomito appoggiato allo schienale di una sedia vuota, e guarda Jinkins con disprezzo. Gander, nel corso di un discorso convulso, brinda alla salute di Bailey junior; si sentono dei singhiozzi. E poi si rompe un bicchiere. Il signor Jinkins ritiene che sia arrivato il momento di unirsi alle signore. Propone, come ultimo brindisi, la signora Todgers. Lei merita davvero di essere ricordata a parte. Ascoltate, ascoltate. Sì, senza alcun dubbio. Di solito tutti le trovano difettosa; ma in questo momento, ogni uomo è pronto a morire per difenderla.

Salirono al piano di sopra, dove non si aspettava che arrivassero così presto; la signora Todgers dormiva, la signorina Charity si sistemava i capelli, e Mercy, che aveva trasformato uno dei sedili accanto alla finestra in un divano, era sdraiata con grazia. Si alzò di scatto quando il signor Jinkins le pregò, per il loro bene, di non muoversi; secondo lui, sembrava troppo elegante e adorabile per essere disturbata. Lei rise, acconsentì, si soffiò sul viso con il ventaglio, poi lo lasciò cadere, e tutti si affrettarono a raccoglierlo. Ora, riconosciuta da tutti come la bellezza della compagnia, si comportava in modo crudele e capriccioso: inviava i gentiluomini a portare messaggi ad altri gentiluomini, poi li dimenticava prima che questi potessero tornare con le risposte, inventando mille modi per tormentarli. Bailey portò il tè e il caffè. Intorno alla signorina Charity c’era un piccolo gruppo di ammiratori, ma erano solo quelli che non riuscivano ad avvicinarsi a sua sorella. Il più giovane dei presenti era pallido, ma composto; preferiva stare da solo, poiché il suo spirito amava la solitudine e la sua ‘anima si ritraeva dai rumori e dalle festività. Lei era consapevole della sua presenza e del suo amore. Lui lo vedeva a volte brillare nell’angolo dei suoi occhi. “Stai attento, Jinkins, potresti far impazzire un uomo disperato!”

Il signor Pecksniff aveva seguito i suoi amici più giovani al piano di sopra e si era seduto accanto alla signora Todgers, prendendo una sedia. Aveva anche versato una tazza di caffè sui propri piedi senza sembrare rendersene conto; inoltre, non pareva nemmeno sapere che c’era un muffin sul suo ginocchio.

“E come vi hanno sfruttato al piano di sotto, signore?” chiese la padrona di casa.

“Il loro comportamento è stato davvero così, mia cara signora,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “che non riesco mai a pensarci senza provare emozione, né a ricordarlo senza versare lacrime. Oh, signora Todgers!”

“Mio Dio!”, esclamò quella signora. “Che abbattuto siate, signore, ”

“Sono un uomo, mia cara signora,” disse il signor Pecksniff, versando lacrime e parlando con una pronuncia incerta, “ma sono anche un padre. E sono anche un vedovo. I miei sentimenti, signora Todgers, non permetteranno che vengano completamente soffocati, proprio come i bambini piccoli nella Torre di Londra. Loro ormai sono cresciuti, e più cerco di sopprimerli, più cercano di sfuggire a quella oppressione.”

All’improvviso si rese conto di quel pezzo di muffin e lo fissò con attenzione; scuoteva la testa continuamente, in modo desolato e stupido, come se lo considerasse il proprio “genio del male” e lo rimproverasse dolcemente.

“Era bellissima, la signora Todgers,” disse, rivolgendo di nuovo il suo sguardo vitreo verso di lei, senza alcun preambolo. “Possedeva una piccola proprietà.”

“Lo so, l’ho sentito,” esclamò la signora Todgers con grande compassione.

“Quelle sono sue figlie,” disse il signor Pecksniff, indicando le giovani signore con crescente emozione.

La signora Todgers non ne aveva alcun dubbio.

“‘Misericordia e Carità’,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “‘Carità’ e ‘Misericordia’. Non sono nomi disonori, spero, ”

“Signor Pecksniff!”, esclamò la signora Todgers. “Che sorriso orribile. Sta male, signore?”

Posò la sua mano sul suo braccio e rispose in modo solenne, con una voce sommessa: “Cronico.”

“Colica biliare?”, gridò la spaventata signora Todgers.

“Chronico,” ripeté con qualche difficoltà. “Chronico. Un disturbo cronico. Sono vittima di questo da quando ero bambino. Mi sta portando verso la mia morte.”

“Dio non voglia!” esclamò la signora Todgers.

“Sì, lo è,” disse il signor Pecksniff, indifferente alla -disperazione. “In fondo, ne sono quasi contento. Lei le assomiglia molto, signora Todgers.”

“Per favore, non stringermi troppo forte, signor Pecksniff. Magari qualche gentiluomo ci notasse, ”

“Per il suo bene,” disse il signor Pecksniff. “Permettetemi, in onore della sua memoria. Per il bene di una voce proveniente dalla tomba. Siete davvero molto simile a lei, signora Todgers! Che mondo è questo, ”

‘Ah! Indeed you may say that!’ cried Mrs Todgers.

‘I’m afraid it is a vain and thoughtless world,’ said Mr Pecksniff, overflowing with despondency. ‘These young people about us. Oh! what sense have they of their responsibilities? None. Give me your other hand, Mrs Todgers.’

The lady hesitated, and said ‘she didn’t like.’

‘Has a voice from the grave no influence?’ said Mr Pecksniff, with, dismal tenderness. ‘This is irreligious! My dear creature.’

‘Hush!’ urged Mrs Todgers. ‘Really you mustn’t.’

‘It’s not me,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Don’t suppose it’s me; it’s the voice; it’s her voice.’

Mrs Pecksniff deceased, must have had an unusually thick and husky voice for a lady, and rather a stuttering voice, and to say the truth somewhat of a drunken voice, if it had ever borne much resemblance to that in which Mr Pecksniff spoke just then. But perhaps this was delusion on his part.

‘It has been a day of enjoyment, Mrs Todgers, but still it has been a day of torture. It has reminded me of my loneliness. What am I in the world?’

‘An excellent gentleman, Mr Pecksniff,’ said Mrs Todgers.

‘There is consolation in that too,’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘Am I?’

‘There is no better man living,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘I am sure.’

Mr Pecksniff smiled through his tears, and slightly shook his head. ‘You are very good,’ he said, ‘thank you. It is a great happiness to me, Mrs Todgers, to make young people happy. The happiness of my pupils is my chief object. I dote upon ‘em. They dote upon me too—sometimes.’

‘Always,’ said Mrs Todgers.

‘When they say they haven’t improved, ma’am,’ whispered Mr Pecksniff, looking at her with profound mystery, and motioning to her to advance her ear a little closer to his mouth. ‘When they say they haven’t improved, ma’am, and the premium was too high, they lie! I shouldn’t wish it to be mentioned; you will understand me; but I say to you as to an old friend, they lie.’

‘Base wretches they must be!’ said Mrs Todgers.

‘Madam,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘you are right. I respect you for that observation. A word in your ear. To Parents and Guardians. This is in confidence, Mrs Todgers?’

‘The strictest, of course!’ cried that lady.

‘To Parents and Guardians,’ repeated Mr Pecksniff. ‘An eligible opportunity now offers, which unites the advantages of the best practical architectural education with the comforts of a home, and the constant association with some, who, however humble their sphere and limited their capacity—observe!—are not unmindful of their moral responsibilities.’

Mrs Todgers looked a little puzzled to know what this might mean, as well she might; for it was, as the reader may perchance remember, Mr Pecksniff’s usual form of advertisement when he wanted a pupil; and seemed to have no particular reference, at present, to anything. But Mr Pecksniff held up his finger as a caution to her not to interrupt him.

‘Do you know any parent or guardian, Mrs Todgers,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘who desires to avail himself of such an opportunity for a young gentleman? An orphan would be preferred. Do you know of any orphan with three or four hundred pound?’

Mrs Todgers reflected, and shook her head.

‘When you hear of an orphan with three or four hundred pound,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘let that dear orphan’s friends apply, by letter post-paid, to S. P., Post Office, Salisbury. I don’t know who he is exactly. Don’t be alarmed, Mrs Todgers,’ said Mr Pecksniff, falling heavily against her; ‘Chronic—chronic! Let’s have a little drop of something to drink.’

‘Bless my life, Miss Pecksniffs!’ cried Mrs Todgers, aloud, ‘your dear pa’s took very poorly!’

Mr Pecksniff straightened himself by a surprising effort, as every one turned hastily towards him; and standing on his feet, regarded the assembly with a look of ineffable wisdom. Gradually it gave place to a smile; a feeble, helpless, melancholy smile; bland, almost to sickliness. ‘Do not repine, my friends,’ said Mr Pecksniff, tenderly. ‘Do not weep for me. It is chronic.’ And with these words, after making a futile attempt to pull off his shoes, he fell into the fireplace.

The youngest gentleman in company had him out in a second. Yes, before a hair upon his head was singed, he had him on the hearth-rug—her father!

She was almost beside herself. So was her sister. Jinkins consoled them both. They all consoled them. Everybody had something to say, except the youngest gentleman in company, who with a noble self-devotion did the heavy work, and held up Mr Pecksniff’s head without being taken notice of by anybody. At last they gathered round, and agreed to carry him upstairs to bed. The youngest gentleman in company was rebuked by Jinkins for tearing Mr Pecksniff’s coat! Ha, ha! But no matter.

They carried him upstairs, and crushed the youngest gentleman at every step. His bedroom was at the top of the house, and it was a long way; but they got him there in course of time. He asked them frequently on the road for a little drop of something to drink. It seemed an idiosyncrasy. The youngest gentleman in company proposed a draught of water. Mr Pecksniff called him opprobious names for the suggestion.

Jinkins and Gander took the rest upon themselves, and made him as comfortable as they could, on the outside of his bed; and when he seemed disposed to sleep, they left him. But before they had all gained the bottom of the staircase, a vision of Mr Pecksniff, strangely attired, was seen to flutter on the top landing. He desired to collect their sentiments, it seemed, upon the nature of human life.

‘My friends,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, looking over the banisters, ‘let us improve our minds by mutual inquiry and discussion. Let us be moral. Let us contemplate existence. Where is Jinkins?’

‘Here,’ cried that gentleman. ‘Go to bed again’

‘To bed!’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Bed! ‘Tis the voice of the sluggard, I hear him complain, you have woke me too soon, I must slumber again. If any young orphan will repeat the remainder of that simple piece from Doctor Watts’s collection, an eligible opportunity now offers.’

Nobody volunteered.

‘This is very soothing,’ said Mr Pecksniff, after a pause. ‘Extremely so. Cool and refreshing; particularly to the legs! The legs of the human subject, my friends, are a beautiful production. Compare them with wooden legs, and observe the difference between the anatomy of nature and the anatomy of art. Do you know,’ said Mr Pecksniff, leaning over the banisters, with an odd recollection of his familiar manner among new pupils at home, ‘that I should very much like to see Mrs Todgers’s notion of a wooden leg, if perfectly agreeable to herself!’

As it appeared impossible to entertain any reasonable hopes of him after this speech, Mr Jinkins and Mr Gander went upstairs again, and once more got him into bed. But they had not descended to the second floor before he was out again; nor, when they had repeated the process, had they descended the first flight, before he was out again. In a word, as often as he was shut up in his own room, he darted out afresh, charged with some new moral sentiment, which he continually repeated over the banisters, with extraordinary relish, and an irrepressible desire for the improvement of his fellow creatures that nothing could subdue.

Under these circumstances, when they had got him into bed for the thirtieth time or so, Mr Jinkins held him, while his companion went downstairs in search of Bailey junior, with whom he presently returned. That youth having been apprised of the service required of him, was in great spirits, and brought up a stool, a candle, and his supper; to the end that he might keep watch outside the bedroom door with tolerable comfort.

When he had completed his arrangements, they locked Mr Pecksniff in, and left the key on the outside; charging the young page to listen attentively for symptoms of an apoplectic nature, with which the patient might be troubled, and, in case of any such presenting themselves, to summon them without delay. To which Mr Bailey modestly replied that ‘he hoped he knowed wot o’clock it wos in gineral, and didn’t date his letters to his friends from Todgers’s for nothing.’

«Ah! Può ben dirlo!» esclamò la signora Todgers.

«Temo che sia un mondo vano e sconsiderato», disse il signor Pecksniff, traboccante di sconforto. «Questi giovani intorno a noi. Oh! che cognizione hanno delle proprie responsabilità? Nessuna. Mi dia l’altra mano, signora Todgers.»

La signora esitò e disse che «non le andava».

«Una voce dalla tomba non ha alcuna influenza?» disse il signor Pecksniff con tetra tenerezza. «Questo è irreligioso! Mia cara creatura.»

«Zitto!» lo esortò la signora Todgers. «Davvero, non deve.»

«Non sono io», disse il signor Pecksniff. «Non pensi che sia io; è la voce; è la sua voce.»

La defunta signora Pecksniff doveva aver avuto una voce insolitamente spessa e rauca per una signora, e piuttosto balbettante, e a dire la verità alquanto da ubriaca, se mai aveva avuto molta somiglianza con quella in cui il signor Pecksniff parlò in quel momento. Ma forse questa era un’illusione da parte sua.

«È stata una giornata di godimento, signora Todgers, e tuttavia è stata una giornata di tortura. Mi ha ricordato la mia solitudine. Che cosa sono io al mondo?»

«Un eccellente gentiluomo, signor Pecksniff», disse la signora Todgers.

«Anche in questo c’è una consolazione», esclamò il signor Pecksniff. «Lo sono?»

«Non vive uomo migliore», disse la signora Todgers, «ne sono certa.»

Il signor Pecksniff sorrise attraverso le lacrime e scosse leggermente il capo. «Lei è molto buona», disse, «grazie. È una grande felicità per me, signora Todgers, rendere felici i giovani. La felicità dei miei allievi è il mio scopo principale. Vado pazzo per loro. Anche loro vanno pazzi per me, a volte.»

«Sempre», disse la signora Todgers.

«Quando dicono di non aver fatto progressi, signora», sussurrò il signor Pecksniff, guardandola con profondo mistero e facendole segno di avvicinare un poco l’orecchio alla sua bocca. «Quando dicono di non aver fatto progressi, signora, e che la retta era troppo alta, mentono! Non vorrei che la cosa venisse riferita; lei mi capisce; ma lo dico a lei come a una vecchia amica: mentono.»

«Devono essere dei vili miserabili!» disse la signora Todgers.

«Signora», disse il signor Pecksniff, «lei ha ragione. La stimo per questa osservazione. Una parola all’orecchio. Ai Genitori e ai Tutori. Questo resta in confidenza, signora Todgers?»

«Della più stretta, naturalmente!» esclamò quella signora.

«Ai Genitori e ai Tutori», ripeté il signor Pecksniff. «Si offre ora un’occasione conveniente, che unisce i vantaggi della migliore formazione pratica in architettura alle comodità di una casa, e alla costante frequentazione di persone che, per umile che sia la loro sfera e limitate le loro capacità — badi bene! — non sono dimentiche delle proprie responsabilità morali.»

La signora Todgers parve un po’ perplessa su che cosa ciò potesse significare, e ben poteva esserlo; poiché era, come il lettore forse ricorderà, la consueta formula d’annuncio del signor Pecksniff quando desiderava un allievo, e non sembrava avere, al momento, alcun riferimento particolare a nulla. Ma il signor Pecksniff alzò il dito per avvertirla di non interromperlo.

«Conosce qualche genitore o tutore, signora Todgers», disse il signor Pecksniff, «che desideri approfittare di una tale occasione per un giovane gentiluomo? Un orfano sarebbe preferibile. Conosce qualche orfano con tre o quattrocento sterline?»

La signora Todgers rifletté e scosse il capo.

«Quando sentirà di un orfano con tre o quattrocento sterline», disse il signor Pecksniff, «gli amici di quel caro orfano si rivolgano, per lettera con porto pagato, a S. P., Ufficio Postale, Salisbury. Non so esattamente chi sia. Non si allarmi, signora Todgers», disse il signor Pecksniff, cadendole addosso pesantemente; «cronico, cronico! Prendiamo un goccino di qualcosa da bere.»

«Santo cielo, signorine Pecksniff!» esclamò a voce alta la signora Todgers, «il vostro caro papà si è sentito molto male!»

Il signor Pecksniff si raddrizzò con uno sforzo sorprendente, mentre tutti si voltavano precipitosamente verso di lui; e, stando in piedi, contemplò l’assemblea con uno sguardo di ineffabile saggezza. Gradualmente esso cedette il posto a un sorriso; un sorriso debole, impotente, malinconico; blando fin quasi alla nausea. «Non lamentatevi, amici miei», disse il signor Pecksniff con tenerezza. «Non piangete per me. È cronico.» E con queste parole, dopo un vano tentativo di togliersi le scarpe, cadde nel caminetto.

Il più giovane gentiluomo della compagnia lo tirò fuori in un attimo. Sì, prima che un capello della sua testa fosse bruciacchiato, lo aveva già sul tappeto del focolare — suo padre!

Lei era quasi fuori di sé. Così pure sua sorella. Jinkins consolò entrambe. Tutti le consolarono. Ognuno aveva qualcosa da dire, tranne il più giovane gentiluomo della compagnia, il quale, con nobile abnegazione di sé, sbrigava il lavoro pesante e sosteneva la testa del signor Pecksniff senza essere notato da nessuno. Alla fine si raccolsero intorno e convennero di portarlo di sopra a letto. Il più giovane gentiluomo della compagnia fu rimproverato da Jinkins per aver strappato la giacca del signor Pecksniff! Ah, ah! Ma non importa.

Lo portarono di sopra, schiacciando il più giovane gentiluomo a ogni gradino. La sua camera era in cima alla casa, ed era un bel pezzo di salita; ma col tempo ce lo portarono. Lungo la via chiese loro spesso un goccino di qualcosa da bere. Sembrava un’idiosincrasia. Il più giovane gentiluomo della compagnia propose un sorso d’acqua. Il signor Pecksniff lo coprì di ingiurie per il suggerimento.

Jinkins e Gander si presero il resto dell’incarico e lo sistemarono comodamente come poterono sopra le coperte del letto; e quando parve disposto a dormire, lo lasciarono. Ma prima che fossero giunti tutti in fondo alla scala, si vide un’apparizione del signor Pecksniff, stranamente abbigliato, aleggiare sul pianerottolo più alto. Desiderava raccogliere le loro opinioni, a quanto sembrava, sulla natura della vita umana.

«Amici miei», esclamò il signor Pecksniff affacciandosi dalla ringhiera, «miglioriamo le nostre menti con la reciproca indagine e discussione. Siamo morali. Contempliamo l’esistenza. Dov’è Jinkins?»

«Qui», esclamò quel gentiluomo. «Torni a letto.»

«A letto!» disse il signor Pecksniff. «A letto! È la voce del pigro, lo sento lamentarsi: mi avete svegliato troppo presto, devo tornare a sonnecchiare. Se qualche giovane orfano vuole recitare il resto di quel semplice componimento della raccolta del Dottor Watts, si offre ora un’occasione conveniente.»

Nessuno si offrì volontario.

«Questo è molto lenitivo», disse il signor Pecksniff dopo una pausa. «Straordinariamente. Fresco e ristoratore; particolarmente per le gambe! Le gambe del soggetto umano, amici miei, sono una bella produzione. Confrontatele con le gambe di legno, e osservate la differenza tra l’anatomia della natura e l’anatomia dell’arte. Sa», disse il signor Pecksniff, sporgendosi dalla ringhiera con una curiosa rimembranza dei suoi modi familiari tra i nuovi allievi a casa, «che mi piacerebbe molto vedere l’idea che la signora Todgers ha di una gamba di legno, se a lei fosse perfettamente gradito!»

Poiché dopo questo discorso appariva impossibile nutrire su di lui ragionevoli speranze, il signor Jinkins e il signor Gander risalirono le scale e lo rimisero a letto un’altra volta. Ma non erano ancora scesi al secondo piano che lui era di nuovo fuori; né, dopo aver ripetuto l’operazione, avevano finito di scendere la prima rampa che lui era di nuovo fuori. In una parola, ogni volta che veniva chiuso nella propria stanza, sfrecciava fuori di nuovo, carico di qualche nuova sentenza morale, che ripeteva continuamente dalla ringhiera con straordinario gusto e con un incontenibile desiderio del miglioramento dei propri simili che nulla poteva domare.

In tali circostanze, quando lo avevano messo a letto per la trentesima volta o giù di lì, il signor Jinkins lo tenne fermo, mentre il suo compagno scese in cerca di Bailey junior, con il quale poco dopo tornò. Quel ragazzo, informato del servizio che gli si richiedeva, era di ottimo umore, e portò su uno sgabello, una candela e la sua cena, affinché potesse fare la guardia fuori dalla porta della camera con discreta comodità.

Quando ebbe completato i suoi preparativi, chiusero dentro il signor Pecksniff e lasciarono la chiave all’esterno, incaricando il giovane paggio di ascoltare attentamente eventuali sintomi di natura apoplettica dai quali il paziente potesse essere travagliato e, nel caso se ne presentasse alcuno, di chiamarli senza indugio. Al che il signor Bailey rispose modestamente che «sperava di sapé che ora fosse in generale, e che non datava le lettere agli amici da casa Todgers per niente».

CHAPTER TEN

CONTAINING STRANGE MATTER, ON WHICH MANY EVENTS IN THIS HISTORY MAY, FOR THEIR GOOD OR EVIL INFLUENCE, CHIEFLY DEPEND

But Mr Pecksniff came to town on business. Had he forgotten that? Was he always taking his pleasure with Todgers’s jovial brood, unmindful of the serious demands, whatever they might be, upon his calm consideration? No.

Time and tide will wait for no man, saith the adage. But all men have to wait for time and tide. That tide which, taken at the flood, would lead Seth Pecksniff on to fortune, was marked down in the table, and about to flow. No idle Pecksniff lingered far inland, unmindful of the changes of the stream; but there, upon the water’s edge, over his shoes already, stood the worthy creature, prepared to wallow in the very mud, so that it slid towards the quarter of his hope.

The trustfulness of his two fair daughters was beautiful indeed. They had that firm reliance on their parent’s nature, which taught them to feel certain that in all he did he had his purpose straight and full before him. And that its noble end and object was himself, which almost of necessity included them, they knew. The devotion of these maids was perfect.

Their filial confidence was rendered the more touching, by their having no knowledge of their parent’s real designs, in the present instance. All that they knew of his proceedings was, that every morning, after the early breakfast, he repaired to the post office and inquired for letters. That task performed, his business for the day was over; and he again relaxed, until the rising of another sun proclaimed the advent of another post.

This went on for four or five days. At length, one morning, Mr Pecksniff returned with a breathless rapidity, strange to observe in him, at other times so calm; and, seeking immediate speech with his daughters, shut himself up with them in private conference for two whole hours. Of all that passed in this period, only the following words of Mr Pecksniff’s utterance are known:

‘How he has come to change so very much (if it should turn out as I expect, that he has), we needn’t stop to inquire. My dears, I have my thoughts upon the subject, but I will not impart them. It is enough that we will not be proud, resentful, or unforgiving. If he wants our friendship he shall have it. We know our duty, I hope!’

That same day at noon, an old gentleman alighted from a hackney-coach at the post-office, and, giving his name, inquired for a letter addressed to himself, and directed to be left till called for. It had been lying there some days. The superscription was in Mr Pecksniff’s hand, and it was sealed with Mr Pecksniff’s seal.

It was very short, containing indeed nothing more than an address ‘with Mr Pecksniff’s respectful, and (not withstanding what has passed) sincerely affectionate regards.’ The old gentleman tore off the direction—scattering the rest in fragments to the winds—and giving it to the coachman, bade him drive as near that place as he could. In pursuance of these instructions he was driven to the Monument; where he again alighted, and dismissed the vehicle, and walked towards Todgers’s.

Though the face, and form, and gait of this old man, and even his grip of the stout stick on which he leaned, were all expressive of a resolution not easily shaken, and a purpose (it matters little whether right or wrong, just now) such as in other days might have survived the rack, and had its strongest life in weakest death; still there were grains of hesitation in his mind, which made him now avoid the house he sought, and loiter to and fro in a gleam of sunlight, that brightened the little churchyard hard by. There may have been, in the presence of those idle heaps of dust among the busiest stir of life, something to increase his wavering; but there he walked, awakening the echoes as he paced up and down, until the church clock, striking the quarters for the second time since he had been there, roused him from his meditation. Shaking off his incertitude as the air parted with the sound of the bells, he walked rapidly to the house, and knocked at the door.

Mr Pecksniff was seated in the landlady’s little room, and his visitor found him reading—by an accident; he apologised for it—an excellent theological work. There were cake and wine upon a little table—by another accident, for which he also apologised. Indeed he said, he had given his visitor up, and was about to partake of that simple refreshment with his children, when he knocked at the door.

‘Your daughters are well?’ said old Martin, laying down his hat and stick.

Mr Pecksniff endeavoured to conceal his agitation as a father when he answered Yes, they were. They were good girls, he said, very good. He would not venture to recommend Mr Chuzzlewit to take the easy-chair, or to keep out of the draught from the door. If he made any such suggestion, he would expose himself, he feared, to most unjust suspicion. He would, therefore, content himself with remarking that there was an easy-chair in the room, and that the door was far from being air-tight. This latter imperfection, he might perhaps venture to add, was not uncommonly to be met with in old houses.

The old man sat down in the easy-chair, and after a few moments’ silence, said:

‘In the first place, let me thank you for coming to London so promptly, at my almost unexplained request; I need scarcely add, at my cost.’

‘At YOUR cost, my good sir!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, in a tone of great surprise.

‘It is not,’ said Martin, waving his hand impatiently, ‘my habit to put my—well! my relatives—to any personal expense to gratify my caprices.’

‘Caprices, my good sir!’ cried Mr Pecksniff

‘That is scarcely the proper word either, in this instance,’ said the old man. ‘No. You are right.’

Mr Pecksniff was inwardly very much relieved to hear it, though he didn’t at all know why.

CAPITOLO DIECI

Contiene materia strana; molti eventi di questa storia possono, a seconda che sia per il bene o per il male, dipendere in modo determinante da essa.

Ma il signor Pecksniff era venuto in città per affari. L’aveva forse dimenticato? Si divertiva sempre con la compagnia allegra dei figli di Todgers, senza curarsi delle richieste serie che potessero esserci, qualunque esse fossero, da prendere in considerazione con calma? No.

“Il tempo e la marea non aspettano nessuno”, dice il proverbio. Ma tutti devono attendere il tempo e la marea. Quella marea che, se colta al momento giusto, avrebbe potuto portare Seth Pecksniff verso la fortuna, era già indicata sulla tabella. E stava per iniziare a fluire. Il pigro Pecksniff non indugiò troppo lontano dalla riva, ignorando i cambiamenti del corso d’acqua; ma là, sul bordo dell’acqua, con le sue scarpe già bagnate, si trovava quella “nobile creatura”. Pronta a immergersi nella fangia stessa, pur di avanzare verso la direzione della sua >speranza.

La fiducia delle sue due figlie belle era davvero incantevole. Avevano quella ferma convinzione nella >natura di loro padre, che le insegnava ad essere sicure che in tutto ciò che faceva avesse sempre un obiettivo chiaro e preciso davanti a sé. E sapevano anche che quel nobile scopo riguardava lui stesso, e che questo, quasi inevitabilmente, includeva anche loro. La devozione di queste ragazze era assoluta.

La loro fiducia filiale risultava ancora più commovente, poiché non avevano la minima idea dei veri piani dei loro genitori in quel momento. Tutto ciò che sapevano delle sue azioni era che ogni mattina, dopo una colazione leggera, andava all’ufficio postale per chiedere se ci fossero lettere. Una volta svolta quella incombenza, la sua giornata finiva; poi si rilassava di nuovo, fino a quando l’alba del giorno successivo non annunciava l’arrivo della prossima consegna postale.

Questo andò avanti per quattro o cinque giorni. Alla fine, una mattina, il signor Pecksniff tornò con una velocità strana, insolita per lui che di solito era così calmo; cercò immediatamente di parlare con le sue figlie e si chiuse in un colloquio privato con loro per ben due ore. Di tutto ciò che accadde in quel periodo, sono noti solo le seguenti parole pronunciate dal signor Pecksniff.

“Come sia potuto cambiare così tanto, (se dovesse davvero accadere ciò che mi aspetto), non c’è bisogno di indagare oltre. Carissimi, ho le mie idee al riguardo, ma non le condividerò. È sufficiente che non siamo orgogliosi, risentiti o rancorosi. Se desidera la nostra amicizia, l’avrà. Conosciamo il nostro dovere. Spero!”

Nello stesso giorno, alle mezzogiorno, un anziano signore scese da una vettura di piazza davanti all’ufficio postale; dopo aver detto il proprio nome, chiese se ci fosse una lettera indirizzata a lui e che dovesse essere lasciata lì fino al suo ritiro. La lettera era stata lì da alcuni giorni; l’intestazione era scritta a mano dal signor Pecksniff e sigillata con il suo sigillo.

Era molto breve; conteneva davvero solo un indirizzo: “Con i rispettosi e, nonostante quanto accaduto, sinceramente affettuosi saluti di Mr Pecksniff”. Il vecchio signore strappò via l’indirizzo, gettando il resto in pezzi al vento, e lo diede al cocchiere, ordinandogli di portarlo il più vicino possibile a quel luogo. Seguendo queste istruzioni, arrivarono al Monumento; lì scesero nuovamente dal veicolo e proseguirono a piedi verso Todgers’s.

Sebbene il volto, la figura e l’andatura di quell’uomo anziano, nonché il modo in cui stringeva il robusto bastone su cui si appoggiava, esprimessero una determinazione difficile da scuotere e uno scopo – che fosse giusto o sbagliato, in quel momento non importava – capace, in altri tempi, di sopravvivere alle più terribili prove e di raggiungere il suo apice anche nella morte stessa; tuttavia, nel suo animo persistevano ancora dubbi che lo facevano evitare la casa che cercava, facendolo vagabondare avanti e indietro sotto i raggi del sole che illuminavano il piccolo cimitero vicino. Forse, in mezzo a quei mucchi di polvere immobili, nel bel mezzo dell’agitazione della vita quotidiana, c’era qualcosa che aumentava la sua incertezza; ma lui continuava a camminare, facendo risuonare gli echi del suo passo avanti e indietro, finché l’orologio della chiesa, battendo le ore per la seconda volta da quando si trovava lì, non lo riscosse dalle sue riflessioni. Scacciando i suoi dubbi mentre il suono delle campane si diffondeva nell’aria, si diresse rapidamente verso la casa e bussò alla porta.

Il signor Pecksniff era seduto nella piccola stanza della padrona di casa; il suo visitatore lo trovò mentre leggeva, per caso; si scusò per questo, poiché si trattava di un’ottima opera teologica. Su un piccolo tavolo c’erano torta e vino, anch’essi presenti per caso, e per questo si scusò ancora una volta. Infatti disse che aveva già congedato il suo visitatore e stava per godersi quei semplici rinfreschi insieme ai suoi figli, quando qualcuno bussò alla porta.

“Tue figlie stanno bene?”, chiese il vecchio Martin, mettendo giù cappello e bastone.

Il signor Pecksniff cercò di nascondere la sua agitazione da padre quando rispose: “Sì, lo erano. Erano ragazze buone, molto buone.” Non osava suggerire al signor Chuzzlewit di utilizzare il divano comodo, né di tenersi lontano dalla corrente d’aria proveniente dalla porta. Se avesse fatto una simile proposta, temeva di esporre se stesso a sospetti molto ingiusti. Pertanto si accontentò di osservare che nella stanza c’era un divano comodo e che la porta non era affatto ermetica. Quest’ultima imperfezione, forse osava aggiungere, non era affatto insolita nelle vecchie case.

L’uomo anziano si sedette nella poltrona relax e, dopo alcuni momenti di silenzio, disse:

“Innanzitutto, lasciate che vi ringrazi per essere venuti così prontamente a Londra, su mia richiesta quasi incomprensibile. E posso aggiungere senza esitazione che è stato a mie spese.”

“A VOI il costo, mio caro signore!” esclamò il signor Pecksniff con tono di grande sorpresa.

“Non è affatto mia abitudine,” disse Martin, agitando impazientemente la mano, “sacrificare i miei beni, i miei parenti, o incorrere in qualsiasi spesa personale pur di soddisfare i miei capricci.”

“Capricci, mio buon signore!”, esclamò il signor Pecksniff.

“Anche questo non è esattamente il termine giusto, in questo caso,” disse l’uomo anziano. “No, hai ragione.”

Il signor Pecksniff ne fu molto sollevato dentro di sé, anche se non sapeva affatto il motivo.

‘You are right,’ repeated Martin. ‘It is not a caprice. It is built up on reason, proof, and cool comparison. Caprices never are. Moreover, I am not a capricious man. I never was.’

‘Most assuredly not,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘How do you know?’ returned the other quickly. ‘You are to begin to know it now. You are to test and prove it, in time to come. You and yours are to find that I can be constant, and am not to be diverted from my end. Do you hear?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘I very much regret,’ Martin resumed, looking steadily at him, and speaking in a slow and measured tone; ‘I very much regret that you and I held such a conversation together, as that which passed between us at our last meeting. I very much regret that I laid open to you what were then my thoughts of you, so freely as I did. The intentions that I bear towards you now are of another kind; deserted by all in whom I have ever trusted; hoodwinked and beset by all who should help and sustain me; I fly to you for refuge. I confide in you to be my ally; to attach yourself to me by ties of Interest and Expectation’—he laid great stress upon these words, though Mr Pecksniff particularly begged him not to mention it; ‘and to help me to visit the consequences of the very worst species of meanness, dissimulation, and subtlety, on the right heads.’

‘My noble sir!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, catching at his outstretched hand. ‘And YOU regret the having harboured unjust thoughts of me! YOU with those grey hairs!’

‘Regrets,’ said Martin, ‘are the natural property of grey hairs; and I enjoy, in common with all other men, at least my share of such inheritance. And so enough of that. I regret having been severed from you so long. If I had known you sooner, and sooner used you as you well deserve, I might have been a happier man.’

Mr Pecksniff looked up to the ceiling, and clasped his hands in rapture.

‘Your daughters,’ said Martin, after a short silence. ‘I don’t know them. Are they like you?’

‘In the nose of my eldest and the chin of my youngest, Mr Chuzzlewit,’ returned the widower, ‘their sainted parent (not myself, their mother) lives again.’

‘I don’t mean in person,’ said the old man. ‘Morally, morally.’

‘’Tis not for me to say,’ retorted Mr Pecksniff with a gentle smile. ‘I have done my best, sir.’

‘I could wish to see them,’ said Martin; ‘are they near at hand?’

They were, very near; for they had in fact been listening at the door from the beginning of this conversation until now, when they precipitately retired. Having wiped the signs of weakness from his eyes, and so given them time to get upstairs, Mr Pecksniff opened the door, and mildly cried in the passage,

‘My own darlings, where are you?’

‘Here, my dear pa!’ replied the distant voice of Charity.

‘Come down into the back parlour, if you please, my love,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘and bring your sister with you.’

‘Yes, my dear pa,’ cried Merry; and down they came directly (being all obedience), singing as they came.

Nothing could exceed the astonishment of the two Miss Pecksniffs when they found a stranger with their dear papa. Nothing could surpass their mute amazement when he said, ‘My children, Mr Chuzzlewit!’ But when he told them that Mr Chuzzlewit and he were friends, and that Mr Chuzzlewit had said such kind and tender words as pierced his very heart, the two Miss Pecksniffs cried with one accord, ‘Thank Heaven for this!’ and fell upon the old man’s neck. And when they had embraced him with such fervour of affection that no words can describe it, they grouped themselves about his chair, and hung over him, as figuring to themselves no earthly joy like that of ministering to his wants, and crowding into the remainder of his life, the love they would have diffused over their whole existence, from infancy, if he—dear obdurate!—had but consented to receive the precious offering.

The old man looked attentively from one to the other, and then at Mr Pecksniff, several times.

‘What,’ he asked of Mr Pecksniff, happening to catch his eye in its descent; for until now it had been piously upraised, with something of that expression which the poetry of ages has attributed to a domestic bird, when breathing its last amid the ravages of an electric storm: ‘What are their names?’

Mr Pecksniff told him, and added, rather hastily; his caluminators would have said, with a view to any testamentary thoughts that might be flitting through old Martin’s mind; ‘Perhaps, my dears, you had better write them down. Your humble autographs are of no value in themselves, but affection may prize them.’

‘Affection,’ said the old man, ‘will expend itself on the living originals. Do not trouble yourselves, my girls, I shall not so easily forget you, Charity and Mercy, as to need such tokens of remembrance. Cousin!’

‘Sir!’ said Mr Pecksniff, with alacrity.

‘Do you never sit down?’

‘Why—yes—occasionally, sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, who had been standing all this time.

‘Will you do so now?’

‘Can you ask me,’ returned Mr Pecksniff, slipping into a chair immediately, ‘whether I will do anything that you desire?’

‘You talk confidently,’ said Martin, ‘and you mean well; but I fear you don’t know what an old man’s humours are. You don’t know what it is to be required to court his likings and dislikings; to adapt yourself to his prejudices; to do his bidding, be it what it may; to bear with his distrusts and jealousies; and always still be zealous in his service. When I remember how numerous these failings are in me, and judge of their occasional enormity by the injurious thoughts I lately entertained of you, I hardly dare to claim you for my friend.’

‘My worthy sir,’ returned his relative, ‘how CAN you talk in such a painful strain! What was more natural than that you should make one slight mistake, when in all other respects you were so very correct, and have had such reason—such very sad and undeniable reason—to judge of every one about you in the worst light!’

“Hai ragione,” ripeté Martin. “Non si tratta di un capriccio. È basato su ragionamenti, prove e analisi oggettive. I capricci, invece, non seguono mai logica. Inoltre, io non sono una persona capricciosa. Non lo sono mai stato.”

“Assolutamente no,” disse il signor Pecksniff.

“Come fai a saperlo?” rispose l’altro rapidamente. “Ora devi iniziare a comprenderlo. Devi metterlo alla prova e dimostrarne la veridicità nel futuro. Tu e i tuoi scoprirete che io posso essere costante, e che non verrò deviato dal mio obiettivo. Capisci?”

“Perfettamente,” disse il signor Pecksniff.

“Mi dispiace molto,” riprese Martin, guardandolo fisso negli occhi e parlando con un tono lento e misurato; “mi dispiace molto che noi due abbiamo avuto quella conversazione, proprio quella che abbiamo avuto alla nostra ultima riunione. Mi dispiace molto di avervi rivelato così apertamente i miei pensieri su di voi in quel momento. Le intenzioni che ora ho verso di voi sono diverse; abbandonato da tutti coloro in cui ho mai confidato, ingannato e assediato da tutti coloro che avrebbero dovuto aiutarmi e sostenermi. Vi chiedo rifugio. Vi affido la mia fiducia, sperando che diventiate il mio alleato, che vi leghi a me attraverso interessi e aspettative comuni” – enfatizzò molto queste parole, nonostante il signor Pecksniff gli avesse particolarmente chiesto di non menzionarle; “e che mi aiutiate a affrontare le conseguenze delle peggiori forme di meschinità, dissimulazione e astuzia”.

“Mio nobile signore!” esclamò il signor Pecksniff, afferrando la sua mano tesa.
“E VOI vi pentite di aver avuto pensieri ingiusti su di me! VOI, con quei capelli grigi, ”

“Le rimpianti,” disse Martin, “sono una caratteristica naturale delle tempie grigie; e io, come tutti gli altri uomini, godo almeno della mia parte di questa ‘eredità’. Basta così. Mi dispiace di essere stato lontano da te per tanto tempo. Se ti avessi conosciuto prima e avessi iniziato a utilizzarti nel modo in cui meriti davvero, forse sarei stato un uomo più felice.”

Il signor Pecksniff alzò lo sguardo verso il soffitto, stringendo le mani in estasi.

“Tue figlie,” disse Martin, dopo un breve silenzio. “Non le conosco. Sono come te?”

“Sul naso del mio figlio maggiore e sul mento del più piccolo, signor Chuzzlewit,” rispose il vedovo, “il loro santo genitore (non io, ma loro madre) è tornato in vita.”

“Non intendo dire di persona”, disse l’uomo anziano. “In senso morale, intendo.”

“Non spetta a me dirlo,” ribatté il signor Pecksniff con un sorriso gentile. “Ho fatto del mio meglio, signore.”

“Mi piacerebbe vederli,” disse Martin; “sono vicini?”

Erano molto vicini; infatti avevano ascoltato dietro la porta dall’inizio di questa conversazione fino a ora, quando si ritirarono precipitosamente. Dopo essersi cancellato ogni segno di debolezza dal viso e aver dato loro il tempo necessario per salire al piano di sopra, il signor Pecksniff aprì la porta e chiamò dolcemente nel corridoio.

“Miei cari, dove siete?”

“Eccomi qui, mio caro papà!”, rispose la voce lontana di Carity.

“Vai, per favore, nel salotto posteriore, mio amore”, disse il signor Pecksniff, “e porta con te anche tua sorella.”

“Sì, caro papà,” gridò Merry; e così scesero subito insieme (essendo tutti molto obbedienti), cantando mentre si muovevano.

Niente poteva superare lo stupore delle due signorine Pecksniff quando trovarono uno sconosciuto insieme al loro caro papà. Niente poteva eguagliare la loro muta meraviglia quando lui disse: “Mie figlie, il signor Chuzzlewit!” Ma quando aggiunse che il signor Chuzzlewit e lui erano amici, e che il signor Chuzzlewit aveva detto parole così gentili e tenere da commuovergli profondamente il cuore, le due signorine Pecksniff esclamarono all’unisono: “Grazie al cielo!” e si gettarono sul collo dell’anziano. E quando lo abbracciarono con un affetto così fervente da essere indescrivibile a parole, si raccolsero intorno alla sua sedia, come se pensassero che nessuna gioia terrena potesse eguagliare quella di prendersi cura delle sue necessità e di condividere con lui il resto della sua vita, con quell’amore che avrebbero voluto donargli per tutta la loro esistenza, fin dall’infanzia, se solo lui – caro e ostinato uomo! – avesse acconsentito ad accettare quel prezioso dono.

L’uomo anziano li guardò uno dopo l’altro con attenzione, poi fissò più volte il signor Pecksniff.

“Che cos’è?” chiese al signor Pecksniff, notando per caso quel che stava accadendo; fino ad allora l’uccello era stato tenuto solennemente in posizione eretta, con quell’espressione che la poesia di secoli ha attribuito agli uccelli domestici nel momento del loro ultimo respiro, tra i disastri causati da un’tempesta elettrica, “Come si chiamano?”

Il signor Pecksniff glielo disse, aggiungendo piuttosto affrettatamente: “I suoi calunniatori avrebbero potuto dire, ”, con l’intento di alludere a eventuali pensieri legati alla stesura di un testamento che potessero passare per la mente del vecchio Martin; “Forse, miei cari, sarebbe meglio che li scriveste giù. I vostri umili autografi, in sé, non hanno alcun valore, ma l’affetto può renderli preziosi”.

“L’affetto,” disse l’uomo anziano, “si rivolge sempre verso le persone viventi, gli originali. Non vi preoccupate, mie care ragazze: non dimenticherò così facilmente voi, Carità e Misericordia, da aver bisogno di simboli per ricordarvi. Cugina!”

“Signore!” disse il signor Pecksniff con sollecitudine.

“Non ti siedi mai?”

“Perché, sì, a volte, signore,” disse il signor Pecksniff, che era rimasto in piedi per tutto quel tempo.

“Lo farai ora?”

“Può chiedermelo,” rispose il signor Pecksniff, sedendosi immediatamente su una sedia, “se farò qualcosa che lei desideri?”

“Parli con fiducia,” disse Martin, “e lo fai con sincerità; ma temo che tu non comprenda quali siano i capricci di un vecchio. Non sai cosa significhi dover cercare di compiacere i suoi gusti e le sue avversioni, adattarsi alle sue pregiudizi, eseguire i suoi ordini, qualunque essi siano, sopportare la sua diffidenza e gelosia. Eppure devi sempre essere devoto al suo servizio. Quando penso a quante siano queste debolezze in me, e considero l’immensità di alcune di esse rispetto ai pensieri offensivi che ho avuto di te recentemente, quasi non oso definirti mio amico.”

“Mio nobile signore,” rispose il suo parente, “come può parlare con un tono così doloroso! Che cosa c’era di più naturale se ha commesso un piccolo errore, quando in ogni altro aspetto si è comportato in modo così corretto, e aveva motivi – motivi molto tristi e innegabili – per giudicare tutti coloro che lo circondavano nel peggiore dei modi!”

‘True,’ replied the other. ‘You are very lenient with me.’

‘We always said, my girls and I,’ cried Mr Pecksniff with increasing obsequiousness, ‘that while we mourned the heaviness of our misfortune in being confounded with the base and mercenary, still we could not wonder at it. My dears, you remember?’

Oh vividly! A thousand times!

‘We uttered no complaint,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Occasionally we had the presumption to console ourselves with the remark that Truth would in the end prevail, and Virtue be triumphant; but not often. My loves, you recollect?’

Recollect! Could he doubt it! Dearest pa, what strange unnecessary questions!

‘And when I saw you,’ resumed Mr Pecksniff, with still greater deference, ‘in the little, unassuming village where we take the liberty of dwelling, I said you were mistaken in me, my dear sir; that was all, I think?’

‘No—not all,’ said Martin, who had been sitting with his hand upon his brow for some time past, and now looked up again; ‘you said much more, which, added to other circumstances that have come to my knowledge, opened my eyes. You spoke to me, disinterestedly, on behalf of—I needn’t name him. You know whom I mean.’

Trouble was expressed in Mr Pecksniff’s visage, as he pressed his hot hands together, and replied, with humility, ‘Quite disinterestedly, sir, I assure you.’

‘I know it,’ said old Martin, in his quiet way. ‘I am sure of it. I said so. It was disinterested too, in you, to draw that herd of harpies off from me, and be their victim yourself; most other men would have suffered them to display themselves in all their rapacity, and would have striven to rise, by contrast, in my estimation. You felt for me, and drew them off, for which I owe you many thanks. Although I left the place, I know what passed behind my back, you see!’

‘You amaze me, sir!’ cried Mr Pecksniff; which was true enough.

‘My knowledge of your proceedings,’ said the old man, does not stop at this. You have a new inmate in your house.’

‘Yes, sir,’ rejoined the architect, ‘I have.’

‘He must quit it’ said Martin.

‘For—for yours?’ asked Mr Pecksniff, with a quavering mildness.

‘For any shelter he can find,’ the old man answered. ‘He has deceived you.’

‘I hope not’ said Mr Pecksniff, eagerly. ‘I trust not. I have been extremely well disposed towards that young man. I hope it cannot be shown that he has forfeited all claim to my protection. Deceit—deceit, my dear Mr Chuzzlewit, would be final. I should hold myself bound, on proof of deceit, to renounce him instantly.’

The old man glanced at both his fair supporters, but especially at Miss Mercy, whom, indeed, he looked full in the face, with a greater demonstration of interest than had yet appeared in his features. His gaze again encountered Mr Pecksniff, as he said, composedly:

‘Of course you know that he has made his matrimonial choice?’

‘Oh dear!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, rubbing his hair up very stiff upon his head, and staring wildly at his daughters. ‘This is becoming tremendous!’

‘You know the fact?’ repeated Martin

‘Surely not without his grandfather’s consent and approbation my dear sir!’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘Don’t tell me that. For the honour of human nature, say you’re not about to tell me that!’

‘I thought he had suppressed it,’ said the old man.

The indignation felt by Mr Pecksniff at this terrible disclosure, was only to be equalled by the kindling anger of his daughters. What! Had they taken to their hearth and home a secretly contracted serpent; a crocodile, who had made a furtive offer of his hand; an imposition on society; a bankrupt bachelor with no effects, trading with the spinster world on false pretences! And oh, to think that he should have disobeyed and practised on that sweet, that venerable gentleman, whose name he bore; that kind and tender guardian; his more than father—to say nothing at all of mother—horrible, horrible! To turn him out with ignominy would be treatment much too good. Was there nothing else that could be done to him? Had he incurred no legal pains and penalties? Could it be that the statutes of the land were so remiss as to have affixed no punishment to such delinquency? Monster; how basely had they been deceived!

‘I am glad to find you second me so warmly,’ said the old man holding up his hand to stay the torrent of their wrath. ‘I will not deny that it is a pleasure to me to find you so full of zeal. We will consider that topic as disposed of.’

‘No, my dear sir,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, ‘not as disposed of, until I have purged my house of this pollution.’

‘That will follow,’ said the old man, ‘in its own time. I look upon that as done.’

‘You are very good, sir,’ answered Mr Pecksniff, shaking his hand. ‘You do me honour. You MAY look upon it as done, I assure you.’

‘There is another topic,’ said Martin, ‘on which I hope you will assist me. You remember Mary, cousin?’

‘The young lady that I mentioned to you, my dears, as having interested me so very much,’ remarked Mr Pecksniff. ‘Excuse my interrupting you, sir.’

‘I told you her history?’ said the old man.

‘Which I also mentioned, you will recollect, my dears,’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘Silly girls, Mr Chuzzlewit—quite moved by it, they were!’

‘Why, look now!’ said Martin, evidently pleased; ‘I feared I should have had to urge her case upon you, and ask you to regard her favourably for my sake. But I find you have no jealousies! Well! You have no cause for any, to be sure. She has nothing to gain from me, my dears, and she knows it.’

The two Miss Pecksniffs murmured their approval of this wise arrangement, and their cordial sympathy with its interesting object.

‘If I could have anticipated what has come to pass between us four,’ said the old man thoughfully; ‘but it is too late to think of that. You would receive her courteously, young ladies, and be kind to her, if need were?’

“Vero,” rispose l’altro. “Sei davvero molto indulgente con me.”

“Noi, le mie ragazze e io,” gridò il signor Pecksniff con un’umiltà sempre maggiore, “abbiamo sempre detto che, sebbene piangessimo la gravità della nostra sfortuna nel trovarci mescolati con persone basse e mercenarie, non potevamo comunque meravigliarci di ciò. Mie care, ve ne ricordate?”

Oh, in modo vivido. Mille volte!

“Non abbiamo mai espresso alcuna lamentela,” disse il signor Pecksniff. “A volte ci permettevamo di consolarci pensando che alla fine la Verità avrebbe trionfato e la Virtù sarebbe stata vittoriosa; ma non molto spesso. Mia cara, te lo ricordi?”

Ricorda! Come avrebbe potuto dubitarne! Caro papà, che domande strane e inutili.

“E quando vi ho visto,” continuò il signor Pecksniff con ancora maggiore deferenza, “in quel piccolo e umile villaggio dove abbiamo l’onore di risiedere, ho pensato che vi foste sbagliato su di me, mio caro signore; nient’altro, credo, ”

“No, non tutto,” disse Martin, che da un po’ teneva la mano sulla fronte e ora alzò di nuovo lo sguardo; “hai detto molto di più, e questo, unito ad altre circostanze di cui sono venuto a conoscenza, mi ha fatto aprire gli occhi. Hai parlato con me, in modo disinteressato, a nome di, non ho bisogno di nominarlo. Tu sai a chi mi riferisco.”

Sul volto di Mr Pecksniff si leggeva l’ansia; si strinse le mani calde una contro l’altra e rispose con umiltà: “Assolutamente senza secondi fini, signore, glielo assicuro.”

“Lo so,” disse il vecchio Martin, con il suo solito tono tranquillo. “Ne sono sicuro. L’ho detto anche io. È stato davvero un atto disinteressato da parte tua: allontanare quelle harpie da me e diventare tu stesso la loro vittima. La maggior parte degli uomini avrebbe permesso loro di mostrarsi nella loro totale avidità, cercando invece di aumentare il proprio valore ai miei occhi. Tu hai pensato a me, e le hai allontanate. Per questo ti sono molto grato. Anche se me ne sono andato, so cosa è successo alle mie spalle, ”

“Mi stupite davvero, signore!” esclamò il signor Pecksniff; ed era proprio vero.

“La mia conoscenza delle vostre attività,” disse l’uomo anziano, “non si ferma qui. Avete un nuovo ospite nella vostra casa.”

“Sì, signore,” rispose l’architetto, “l’ho fatto.”

“Deve smetterla”, disse Martin.

“Per, per te?” chiese il signor Pecksniff con una voce tremante e gentile.

“Per qualsiasi rifugio riesca a trovare, ”, rispose l’uomo anziano. “Vi ha ingannati.”

“Non lo spero affatto”, disse con fervore il signor Pecksniff. “Spero proprio di no. Ho sempre avuto un’ottima opinione di quel giovane uomo. Spero che non venga dimostrato che abbia perso ogni diritto alla mia protezione. La menzogna, caro signor Chuzzlewit, sarebbe fatale. Se venisse provata la sua menzogna, mi sentirei obbligato a rinunciare immediatamente a lui.”

L’uomo anziano lanciò uno sguardo sia ai suoi sostenitori biondi che, soprattutto, a Miss Mercy, alla quale guardò dritto in faccia, con un interesse molto più evidente di quanto fosse mai apparso prima sul suo volto. Il suo sguardo si incontrò nuovamente con quello del signor Pecksniff, il quale, con calma, disse.

“Certo che sai che ha già scelto con chi sposarsi, ”

“Oddio mio!” esclamò il signor Pecksniff, strofinandosi i capelli con forza sulla testa e fissando le sue figlie con aria disperata. “Questa situazione sta diventando terribile, ”

“Conosci quel fatto?” ripeté Martin.

“Certamente no, senza il consenso e l’approvazione di suo nonno, mio caro signore!” esclamò il signor Pecksniff. “Non ditemi una cosa del genere. Per l’‘onore della natura umana, vi prego, dite che non avete intenzione di farlo!”

“Pensavo che l’avesse represso,” disse l’uomo anziano.

L’indignazione provata dal signor Pecksniff di fronte a questa terribile rivelazione fu eguagliata solo dalla furia delle sue figlie. Che cosa! Avevano portato nella loro casa, nel loro focolare, un “serpente” contratto in segreto; un “coccodrillo” che aveva fatto offerte discrete di matrimonio; una vera e propria vergogna per la società. Un gentiluomo fallito, senza beni, che approfittava delle donne single con false promesse! E oh, pensare che lui avesse disobbedito a quel nobile, rispettabile signore il cui nome portava; a quel protettore gentile e premuroso. A qualcuno che era molto di più di un padre. Per non parlare della madre. Era orribile! Cacciarlo via con disonore sarebbe stato trattarlo troppo bene. Non esisteva altro modo per punirlo? Non aveva subito alcuna conseguenza legale per i suoi atti? Forse le leggi di quel paese erano così indulgenti da non prevedere alcuna punizione per simili comportamenti? Un “mostro”. Quanto erano state ingannate!

“Sono felice che tu mi appoggi con tanta calore,” disse l’uomo anziano, alzando la mano per fermare il flusso della loro rabbia. “Non nego che sia un piacere vedere quanto zelo dimostri. Considereremo quindi quel argomento chiuso.”

“No, mio caro signore,” gridò il signor Pecksniff, “non posso sbarazzarmene finché non avrò purificato la mia casa da questa contaminazione.”

“Quello avverrà,” disse l’uomo anziano, “al suo giusto tempo. Io considero che sia già stato fatto.”

“Siete davvero molto gentile, signore,” rispose il signor Pecksniff stringendogli la mano. “Mi fate un onore. Potete considerare che sia tutto fatto, ve lo assicuro.”

“C’è un altro argomento,” disse Martin, “su cui spero che tu mi possa aiutare. Ti ricordi di Mary, la cugina?”

“La giovane signora di cui vi ho parlato, cari miei, che mi ha molto interessato. Scusate se vi interrompo, signore.” osservò il signor Pecksniff.

“Ti ho raccontato la sua storia, no?” disse l’uomo anziano.

“Di cui ho anche parlato, ricorderete sicuramente, mie care,” gridò il signor Pecksniff. “Ragazze sciocche, davvero commosse da quella storia!”

“Ma guardate ora!” disse Martin, chiaramente soddisfatto; “Temevo di dovervi sottolineare l’importanza della sua situazione e chiedervi di considerarla con favore per il mio bene. Ma vedo che non avete alcuna gelosia. Bene! Di certo non ne avete motivo: lei non può trarre nulla da me, mie care, e lo sa benissimo.”

Le due signorine Pecksniff mormorarono il loro assenso per questo saggio accordo e espressero la loro sincera solidarietà nei confronti dell’oggetto di esso.

“Se solo avessi potuto prevedere ciò che è accaduto tra noi quattro, ”, disse l’uomo anziano con rammarico; “ma ormai è troppo tardi per pensarci. Voi giovani signore, la ricevereste con cortesia e sareste gentili con lei, se necessario, vero?”

Where was the orphan whom the two Miss Pecksniffs would not have cherished in their sisterly bosom! But when that orphan was commended to their care by one on whom the dammed-up love of years was gushing forth, what exhaustless stores of pure affection yearned to expend themselves upon her!

An interval ensued, during which Mr Chuzzlewit, in an absent frame of mind, sat gazing at the ground, without uttering a word; and as it was plain that he had no desire to be interrupted in his meditations, Mr Pecksniff and his daughters were profoundly silent also. During the whole of the foregoing dialogue, he had borne his part with a cold, passionless promptitude, as though he had learned and painfully rehearsed it all a hundred times. Even when his expressions were warmest and his language most encouraging, he had retained the same manner, without the least abatement. But now there was a keener brightness in his eye, and more expression in his voice, as he said, awakening from his thoughtful mood:

‘You know what will be said of this? Have you reflected?’

‘Said of what, my dear sir?’ Mr Pecksniff asked.

‘Of this new understanding between us.’

Mr Pecksniff looked benevolently sagacious, and at the same time far above all earthly misconstruction, as he shook his head, and observed that a great many things would be said of it, no doubt.

‘A great many,’ rejoined the old man. ‘Some will say that I dote in my old age; that illness has shaken me; that I have lost all strength of mind, and have grown childish. You can bear that?’

Mr Pecksniff answered that it would be dreadfully hard to bear, but he thought he could, if he made a great effort.

‘Others will say—I speak of disappointed, angry people only—that you have lied and fawned, and wormed yourself through dirty ways into my favour; by such concessions and such crooked deeds, such meannesses and vile endurances, as nothing could repay; no, not the legacy of half the world we live in. You can bear that?’

Mr Pecksniff made reply that this would be also very hard to bear, as reflecting, in some degree, on the discernment of Mr Chuzzlewit. Still he had a modest confidence that he could sustain the calumny, with the help of a good conscience, and that gentleman’s friendship.

‘With the great mass of slanderers,’ said old Martin, leaning back in his chair, ‘the tale, as I clearly foresee, will run thus: That to mark my contempt for the rabble whom I despised, I chose from among them the very worst, and made him do my will, and pampered and enriched him at the cost of all the rest. That, after casting about for the means of a punishment which should rankle in the bosoms of these kites the most, and strike into their gall, I devised this scheme at a time when the last link in the chain of grateful love and duty, that held me to my race, was roughly snapped asunder; roughly, for I loved him well; roughly, for I had ever put my trust in his affection; roughly, for that he broke it when I loved him most—God help me!—and he without a pang could throw me off, while I clung about his heart! Now,’ said the old man, dismissing this passionate outburst as suddenly as he had yielded to it, ‘is your mind made up to bear this likewise? Lay your account with having it to bear, and put no trust in being set right by me.’

‘My dear Mr Chuzzlewit,’ cried Pecksniff in an ecstasy, ‘for such a man as you have shown yourself to be this day; for a man so injured, yet so very humane; for a man so—I am at a loss what precise term to use—yet at the same time so remarkably—I don’t know how to express my meaning; for such a man as I have described, I hope it is no presumption to say that I, and I am sure I may add my children also (my dears, we perfectly agree in this, I think?), would bear anything whatever!’

‘Enough,’ said Martin. ‘You can charge no consequences on me. When do you retire home?’

‘Whenever you please, my dear sir. To-night if you desire it.’

‘I desire nothing,’ returned the old man, ‘that is unreasonable. Such a request would be. Will you be ready to return at the end of this week?’

The very time of all others that Mr Pecksniff would have suggested if it had been left to him to make his own choice. As to his daughters—the words, ‘Let us be at home on Saturday, dear pa,’ were actually upon their lips.

‘Your expenses, cousin,’ said Martin, taking a folded slip of paper from his pocketbook, ‘may possibly exceed that amount. If so, let me know the balance that I owe you, when we next meet. It would be useless if I told you where I live just now; indeed, I have no fixed abode. When I have, you shall know it. You and your daughters may expect to see me before long; in the meantime I need not tell you that we keep our own confidence. What you will do when you get home is understood between us. Give me no account of it at any time; and never refer to it in any way. I ask that as a favour. I am commonly a man of few words, cousin; and all that need be said just now is said, I think.’

‘One glass of wine—one morsel of this homely cake?’ cried Mr Pecksniff, venturing to detain him. ‘My dears—!’

The sisters flew to wait upon him.

‘Poor girls!’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘You will excuse their agitation, my dear sir. They are made up of feeling. A bad commodity to go through the world with, Mr Chuzzlewit! My youngest daughter is almost as much of a woman as my eldest, is she not, sir?’

‘Which IS the youngest?’ asked the old man.

‘Mercy, by five years,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘We sometimes venture to consider her rather a fine figure, sir. Speaking as an artist, I may perhaps be permitted to suggest that its outline is graceful and correct. I am naturally,’ said Mr Pecksniff, drying his hands upon his handkerchief, and looking anxiously in his cousin’s face at almost every word, ‘proud, if I may use the expression, to have a daughter who is constructed on the best models.’

Dove era finita quella orfana che le due signorine Pecksniff non avrebbero mai accolto nel loro affetto fraterno? Ma quando quella orfana fu affidata alle loro cure da qualcuno per il quale l’amore represso per anni finalmente poté esprimersi, quante inesauribili riserve di affetto puro desideravano donarle!

Trascorse un intervallo durante il quale il signor Chuzzlewit, con lo sguardo assente, sedeva fissando il suolo senza pronunciare una parola; poiché era evidente che non desiderava essere interrotto nelle sue meditazioni, anche il signor Pecksniff e le sue figlie rimasero in profondo silenzio. Durante l’intero dialogo precedente, aveva svolto il proprio ruolo con freddezza e distacco, come se avesse imparato tutto a memoria e lo avesse ripetuto centinaia di volte. Anche quando le sue espressioni erano più calorose e il suo linguaggio più incoraggiante, manteneva sempre lo stesso atteggiamento, senza alcun cambiamento. Ora, però, nel suo sguardo c’era una luce più intensa e nella sua voce un’espressività maggiore, mentre si riprendeva dal suo stato di riflessione:

“Sai cosa si dirà di questo? Ci hai pensato?”

“Di cosa sta parlando, mio caro signore?” chiese il signor Pecksniff.

“Di questa nuova comprensione che c’è tra noi.”

Il signor Pecksniff appariva benevolmente sagace, e al contempo ben al di sopra di ogni possibile fraintendimento terreno; scosse la testa e osservò che ne sarebbero state dette molte cose, senza alcun dubbio.

“Moltissimi,” rispose l’uomo anziano. “Alcuni diranno che sono troppo affezionato alla mia vecchiaia; che quella malattia mi ha indebolito; che ho perso completamente la lucidità mentale e sono diventato infantile. Riuscite a sopportarlo?”

Il signor Pecksniff rispose che sarebbe stato terribilmente difficile sopportarlo, ma pensava di potercela fare se si sforzasse molto.

“Altri diranno – parlo solo di persone deluse e arrabbiate – che hai mentito, ti sei adularmi e hai usato metodi disonesti per guadagnarmi la simpatia; con tali concessioni, azioni disoneste, meschinerie e sopportazioni vili, niente potrebbe compensare tutto ciò; no, nemmeno l’eredità di metà del mondo in cui viviamo. Riesci a sopportarlo?”

Il signor Pecksniff rispose che anche questo sarebbe stato molto difficile da sopportare, poiché in qualche modo rifletteva sulla capacità di giudizio del signor Chuzzlewit. Tuttavia, nutriva una moderata fiducia nel fatto che potesse resistere a quelle calunnie, con l’aiuto di una buona coscienza e dell’amicizia di quel gentiluomo.

“Con tutta questa massa di calunniatori,” disse il vecchio Martin, appoggiandosi allo schienale della sedia, “la storia, come prevedo chiaramente, verrà raccontata così: che per dimostrare il mio disprezzo per quella plebaglia che odiavo, ho scelto proprio il peggiore di loro, l’ho costretto a fare la mia volontà e l’ho viziato e arricchito a scapito degli altri. Che, dopo aver cercato un modo di punirli in modo tale da ferire profondamente i loro cuori, ho ideato questo piano proprio nel momento in cui l’ultimo legame di affetto e dovere che mi teneva legato alla mia razza è stato spezzato, brutalmente, perché lo amavo davvero; brutalmente, perché avevo sempre fiducia nel suo affetto; brutalmente, perché lui ha rotto quel legame proprio quando lo amavo di più. Dio mi aiuti! Ora,” aggiunse l’uomo anziano, liquidando improvvisamente quell’esplosione di passione così come l’aveva lasciata emergere, “siete davvero decisi a sopportare anche voi tutto questo? Accettate il fatto che dovrete farlo da soli, e non fidatevi che io possa sistemare le cose per voi.”

“Mio caro signor Chuzzlewit,” esclamò Pecksniff con entusiasmo, “per un uomo come voi che oggi avete dimostrato di essere; per un uomo così offeso, eppure così umano; per un uomo così, non so quale termine usare esattamente, ma al contempo così straordinario. Non so proprio come esprimere ciò che penso; per un uomo del genere, spero non sia presunzione da parte mia dire che io, e sono certo anche i miei figli (carissimi, su questo siamo completamente d’accordo, credo?), saremmo disposti a sopportare qualsiasi cosa!”

“Basta,” disse Martin. “Non puoi attribuirmi alcuna conseguenza di ciò che è accaduto. Quando tornerai a casa?”

“Quando vuoi tu, mio caro signore. Anche stasera, se lo desideri.”

“Non desidero nulla,” rispose l’uomo anziano, “quello sarebbe irragionevole. Una tale richiesta. Saresti disposto a tornare alla fine di questa settimana?”

Proprio in quel momento, se fosse stato a lui decidere, il signor Pecksniff avrebbe suggerito quella soluzione. Per quanto riguarda le sue figlie, le parole “Andiamo a casa sabato, caro papà” stavano davvero per uscire dalle loro bocche.

“Le tue spese, cugino,” disse Martin, estraendo da tasca un foglietto di carta piegato, “potrebbero superare quella somma. In tal caso, fammi sapere quale sia il saldo che ti devo quando ci incontreremo di nuovo. Sarebbe inutile dirti dove abito ora; in realtà, non ho una residenza fissa. Quando ne avrò una, te lo farò sapere. Tu e le tue figlie potreste vedermi presto; intanto, non c’è bisogno che ti dica che manteniamo il rispetto reciproco delle nostre confidenze. Quello che farai quando tornerai a casa è qualcosa di cui abbiamo già parlato. Non farmi mai sapere nulla al riguardo, e non menzionarlo in alcun modo. Te lo chiedo come un favore. Di solito sono una persona poco loquace, cugino; penso che tutto ciò che doveva essere detto sia stato appena detto.”

“Un bicchiere di vino, un boccone di questo delizioso dolce fatto in casa?” esclamò il signor Pecksniff, cercando di trattenerlo. “Miei cari, ”

Le sorelle volarono subito per prendersi cura di lui.

“Povere ragazze!” disse il signor Pecksniff. “Perdonerete la loro agitazione, mio caro signore. Sono fatte interamente di sentimenti. Una vera sfortuna doverviaggiare per il mondo con qualcosa del genere, signor Chuzzlewit! Mia figlia minore è ormai quasi una donna quanto la maggiore, non è vero, signore?”

“Quale è la più giovane?” chiese l’uomo anziano.

“‘Mercy’, di cinque anni,” disse il signor Pecksniff. “A volte ci permettiamo di considerarla una ragazza davvero bella, signore. Parlando da artista, forse posso suggerire che le sue linee siano aggraziate e corrette. Naturalmente,” aggiunse il signor Pecksniff asciugandosi le mani nel fazzoletto e guardando ansiosamente il viso del suo cugino dopo ogni parola, “sono orgoglioso, se posso usare questa espressione, di avere una figlia costruita secondo i migliori modelli.”

‘She seems to have a lively disposition,’ observed Martin.

‘Dear me!’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘That is quite remarkable. You have defined her character, my dear sir, as correctly as if you had known her from her birth. She HAS a lively disposition. I assure you, my dear sir, that in our unpretending home her gaiety is delightful.’

‘No doubt,’ returned the old man.

‘Charity, upon the other hand,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘is remarkable for strong sense, and for rather a deep tone of sentiment, if the partiality of a father may be excused in saying so. A wonderful affection between them, my dear sir! Allow me to drink your health. Bless you!’

‘I little thought,’ retorted Martin, ‘but a month ago, that I should be breaking bread and pouring wine with you. I drink to you.’

Not at all abashed by the extraordinary abruptness with which these latter words were spoken, Mr Pecksniff thanked him devoutly.

‘Now let me go,’ said Martin, putting down the wine when he had merely touched it with his lips. ‘My dears, good morning!’

But this distant form of farewell was by no means tender enough for the yearnings of the young ladies, who again embraced him with all their hearts—with all their arms at any rate—to which parting caresses their new-found friend submitted with a better grace than might have been expected from one who, not a moment before, had pledged their parent in such a very uncomfortable manner. These endearments terminated, he took a hasty leave of Mr Pecksniff and withdrew, followed to the door by both father and daughters, who stood there kissing their hands and beaming with affection until he disappeared; though, by the way, he never once looked back, after he had crossed the threshold.

When they returned into the house, and were again alone in Mrs Todgers’s room, the two young ladies exhibited an unusual amount of gaiety; insomuch that they clapped their hands, and laughed, and looked with roguish aspects and a bantering air upon their dear papa. This conduct was so very unaccountable, that Mr Pecksniff (being singularly grave himself) could scarcely choose but ask them what it meant; and took them to task, in his gentle manner, for yielding to such light emotions.

‘If it was possible to divine any cause for this merriment, even the most remote,’ he said, ‘I should not reprove you. But when you can have none whatever—oh, really, really!’

This admonition had so little effect on Mercy, that she was obliged to hold her handkerchief before her rosy lips, and to throw herself back in her chair, with every demonstration of extreme amusement; which want of duty so offended Mr Pecksniff that he reproved her in set terms, and gave her his parental advice to correct herself in solitude and contemplation. But at that juncture they were disturbed by the sound of voices in dispute; and as it proceeded from the next room, the subject matter of the altercation quickly reached their ears.

‘I don’t care that! Mrs Todgers,’ said the young gentleman who had been the youngest gentleman in company on the day of the festival; ‘I don’t care THAT, ma’am,’ said he, snapping his fingers, ‘for Jinkins. Don’t suppose I do.’

‘I am quite certain you don’t, sir,’ replied Mrs Todgers. ‘You have too independent a spirit, I know, to yield to anybody. And quite right. There is no reason why you should give way to any gentleman. Everybody must be well aware of that.’

‘I should think no more of admitting daylight into the fellow,’ said the youngest gentleman, in a desperate voice, ‘than if he was a bulldog.’

Mrs Todgers did not stop to inquire whether, as a matter of principle, there was any particular reason for admitting daylight even into a bulldog, otherwise than by the natural channel of his eyes, but she seemed to wring her hands, and she moaned.

‘Let him be careful,’ said the youngest gentleman. ‘I give him warning. No man shall step between me and the current of my vengeance. I know a Cove—’ he used that familiar epithet in his agitation but corrected himself by adding, ‘a gentleman of property, I mean—who practices with a pair of pistols (fellows too) of his own. If I am driven to borrow ‘em, and to send at friend to Jinkins, a tragedy will get into the papers. That’s all.’

Again Mrs Todgers moaned.

‘I have borne this long enough,’ said the youngest gentleman but now my soul rebels against it, and I won’t stand it any longer. I left home originally, because I had that within me which wouldn’t be domineered over by a sister; and do you think I’m going to be put down by HIM? No.’

‘It is very wrong in Mr Jinkins; I know it is perfectly inexcusable in Mr Jinkins, if he intends it,’ observed Mrs Todgers

‘If he intends it!’ cried the youngest gentleman. ‘Don’t he interrupt and contradict me on every occasion? Does he ever fail to interpose himself between me and anything or anybody that he sees I have set my mind upon? Does he make a point of always pretending to forget me, when he’s pouring out the beer? Does he make bragging remarks about his razors, and insulting allusions to people who have no necessity to shave more than once a week? But let him look out! He’ll find himself shaved, pretty close, before long, and so I tell him.’

The young gentleman was mistaken in this closing sentence, inasmuch as he never told it to Jinkins, but always to Mrs Todgers.

‘However,’ he said, ‘these are not proper subjects for ladies’ ears. All I’ve got to say to you, Mrs Todgers, is, a week’s notice from next Saturday. The same house can’t contain that miscreant and me any longer. If we get over the intermediate time without bloodshed, you may think yourself pretty fortunate. I don’t myself expect we shall.’

‘Dear, dear!’ cried Mrs Todgers, ‘what would I have given to have prevented this? To lose you, sir, would be like losing the house’s right-hand. So popular as you are among the gentlemen; so generally looked up to; and so much liked! I do hope you’ll think better of it; if on nobody else’s account, on mine.’

“Sembra avere un carattere vivace,” osservò Martin.

“Mio Dio!”, disse il signor Pecksniff. “È davvero notevole. Avete descritto il suo carattere in modo così accurato, mio caro signore, come se la conosceste fin dalla sua nascita. Ha davvero un temperamento vivace. Vi assicuro, mio caro signore, che nella nostra semplice e modesta casa, la sua allegria è davvero deliziosa.”

“Nessun dubbio”, rispose l’uomo anziano.

‘Carità, d’altra parte,’ disse il signor Pecksniff, ‘è caratterizzata da un forte senso morale e da un tono di sentimento piuttosto profondo. Se si può scusare la parzialità di un padre nel dirlo. Un’affetto meraviglioso tra loro, mio caro signore! Permettetemi di brindare alla vostra salute. Che Dio vi benedica!’

“Non me lo aspettavo affatto,” ribatté Martin, “ma un mese fa non avrei mai immaginato di dover condividere il cibo e il vino con te. Brindo a tuo onore.”

Del tutto senza imbarazzo per la straordinaria bruschezza con cui queste ultime parole furono pronunciate, il signor Pecksniff gli ringraziò devotamente.

“Ora lasciatemi andare,” disse Martin, posando il vino dopo averlo appena assaggiato con le labbra. “Miei cari, buongiorno!”

Ma questo modo distante di addio non era affatto abbastanza tenero per soddisfare i desideri delle giovani signore, le quali lo abbracciarono nuovamente con tutto il loro cuore, o almeno con tutte e due le braccia; il loro nuovo amico acconsentì a queste carezze d’addio con una grazia superiore a quanto ci si sarebbe potuti aspettare da qualcuno che, solo un attimo prima, aveva trattato i loro genitori in modo così sgradevole. Dopo questi gesti affettuosi, egli si congedò in fretta dal signor Pecksniff e se ne andò; sia il padre che le figlie lo accompagnarono fino alla porta, baciandogli le mani e sorridendo pieni di affetto finché non scomparve. Anche se, a dire il vero, egli non si voltò mai indietro una volta superato la soglia.

Quando tornarono nella casa e furono di nuovo soli nella stanza della signora Todgers, le due giovani signore dimostrarono un’insolita allegria: battevano le mani, ridevano e guardavano con sguardi maliziosi e tono scherzoso il loro caro papà. Un comportamento così strano che il signor Pecksniff (che era di natura particolarmente serio) non poté fare a meno di chiedere loro cosa significasse; e, con modi gentili, le rimproverò per aver ceduto a tali emozioni leggere.

“Se fosse possibile scoprire anche la causa più remota di questa gioia,” disse, “non vi rimprovererei. Ma quando non ne esiste affatto nessuna, oh, davvero!”

Questo rimprovero ebbe un effetto così scarso su Mercy, che lei fu costretta a tenersi il fazzoletto davanti alle sue labbra rosee e ad appoggiarsi di nuovo allo schienale della sedia, mostrando chiaramente un’estrema divertita; questa mancanza di decoro offese profondamente il signor Pecksniff, che la rimproverò apertamente e le diede i suoi consigli paterni affinché si correggesse in solitudine e riflessione. Ma in quel momento furono disturbati dal suono di voci che discutevano; poiché provenivano dalla stanza accanto, presto riuscirono a capire l’argomento della discussione.

“Non mi interessa affatto quello! Signora Todgers,” disse il giovane gentiluomo che quel giorno era stato il più giovane presente nella compagnia; “Non mi interessa QUELLO, signora,” aggiunse, facendo schioccare le dita, “ma Jinkins. Non pensiate che mi interessi.”

“Sono abbastanza certa che non lo facciate, signore,” rispose la signora Todgers. “So che avete un carattere troppo indipendente per arrendervi a qualcuno. E avete perfettamente ragione. Non c’è alcun motivo perché dobbiate cedere di fronte a qualche gentiluomo. Tutti devono essere ben consapevoli di questo.”

“Dovrei smettere del tutto di pensare all’idea di far entrare la luce del giorno in quella stanza,” disse il più giovane dei gentiluomini con voce disperata, “è come se fosse un bulldog, ”

La signora Todgers non si fermò nemmeno per chiedersi se, in linea di principio, ci fosse qualche motivo particolare per far entrare la luce del giorno anche dentro un bulldog, diversamente dal canale naturale dei suoi occhi. Ma sembrava stringersi le mani e sospirare.

“Che stia attento,” disse il più giovane dei gentiluomini. “Gli do un avvertimento: nessuno dovrà mettersi tra me e la mia vendetta. Conosco un certo signore, un gentiluomo benestante, intendo, che si serve di una coppia di pistole personali. Se dovessi essere costretto a prenderle in prestito e usarle contro un mio amico, ne deriverebbe una vera tragedia sui giornali. E basta.”

Di nuovo, la signora Todgers si lamentò.

“Ne ho sofferto abbastanza,” disse il più giovane dei gentiluomini. “Ora la mia ‘anima si ribella contro tutto questo, e non ne posso più sopportare. Sono partito da casa perché dentro di me c’era qualcosa che non avrebbe mai potuto essere dominato da una sorella. E pensate davvero che lui riuscirà a sottomettermi? No.”

“È davvero molto sbagliato da parte del signor Jinkins; so che è completamente inescusabile da parte sua, se lo fa apposta,” osservò la signora Todgers.

“Se proprio vuole farlo, ”, gridò il più giovane dei gentiluomini. “Non interrompe e non contraddice mai ogni volta che parlo, vero? Non si intromette mai tra me e qualsiasi cosa o persona su cui io abbia messo gli occhi, giusto? Fa sempre finta di dimenticarmi quando mi serve la birra. E poi fa commenti presuntuosi sulle sue rasoi, e insinuazioni offensive verso persone che non hanno certo bisogno di radersi più di una volta a settimana! Ma stia attento: prima o poi si ritroverà con la faccia completamente rasata. E glielo dico proprio.”

Il giovane gentiluomo si sbagliava in questa frase finale, poiché non la disse mai a Jinkins, ma sempre a Mrs Todgers.

“Tuttavia,” disse, “questi non sono argomenti adatti alle orecchie delle signore. Tutto ciò che ho da dirvi, signora Todgers, è che dovrete darmi un preavviso di una settimana a partire da sabato prossimo. Quella donna malvagia e io non possiamo più vivere nella stessa casa. Se riusciremo ad superare questo periodo senza spargimenti di sangue, potrete considerarvi molto fortunata. Io, personalmente, non lo credo.”

“Caro, caro!” gridò la signora Todgers, “quanto avrei dato per evitare tutto questo! Perdervi, signore, sarebbe come perdere il lato destro di questa casa. Siete così popolare tra gli uomini, tanto rispettato da tutti e così amato. Spero davvero che cambiate idea; se non per nessun altro motivo, almeno per il mio.”

‘There’s Jinkins,’ said the youngest gentleman, moodily. ‘Your favourite. He’ll console you, and the gentlemen too, for the loss of twenty such as me. I’m not understood in this house. I never have been.’

‘Don’t run away with that opinion, sir!’ cried Mrs Todgers, with a show of honest indignation. ‘Don’t make such a charge as that against the establishment, I must beg of you. It is not so bad as that comes to, sir. Make any remark you please against the gentlemen, or against me; but don’t say you’re not understood in this house.’

‘I’m not treated as if I was,’ said the youngest gentleman.

‘There you make a great mistake, sir,’ returned Mrs Todgers, in the same strain. ‘As many of the gentlemen and I have often said, you are too sensitive. That’s where it is. You are of too susceptible a nature; it’s in your spirit.’

The young gentleman coughed.

‘And as,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘as to Mr Jinkins, I must beg of you, if we ARE to part, to understand that I don’t abet Mr Jinkins by any means. Far from it. I could wish that Mr Jinkins would take a lower tone in this establishment, and would not be the means of raising differences between me and gentlemen that I can much less bear to part with than I could with Mr Jinkins. Mr Jinkins is not such a boarder, sir,’ added Mrs Todgers, ‘that all considerations of private feeling and respect give way before him. Quite the contrary, I assure you.’

The young gentleman was so much mollified by these and similar speeches on the part of Mrs Todgers, that he and that lady gradually changed positions; so that she became the injured party, and he was understood to be the injurer; but in a complimentary, not in an offensive sense; his cruel conduct being attributable to his exalted nature, and to that alone. So, in the end, the young gentleman withdrew his notice, and assured Mrs Todgers of his unalterable regard; and having done so, went back to business.

‘Goodness me, Miss Pecksniffs!’ cried that lady, as she came into the back room, and sat wearily down, with her basket on her knees, and her hands folded upon it, ‘what a trial of temper it is to keep a house like this! You must have heard most of what has just passed. Now did you ever hear the like?’

‘Never!’ said the two Miss Pecksniffs.

‘Of all the ridiculous young fellows that ever I had to deal with,’ resumed Mrs Todgers, ‘that is the most ridiculous and unreasonable. Mr Jinkins is hard upon him sometimes, but not half as hard as he deserves. To mention such a gentleman as Mr Jinkins in the same breath with HIM—you know it’s too much! And yet he’s as jealous of him, bless you, as if he was his equal.’

The young ladies were greatly entertained by Mrs Todgers’s account, no less than with certain anecdotes illustrative of the youngest gentleman’s character, which she went on to tell them. But Mr Pecksniff looked quite stern and angry; and when she had concluded, said in a solemn voice:

‘Pray, Mrs Todgers, if I may inquire, what does that young gentleman contribute towards the support of these premises?’

‘Why, sir, for what HE has, he pays about eighteen shillings a week!’ said Mrs Todgers.

‘Eighteen shillings a week!’ repeated Mr Pecksniff.

‘Taking one week with another; as near that as possible,’ said Mrs Todgers.

Mr Pecksniff rose from his chair, folded his arms, looked at her, and shook his head.

‘And do you mean to say, ma’am—is it possible, Mrs Todgers—that for such a miserable consideration as eighteen shillings a week, a female of your understanding can so far demean herself as to wear a double face, even for an instant?’

‘I am forced to keep things on the square if I can, sir,’ faltered Mrs Todgers. ‘I must preserve peace among them, and keep my connection together, if possible, Mr Pecksniff. The profit is very small.’

‘The profit!’ cried that gentleman, laying great stress upon the word. ‘The profit, Mrs Todgers! You amaze me!’

He was so severe, that Mrs Todgers shed tears.

‘The profit!’ repeated Mr pecksniff. ‘The profit of dissimulation! To worship the golden calf of Baal, for eighteen shillings a week!’

‘Don’t in your own goodness be too hard upon me, Mr Pecksniff,’ cried Mrs Todgers, taking out her handkerchief.

‘Oh Calf, Calf!’ cried Mr Pecksniff mournfully. ‘Oh, Baal, Baal! oh my friend, Mrs Todgers! To barter away that precious jewel, self-esteem, and cringe to any mortal creature—for eighteen shillings a week!’

He was so subdued and overcome by the reflection, that he immediately took down his hat from its peg in the passage, and went out for a walk, to compose his feelings. Anybody passing him in the street might have known him for a good man at first sight; for his whole figure teemed with a consciousness of the moral homily he had read to Mrs Todgers.

Eighteen shillings a week! Just, most just, thy censure, upright Pecksniff! Had it been for the sake of a ribbon, star, or garter; sleeves of lawn, a great man’s smile, a seat in parliament, a tap upon the shoulder from a courtly sword; a place, a party, or a thriving lie, or eighteen thousand pounds, or even eighteen hundred;—but to worship the golden calf for eighteen shillings a week! oh pitiful, pitiful!

“C’è Jinkins,” disse il più giovane dei gentiluomini, con tono malinconico. “Il vostro preferito. Lui vi consolerà, così come gli altri gentiluomini, per la perdita di venti persone come me. In questa casa nessuno mi capisce. E mai lo hanno fatto.”

“Non si permetta di diffondere un’opinione del genere, signore!” esclamò la signora Todgers con sincera indignazione. “La prego, non lanci accuse del genere contro l’istituzione. Non è davvero così grave. Si può criticare liberamente quegli uomini, o anche me; ma non si dovrebbe dire che in questa casa le proprie parole vengano ignorate.”

“Non vengo trattato come se lo fossi,” disse il più giovane dei gentiluomini.

“Ecco che commette un grande errore, signore,” rispose la signora Todgers con lo stesso tono. “Come molti gentiluomini e io abbiamo spesso detto, lei è troppo sensibile. È proprio questo il problema: ha una >natura troppo suscettibile; è nel suo carattere.”

Il giovane gentiluomo tossì.

“E per quanto riguarda,” disse la signora Todgers, “il signor Jinkins, devo chiedervi, se davvero dobbiamo separarci, di capire che in nessun modo lo sostengo o lo incoraggio. Anzi. Vorrei proprio che il signor Jinkins adottasse un tono più rispettoso in questa casa, e che non fosse la causa di dissidi tra me e gli altri gentiluomini, con i quali preferirei assolutamente non separarmi piuttosto che dal signor Jinkins. Il signor Jinkins, signore,” aggiunse la signora Todgers, “non è quel tipo di inquilino per cui tutte le considerazioni personali e il rispetto debbano cedere il posto a qualcos’altro. Al contrario, vi assicuro.”

Il giovane gentiluomo fu così commosso da queste e simili parole pronunciate dalla signora Todgers, che gradualmente i loro ruoli si invertirono: lei divenne la parte offesa e lui quella che aveva causato il danno; ma in senso lusinghiero, non offensivo. Si riteneva infatti che il suo comportamento crudele fosse dovuto alla sua nobile >natura. E così, alla fine, il giovane gentiluomo ritirò la sua proposta e assicurò alla signora Todgers della sua immutabile stima; dopodiché tornò alle sue occupazioni.

“Mio Dio, signorina Pecksniffs!” esclamò quella donna entrando nella stanza posteriore e sedendosi stancamente, con il cestino in grembo e le mani incrociate sopra di esso. “Che fatica mantenere una casa del genere. Devete aver sentito gran parte di ciò che è appena accaduto. Avete mai sentito qualcosa del genere prima d’ora?”

“Mai!” dissero le due signorine Pecksniff.

“Di tutti quei giovani ridicoli con cui ho mai avuto a che fare,” riprese la signora Todgers, “questo è davvero il più ridicolo e irragionevole. A volte il signor Jinkins è duro con lui, ma non nemmeno la metà di quanto meriti. Menzionare un gentiluomo come il signor Jinkins nella stessa frase insieme a LUI. Lo sapete bene, è troppo! Eppure lui è geloso di lui, perbacco, come se fossero alla pari.”

Le giovani signore furono molto divertite dal racconto della signora Todgers, non meno che da alcune aneddoti che illustravano il carattere del più giovane gentiluomo, che lei continuò a raccontare loro. Ma il signor Pecksniff sembrava molto serio e arrabbiato; e quando lei finì di parlare, disse con voce solenne:

“Prego, signora Todgers, se posso chiedere, quanto contribuisce quel giovane gentiluomo al mantenimento di queste strutture?”

“Perché, signore, per ciò che ha, paga circa diciotto scellini a settimana!” disse la signora Todgers.

“Ottoquindici scellini a settimana!”, ripeté il signor Pecksniff.

“Prendere una settimana in più rispetto all’altra, il più possibile, insomma,” disse la signora Todgers.

Il signor Pecksniff si alzò dalla sedia, incrociò le braccia, la guardò e scosse la testa.

“E volete dire, signora, è possibile davvero che una donna della vostra intelligenza, per una misera paga di diciotto scellini a settimana, si degradi al punto di indossare un >doppio volto, anche solo per un istante?”

“Devo cercare di mantenere le cose in ordine, se possibile, signore,” balbettò la signora Todgers. “Devo preservare la pace tra loro e mantenere unita la mia rete di relazioni, se possibile, signor Pecksniff. Il profitto è molto esiguo.”

“Il profitto!” esclamò quel signore, ponendo molta enfasi su quella parola.
“Il profitto, signora Todgers! Mi stupite davvero!”

Era così severo che la signora Todgers versò delle lacrime.

“Il profitto!” ripeteva il signor Pecksniff. “Il profitto della dissimulazione. Adorare l’idolo d’oro di Baal, per soli diciotto scellini a settimana!”

“Per l’amor del cielo, non essere troppo severo con me per il mio bene, signor Pecksniff,” gridò la signora Todgers, tirando fuori il suo fazzoletto.

“Oh Bue, oh Bue!” gridò il signor Pecksniff con dolore. “Oh, Baal, Baal, oh mia amica, la signora Todgers! Barattare quel prezioso >jewello, quell’auto-stima, e umiliarsi davanti a una creatura mortale, per soli diciotto scellini a settimana!”

Era così sopraffatto e commosso da quella riflessione che immediatamente si tolse il cappello dal gancio nel corridoio e uscì a fare una passeggiata per calmarsi. Chiunque lo avesse incontrato per strada avrebbe potuto riconoscere in lui un uomo buono a prima vista; tutta la sua figura trasudava la consapevolezza della lezione morale che aveva tenuto alla signora Todgers.

Diciotto scellini a settimana! Solo, solo la tua condanna, onesto Pecksniff. Se fosse stato per il gusto di un nastro, di una stella o di una giarrettiera; per maniche di seta, per il sorriso di un grande uomo, per un posto in parlamento, per una pacca sulla spalla da parte di un nobile. Per un ambiente elegante, per partecipare a feste, per inventare storie false. O anche per diciottomila sterline, o addirittura milleduecento. Ma adorare il vitello d’oro soltanto per diciotto scellini a settimana! Oh, quanto è misero tutto ciò.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

WHEREIN A CERTAIN GENTLEMAN BECOMES PARTICULAR IN HIS ATTENTIONS TO A CERTAIN LADY; AND MORE COMING EVENTS THAN ONE, CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE

The family were within two or three days of their departure from Mrs Todgers’s, and the commercial gentlemen were to a man despondent and not to be comforted, because of the approaching separation, when Bailey junior, at the jocund time of noon, presented himself before Miss Charity Pecksniff, then sitting with her sister in the banquet chamber, hemming six new pocket-handkerchiefs for Mr Jinkins; and having expressed a hope, preliminary and pious, that he might be blest, gave her in his pleasant way to understand that a visitor attended to pay his respects to her, and was at that moment waiting in the drawing-room. Perhaps this last announcement showed in a more striking point of view than many lengthened speeches could have done, the trustfulness and faith of Bailey’s nature; since he had, in fact, last seen the visitor on the door-mat, where, after signifying to him that he would do well to go upstairs, he had left him to the guidance of his own sagacity. Hence it was at least an even chance that the visitor was then wandering on the roof of the house, or vainly seeking to extricate himself from the maze of bedrooms; Todgers’s being precisely that kind of establishment in which an unpiloted stranger is pretty sure to find himself in some place where he least expects and least desires to be.

‘A gentleman for me!’ cried Charity, pausing in her work; ‘my gracious, Bailey!’

‘Ah!’ said Bailey. ‘It IS my gracious, an’t it? Wouldn’t I be gracious neither, not if I wos him!’

The remark was rendered somewhat obscure in itself, by reason (as the reader may have observed) of a redundancy of negatives; but accompanied by action expressive of a faithful couple walking arm-in-arm towards a parochial church, mutually exchanging looks of love, it clearly signified this youth’s conviction that the caller’s purpose was of an amorous tendency. Miss Charity affected to reprove so great a liberty; but she could not help smiling. He was a strange boy, to be sure. There was always some ground of probability and likelihood mingled with his absurd behaviour. That was the best of it!

‘But I don’t know any gentlemen, Bailey,’ said Miss Pecksniff. ‘I think you must have made a mistake.’

Mr Bailey smiled at the extreme wildness of such a supposition, and regarded the young ladies with unimpaired affability.

‘My dear Merry,’ said Charity, ‘who CAN it be? Isn’t it odd? I have a great mind not to go to him really. So very strange, you know!’

The younger sister plainly considered that this appeal had its origin in the pride of being called upon and asked for; and that it was intended as an assertion of superiority, and a retaliation upon her for having captured the commercial gentlemen. Therefore, she replied, with great affection and politeness, that it was, no doubt, very strange indeed; and that she was totally at a loss to conceive what the ridiculous person unknown could mean by it.

‘Quite impossible to divine!’ said Charity, with some sharpness, ‘though still, at the same time, you needn’t be angry, my dear.’

‘Thank you,’ retorted Merry, singing at her needle. ‘I am quite aware of that, my love.’

‘I am afraid your head is turned, you silly thing,’ said Cherry.

‘Do you know, my dear,’ said Merry, with engaging candour, ‘that I have been afraid of that, myself, all along! So much incense and nonsense, and all the rest of it, is enough to turn a stronger head than mine. What a relief it must be to you, my dear, to be so very comfortable in that respect, and not to be worried by those odious men! How do you do it, Cherry?’

This artless inquiry might have led to turbulent results, but for the strong emotions of delight evinced by Bailey junior, whose relish in the turn the conversation had lately taken was so acute, that it impelled and forced him to the instantaneous performance of a dancing step, extremely difficult in its nature, and only to be achieved in a moment of ecstasy, which is commonly called The Frog’s Hornpipe. A manifestation so lively, brought to their immediate recollection the great virtuous precept, ‘Keep up appearances whatever you do,’ in which they had been educated. They forbore at once, and jointly signified to Mr Bailey that if he should presume to practice that figure any more in their presence, they would instantly acquaint Mrs Todgers with the fact, and would demand his condign punishment, at the hands of that lady. The young gentleman having expressed the bitterness of his contrition by affecting to wipe away scalding tears with his apron, and afterwards feigning to wring a vast amount of water from that garment, held the door open while Miss Charity passed out; and so that damsel went in state upstairs to receive her mysterious adorer.

By some strange occurrence of favourable circumstances he had found out the drawing-room, and was sitting there alone.

‘Ah, cousin!’ he said. ‘Here I am, you see. You thought I was lost, I’ll be bound. Well! how do you find yourself by this time?’

Miss Charity replied that she was quite well, and gave Mr Jonas Chuzzlewit her hand.

‘That’s right,’ said Mr Jonas, ‘and you’ve got over the fatigues of the journey have you? I say. How’s the other one?’

‘My sister is very well, I believe,’ returned the young lady. ‘I have not heard her complain of any indisposition, sir. Perhaps you would like to see her, and ask her yourself?’

‘No, no cousin!’ said Mr Jonas, sitting down beside her on the window-seat. ‘Don’t be in a hurry. There’s no occasion for that, you know. What a cruel girl you are!’

‘It’s impossible for YOU to know,’ said Cherry, ‘whether I am or not.’

CAPITOLO UNDICI

In cui un certo gentiluomo rivolge particolare attenzione a una certa signora; e ulteriori eventi, più di uno, gettano la loro ombra su tutto ciò.

La famiglia era a soli due o tre giorni dalla partenza da casa della signora Todgers, e tutti quei gentiluomini d’affari erano profondamente depressi all’idea di quella separazione imminente; nessuno riusciva a consolarli. Proprio in quel momento, Bailey junior, nel piacevole pomeriggio di mezzogiorno, si presentò davanti alla signorina Charity Pecksniff, che in quel momento era nella sala da pranzo insieme a sua sorella e stava cucendo sei nuovi fazzoletti da tasca per il signor Jinkins. Esprimendo una speranza sincera e devota di essere benedetto, Bailey le fece capire, con il suo modo scherzoso, che aveva un visitatore che desiderava salutarla e che in quel momento stava aspettando nel salotto. Forse questa notizia evidenziava, in modo ancora più chiaro di tante lunghe parole, la fiducia e la devozione innate in Bailey: infatti, l’ultima volta che aveva visto quel visitatore era stato sul tappeto dell’ingresso; dopo avergli detto di salire al piano di sopra, lo aveva lasciato a decidere da solo come orientarsi. Quindi c’era una possibilità, anche se remota, che il visitatore in quel momento si trovasse ancora sul tetto della casa o stesse cercando invano di uscire dal labirinto dei dormitori. La signora Todgers, dopotutto, era proprio il tipo di luogo in cui un estraneo, senza alcuna guida, finiva inevitabilmente in posti dove meno se lo aspettava e dove meno desiderava trovarsi.

“Un gentiluomo per me!”, esclamò Charity, interrompendo il suo lavoro; “mio caro, Bailey!”

“Ah!” disse Bailey. “È davvero mia grazia, vero? Anche io sarei gentile, se fossi al suo posto!”

Il commento di per sé risultava piuttosto oscuro, a causa – come il lettore avrà notato – della presenza di troppe negazioni; ma accompagnato dall’immagine di una coppia fedele che camminava mano nella mano verso una chiesa parrocchiale, scambiandosi sguardi pieni di amore, trasmetteva chiaramente la convinzione di quel giovane che le intenzioni della persona che aveva chiamato fossero di natura amorosa. La signorina Charity fingeva di rimproverare una tale libertà; ma non riusciva a trattenersi dal sorridere. Era davvero un ragazzo strano. Nel suo comportamento assurdo c’era sempre qualcosa di plausibile e probabile. Ed era proprio questo il bello!

“Ma non conosco nessun gentiluomo, Bailey,” disse la signorina Pecksniff. “Penso che tu debba aver fatto un errore.”

Il signor Bailey sorrise di fronte all’assurdità di una tale ipotesi e continuò a trattare le giovani signore con la stessa gentilezza di sempre.

“Mia cara Merry,” disse Charity, “chi può essere? Non è strano? Sarebbe meglio se non andassi da lui. Davvero molto strano, sai!”

La sorella minore riteneva chiaramente che tale richiesta nascesse dall’orgoglio di essere stata chiamata in causa; che avesse lo scopo di affermare una superiorità e di rappresagliarsi per il fatto che lei aveva “catturato” quei gentiluomini d’affari. Pertanto, rispose con grande affetto e cortesia che, senza alcun >dubbio, si trattava davvero di qualcosa di molto strano; e che non riusciva assolutamente a capire cosa potesse intendere quella persona ridicola e sconosciuta.

“Assolutamente impossibile indovinare!”, disse Carità con un po’ di asprezza, “anche se, allo stesso tempo, non c’è bisogno di arrabbiarsi, cara mia.”

“Grazie,” ribatté Merry, cantando mentre lavorava a maglia. “Ne sono ben consapevole, mio amore.”

“Temo che tu abbia perso la testa, sciocchina,” disse Cherry.

“Lo sai, caro mio,” disse Merry con una candidezza incantevole, “che anch’io ne avevo paura, fin dall’inizio? Tutto quel incenso, tutte quelle sciocchezze, basta per confondere anche la testa più forte della mia. Dev’essere davvero un grande sollievo per te, caro mio, poter stare così tranquillo in questo senso, senza preoccuparti di quegli uomini odiosi! Come fai a riuscirci, Cherry?”

Quella domanda così ingenua avrebbe potuto portare a conseguenze turbolente, ma le forti emozioni di gioia dimostrate da Bailey junior, il cui piacere nell’evolversi della conversazione era così intenso che lo spinse immediatamente a eseguire una danza estremamente difficile da realizzare. Una manifestazione così vivace fece loro ricordare immediatamente il grande e virtuoso principio: “Mantieni sempre un’apparenza decorosa, qualunque cosa tu faccia”. Decisero quindi di avvertire subito il signor Bailey che, se avesse osato ripetere quella danza davanti a loro, avrebbero informato immediatamente la signora Todgers e chiesto che venisse punito severamente. Il giovane, dimostrando profonda contrizione, fingeva di asciugarsi le lacrime con il grembiule, poi simulava di strizzare via molta “acqua” da quel indumento. Mentre la signorina Charity usciva, lui teneva aperta la porta affinché potesse entrare e incontrare il suo misterioso ammiratore.

Per qualche strana combinazione di circostanze favorevoli, era riuscito a trovare il salotto e vi sedeva da solo.

“Ah, cugino!” disse. “Eccomi qui, vedi? Pensavi che fossi perso. Beh, come mai ti trovi da queste parti a quest’ora?”

La signorina Charity rispose che stava molto bene e porse la sua mano al signor Jonas Chuzzlewit.

“Esatto,” disse il signor Jonas, “e hai già superato le fatiche di quel viaggio, vero? Dimmi, com’è l’altro?”

“Mia sorella sta molto bene, credo,” rispose la giovane signora. “Non l’ho mai sentita lamentarsi di alcun problema di salute, signore. Forse vorreste vederla personalmente e chiederglielo voi stesso?”

“No, no cugina!” disse il signor Jonas, sedendosi accanto a lei sul sedile vicino alla finestra. “Non affrettarti. Non c’è alcuna ragione per farlo, lo sai bene. Che ragazza crudele che sei, ”

“È impossibile che tu possa saperlo”, disse Cherry, “se io lo sia o meno”.

‘Well, perhaps it is,’ said Mr Jonas. ‘I say—Did you think I was lost? You haven’t told me that.’

‘I didn’t think at all about it,’ answered Cherry.

‘Didn’t you though?’ said Jonas, pondering upon this strange reply. ‘Did the other one?’

‘I am sure it’s impossible for me to say what my sister may, or may not have thought on such a subject,’ cried Cherry. ‘She never said anything to me about it, one way or other.’

‘Didn’t she laugh about it?’ inquired Jonas.

‘No. She didn’t even laugh about it,’ answered Charity.

‘She’s a terrible one to laugh, an’t she?’ said Jonas, lowering his voice.

‘She is very lively,’ said Cherry.

‘Liveliness is a pleasant thing—when it don’t lead to spending money. An’t it?’ asked Mr Jonas.

‘Very much so, indeed,’ said Cherry, with a demureness of manner that gave a very disinterested character to her assent.

‘Such liveliness as yours I mean, you know,’ observed Mr Jonas, as he nudged her with his elbow. ‘I should have come to see you before, but I didn’t know where you was. How quick you hurried off, that morning!’

‘I was amenable to my papa’s directions,’ said Miss Charity.

‘I wish he had given me his direction,’ returned her cousin, ‘and then I should have found you out before. Why, I shouldn’t have found you even now, if I hadn’t met him in the street this morning. What a sleek, sly chap he is! Just like a tomcat, an’t he?’

‘I must trouble you to have the goodness to speak more respectfully of my papa, Mr Jonas,’ said Charity. ‘I can’t allow such a tone as that, even in jest.’

‘Ecod, you may say what you like of MY father, then, and so I give you leave,’ said Jonas. ‘I think it’s liquid aggravation that circulates through his veins, and not regular blood. How old should you think my father was, cousin?’

‘Old, no doubt,’ replied Miss Charity; ‘but a fine old gentleman.’

‘A fine old gentleman!’ repeated Jonas, giving the crown of his hat an angry knock. ‘Ah! It’s time he was thinking of being drawn out a little finer too. Why, he’s eighty!’

‘Is he, indeed?’ said the young lady.

‘And ecod,’ cried Jonas, ‘now he’s gone so far without giving in, I don’t see much to prevent his being ninety; no, nor even a hundred. Why, a man with any feeling ought to be ashamed of being eighty, let alone more. Where’s his religion, I should like to know, when he goes flying in the face of the Bible like that? Threescore-and-ten’s the mark, and no man with a conscience, and a proper sense of what’s expected of him, has any business to live longer.’

Is any one surprised at Mr Jonas making such a reference to such a book for such a purpose? Does any one doubt the old saw, that the Devil (being a layman) quotes Scripture for his own ends? If he will take the trouble to look about him, he may find a greater number of confirmations of the fact in the occurrences of any single day, than the steam-gun can discharge balls in a minute.

‘But there’s enough of my father,’ said Jonas; ‘it’s of no use to go putting one’s self out of the way by talking about HIM. I called to ask you to come and take a walk, cousin, and see some of the sights; and to come to our house afterwards, and have a bit of something. Pecksniff will most likely look in in the evening, he says, and bring you home. See, here’s his writing; I made him put it down this morning when he told me he shouldn’t be back before I came here; in case you wouldn’t believe me. There’s nothing like proof, is there? Ha, ha! I say—you’ll bring the other one, you know!’

Miss Charity cast her eyes upon her father’s autograph, which merely said—‘Go, my children, with your cousin. Let there be union among us when it is possible;’ and after enough of hesitation to impart a proper value to her consent, withdrew to prepare her sister and herself for the excursion. She soon returned, accompanied by Miss Mercy, who was by no means pleased to leave the brilliant triumphs of Todgers’s for the society of Mr Jonas and his respected father.

‘Aha!’ cried Jonas. ‘There you are, are you?’

‘Yes, fright,’ said Mercy, ‘here I am; and I would much rather be anywhere else, I assure you.’

‘You don’t mean that,’ cried Mr Jonas. ‘You can’t, you know. It isn’t possible.’

‘You can have what opinion you like, fright,’ retorted Mercy. ‘I am content to keep mine; and mine is that you are a very unpleasant, odious, disagreeable person.’ Here she laughed heartily, and seemed to enjoy herself very much.

‘Oh, you’re a sharp gal!’ said Mr Jonas. ‘She’s a regular teaser, an’t she, cousin?’

Miss Charity replied in effect, that she was unable to say what the habits and propensities of a regular teaser might be; and that even if she possessed such information, it would ill become her to admit the existence of any creature with such an unceremonious name in her family; far less in the person of a beloved sister; ‘whatever,’ added Cherry with an angry glance, ‘whatever her real nature may be.’

‘Well, my dear,’ said Merry, ‘the only observation I have to make is, that if we don’t go out at once, I shall certainly take my bonnet off again, and stay at home.’

This threat had the desired effect of preventing any farther altercation, for Mr Jonas immediately proposed an adjournment, and the same being carried unanimously, they departed from the house straightway. On the doorstep, Mr Jonas gave an arm to each cousin; which act of gallantry being observed by Bailey junior, from the garret window, was by him saluted with a loud and violent fit of coughing, to which paroxysm he was still the victim when they turned the corner.

Mr Jonas inquired in the first instance if they were good walkers and being answered, ‘Yes,’ submitted their pedestrian powers to a pretty severe test; for he showed them as many sights, in the way of bridges, churches, streets, outsides of theatres, and other free spectacles, in that one forenoon, as most people see in a twelvemonth. It was observable in this gentleman, that he had an insurmountable distaste to the insides of buildings, and that he was perfectly acquainted with the merits of all shows, in respect of which there was any charge for admission, which it seemed were every one detestable, and of the very lowest grade of merit. He was so thoroughly possessed with this opinion, that when Miss Charity happened to mention the circumstance of their having been twice or thrice to the theatre with Mr Jinkins and party, he inquired, as a matter of course, ‘where the orders came from?’ and being told that Mr Jinkins and party paid, was beyond description entertained, observing that ‘they must be nice flats, certainly;’ and often in the course of the walk, bursting out again into a perfect convulsion of laughter at the surpassing silliness of those gentlemen, and (doubtless) at his own superior wisdom.

“Beh, forse sì,” disse il signor Jonas. “Dico. Pensavate che fossi perso? Non me l’avete detto.”

“Non ci ho pensato affatto,” rispose Cherry.

“Non è vero?” disse Jonas, riflettendo su quella strana risposta. “E l’altro?”

“Sono sicura che sia impossibile per me dire cosa mia sorella possa aver pensato, o meno, su un argomento del genere,” gridò Cherry. “Non mi ha mai detto nulla al riguardo, in un senso o nell’altro.”

“Non si è mica messa a ridere per questo?”, chiese Jonas.

“No. Non ha nemmeno riso per quella cosa,” rispose Charity.

“È davvero terribile quando ride, non trovi?” disse Jonas, abbassando la voce.

“È molto vivace,” disse Cherry.

“La vivacità è una cosa piacevole, purché non porti a spendere soldi, vero?” chiese il signor Jonas.

“Assolutamente sì,” disse Cherry con un tono timido che dava alla sua approvazione un’aria di totale imparzialità.

“Una vivacità come la tua, insomma, ”, osservò il signor Jonas, spingendola con il gomito. “Avrei dovuto venire a trovarti prima, ma non sapevo dove fossi. Quella mattina te ne sei andata così in fretta, ”

“Ero disposta ad obbedire alle istruzioni di mio padre,” disse la signorina Charity.

“Vorrei che mi avesse dato le indicazioni necessarie,” rispose sua cugina, “allora ti avrei trovata prima. In realtà, non ti avrei nemmeno trovata ora, se non lo avessi incontrato per strada stamattina. Che individuo astuto e subdolo! Proprio come un gatto maschio, vero?”

“Devo chiedervi di parlare con maggiore rispetto di mio padre, il signor Jonas,” disse Charity. “Non posso permettere un tono del genere, nemmeno scherzando.”

“Ecod, puoi dire quello che vuoi di MIO padre, quindi ti do il permesso di farlo,” disse Jonas. “Penso che ciò che scorre nelle sue vene sia una sorta di liquido velenoso, e non sangue normale. Quanti anni credi che abbia mio padre, cugino?”

“Vecchio, senza alcun dubbio”, rispose la signorina Charity; “ma un vero e proprio gentiluomo anziano.”

“Un vecchio gentiluomo davvero!” ripeté Jonas, dando un colpo rabbioso alla corona del proprio cappello. “Ah! È arrivato il momento che anche lui pensi a farsi sistemare un po’ meglio. Dopotutto, ha ottant’anni!”

“Davvero lo è?” disse la giovane signora.

“Ecco,” gridò Jonas, “ora è arrivato così lontano senza arrendersi. Non vedo proprio nulla che possa impedirgli di raggiungere gli novant’anni, no, anzi anche i cento. Diamine, un uomo con un minimo di dignità dovrebbe vergognarsi di averne ottanta. Figuriamoci di più. Dove è finita la sua religione? Quando si comporta in quel modo, sfidando apertamente la Bibbia, dove sta il senso della morale? Trent’anni sono già un limite massimo. Nessun uomo con una conscienza, e che abbia un minimo di rispetto per ciò che gli viene chiesto, dovrebbe vivere più a lungo.”

C’è qualcuno che si sorprende del fatto che il signor Jonas faccia un riferimento a un libro del genere per uno scopo del genere? Qualcuno dubita della vecchia massima secondo cui il Diavolo, essendo un laico, cita le Scritture ai propri fini? Se si prendesse la briga di osservare intorno a sé, potrebbe trovare un numero molto maggiore di conferme di questo fatto nelle avvenimenti di ogni singola giornata, di quante palline possa sparare una pistola ad aria compressa in un minuto.

“Ma di mio padre ne abbiamo già abbastanza,” disse Jonas; “non serve assolutamente mettersi in pericolo parlando di LUI. Ti ho chiamato perché volevo che venissi a fare una passeggiata con me, cugino, per vedere alcune delle attrazioni della città; e poi venire a casa nostra a mangiare qualcosa. Probabilmente Pecksniff passerà stasera e ti riaccompagnerà a casa. Ecco la sua lettera: gli ho fatto scrivere questa mattina, quando mi ha detto che non sarebbe tornato prima del mio arrivo; nel caso tu non mi credessi. Non c’è niente di meglio di una prova, vero? Ah ah! Dico, porterai anche l’altra persona, sai?”

La signorina Charity posò lo sguardo sull’autografo di suo padre, che recitava semplicemente: “Andate, miei figli, con vostro cugino. Che ci sia unione tra noi quando sarà possibile”; dopo aver esitato a lungo per dare il giusto valore al proprio consenso, si ritirò per preparare sé stessa e sua sorella alla gita. Tornò presto, accompagnata dalla signorina Mercy, la quale non era affatto felice di lasciare i brillanti successi della scuola Todgers per frequentare la compagnia del signor Jonas e di suo rispettabile padre.

“Ahah!”, esclamò Jonas. “Eccolo lì, vero?”

“Sì, paura,” disse Mercy, “eccomi qui; vi assicuro che preferirei essere ovunque altro.”

“Non può essere vero,” esclamò il signor Jonas. “È impossibile.”

“Puoi avere qualsiasi opinione tu voglia, fifona,” ribatté Mercy. “Io sono contenta di mantenere la mia; e la mia è che sei una persona molto sgradevole, odiosa e insopportabile.” Qui rise di cuore, sembrando davvero divertirsi molto.

“Ah, sei davvero una ragazza astuta!” disse il signor Jonas. “È proprio una che sa come stuzzicare gli altri, vero, cugina?”

La signorina Charity rispose, in sostanza, che non era in grado di descrivere quali fossero le abitudini e le inclinazioni di una persona che amava prendere in giro gli altri; e che anche se ne avesse conoscenza, non sarebbe stato appropriato da parte sua ammettere l’esistenza di una creatura con un nome così scortese nella sua famiglia, figuriamoci poi nella persona di una cara sorella; “Qualunque sia,” aggiunse Cherry con uno sguardo arrabbiato, “qualunque sia la sua vera natura.”

“Beh, caro mio,” disse Merry, “l’unica osservazione che ho da fare è che, se non usciamo subito, sicuramente mi toglierò di nuovo il cappello e resterò a casa.”

Questa minaccia ottenne l’effetto desiderato: impedì ulteriori discussioni, poiché il signor Jonas propose immediatamente di sospendere la riunione. La proposta fu approvata all’unanimità e tutti lasciarono subito la casa. Alla porta d’ingresso, il signor Jonas offrì il braccio a ciascuno dei suoi cugini; questo atto di galanteria fu notato da Bailey junior, che lo osservava dalla finestra del sottotetto, e lo salutò con un violento attacco di tosse. Quando svoltarono l’angolo, quel sintomo persisteva ancora.

Il signor Jonas, innanzitutto, chiese se fossero bravi camminatori; ricevuta la risposta affermativa, sottopose le loro capacità di deambulazione a un test piuttosto rigoroso: in quel pomeriggio mostrò loro tantissimi luoghi da vedere – ponti, chiese, strade, esterni di teatri e altri spettacoli gratuiti – quanti la maggior parte delle persone ne vede in dodici mesi. Era evidente che questo signore provasse un profondo disgusto per gli interni degli edifici; inoltre conosceva perfettamente i pregi di tutti quegli spettacoli a cui si pagava l’ingresso, e sembrava ritenere che fossero tutti di qualità estremamente scadente. Era così convinto di queste opinioni che, quando la signorina Charity menzionò che loro erano andati al teatro un paio di volte con il signor Jinkins e compagnia, lui chiese naturalmente “da dove provenivano i soldi per l’ingresso”; venutogli detto che era stato il signor Jinkins a pagare, ne fu estremamente divertito, osservando che “deve trattarsi sicuramente di appartamenti molto belli, ”. Durante la passeggiata scoppiava spesso in una risata fragorosa per l’assurdità di quei signori, e probabilmente anche per la propria superiorità intellettuale.

When they had been out for some hours and were thoroughly fatigued, it being by that time twilight, Mr Jonas intimated that he would show them one of the best pieces of fun with which he was acquainted. This joke was of a practical kind, and its humour lay in taking a hackney-coach to the extreme limits of possibility for a shilling. Happily it brought them to the place where Mr Jonas dwelt, or the young ladies might have rather missed the point and cream of the jest.

The old-established firm of Anthony Chuzzlewit and Son, Manchester Warehousemen, and so forth, had its place of business in a very narrow street somewhere behind the Post Office; where every house was in the brightest summer morning very gloomy; and where light porters watered the pavement, each before his own employer’s premises, in fantastic patterns, in the dog-days; and where spruce gentlemen with their hands in the pockets of symmetrical trousers, were always to be seen in warm weather, contemplating their undeniable boots in dusty warehouse doorways; which appeared to be the hardest work they did, except now and then carrying pens behind their ears. A dim, dirty, smoky, tumble-down, rotten old house it was, as anybody would desire to see; but there the firm of Anthony Chuzzlewit and Son transacted all their business and their pleasure too, such as it was; for neither the young man nor the old had any other residence, or any care or thought beyond its narrow limits.

Business, as may be readily supposed, was the main thing in this establishment; insomuch indeed that it shouldered comfort out of doors, and jostled the domestic arrangements at every turn. Thus in the miserable bedrooms there were files of moth-eaten letters hanging up against the walls; and linen rollers, and fragments of old patterns, and odds and ends of spoiled goods, strewed upon the ground; while the meagre bedsteads, washing-stands, and scraps of carpet, were huddled away into corners as objects of secondary consideration, not to be thought of but as disagreeable necessities, furnishing no profit, and intruding on the one affair of life. The single sitting-room was on the same principle, a chaos of boxes and old papers, and had more counting-house stools in it than chairs; not to mention a great monster of a desk straddling over the middle of the floor, and an iron safe sunk into the wall above the fireplace. The solitary little table for purposes of refection and social enjoyment, bore as fair a proportion to the desk and other business furniture, as the graces and harmless relaxations of life had ever done, in the persons of the old man and his son, to their pursuit of wealth. It was meanly laid out now for dinner; and in a chair before the fire sat Anthony himself, who rose to greet his son and his fair cousins as they entered.

An ancient proverb warns us that we should not expect to find old heads upon young shoulders; to which it may be added that we seldom meet with that unnatural combination, but we feel a strong desire to knock them off; merely from an inherent love we have of seeing things in their right places. It is not improbable that many men, in no wise choleric by nature, felt this impulse rising up within them, when they first made the acquaintance of Mr Jonas; but if they had known him more intimately in his own house, and had sat with him at his own board, it would assuredly have been paramount to all other considerations.

‘Well, ghost!’ said Mr Jonas, dutifully addressing his parent by that title. ‘Is dinner nearly ready?’

‘I should think it was,’ rejoined the old man.

‘What’s the good of that?’ rejoined the son. ‘I should think it was. I want to know.’

‘Ah! I don’t know for certain,’ said Anthony.

‘You don’t know for certain,’ rejoined his son in a lower tone. ‘No. You don’t know anything for certain, YOU don’t. Give me your candle here. I want it for the gals.’

Anthony handed him a battered old office candlestick, with which Mr Jonas preceded the young ladies to the nearest bedroom, where he left them to take off their shawls and bonnets; and returning, occupied himself in opening a bottle of wine, sharpening the carving-knife, and muttering compliments to his father, until they and the dinner appeared together. The repast consisted of a hot leg of mutton with greens and potatoes; and the dishes having been set upon the table by a slipshod old woman, they were left to enjoy it after their own manner.

‘Bachelor’s Hall, you know, cousin,’ said Mr Jonas to Charity. ‘I say—the other one will be having a laugh at this when she gets home, won’t she? Here; you sit on the right side of me, and I’ll have her upon the left. Other one, will you come here?’

‘You’re such a fright,’ replied Mercy, ‘that I know I shall have no appetite if I sit so near you; but I suppose I must.’

‘An’t she lively?’ whispered Mr Jonas to the elder sister, with his favourite elbow emphasis.

‘Oh I really don’t know!’ replied Miss Pecksniff, tartly. ‘I am tired of being asked such ridiculous questions.’

‘What’s that precious old father of mine about now?’ said Mr Jonas, seeing that his parent was travelling up and down the room instead of taking his seat at table. ‘What are you looking for?’

‘I’ve lost my glasses, Jonas,’ said old Anthony.

‘Sit down without your glasses, can’t you?’ returned his son. ‘You don’t eat or drink out of ‘em, I think; and where’s that sleepy-headed old Chuffey got to! Now, stupid. Oh! you know your name, do you?’

It would seem that he didn’t, for he didn’t come until the father called. As he spoke, the door of a small glass office, which was partitioned off from the rest of the room, was slowly opened, and a little blear-eyed, weazen-faced, ancient man came creeping out. He was of a remote fashion, and dusty, like the rest of the furniture; he was dressed in a decayed suit of black; with breeches garnished at the knees with rusty wisps of ribbon, the very paupers of shoestrings; on the lower portion of his spindle legs were dingy worsted stockings of the same colour. He looked as if he had been put away and forgotten half a century before, and somebody had just found him in a lumber-closet.

Dopo essere stati fuori per alcune ore e completamente stanchi, poiché era già il crepuscolo, il signor Jonas annunciò che avrebbe loro mostrato uno dei migliori scherzi che conoscesse. Questo scherzo aveva un carattere pratico; il suo umorismo consisteva nel portare una vettura a noleggio fino ai limiti estremi della possibilità, per soli dieci penny. Fortunatamente, questo li portò proprio dove abitava il signor Jonas; altrimenti, le giovani signore avrebbero probabilmente perso il senso e l’essenza dello scherzo stesso.

La vecchia ditta di Anthony Chuzzlewit e Figlio, commercianti di magazzini e simili, aveva la sua sede in una strada molto stretta, da qualche parte dietro l’ufficio postale; dove ogni >casa appariva molto cupa anche nelle più luminose mattine estive; dove, nei giorni più caldi dell’estate, i portatori versavano acqua sul marciapiede davanti agli uffici dei loro datori di lavoro, disegnando strani motivi; e dove si potevano sempre vedere gentiluomini con le mani in tasca, nei loro pantaloni ben stirati, che, nelle giornate calde, contemplavano i propri stivali davanti alle porte polverose dei magazzini. Il tutto sembrava rappresentare il lavoro più arduo che avessero mai svolto, a parte qualche occasionale trasporto di penne dietro l’orecchio. Era una casa vecchia, buia, sporca, fumosa e in rovina. Proprio il genere di posto che chiunque vorrebbe evitare di vedere. Ma lì, nella ditta di Anthony Chuzzlewit e Figlio, si svolgeva tutta la loro attività commerciale. E anche i loro “piaceri”, per quanto modesti fossero. Poiché né il giovane né il vecchio avevano alcuna altra residenza, né alcun altro pensiero o preoccupazione al di fuori dei confini di quella stretta strada.

Come si può facilmente immaginare, gli affari erano la cosa principale in questa attività; tanto che essi venivano messi al primo posto a scapito delle esigenze domestiche. Ne risultavano camere da letto misere, con mucchi di lettere consumate dai pidocchi appese ai muri, rotoli per la biancheria, frammenti di vecchi disegni e ogni sorta di oggetti rovinati sparsi sul pavimento; i letti scarni, gli scaffali per il bucato e i resti di tappeti erano relegati in angoli, considerati semplicemente elementi indispensabili ma non certo utili o redditizi. Anche la sala da pranzo era un disastro: piena di scatole e vecchi documenti, con più sgabelli che sedie; per non parlare di un enorme tavolo posizionato al centro della stanza e di una cassaforte incassata nel muro sopra il caminetto. L’unica piccola tavola destinata ai pasti e alle riunioni sociali rappresentava, in proporzione, quanto le attività lavorative avessero spazio nelle vite dell’uomo anziano e di suo figlio nella loro ricerca della ricchezza: era malamente apparecchiata per la cena; davanti al caminetto sedeva Anthony stesso, che si alzò per salutare suo figlio e le sue belle cugine non appena entrarono.

Un antico proverbio ci avverte che non dobbiamo aspettarci di trovare saggezza in giovani persone; si potrebbe aggiungere che raramente incontriamo questa combinazione “antinaturale”, ma proviamo un forte desiderio di eliminarla, semplicemente a causa dell’innata tendenza che abbiamo ad avere le cose al loro posto giusto. Non è improbabile che molti uomini, per natura affatto non collerici, abbiano sentito questo impulso nascere in loro quando hanno conosciuto per la prima volta il signor Jonas; ma se lo avessero conosciuto più a fondo nella sua stessa casa, e avessero mangiato insieme a lui alla sua tavola, questa considerazione sarebbe sicuramente stata prioritaria rispetto a tutte le altre.

“Beh, un fantasma!”, disse il signor Jonas, chiamando suo padre con quel titolo per dovere. “Il cena è quasi pronto?”

“Credo proprio che lo sia,” rispose l’uomo anziano.

“Che utilità c’è in questo?”, ribatté il figlio. “Penso proprio che ci debba essere qualche utilità. Voglio saperlo.”

“Ah! Non ne sono sicuro,” disse Anthony.

“Non lo sai con certezza,” ribatté suo figlio a voce più bassa. “No. Non sai nulla con certezza, TU non lo sai. Dammi la tua candela. La voglio per le ragazze.”

Anthony gli porse un vecchio candelabro da ufficio malandato; con quello, il signor Jonas accompagnò le giovani signore nella camera da letto più vicina, dove le lasciò per che si togliessero sciarpe e cappelli. Tornato indietro, si dedicò ad aprire una bottiglia di vino, affilare il coltello da intaglio e mormorare complimenti a suo padre, fino a quando loro e la cena non furono pronti. Il pasto consisteva in una coscia di montone calda con verdure e patate; i piatti, posizionati sul tavolo da una vecchia donna maldestra, furono lasciati alle loro cure per gustarli a modo loro.

“Bachelor’s Hall, sai, ”, disse il signor Jonas a Charity. “Dico, l’altra si divertirà un mondo quando tornerà a >casa, no? Ecco; siediti tu dal mio lato destro e io la metterò sul sinistro. L’altra, vuoi venire qui?”

“Sei davvero spaventoso,” rispose Mercy, “che so di non avere appetito se mi siedo così vicino a te; ma immagino che dovrò farlo lo stesso.”

“Non è proprio vivace?” sussurrò il signor Jonas alla sorella maggiore, utilizzando il suo solito modo di enfatizzare le parole con il gomito.

“Oh, davvero non lo so!” rispose la signorina Pecksniff in tono acido. “Sono stufa di ricevere domande così ridicole.”

“Che cosa sta facendo adesso quel mio prezioso vecchio padre?” disse il signor Jonas, vedendo che suo genitore andava avanti e indietro per la stanza invece di sedersi a tavola. “Cosa stai cercando?”

“Ho perso gli occhiali, Jonas,” disse il vecchio Anthony.

“Siediti senza occhiali, non puoi farlo?” rispose suo figlio. “Non li usi nemmeno per mangiare o bere, giusto? E dove diavolo è finito quel vecchio stupido di Chuffey. Ora, sciocco. Ah! Sai almeno il tuo nome, vero?”

Sembra che non sia venuto, perché è arrivato solo quando il padre lo ha chiamato. Mentre parlavano, la porta di un piccolo ufficio in vetro, separato dal resto della stanza, si aprì lentamente, e ne uscì strisciando un vecchio uomo con gli occhi miopi e il viso rugoso. Era vestito in modo molto antiquato e coperto di polvere, proprio come tutti gli altri mobili; indossava un abito nero logoro, con pantaloni decorati alle ginocchia da strisce arrugginite di nastri, praticamente senza stringhe per le scarpe. Le sue gambe snelle erano avvolte in calze di lana dello stesso colore, scolorite e sporche. Sembrava che fosse stato messo da parte e dimenticato da mezzo secolo, e qualcuno lo avesse appena trovato in un ripostiglio pieno di mobili vecchi.

Such as he was, he came slowly creeping on towards the table, until at last he crept into the vacant chair, from which, as his dim faculties became conscious of the presence of strangers, and those strangers ladies, he rose again, apparently intending to make a bow. But he sat down once more without having made it, and breathing on his shrivelled hands to warm them, remained with his poor blue nose immovable above his plate, looking at nothing, with eyes that saw nothing, and a face that meant nothing. Take him in that state, and he was an embodiment of nothing. Nothing else.

‘Our clerk,’ said Mr Jonas, as host and master of the ceremonies: ‘Old Chuffey.’

‘Is he deaf?’ inquired one of the young ladies.

‘No, I don’t know that he is. He an’t deaf, is he, father?’

‘I never heard him say he was,’ replied the old man.

‘Blind?’ inquired the young ladies.

‘N—no. I never understood that he was at all blind,’ said Jonas, carelessly. ‘You don’t consider him so, do you, father?’

‘Certainly not,’ replied Anthony.

‘What is he, then?’

‘Why, I’ll tell you what he is,’ said Mr Jonas, apart to the young ladies, ‘he’s precious old, for one thing; and I an’t best pleased with him for that, for I think my father must have caught it of him. He’s a strange old chap, for another,’ he added in a louder voice, ‘and don’t understand any one hardly, but HIM!’ He pointed to his honoured parent with the carving-fork, in order that they might know whom he meant.

‘How very strange!’ cried the sisters.

‘Why, you see,’ said Mr Jonas, ‘he’s been addling his old brains with figures and book-keeping all his life; and twenty years ago or so he went and took a fever. All the time he was out of his head (which was three weeks) he never left off casting up; and he got to so many million at last that I don’t believe he’s ever been quite right since. We don’t do much business now though, and he an’t a bad clerk.’

‘A very good one,’ said Anthony.

‘Well! He an’t a dear one at all events,’ observed Jonas; ‘and he earns his salt, which is enough for our look-out. I was telling you that he hardly understands any one except my father; he always understands him, though, and wakes up quite wonderful. He’s been used to his ways so long, you see! Why, I’ve seen him play whist, with my father for a partner; and a good rubber too; when he had no more notion what sort of people he was playing against, than you have.’

‘Has he no appetite?’ asked Merry.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Jonas, plying his own knife and fork very fast. ‘He eats—when he’s helped. But he don’t care whether he waits a minute or an hour, as long as father’s here; so when I’m at all sharp set, as I am to-day, I come to him after I’ve taken the edge off my own hunger, you know. Now, Chuffey, stupid, are you ready?’

Chuffey remained immovable.

‘Always a perverse old file, he was,’ said Mr Jonas, coolly helping himself to another slice. ‘Ask him, father.’

‘Are you ready for your dinner, Chuffey?’ asked the old man

‘Yes, yes,’ said Chuffey, lighting up into a sentient human creature at the first sound of the voice, so that it was at once a curious and quite a moving sight to see him. ‘Yes, yes. Quite ready, Mr Chuzzlewit. Quite ready, sir. All ready, all ready, all ready.’ With that he stopped, smilingly, and listened for some further address; but being spoken to no more, the light forsook his face by little and little, until he was nothing again.

‘He’ll be very disagreeable, mind,’ said Jonas, addressing his cousins as he handed the old man’s portion to his father. ‘He always chokes himself when it an’t broth. Look at him, now! Did you ever see a horse with such a wall-eyed expression as he’s got? If it hadn’t been for the joke of it I wouldn’t have let him come in to-day; but I thought he’d amuse you.’

The poor old subject of this humane speech was, happily for himself, as unconscious of its purport as of most other remarks that were made in his presence. But the mutton being tough, and his gums weak, he quickly verified the statement relative to his choking propensities, and underwent so much in his attempts to dine, that Mr Jonas was infinitely amused; protesting that he had seldom seen him better company in all his life, and that he was enough to make a man split his sides with laughing. Indeed, he went so far as to assure the sisters, that in this point of view he considered Chuffey superior to his own father; which, as he significantly added, was saying a great deal.

It was strange enough that Anthony Chuzzlewit, himself so old a man, should take a pleasure in these gibings of his estimable son at the expense of the poor shadow at their table. But he did, unquestionably; though not so much—to do him justice—with reference to their ancient clerk, as in exultation at the sharpness of Jonas. For the same reason that young man’s coarse allusions, even to himself, filled him with a stealthy glee; causing him to rub his hands and chuckle covertly, as if he said in his sleeve, ‘I taught him. I trained him. This is the heir of my bringing-up. Sly, cunning, and covetous, he’ll not squander my money. I worked for this; I hoped for this; it has been the great end and aim of my life.’

What a noble end and aim it was to contemplate in the attainment truly! But there be some who manufacture idols after the fashion of themselves, and fail to worship them when they are made; charging their deformity on outraged nature. Anthony was better than these at any rate.

Chuffey boggled over his plate so long, that Mr Jonas, losing patience, took it from him at last with his own hands, and requested his father to signify to that venerable person that he had better ‘peg away at his bread;’ which Anthony did.

‘Aye, aye!’ cried the old man, brightening up as before, when this was communicated to him in the same voice, ‘quite right, quite right. He’s your own son, Mr Chuzzlewit! Bless him for a sharp lad! Bless him, bless him!’

Così com’era, si avvicinò lentamente al tavolo, finché non si infilò nella sedia vuota. Quando le sue deboli facoltà percepirono la presenza di estranei, e quelle estranee erano delle signore, si alzò di nuovo, apparentemente intenzionato a fare un inchino. Ma si risedette senza farlo, e, soffiando sulle proprie mani tremolanti per scaldarle, rimase immobile con il suo povero naso blu sopra il piatto, senza guardare nulla, con occhi che non vedevano nulla, e un viso che non significava nulla. Prendetelo in quello stato: era l’incarnazione del nulla. Nient’altro.

“Il nostro impiegato,” disse il signor Jonas, nel ruolo di padrone di casa e organizzatore delle cerimonie: “il vecchio Chuffey.”

“È sordo?” chiese una delle giovani signore.

“No, non so se lo sia. Non è sordo, vero, padre?”

“Non l’ho mai sentito dire di esserlo,” rispose l’uomo anziano.

“Cieco?” chiesero le giovani signore.

“No. Non ho mai capito che fosse davvero cieco,” disse Jonas, in modo distratto. “Voi non la pensate così, vero, padre?”

“Certamente no,” rispose Anthony.

“Che cos’è allora?”

“Beh, vi dirò cosa è,” disse il signor Jonas, parlando sottovoce alle giovani dame, “prima di tutto, è molto vecchio; e non sono affatto contento di questo, perché penso che mio padre l’abbia preso da lui. Inoltre, è un vecchio strano tipo,” aggiunse a voce più alta, “e quasi non capisce nessuno, tranne SE STESSO!” Indicò con la forchetta da intaglio il proprio rispettabile genitore, affinché capissero a chi si riferiva.

“Che strano!” esclamarono le sorelle.

“Vede,” disse il signor Jonas, “per tutta la vita si è occupato di numeri e contabilità; circa vent’anni fa ha preso la febbre. Per tutto il tempo in cui è stato fuori di testa (tre settimane), non ha mai smesso di fare calcoli. Alla fine è arrivato a cifre così enormi che credo non sia più del tutto sano da allora. Ora non facciamo molte transazioni, ma comunque non è un cattivo impiegato.”

“Molto buono,” disse Anthony.

‘Beh! Comunque non è certo una brava persona,’ osservò Jonas; ‘e si guadagna da vivere, il che per noi basta. Vi stavo dicendo che quasi non capisce nessuno tranne mio padre; con lui sì, invece, e reagisce in modo davvero sorprendente. Ormai è troppo abituato alle sue abitudini. Una volta l’ho visto giocare a whist con mio padre come partner; e faceva anche delle buone partite! Non aveva la minima idea di contro chi stesse giocando, proprio come voi.’

“Non ha appetito?” chiese Merry.

“Oh, sì,” disse Jonas, usando molto velocemente il proprio coltello e forchetta. “Lui mangia, quando gli viene aiutato. Ma non gli importa se aspetta un minuto o un’ora, purché papà sia qui; quindi, quando ho davvero molta fame, come oggi, vado da lui dopo aver saziato la mia fame prima, capisci? Ora, Chuffey, stupido, sei pronto?”

Chuffey rimase immobile.

“Sempre stato un vecchio perverso,” disse il signor Jonas, mentre si serviva tranquillamente un’altra fetta. “Chiedeteglielo voi, padre.”

“Sei pronto per la cena, Chuffey?”, chiese l’uomo anziano.

“Sì, sì,” disse Chuffey; non appena udì quella voce, si trasformò in una creatura umana consapevole, e vedere lui in quel momento fu davvero uno spettacolo curioso e commovente. “Sì, sì. Sono completamente pronto, signor Chuzzlewit. Assolutamente pronto, signore. Tutto pronto.” Dopo aver detto questo, si fermò, sorridendo, in attesa di altre parole; ma poiché nessuno continuò a parlare con lui, quella luce che gli illuminava il viso scomparve gradualmente, fino a quando non rimase più nulla.

“Sarà molto sgradevole, state attenti,” disse Jonas rivolgendosi ai suoi cugini mentre porgeva la parte del vecchio a suo padre. “Si soffoca sempre quando non c’è zuppa. Guardatelo adesso! Avete mai visto un cavallo con quell’espressione così vacua negli occhi? Se non fosse stato per scherzo, non lo avrei fatto entrare oggi; ma pensavo che vi sarebbe divertito.”

La povera vecchia vittima di questo discorso umano, fortunatamente per lei, non comprendeva affatto il significato delle parole pronunciate davanti a lei, proprio come non capiva la maggior parte degli altri commenti fatti in sua presenza. Ma poiché la carne era dura e le sue gengive deboli, presto dimostrò concretamente quella tendenza ad soffocarsi. Durante i suoi tentativi di mangiare, causò tanta ilarità a Mr Jonas, che questi protestò di non aver mai visto una compagnia così divertente in tutta la sua vita. Anzi, arrivò persino ad assicurare alle sorelle che, da questo punto di vista, considerava Chuffey superiore a suo padre stesso. Il che, aggiunse con enfasi, significava davvero molto.

Era abbastanza strano che Anthony Chuzzlewit, lui stesso un uomo così anziano, trovasse piacere in queste derisioni nei confronti di suo figlio stimato, a scapito della povera “ombra” seduta al loro tavolo. Ma lo faceva, senza dubbio; sebbene, per essere giusti con lui, non tanto riguardo al loro vecchio impiegato, quanto piuttosto per l’acume di Jonas. Per la stessa ragione per cui le volgari allusioni di quel giovane, anche rivolte a lui stesso, lo riempivano di una gioia furtiva; gli facevano strofinare le mani e ridacchiare in segreto, come se si dicesse tra sé: “L’ho educato io. L’ho addestrato io. Questo è l’erede dell’educazione che gli ho dato. Astuto, calcolatore e avido, non sprecherà i miei soldi. Ho lavorato per questo; ci ho sperato. È stato lo scopo principale della mia vita.”

Che nobile fine e scopo era davvero quello che si poteva contemplare nel raggiungerlo!
Ma ci sono alcuni che creano idoli a loro immagine e somiglianza,
e non riescono nemmeno a venerarli una volta creati; attribuiscono la loro deformità all’offesa arrecata alla >natura. Comunque sia, Anthony era meglio di questi.

Chuffey rimase a fissare il proprio piatto per così tanto tempo che il signor Jonas, perdendo la pazienza, glielo prese finalmente dalle mani e chiese al padre di far capire a quella rispettabile persona che fosse meglio che “continuasse a mangiare”; Anthony lo fece.

‘Sì, sì!’ esclamò l’uomo anziano, illuminandosi di nuovo come prima, quando gli fu comunicato tutto ciò con la stessa voce; ‘Esatto, esatto. È proprio tuo figlio, signor Chuzzlewit! Benedetto quel ragazzo intelligente. Benedetto lui!’

Mr Jonas considered this so particularly childish (perhaps with some reason), that he only laughed the more, and told his cousins that he was afraid one of these fine days, Chuffey would be the death of him. The cloth was then removed, and the bottle of wine set upon the table, from which Mr Jonas filled the young ladies’ glasses, calling on them not to spare it, as they might be certain there was plenty more where that came from. But he added with some haste after this sally that it was only his joke, and they wouldn’t suppose him to be in earnest, he was sure.

‘I shall drink,’ said Anthony, ‘to Pecksniff. Your father, my dears. A clever man, Pecksniff. A wary man! A hypocrite, though, eh? A hypocrite, girls, eh? Ha, ha, ha! Well, so he is. Now, among friends, he is. I don’t think the worse of him for that, unless it is that he overdoes it. You may overdo anything, my darlings. You may overdo even hypocrisy. Ask Jonas!’

‘You can’t overdo taking care of yourself,’ observed that hopeful gentleman with his mouth full.

‘Do you hear that, my dears?’ cried Anthony, quite enraptured. ‘Wisdom, wisdom! A good exception, Jonas. No. It’s not easy to overdo that.’

‘Except,’ whispered Mr Jonas to his favourite cousin, ‘except when one lives too long. Ha, ha! Tell the other one that—I say!’

‘Good gracious me!’ said Cherry, in a petulant manner. ‘You can tell her yourself, if you wish, can’t you?’

‘She seems to make such game of one,’ replied Mr Jonas.

‘Then why need you trouble yourself about her?’ said Charity. ‘I am sure she doesn’t trouble herself much about you.’

‘Don’t she though?’ asked Jonas.

‘Good gracious me, need I tell you that she don’t?’ returned the young lady.

Mr Jonas made no verbal rejoinder, but he glanced at Mercy with an odd expression in his face; and said THAT wouldn’t break his heart, she might depend upon it. Then he looked on Charity with even greater favour than before, and besought her, as his polite manner was, to ‘come a little closer.’

‘There’s another thing that’s not easily overdone, father,’ remarked Jonas, after a short silence.

‘What’s that?’ asked the father; grinning already in anticipation.

‘A bargain,’ said the son. ‘Here’s the rule for bargains—“Do other men, for they would do you.” That’s the true business precept. All others are counterfeits.’

The delighted father applauded this sentiment to the echo; and was so much tickled by it, that he was at the pains of imparting the same to his ancient clerk, who rubbed his hands, nodded his palsied head, winked his watery eyes, and cried in his whistling tones, ‘Good! good! Your own son, Mr Chuzzlewit’ with every feeble demonstration of delight that he was capable of making. But this old man’s enthusiasm had the redeeming quality of being felt in sympathy with the only creature to whom he was linked by ties of long association, and by his present helplessness. And if there had been anybody there, who cared to think about it, some dregs of a better nature unawakened, might perhaps have been descried through that very medium, melancholy though it was, yet lingering at the bottom of the worn-out cask called Chuffey.

As matters stood, nobody thought or said anything upon the subject; so Chuffey fell back into a dark corner on one side of the fireplace, where he always spent his evenings, and was neither seen nor heard again that night; save once, when a cup of tea was given him, in which he was seen to soak his bread mechanically. There was no reason to suppose that he went to sleep at these seasons, or that he heard, or saw, or felt, or thought. He remained, as it were, frozen up—if any term expressive of such a vigorous process can be applied to him—until he was again thawed for the moment by a word or touch from Anthony.

Miss Charity made tea by desire of Mr Jonas, and felt and looked so like the lady of the house that she was in the prettiest confusion imaginable; the more so from Mr Jonas sitting close beside her, and whispering a variety of admiring expressions in her ear. Miss Mercy, for her part, felt the entertainment of the evening to be so distinctly and exclusively theirs, that she silently deplored the commercial gentlemen—at that moment, no doubt, wearying for her return—and yawned over yesterday’s newspaper. As to Anthony, he went to sleep outright, so Jonas and Cherry had a clear stage to themselves as long as they chose to keep possession of it.

When the tea-tray was taken away, as it was at last, Mr Jonas produced a dirty pack of cards, and entertained the sisters with divers small feats of dexterity: whereof the main purpose of every one was, that you were to decoy somebody into laying a wager with you that you couldn’t do it; and were then immediately to win and pocket his money. Mr Jonas informed them that these accomplishments were in high vogue in the most intellectual circles, and that large amounts were constantly changing hands on such hazards. And it may be remarked that he fully believed this; for there is a simplicity of cunning no less than a simplicity of innocence; and in all matters where a lively faith in knavery and meanness was required as the ground-work of belief, Mr Jonas was one of the most credulous of men. His ignorance, which was stupendous, may be taken into account, if the reader pleases, separately.

This fine young man had all the inclination to be a profligate of the first water, and only lacked the one good trait in the common catalogue of debauched vices—open-handedness—to be a notable vagabond. But there his griping and penurious habits stepped in; and as one poison will sometimes neutralise another, when wholesome remedies would not avail, so he was restrained by a bad passion from quaffing his full measure of evil, when virtue might have sought to hold him back in vain.

Il signor Jonas trovò questa cosa particolarmente infantile (forse con qualche ragione), e per questo rise ancora di più, dicendo ai suoi cugini che temeva che, un giorno di questi, Chuffey potesse diventare la sua morte. Poi tolsero il panno e posero sul tavolo la bottiglia di vino; il signor Jonas riempì i bicchieri delle giovani donne, invitandole a non risparmiarlo, poiché era certo che ne avessero ancora in abbondanza. Tuttavia, aggiunse subito dopo con un po’ di fretta che si trattava solo di uno scherzo e che sicuramente loro non pensavano che parlasse sul serio.

“Beverò,” disse Anthony, “per Pecksniff. Vostro padre, mie care. Un uomo intelligente, Pecksniff. Un uomo cauto. Ma anche un ipocrita, eh? Un ipocrita, ragazze. Ha, ha, ha! Beh, lo è davvero. Tra amici, sì. Non penso che ciò sia poi così negativo, a meno che non esagisca. Si può esagerare in tutto, mie care. Anche nell’ipocrisia. Chiedete a Jonas!”

“Non si può mai prendersi cura di sé abbastanza,” osservò quel gentiluomo pieno di speranza, con la bocca piena di cibo.

“Sentite questo, miei cari?” esclamò Anthony, completamente incantato. “Saggezza, una vera eccezione, Jonas. No, non è facile esagerare in questo.”

“Tranne,” sussurrò il signor Jonas al suo cugino preferito, “tranne quando si vive troppo a lungo. Ahah! Diglielo anche all’altro, ”

“Mio Dio!” disse Cherry in tono capriccioso. “Puoi dirglielo tu stesso, se vuoi, no?”

“Sembra che lei prenda tutto questo con troppa leggerezza”, rispose il signor Jonas.

“Allora perché dovresti preoccuparti per lei?” disse Carità. “Sono sicura che nemmeno lei si preoccupi molto per te.”

“Ma non lo fa forse?”, chiese Jonas.

“Mio Dio, devo forse dirvi che lei non lo sa?” rispose la giovane signora.

Il signor Jonas non rispose a parole, ma guardò Mercy con un’espressione strana sul viso; e disse che quella cosa non gli avrebbe spezzato il cuore, poteva esserne certa. Poi guardò Charity con ancora più affetto di prima, e le chiese, con la sua solita cortesia, di “avvicinarsi un po’ di più”.

“C’è un’altra cosa che non si può facilmente esagerare con essa, padre,” osservò Jonas, dopo un breve silenzio.

“Cos’è quello?” chiese il padre, sorridendo già in attesa.

“Un affare vantaggioso,” disse il figlio. “Ecco la regola degli affari vantaggiosi: ‘Fai agli altri ciò che vorresti fosse fatto a te.’ Questo è il vero principio del commercio. Tutti gli altri sono solo falsificazioni.”

Il padre, felice oltre misura, esultò apertamente per questo sentimento; ne fu così divertito che si prese la briga di condividerlo anche con il suo vecchio impiegato, il quale si strofinò le mani, annuì con la testa intorpidita, batté le palpebre umide e esclamò con voce stridula: “Bene! Bene! È proprio vostro figlio, signor Chuzzlewit!”, manifestando con ogni possibile gesto di gioia l’emozione che provava. Tuttavia, l’entusiasmo di questo vecchio aveva il pregio di essere condiviso con l’unica creatura a cui fosse legato da vincoli di lunga amicizia e dalla sua attuale condizione di impotenza. E se qualcuno fosse stato presente in quel momento, forse avrebbe potuto percepire, attraverso quei segni, alcune tracce di una natura più nobile, ancora dormiente, sebbene sommersa dalle tenebre della malinconia nel profondo dell’animo di Chuffey.

Nella situazione in cui si trovavano, nessuno pensò o disse nulla al riguardo; così Chuffey tornò ad appartarsi in un angolo buio, dal lato del camino, dove trascorreva sempre le serate, e non fu più visto né sentito quella notte; solo una volta gli fu portata una tazza di tè, e si vide che vi immergeva meccanicamente il pane. Non c’era motivo di pensare che andasse a dormire in quelle stagioni, né che sentisse, vedesse, percepisse o pensasse qualcosa. Rimase, in qualche modo, “congelato” – se si può usare questo termine per descrivere un processo così intensivo e irreversibile – fino a quando non fu nuovamente “sciolto”, per un momento, da una parola o da un tocco di Anthony.

La signorina Charity preparò il tè su desiderio del signor Jonas; sembrava davvero la padrona di casa, tanto che creò una situazione di grande imbarazzo, soprattutto perché il signor Jonas sedeva accanto a lei e le sussurrava parole piene di ammirazione all’orecchio. La signorina Mercy, invece, trovava che l’atmosfera della serata fosse esclusivamente loro; per questo rimpiangeva in silenzio quei gentiluomini, che a quel momento, senza dubbio, aspettavano con impazienza il suo ritorno, e si mise a sbadigliare leggendo il giornale di ieri. Quanto ad Anthony, andò direttamente a dormire; così Jonas e Cherry ebbero tutta la serata per loro, se lo desideravano.

Quando il vassoio da tè fu finalmente portato via, il signor Jonas tirò fuori un mazzo di carte sporche e intrattenne le sorelle con diversi piccoli esercizi di destrezza; lo scopo principale di ognuno di questi esercizi era quello di indurre qualcuno a scommettere che non sarebbero riuscite a compiere quelle azioni, per poi vincere immediatamente e intascare i suoi soldi. Il signor Jonas le informò che queste abilità erano molto in voga nei circoli intellettuali più raffinati, e che grandi somme di denaro venivano costantemente scambiate attraverso simili scommesse. Si può notare che credeva davvero in tutto ciò; esiste infatti una sorta di ingenuità astuta, non meno evidente dell’ingenuità vera e propria. E in tutte le questioni in cui era necessaria una fede cieca nella malvagità e nell’avidità altrui come fondamento delle proprie convinzioni, il signor Jonas era tra le persone più credulone che esistessero. La sua ignoranza, davvero stupefacente, può essere presa in considerazione separatamente, se il lettore lo desidera.

Questo giovane nobile aveva tutte le tendenze per diventare un dissipatore di prim’ordine; gli mancava soltanto quella qualità positiva che si trova comunemente tra i vizi dissoluti: la generosità. Perché così sarebbe diventato un vero vagabondo. Ma intervennero le sue abitudini meschine e avarose; e proprio come talvolta un veleno neutralizza un altro, quando rimedi salutari non bastano, anche lui fu trattenuto da una cattiva passione dal compiere tutti i suoi atti malvagi. Quando invece la virtù avrebbe potuto cercare invano di fermarlo.

By the time he had unfolded all the peddling schemes he knew upon the cards, it was growing late in the evening; and Mr Pecksniff not making his appearance, the young ladies expressed a wish to return home. But this, Mr Jonas, in his gallantry, would by no means allow, until they had partaken of some bread and cheese and porter; and even then he was excessively unwilling to allow them to depart; often beseeching Miss Charity to come a little closer, or to stop a little longer, and preferring many other complimentary petitions of that nature in his own hospitable and earnest way. When all his efforts to detain them were fruitless, he put on his hat and greatcoat preparatory to escorting them to Todgers’s; remarking that he knew they would rather walk thither than ride; and that for his part he was quite of their opinion.

‘Good night,’ said Anthony. ‘Good night; remember me to—ha, ha, ha!—to Pecksniff. Take care of your cousin, my dears; beware of Jonas; he’s a dangerous fellow. Don’t quarrel for him, in any case!’

‘Oh, the creature!’ cried Mercy. ‘The idea of quarrelling for HIM! You may take him, Cherry, my love, all to yourself. I make you a present of my share.’

‘What! I’m a sour grape, am I, cousin?’ said Jonas.

Miss Charity was more entertained by this repartee than one would have supposed likely, considering its advanced age and simple character. But in her sisterly affection she took Mr Jonas to task for leaning so very hard upon a broken reed, and said that he must not be so cruel to poor Merry any more, or she (Charity) would positively be obliged to hate him. Mercy, who really had her share of good humour, only retorted with a laugh; and they walked home in consequence without any angry passages of words upon the way. Mr Jonas being in the middle, and having a cousin on each arm, sometimes squeezed the wrong one; so tightly too, as to cause her not a little inconvenience; but as he talked to Charity in whispers the whole time, and paid her great attention, no doubt this was an accidental circumstance. When they arrived at Todgers’s, and the door was opened, Mercy broke hastily from them, and ran upstairs; but Charity and Jonas lingered on the steps talking together for more than five minutes; so, as Mrs Todgers observed next morning, to a third party, ‘It was pretty clear what was going on THERE, and she was glad of it, for it really was high time that Miss Pecksniff thought of settling.’

And now the day was coming on, when that bright vision which had burst on Todgers’s so suddenly, and made a sunshine in the shady breast of Jinkins, was to be seen no more; when it was to be packed, like a brown paper parcel, or a fish-basket, or an oyster barrel or a fat gentleman, or any other dull reality of life, in a stagecoach and carried down into the country.

‘Never, my dear Miss Pecksniffs,’ said Mrs Todgers, when they retired to rest on the last night of their stay, ‘never have I seen an establishment so perfectly broken-hearted as mine is at this present moment of time. I don’t believe the gentlemen will be the gentlemen they were, or anything like it—no, not for weeks to come. You have a great deal to answer for, both of you.’

They modestly disclaimed any wilful agency in this disastrous state of things, and regretted it very much.

‘Your pious pa, too,’ said Mrs Todgers. ‘There’s a loss! My dear Miss Pecksniffs, your pa is a perfect missionary of peace and love.’

Entertaining an uncertainty as to the particular kind of love supposed to be comprised in Mr Pecksniff’s mission, the young ladies received the compliment rather coldly.

‘If I dared,’ said Mrs Todgers, perceiving this, ‘to violate a confidence which has been reposed in me, and to tell you why I must beg of you to leave the little door between your room and mine open tonight, I think you would be interested. But I mustn’t do it, for I promised Mr Jinkins faithfully, that I would be as silent as the tomb.’

‘Dear Mrs Todgers! What can you mean?’

‘Why, then, my sweet Miss Pecksniffs,’ said the lady of the house; ‘my own loves, if you will allow me the privilege of taking that freedom on the eve of our separation, Mr Jinkins and the gentlemen have made up a little musical party among themselves, and DO intend, in the dead of this night, to perform a serenade upon the stairs outside the door. I could have wished, I own,’ said Mrs Todgers, with her usual foresight, ‘that it had been fixed to take place an hour or two earlier; because when gentlemen sit up late they drink, and when they drink they’re not so musical, perhaps, as when they don’t. But this is the arrangement; and I know you will be gratified, my dear Miss Pecksniffs, by such a mark of their attention.’

The young ladies were at first so much excited by the news, that they vowed they couldn’t think of going to bed until the serenade was over. But half an hour of cool waiting so altered their opinion that they not only went to bed, but fell asleep; and were, moreover, not ecstatically charmed to be awakened some time afterwards by certain dulcet strains breaking in upon the silent watches of the night.

It was very affecting—very. Nothing more dismal could have been desired by the most fastidious taste. The gentleman of a vocal turn was head mute, or chief mourner; Jinkins took the bass; and the rest took anything they could get. The youngest gentleman blew his melancholy into a flute. He didn’t blow much out of it, but that was all the better. If the two Miss Pecksniffs and Mrs Todgers had perished by spontaneous combustion, and the serenade had been in honour of their ashes, it would have been impossible to surpass the unutterable despair expressed in that one chorus, ‘Go where glory waits thee!’ It was a requiem, a dirge, a moan, a howl, a wail, a lament, an abstract of everything that is sorrowful and hideous in sound. The flute of the youngest gentleman was wild and fitful. It came and went in gusts, like the wind. For a long time together he seemed to have left off, and when it was quite settled by Mrs Todgers and the young ladies that, overcome by his feelings, he had retired in tears, he unexpectedly turned up again at the very top of the tune, gasping for breath. He was a tremendous performer. There was no knowing where to have him; and exactly when you thought he was doing nothing at all, then was he doing the very thing that ought to astonish you most.

Quando ebbe esposto tutte le sue strategie di vendita conosciute sulle carte, era ormai tardi nella serata; e poiché il signor Pecksniff non si faceva vedere, le giovani signore espressero il desiderio di tornare a casa. Ma il signor Jonas, per gentilezza, non volle assolutamente permetterlo, finché non avessero mangiato un po’ di pane, 形式formaggio]] e birra; e anche allora era estremamente riluttante ad lasciarle andare, pregando spesso la signorina Charity di avvicinarsi un po’ o di trattenersi ancora un momento, e proponendole altre molte cortesi richieste dello stesso genere, nel suo modo ospitale e sincero. Quando tutti i suoi tentativi per trattenerle risultarono vani, indossò cappello e cappotto, pronto ad accompagnarle fino a Todgers’s; osservando che sapeva bene che preferissero camminare piuttosto che andarci in carrozza. E che, per quanto lo riguardava, la pensava esattamente allo stesso modo.

“Buona notte”, disse Anthony. “Buona notte; ricordatevi di me, ahahah!, e dite a Pecksniff che mi saluti. Prendetevi cura della vostra cugina, mie care; fate attenzione a Jonas: è un tipo pericoloso. Comunque, non litigate per lui!”

“Oh, quella creatura, ” esclamò Mercy. “L’idea di litigare per LUI. Puoi prenderlo tu, Cherry, il mio amore; te lo regalo tutto.”

“Che cosa! Sono forse un tipo negativo, vero cugino?” disse Jonas.

La signorina Charity fu più divertita da questo scambio di battute di quanto ci si sarebbe aspettati, considerando la sua età avanzata e il suo carattere semplice. Ma, per affetto fraterno, rimproverò il signor Jonas per appoggiarsi troppo pesantemente a una canna rotta, dicendogli che non doveva più essere così crudele con povera Merry; altrimenti lei, la signorina Charity, sarebbe stata costretta ad odiarlo. La signorina Mercy, che aveva davvero un bel senso dell’umorismo, si limitò a ridere; e così tornarono a casa senza scambi di parole arrabbiate lungo la strada. Il signor Jonas, essendo in mezzo a loro e tenendo una cugina per braccio, a volte stringeva quella sbagliata, con tale forza da causare notevoli disagi; ma poiché parlava sottovoce solo con la signorina Charity e le prestava molta attenzione, non c’era dubbio che si trattasse di un errore casuale. Quando arrivarono a casa dei Todgers e la porta si aprì, la signorina Mercy si staccò rapidamente da loro e corse su per le scale; mentre la signorina Charity e il signor Jonas rimasero sulle scale a chiacchierare per più di cinque minuti. Così, come osservò la signora Todgers il giorno dopo, “Era abbastanza chiaro cosa stesse succedendo lì dentro. E lei ne era felice, perché ormai era davvero arrivato il momento che la signorina Pecksniff pensasse seriamente a sistemarsi.”

E ora stava arrivando il giorno in cui quella visione luminosa che era apparsa improvvisamente nella vita di Todgers, e aveva portato luce nel cuore cupo di Jinkins, sarebbe scomparsa per sempre; il giorno in cui sarebbe stata “impacchettata”, come un pacco avvolto in carta marrone, o una cesta da pesca, o un barile di ostriche, o un gentiluomo grasso, insomma, come qualsiasi altra noiosa realtà della vita, e trasportata via in una carrozza per essere portata in campagna.

“Mai, mia cara signorina Pecksniffs,” disse la signora Todgers quando si ritirarono per riposare nell’ultima notte della loro permanenza, “mai ho visto un’attività commerciale così completamente distrutta come la mia in questo momento. Non credo che quei gentiluomini siano ancora gli stessi di prima, no, per almeno alcune settimane. Voi due avete una grande responsabilità davanti a voi.”

Si scusarono umilmente di qualsiasi responsabilità volontaria in questa situazione disastrosa e ne rimasero molto rammaricati.

“Anche vostro devoto padre,” disse la signora Todgers. “Che perdita. Mia cara signorina Pecksniff, vostro padre è davvero un perfetto missionario della pace e dell’amore.”

Rimaste incerte riguardo al tipo specifico di amore che si supponeva fosse alla base della missione del signor Pecksniff, le giovani signore accettarono il complimento in modo piuttosto freddo.

“Se osassi,” disse la signora Todgers, accorgendosi di ciò, “violare una confidenza che mi è stata affidata e dirvi il motivo per cui devo chiedervi di lasciare aperta stasera la porticina tra la vostra stanza e la mia, credo che vi interesserebbe. Ma non posso farlo, perché ho promesso solennemente al signor Jinkins di mantenere il silenzio più assoluto.”

“Carissima signora Todgers! Cosa intende dire?”

“Dunque, mia cara signorina Pecksniffs,” disse la padrona di casa, “le mie stesse persone care, se mi permettete questa libertà alla vigilia della nostra separazione, il signor Jinkins e gli altri gentiluomini hanno organizzato una piccola serata musicale tra loro, e intendono davvero eseguire una serenata sulle scale, fuori dalla porta, a notte fonda. Avrei voluto, devo ammetterlo,” proseguì la signora Todgers con la sua solita previdenza, “che tutto fosse stato fissato un’ora o due prima, perché quando i gentiluomini stanno alzati fino a tardi, di solito bevono, e quando bevono, forse non sono così musicali come quando non bevono. Ma ormai l’accordo è fatto; so che vi farà piacere, mia cara signorina Pecksniffs, un simile segno della loro attenzione.”

All’inizio, le giovani signore erano così eccitate dalla notizia che giurarono di non voler andare a letto finché la serenata non fosse terminata. Ma mezz’ora di attesa tranquilla cambiò completamente il loro punto di vista: non solo andarono a letto, ma si addormentarono anche; inoltre, non furono affatto entusiaste quando, poco dopo, alcune melodie dolci interruppero il silenzio della notte.

Fu davvero commovente. Molto, molto. Non si poteva desiderare nulla di più deprimente, nemmeno per il gusto più raffinato. Il gentiluomo dotato di una voce melodiosa era in realtà muto, o meglio, il principale funebre; Jinkins suonava il basso, mentre gli altri si occupavano di qualsiasi parte musicale riuscissero a ricoprire. Il più giovane dei gentiluomini soffiava nella sua flauta, con scarso risultato, ma proprio per questo era ancora meglio. Se le due signorine Pecksniff e la signora Todgers fossero morte per combustione spontanea, e quella serenata fosse stata dedicata alle loro ceneri, sarebbe stato impossibile superare l’indicibile disperazione espressa in quel singolo coro: “Vai dove ti attende la gloria!” Era un requiem, una melodia funebre, un lamento, un urlo, un pianto, un riassunto di tutto ciò che è triste e orribile nel suono. La flauta del giovane gentiluomo era selvaggia e incostante; i suoni arrivavano a ondate, come il vento. Per molto tempo sembrò aver smesso di suonare. Ma quando la signora Todgers e le altre signorine pensarono che fosse andato via, sopraffatto dai suoi sentimenti, lui ricomparve improvvisamente, ansimando. Era davvero un eccezionale musicista. Non si sapeva mai dove sarebbe arrivato con la sua esibizione; e proprio quando sembrava non fare nulla, era lui a compiere quelle cose che avrebbero dovuto sorprenderti di più.

There were several of these concerted pieces; perhaps two or three too many, though that, as Mrs Todgers said, was a fault on the right side. But even then, even at that solemn moment, when the thrilling sounds may be presumed to have penetrated into the very depths of his nature, if he had any depths, Jinkins couldn’t leave the youngest gentleman alone. He asked him distinctly, before the second song began—as a personal favour too, mark the villain in that—not to play. Yes; he said so; not to play. The breathing of the youngest gentleman was heard through the key-hole of the door. He DIDN’T play. What vent was a flute for the passions swelling up within his breast? A trombone would have been a world too mild.

The serenade approached its close. Its crowning interest was at hand. The gentleman of a literary turn had written a song on the departure of the ladies, and adapted it to an old tune. They all joined, except the youngest gentleman in company, who, for the reasons aforesaid, maintained a fearful silence. The song (which was of a classical nature) invoked the oracle of Apollo, and demanded to know what would become of Todgers’s when CHARITY and MERCY were banished from its walls. The oracle delivered no opinion particularly worth remembering, according to the not infrequent practice of oracles from the earliest ages down to the present time. In the absence of enlightenment on that subject, the strain deserted it, and went on to show that the Miss Pecksniffs were nearly related to Rule Britannia, and that if Great Britain hadn’t been an island, there could have been no Miss Pecksniffs. And being now on a nautical tack, it closed with this verse:

‘All hail to the vessel of Pecksniff the sire! And favouring breezes to fan; While Tritons flock round it, and proudly admire The architect, artist, and man!’

As they presented this beautiful picture to the imagination, the gentlemen gradually withdrew to bed to give the music the effect of distance; and so it died away, and Todgers’s was left to its repose.

Mr Bailey reserved his vocal offering until the morning, when he put his head into the room as the young ladies were kneeling before their trunks, packing up, and treated them to an imitation of the voice of a young dog in trying circumstances; when that animal is supposed by persons of a lively fancy, to relieve his feelings by calling for pen and ink.

‘Well, young ladies,’ said the youth, ‘so you’re a-going home, are you, worse luck?’

‘Yes, Bailey, we’re going home,’ returned Mercy.

‘An’t you a-going to leave none of ‘em a lock of your hair?’ inquired the youth. ‘It’s real, an’t it?’

They laughed at this, and told him of course it was.

‘Oh, is it of course, though?’ said Bailey. ‘I know better than that. Hers an’t. Why, I see it hanging up once, on that nail by the winder. Besides, I have gone behind her at dinner-time and pulled it; and she never know’d. I say, young ladies, I’m a-going to leave. I an’t a-going to stand being called names by her, no longer.’

Miss Mercy inquired what his plans for the future might be; in reply to whom Mr Bailey intimated that he thought of going either into top-boots, or into the army.

‘Into the army!’ cried the young ladies, with a laugh.

‘Ah!’ said Bailey, ‘why not? There’s a many drummers in the Tower. I’m acquainted with ‘em. Don’t their country set a valley on ‘em, mind you! Not at all!’

‘You’ll be shot, I see,’ observed Mercy.

‘Well!’ cried Mr Bailey, ‘wot if I am? There’s something gamey in it, young ladies, an’t there? I’d sooner be hit with a cannon-ball than a rolling-pin, and she’s always a-catching up something of that sort, and throwing it at me, when the gentlemans’ appetites is good. Wot,’ said Mr Bailey, stung by the recollection of his wrongs, ‘wot, if they DO consume the per-vishuns. It an’t MY fault, is it?’

‘Surely no one says it is,’ said Mercy.

‘Don’t they though?’ retorted the youth. ‘No. Yes. Ah! oh! No one mayn’t say it is! but some one knows it is. But I an’t a-going to have every rise in prices wisited on me. I an’t a-going to be killed because the markets is dear. I won’t stop. And therefore,’ added Mr Bailey, relenting into a smile, ‘wotever you mean to give me, you’d better give me all at once, becos if ever you come back agin, I shan’t be here; and as to the other boy, HE won’t deserve nothing, I know.’

The young ladies, on behalf of Mr Pecksniff and themselves, acted on this thoughtful advice; and in consideration of their private friendship, presented Mr Bailey with a gratuity so liberal that he could hardly do enough to show his gratitude; which found but an imperfect vent, during the remainder of the day, in divers secret slaps upon his pocket, and other such facetious pantomime. Nor was it confined to these ebullitions; for besides crushing a bandbox, with a bonnet in it, he seriously damaged Mr Pecksniff’s luggage, by ardently hauling it down from the top of the house; and in short evinced, by every means in his power, a lively sense of the favours he had received from that gentleman and his family.

Mr Pecksniff and Mr Jinkins came home to dinner arm-in-arm; for the latter gentleman had made half-holiday on purpose; thus gaining an immense advantage over the youngest gentleman and the rest, whose time, as it perversely chanced, was all bespoke, until the evening. The bottle of wine was Mr Pecksniff’s treat, and they were very sociable indeed; though full of lamentations on the necessity of parting. While they were in the midst of their enjoyment, old Anthony and his son were announced; much to the surprise of Mr Pecksniff, and greatly to the discomfiture of Jinkins.

‘Come to say good-bye, you see,’ said Anthony, in a low voice, to Mr Pecksniff, as they took their seats apart at the table, while the rest conversed among themselves. ‘Where’s the use of a division between you and me? We are the two halves of a pair of scissors, when apart, Pecksniff; but together we are something. Eh?’

C’erano diversi di questi brani eseguiti in modo coordinato; forse due o tre erano persino troppi, anche se, come disse la signora Todgers, questo rappresentava un “difetto”, da considerarsi positivo. Ma anche allora, anche in quel momento solenne, quando si poteva presumere che quei suoni emozionanti avessero penetrato nelle profondità della sua natura (se mai ne possedesse), Jinkins non riuscì a lasciare il giovane gentiluomo da solo. Gli chiese esplicitamente, prima che iniziasse la seconda canzone – anche come un favore personale, badate bene, – di non suonare. Sì; glielo disse proprio: di non suonare. Si poteva sentire il respiro del giovane gentiluomo attraverso lo spiraglio della porta. LUI NON SUONÒ. A che serviva una flauta per le passioni che si gonfiavano nel suo petto? Anche un trombone sarebbe stato troppo mite.

La serenata stava per concludersi; il momento più emozionante era ormai vicino. Un gentiluomo di inclinazioni letterarie aveva scritto una -canzone sull’addio delle signore, adattandola a un vecchio motivo musicale. Tutti parteciparono alla cantata, tranne il più giovane dei presenti, che, per i motivi già menzionati, mantenne un silenzio assoluto. La -canzone (di carattere classico) invocava l’oracolo di Apollo e chiedeva quale sarebbe stato il destino di Todgers quando CARITÀ e MERCI fossero state bandite dalle sue mura. L’oracolo non fornì alcuna risposta particolarmente memorabile, secondo l’usanza comune degli oracoli fin dai tempi antichi fino ai giorni nostri. In assenza di chiarimenti su questo argomento, la canzone proseguì esponendo come le signorine Pecksniff fossero quasi imparentate con “Rule Britannia”, e che se la Gran Bretagna non fosse stata un’isola, non ci sarebbero state mai state le signorine Pecksniff. Concludendosi su toni marittimi, la canzone terminava con questo verso:

“Evviva alla nave di Pecksniff il signore! E alle brezze favorevoli che la soffiano; Mentre i tritoni le girano intorno, ammirandola con orgoglio, L’architetto, l’artista, e l’uomo!”

Mentre presentavano questa bellissima immagine all’immaginazione dei presenti, quei gentiluomini si ritirarono gradualmente a letto per permettere alla musica di acquistare un effetto di distanza; così essa si spense lentamente, lasciando “Todgers” nel suo silenzio e nella sua tranquillità.

Il signor Bailey riservò la sua esibizione vocale per la mattina seguente: quando le giovani signore erano inginocchiate davanti ai loro bauli, impegnate a fare i bagagli, lui entrò nella stanza e le deliziò con un’imitazione della voce di un cucciolo in situazioni difficili; secondo alcune persone dal temperamento fantasioso, infatti, è proprio in tali momenti che i cani chiedono penna e inchiostro per esprimere i loro sentimenti.

“Beh, signorine,” disse il giovane, “quindi state per tornare a casa, vero? Che sfortuna, ”

“Sì, Bailey, stiamo andando a casa”, rispose Mercy.

“Non lascierai nemmeno un ciuffo dei tuoi capelli per loro?”, chiese il giovane. “È vero, vero?”

Risero di questo e gli dissero che ovviamente era così.

“Oh, certo che lo è, ”, disse Bailey. “Lo so meglio di così: non è suo. Guardate, l’ho visto appeso una volta, su quel chiodo vicino al raccoglitore delle lettere. Inoltre, durante la cena sono andato dietro di lei e l’ho tirato via; lei non se n’è mai accorta. Dico io, signorine. Me ne vado. Non intendo più sopportare che mi chiami nomi brutti.”

La signorina Mercy chiese quali potessero essere i suoi piani per il futuro; in risposta, il signor Bailey indicò che stava pensando di intraprendere una carriera nell’esercito o di dedicarsi al mestiere dei calzolai.

“Nell’esercito!”, gridarono le giovani donne, ridendo.

“Ah!” disse Bailey, “Perché no? Ci sono molti suonatori di tamburo nella Torre. Li conosco bene. E non è che il loro paese li tratti male, per caso! Assolutamente no!”

“Verrai ucciso, a quanto pare,” osservò Mercy.

“Beh!”, esclamò il signor Bailey, “e se lo facessi davvero? C’è qualcosa di, audace in tutto questo, signorine, non è vero? Preferirei essere colpito da una palla di cannone piuttosto che da uno di quegli strumenti per impastare. E lei, sempre pronta a trovare cose del genere e a lanciarle contro di me, quando gli uomini hanno appetiti. Beh”, aggiunse il signor Bailey, ferito dal ricordo delle ingiustizie subite, “e se davvero le mangiassero? Non è colpa mia, vero?”

“Di certo nessuno lo dice,” disse Mercy.

“Ma non dovrebbero forse farlo?”, ribatté il giovane. “No. Sì. Ah! Oh! Nessuno può impedire che si dica, ma qualcuno sa che è vero. Ma io non intendo subire tutte queste aumentazioni dei prezzi. Non permetterò che mi uccidano solo perché i mercati sono costosi. Non smetterò. E quindi”, aggiunse il signor Bailey, arrendendosi con un sorriso, “qualsiasi cosa tu voglia darmi, è meglio che me la dia subito. Perché se mai tornerai di nuovo, io non sarò più qui; e per quanto riguarda l’altro ragazzo. LUI sicuramente non meriterà nulla, lo so.”

Le giovani signore, per conto del signor Pecksniff e anche per proprio interesse, seguirono questo consiglio premuroso; e, considerando la loro amicizia personale, offrirono al signor Bailey una gratitudine così generosa che lui faticò a trovare modi sufficienti per esprimerla; ciò si manifestò, nel corso della giornata, attraverso diversi scherzi e gesti ironici. Gli scherzi non si limitarono a questo: oltre ad aver distrutto una scatola contenente un cappello, causò anche gravi danni al bagaglio del signor Pecksniff, trascinandolo con forza giù dal tetto della casa; in breve, utilizzò ogni mezzo a sua disposizione per dimostrare quanto fosse grato per le gentilezze ricevute da quel signore e dalla sua famiglia.

Il signor Pecksniff e il signor Jinkins tornarono a casa per cena tenendosi sottobraccio; infatti il secondo aveva appositamente preso un giorno di riposo, ottenendo così un enorme vantaggio rispetto al giovane signore e agli altri, i cui impegni, per una strana coincidenza, erano tutti fissati fino alla sera. La bottiglia di vino fu offerta dal signor Pecksniff, e la serata trascorse davvero in modo molto piacevole; nonostante ciò, i due continuavano a lamentarsi della necessità di separarsi. Mentre si stavano godendo il loro tempo insieme, fu annunciato l’arrivo del vecchio Anthony e di suo figlio, con grande sorpresa del signor Pecksniff e notevole imbarazzo per Jinkins.

“Per dirsi addio, capisci,” disse Anthony a bassa voce al signor Pecksniff, mentre si sedevano ai lati opposti del tavolo, mentre gli altri continuavano a chiacchierare tra loro. “A che serve questa separazione tra te e me? Siamo le due metà di un paio di forbici: separate, siamo nulla; insieme, invece, possiamo fare qualcosa. Eh?”

‘Unanimity, my good sir,’ rejoined Mr Pecksniff, ‘is always delightful.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said the old man, ‘for there are some people I would rather differ from than agree with. But you know my opinion of you.’

Mr Pecksniff, still having ‘hypocrite’ in his mind, only replied by a motion of his head, which was something between an affirmative bow, and a negative shake.

‘Complimentary,’ said Anthony. ‘Complimentary, upon my word. It was an involuntary tribute to your abilities, even at the time; and it was not a time to suggest compliments either. But we agreed in the coach, you know, that we quite understood each other.’

‘Oh, quite!’ assented Mr Pecksniff, in a manner which implied that he himself was misunderstood most cruelly, but would not complain.

Anthony glanced at his son as he sat beside Miss Charity, and then at Mr Pecksniff, and then at his son again, very many times. It happened that Mr Pecksniff’s glances took a similar direction; but when he became aware of it, he first cast down his eyes, and then closed them; as if he were determined that the old man should read nothing there.

‘Jonas is a shrewd lad,’ said the old man.

‘He appears,’ rejoined Mr Pecksniff in his most candid manner, ‘to be very shrewd.’

‘And careful,’ said the old man.

‘And careful, I have no doubt,’ returned Mr Pecksniff.

‘Look ye!’ said Anthony in his ear. ‘I think he is sweet upon you daughter.’

‘Tut, my good sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with his eyes still closed; ‘young people—young people—a kind of cousins, too—no more sweetness than is in that, sir.’

‘Why, there is very little sweetness in that, according to our experience,’ returned Anthony. ‘Isn’t there a trifle more here?’

‘Impossible to say,’ rejoined Mr Pecksniff. ‘Quite impossible! You surprise me.’

‘Yes, I know that,’ said the old man, drily. ‘It may last; I mean the sweetness, not the surprise; and it may die off. Supposing it should last, perhaps (you having feathered your nest pretty well, and I having done the same), we might have a mutual interest in the matter.’

Mr Pecksniff, smiling gently, was about to speak, but Anthony stopped him.

‘I know what you are going to say. It’s quite unnecessary. You have never thought of this for a moment; and in a point so nearly affecting the happiness of your dear child, you couldn’t, as a tender father, express an opinion; and so forth. Yes, quite right. And like you! But it seems to me, my dear Pecksniff,’ added Anthony, laying his hand upon his sleeve, ‘that if you and I kept up the joke of pretending not to see this, one of us might possibly be placed in a position of disadvantage; and as I am very unwilling to be that party myself, you will excuse my taking the liberty of putting the matter beyond a doubt thus early; and having it distinctly understood, as it is now, that we do see it, and do know it. Thank you for your attention. We are now upon an equal footing; which is agreeable to us both, I am sure.’

He rose as he spoke; and giving Mr Pecksniff a nod of intelligence, moved away from him to where the young people were sitting; leaving that good man somewhat puzzled and discomfited by such very plain dealing, and not quite free from a sense of having been foiled in the exercise of his familiar weapons.

But the night-coach had a punctual character, and it was time to join it at the office; which was so near at hand that they had already sent their luggage and arranged to walk. Thither the whole party repaired, therefore, after no more delay than sufficed for the equipment of the Miss Pecksniffs and Mrs Todgers. They found the coach already at its starting-place, and the horses in; there, too, were a large majority of the commercial gentlemen, including the youngest, who was visibly agitated, and in a state of deep mental dejection.

Nothing could equal the distress of Mrs Todgers in parting from the young ladies, except the strong emotions with which she bade adieu to Mr Pecksniff. Never surely was a pocket-handkerchief taken in and out of a flat reticule so often as Mrs Todgers’s was, as she stood upon the pavement by the coach-door supported on either side by a commercial gentleman; and by the sight of the coach-lamps caught such brief snatches and glimpses of the good man’s face, as the constant interposition of Mr Jinkins allowed. For Jinkins, to the last the youngest gentleman’s rock a-head in life, stood upon the coachstep talking to the ladies. Upon the other step was Mr Jonas, who maintained that position in right of his cousinship; whereas the youngest gentleman, who had been first upon the ground, was deep in the booking-office among the black and red placards, and the portraits of fast coaches, where he was ignominiously harassed by porters, and had to contend and strive perpetually with heavy baggage. This false position, combined with his nervous excitement, brought about the very consummation and catastrophe of his miseries; for when in the moment of parting he aimed a flower, a hothouse flower that had cost money, at the fair hand of Mercy, it reached, instead, the coachman on the box, who thanked him kindly, and stuck it in his buttonhole.

They were off now; and Todgers’s was alone again. The two young ladies, leaning back in their separate corners, resigned themselves to their own regretful thoughts. But Mr Pecksniff, dismissing all ephemeral considerations of social pleasure and enjoyment, concentrated his meditations on the one great virtuous purpose before him, of casting out that ingrate and deceiver, whose presence yet troubled his domestic hearth, and was a sacrilege upon the altars of his household gods.

“L’unanimità, mio caro signore”, ribatté il signor Pecksniff, “è sempre deliziosa.”

“Non ne sono sicuro,” disse l’uomo anziano, “perché ci sono alcune persone con cui preferirei dissentire piuttosto che essere d’accordo. Ma tu conosci il mio parere su di te.”

Il signor Pecksniff, ancora con la parola “ipocrita” in mente, rispose soltanto con un movimento della testa: qualcosa a metà tra un inchino affermativo e un scuotimento negativo.

“Gratis,” disse Anthony. “Assolutamente gratis, te lo giuro. È stato un tributo involontario alle tue capacità, anche a quel tempo; e non era certo il momento adatto per fare complimenti. Ma in carrozza abbiamo concordato, sai, che ci capivamo perfettamente a vicenda.”

“Ah, davvero!” convenne il signor Pecksniff, con un tono che lasciava intendere che anche lui fosse spesso frainteso in modo crudele, ma che non avrebbe mai fatto lamentele.

Anthony guardò suo figlio mentre questi sedeva accanto a Miss Charity, poi guardò il signor Pecksniff, e infine di nuovo suo figlio, molte volte. Si verificò che anche lo sguardo del signor Pecksniff fosse diretto nella stessa direzione; ma quando se ne rese conto, prima abbassò gli occhi e poi li chiuse, come se volesse assicurarsi che quell’uomo anziano non potesse leggere nulla nel suo sguardo.

“Jonas è un ragazzo astuto,” disse l’uomo anziano.

“Sembra davvero molto astuto”, riprese il signor Pecksniff con la sua massima sincerità.

“E fai attenzione,” disse l’uomo anziano.

“E stai attento, non ho alcun >dubbio,” rispose il signor Pecksniff.

“Guarda!” sussurrò Anthony all’orecchio della figlia. “Penso che lui abbia un debole per te, ”

“Ah, mio buon signore,” disse il signor Pecksniff, con gli occhi ancora chiusi;
“i giovani, i giovani, una sorta di cugini anche. Non c’è dolcezza maggiore di questa, signore.”

“Beh, secondo la nostra esperienza, c’è molto poco di dolce in quello,” rispose Anthony. “Non ci dovrebbe essere qualcosa in più?”

“Impossibile dirlo,” ribatté il signor Pecksniff. “Assolutamente impossibile! Mi sorprendete.”

“Sì, lo so,” disse l’uomo anziano in tono secco. “Può durare; intendo dire la dolcezza, non la sorpresa. E può anche svanire. Se dovesse durare, forse (visto che tu hai sistemato bene le tue cose e anch’io ho fatto lo stesso), potremmo avere un interesse reciproco in questa faccenda.”

Il signor Pecksniff, sorridendo dolcemente, stava per parlare, ma Anthony lo fermò.

“So cosa stai per dire. È del tutto inutile. Non ci hai mai pensato nemmeno per un momento; e in una questione che riguarda così da vicino la felicità della tua cara figlia, non avresti potuto, come padre premuroso, esprimere alcuna opinione. Sì, proprio così. E tu pure! Ma a me sembra, mio caro Pecksniff,” aggiunse Anthony mettendogli una mano sulla manica, “che se continueremo a fingere di non vedere questa situazione, uno di noi potrebbe finire in una posizione svantaggiosa. E poiché io stesso non desidero affatto trovarmi in quella situazione, perdonami se mi permetto di chiarire la questione sin da ora; e che sia ben inteso che noi la vediamo chiaramente, e che ne siamo consapevoli. Grazie per la tua attenzione. Ora siamo sullo stesso piano, il che, ne sono sicuro, è gradito a entrambi.”

Mentre parlava, lui sorrise; poi, dando al signor Pecksniff un cenno d’intesa, si allontanò da lui e andò dove sedevano i giovani, lasciando quell’uomo gentile piuttosto perplesso e imbarazzato da tale comportamento così diretto. E non poté fare a meno di sentirsi come se avesse fallito nell’utilizzare le sue abituali strategie.

Ma il treno notturno era puntuale, ed era arrivato il momento di imbarcarsi presso l’ufficio; esso si trovava così vicino che avevano già inviato i loro bagagli e deciso di recarvisi a piedi. L’intero gruppo si diresse quindi verso quel luogo, senza ulteriori ritardi, sufficienti soltanto per permettere alle signorine Pecksniff e alla signora Todgers di prepararsi. Trovarono il treno già pronto al punto di partenza, con i cavalli attaccati; lì c’era anche la maggior parte dei gentiluomini d’affari, compreso il più giovane, che appariva chiaramente agitato e in uno stato di profonda depressione.

Niente poteva eguagliare il dolore di Mrs Todgers nel separarsi dalle giovani signore, tranne le forti emozioni con cui salutò Mr Pecksniff. Certamente mai un fazzoletto da tasca fu estratto e riposto così spesso come quello di Mrs Todgers, mentre lei stava sul marciapiede accanto alla porta della carrozza, sostenuta su entrambi i lati da due gentiluomini d’affari; e attraverso il bagliore delle lanterne della carrozza, si potevano intravedere brevi frammenti del volto di quel buon uomo, grazie alla continua interferenza di Mr Jinkins. Infatti, Jinkins, fino all’ultimo momento l’aiutante più fidato del giovane gentiluomo, stava sul gradino della carrozza a parlare con le signore; sul gradino accanto c’era Mr Jonas, che occupava quella posizione in virtù del loro legame di parentela; mentre il giovane gentiluomo stesso, che era stato il primo ad arrivare lì, si trovava nel ufficio di biglietteria, tra cartelli neri e rossi e ritratti di carrozze veloci, dove veniva costantemente importunato dai portatori e dove doveva lottare continuamente con bagagli pesanti. Questa falsa posizione, unita alla sua nervosa eccitazione, portò al culmine dei suoi mali: nel momento della partenza, mentre cercava di lanciare un fiore – un fiore costoso acquistato appositamente – verso la bella mano di Mercy, esso finì invece nelle mani del cocchiere, che lo ringraziò cordialmente e se lo infilò nel bottone della giacca.

Ora se n’erano andati; e la casa di Todgers era di nuovo sola. Le due giovani signore, appoggiate contro i rispettivi angoli della stanza, si abbandonarono ai propri pensieri malinconici. Ma il signor Pecksniff, ignorando ogni considerazione effimera legata al piacere e al divertimento sociale, concentrò tutte le sue riflessioni su un unico scopo nobile: scacciare quell’ingrato e ingannatore la cui presenza turbava ancora il suo focolare domestico e rappresentava un sacrilegio agli altari degli dei della sua famiglia.

CHAPTER TWELVE

WILL BE SEEN IN THE LONG RUN, IF NOT IN THE SHORT ONE, TO CONCERN MR PINCH AND OTHERS, NEARLY. MR PECKSNIFF ASSERTS THE DIGNITY OF OUTRAGED VIRTUE. YOUNG MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT FORMS A DESPERATE RESOLUTION

Mr Pinch and Martin, little dreaming of the stormy weather that impended, made themselves very comfortable in the Pecksniffian halls, and improved their friendship daily. Martin’s facility, both of invention and execution, being remarkable, the grammar-school proceeded with great vigour; and Tom repeatedly declared, that if there were anything like certainty in human affairs, or impartiality in human judges, a design so new and full of merit could not fail to carry off the first prize when the time of competition arrived. Without being quite so sanguine himself, Martin had his hopeful anticipations too; and they served to make him brisk and eager at his task.

‘If I should turn out a great architect, Tom,’ said the new pupil one day, as he stood at a little distance from his drawing, and eyed it with much complacency, ‘I’ll tell you what should be one of the things I’d build.’

‘Aye!’ cried Tom. ‘What?’

‘Why, your fortune.’

‘No!’ said Tom Pinch, quite as much delighted as if the thing were done. ‘Would you though? How kind of you to say so.’

‘I’d build it up, Tom,’ returned Martin, ‘on such a strong foundation, that it should last your life—aye, and your children’s lives too, and their children’s after them. I’d be your patron, Tom. I’d take you under my protection. Let me see the man who should give the cold shoulder to anybody I chose to protect and patronise, if I were at the top of the tree, Tom!’

‘Now, I don’t think,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘upon my word, that I was ever more gratified than by this. I really don’t.’

‘Oh! I mean what I say,’ retorted Martin, with a manner as free and easy in its condescension to, not to say in its compassion for, the other, as if he were already First Architect in ordinary to all the Crowned Heads in Europe. ‘I’d do it. I’d provide for you.’

‘I am afraid,’ said Tom, shaking his head, ‘that I should be a mighty awkward person to provide for.’

‘Pooh, pooh!’ rejoined Martin. ‘Never mind that. If I took it in my head to say, “Pinch is a clever fellow; I approve of Pinch;” I should like to know the man who would venture to put himself in opposition to me. Besides, confound it, Tom, you could be useful to me in a hundred ways.’

‘If I were not useful in one or two, it shouldn’t be for want of trying,’ said Tom.

‘For instance,’ pursued Martin, after a short reflection, ‘you’d be a capital fellow, now, to see that my ideas were properly carried out; and to overlook the works in their progress before they were sufficiently advanced to be very interesting to ME; and to take all that sort of plain sailing. Then you’d be a splendid fellow to show people over my studio, and to talk about Art to ‘em, when I couldn’t be bored myself, and all that kind of thing. For it would be devilish creditable, Tom (I’m quite in earnest, I give you my word), to have a man of your information about one, instead of some ordinary blockhead. Oh, I’d take care of you. You’d be useful, rely upon it!’

To say that Tom had no idea of playing first fiddle in any social orchestra, but was always quite satisfied to be set down for the hundred and fiftieth violin in the band, or thereabouts, is to express his modesty in very inadequate terms. He was much delighted, therefore, by these observations.

‘I should be married to her then, Tom, of course,’ said Martin.

What was that which checked Tom Pinch so suddenly, in the high flow of his gladness; bringing the blood into his honest cheeks, and a remorseful feeling to his honest heart, as if he were unworthy of his friend’s regard?

‘I should be married to her then,’ said Martin, looking with a smile towards the light; ‘and we should have, I hope, children about us. They’d be very fond of you, Tom.’

But not a word said Mr Pinch. The words he would have uttered died upon his lips, and found a life more spiritual in self-denying thoughts.

‘All the children hereabouts are fond of you, Tom, and mine would be, of course,’ pursued Martin. ‘Perhaps I might name one of ‘em after you. Tom, eh? Well, I don’t know. Tom’s not a bad name. Thomas Pinch Chuzzlewit. T. P. C. on his pinafores—no objection to that, I should say?’

Tom cleared his throat, and smiled.

‘SHE would like you, Tom, I know,’ said Martin.

‘Aye!’ cried Tom Pinch, faintly.

‘I can tell exactly what she would think of you,’ said Martin leaning his chin upon his hand, and looking through the window-glass as if he read there what he said; ‘I know her so well. She would smile, Tom, often at first when you spoke to her, or when she looked at you—merrily too—but you wouldn’t mind that. A brighter smile you never saw.’

‘No, no,’ said Tom. ‘I wouldn’t mind that.’

‘She would be as tender with you, Tom,’ said Martin, ‘as if you were a child yourself. So you are almost, in some things, an’t you, Tom?’

Mr Pinch nodded his entire assent.

‘She would always be kind and good-humoured, and glad to see you,’ said Martin; ‘and when she found out exactly what sort of fellow you were (which she’d do very soon), she would pretend to give you little commissions to execute, and to ask little services of you, which she knew you were burning to render; so that when she really pleased you most, she would try to make you think you most pleased her. She would take to you uncommonly, Tom; and would understand you far more delicately than I ever shall; and would often say, I know, that you were a harmless, gentle, well-intentioned, good fellow.’

How silent Tom Pinch was!

‘In honour of old time,’ said Martin, ‘and of her having heard you play the organ in this damp little church down here—for nothing too—we will have one in the house. I shall build an architectural music-room on a plan of my own, and it’ll look rather knowing in a recess at one end. There you shall play away, Tom, till you tire yourself; and, as you like to do so in the dark, it shall BE dark; and many’s the summer evening she and I will sit and listen to you, Tom; be sure of that!’

Capitolo Dodici

Si vedrà nel lungo periodo, se non nel breve, ciò che accadrà a Mr Pinch e ad altri. Mr Pecksniff sostiene la dignità della virtù offesa. Il giovane Martin Chuzzlewit prende una risoluzione disperata.

Il signor Pinch e Martin, ignari del tempo tempestoso che stava per arrivare, si sistemarono molto comodamente nelle sale di Pecksniff e il loro amicizia migliorò giorno dopo giorno. Data l’eccezionale abilità di Martin sia nell’invenzione che nell’esecuzione, gli studi procedettero con grande slancio; e Tom dichiarava ripetutamente che, se nelle faccende umane esistesse anche solo una minima certezza o imparzialità nei giudici, un progetto così innovativo e meritevole non avrebbe potuto che vincere il primo premio al momento della competizione. Anche se Martin stesso non era del tutto ottimista, aveva comunque delle speranze; queste lo rendevano più motivato e diligente nel suo lavoro.

“Se dovesse mai diventare un grande architetto, Tom,” disse un giorno il nuovo studente, mentre stava a una certa distanza dal proprio disegno e lo osservava con grande soddisfazione, “ti dirò cosa sarebbe una delle cose che costruirei.”

“Ah sì!” esclamò Tom. “Cosa?”

“Ma è la tua fortuna, ”

“No!”, disse Tom Pinch, felice proprio come se la cosa fosse già stata fatta.
“Davvero lo vorresti? Che gentile da parte tua dirlo.”

“Lo costruirei su basi così solide, Tom,” rispose Martin, “che potesse durare per tutta la tua vita, sì, e anche per quelle dei tuoi figli, e dei loro figli dopo di loro. Sarei il tuo protettore, Tom. Ti metterei sotto la mia protezione. Dimmi chi mai oserebbe ignorare qualcuno che io abbia scelto di proteggere e sostenere, anche se fossi in cima all’albero, Tom!”

“Ora, non credo,” disse il signor Pinch, “dico sul serio, che io sia mai stato più soddisfatto di così. Davvero no.”

“Oh! Intendo davvero quello che dico,” ribatté Martin, con un tono così disinvolto e condiscendente – per non dire pieno di compassione – nei confronti dell’altro, come se fosse già il principale architetto di tutti i sovrani europei. “Lo farei io. Mi occuperei io di te.”

“Temo,” disse Tom scuotendo la testa, “di essere una persona davvero imbarazzante da mantenere.”

“Puf, puf!”, ribatté Martin. “Lascia perdere. Se mai mi venisse in mente di dire: ‘Pinch è un tipo intelligente; lo approvo’. Vorrei proprio sapere chi oserebbe mettersi contro di me. Inoltre, perbacco, Tom, potresti essermi utile in mille modi.”

“Se non fossi utile in uno o due ambiti, non sarebbe certo per mancanza di tentativi,” disse Tom.

“Ad esempio,” proseguì Martin dopo una breve riflessione, “saresti davvero un ottimo ragazzo se riuscissi a vedere che le mie idee vengono attuate correttamente; se ignorassi i lavori in corso prima che siano abbastanza avanzati da diventare davvero interessanti PER ME; e se ti occupassi tu di tutto questo. Saresti anche un ottimo compagno per mostrare alle persone il mio studio e parlare d’arte con loro, quando IO stesso non mi annoierei. Insomma, sarebbe davvero molto lusinghiero, Tom (parlo sul serio, te lo giuro), avere una persona con le tue conoscenze al mio fianco, invece di qualche idiota qualunque. Oh, mi prenderò cura di te. Saresti davvero utile, credimi!”

Dire che Tom non aveva la minima idea di poter suonare il primo violino in qualsiasi orchestra sociale, ma che si accontentava sempre di essere assegnato al centocinquantesimo violino della banda, o giù di lì, è un modo assolutamente inadeguato per esprimere la sua umiltà. Pertanto, fu molto felice di queste osservazioni.

“Allora dovrei sposarla, ovviamente, Tom,” disse Martin.

Cosa fu che fermò così improvvisamente Tom Pinch nel bel mezzo della sua gioia; cosa che fece arrossire le sue guance oneste e suscitò in lui un senso di rimorso, come se non fosse degno dell’affetto del suo amico?

“Allora dovrei sposarla,” disse Martin, sorridendo mentre guardava verso la luce; “e spero che avremmo dei bambini intorno a noi. A loro piaceresti molto, Tom.”

Ma il signor Pinch non disse una parola. Le parole che avrebbe potuto pronunciare rimasero sulle sue labbra e trovarono una vita più “spirituale” nelle riflessioni di auto-sacrificio.

“Tutti i bambini in queste vicinanze ti vogliono bene, Tom, e anche i miei, naturalmente,” continuò Martin. “Forse potrei chiamare uno di loro come te. Tom, eh? Beh, non so. Tom non è certo un nome brutto. Thomas Pinch Chuzzlewit. T. P. C. sui suoi grembiuli. Non ci sarebbe nulla in contrario, direi, ”

Tom si schiarì la gola e sorrise.

“Le piaci tu, Tom, lo so,” disse Martin.

“Sì!”, esclamò debolmente Tom Pinch.

“Posso dire esattamente cosa penserebbe di te,” disse Martin appoggiando il mento sulla mano e guardando attraverso il vetro della finestra, come se vi leggesse ciò che stava dicendo; “la conosco troppo bene. All’inizio, spesso, quando le parlavi o quando ti guardava, lei sorrideva, anche in modo allegramente. Ma a te non dispiacerebbe, vero? Un sorriso ancora più luminoso di qualsiasi altro tu abbia mai visto.”

“No, no,” disse Tom. “Non mi dispiacerebbe affatto.”

“Con te sarebbe altrettanto dolce, Tom,” disse Martin, “come se tu fossi un >bambino. In qualche modo lo sei davvero, no?”

Il signor Pinch annuì vigorosamente in segno di assenso.

“Era sempre gentile e di buon umore, felice di vederti,” disse Martin; “e quando avesse scoperto esattamente che tipo di persona fossi (cosa che avrebbe fatto molto presto), avrebbe finto di affidarti piccole commissioni da svolgere e di chiederti piccoli favori, che sapeva tu eri più che disposto ad accontentare; in questo modo, quando voleva davvero farti felice, cercava di farti credere che fossi tu a renderla felice. Ti avrebbe voluto molto bene, Tom; ti avrebbe capito in modi molto più delicati di quanto io possa mai fare; e spesso diceva: ‘So che sei una persona innocua, gentile, dalle migliori intenzioni’.”

Quanto era silenzioso Tom Pinch.

“Per onorare i tempi antichi,” disse Martin, “e perché lei ha sentito suonare l’organo in questa piccola chiesa umida, senza alcun compenso, ne avremo uno in casa. Costruirò una sala da musica progettata apposta per questo scopo; avrà un angolo appartato all’estremità. Lì potrai suonare quanto vorrai, Tom, e poiché ti piace farlo al buio, ci sarà buio. Molte sere d’estate, tu ed io ci sedremo ad ascoltarti, Tom, puoi starne certo!”

It may have required a stronger effort on Tom Pinch’s part to leave the seat on which he sat, and shake his friend by both hands, with nothing but serenity and grateful feeling painted on his face; it may have required a stronger effort to perform this simple act with a pure heart, than to achieve many and many a deed to which the doubtful trumpet blown by Fame has lustily resounded. Doubtful, because from its long hovering over scenes of violence, the smoke and steam of death have clogged the keys of that brave instrument; and it is not always that its notes are either true or tuneful.

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

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

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

‘YOU know. What is it? Northkey.’

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

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

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

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

‘No,’ said Tom; ‘not all.’

‘What’s the rest?’ asked Martin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forse avrebbe richiesto uno sforzo maggiore da parte di Tom Pinch per alzarsi dal posto in cui sedeva e stringere la mano a suo amico, con solo serenità e gratitudine sul viso; forse avrebbe richiesto uno sforzo ancora maggiore per compiere questo semplice atto con un cuore puro, piuttosto che realizzare molte altre imprese di cui la fama, con il suo suono ambiguo, ha tanto parlato. Ambiguo, perché a lungo sovrapposta a scene di violenza, la “fumata” e il “vapore” della morte hanno intasato le “tastiere” di quell’“strumento coraggioso”; e non sempre le sue note risultano vere o armoniose.

“È una prova della bontà della natura umana,” disse Tom, mettendosi caratteristicamente da parte in questa questione, “il fatto che chiunque venga qui, come hai fatto tu, sia più premuroso e affettuoso con me di quanto avrei il diritto di sperare, se fossi la creatura più ottimista del mondo; o di poter esprimere, se fossi il più eloquente. Davvero mi commuove profondamente. Ma credimi,” aggiunse Tom, “non sono ingrato. Non lo dimentico mai. E se un giorno riuscirò a dimostrarti la veridicità delle mie parole, lo farò.”

“Va bene così,” osservò Martin, appoggiandosi allo schienale della sedia con le mani in tasca e sbadigliando noiosamente. “Parole molto belle, Tom, ma io sono a Pecksniff’s, ricordo bene, e forse a un miglio di distanza dalla strada che porta al successo, proprio in questo momento. Quindi stamattina hai sentito di nuovo parlare di quel tizio, eh?”

“Chi può essere?” chiese Tom, come se volesse sollevare una leggera obiezione a nome della dignità di quella persona assente.

“Lo sai. Che cos’è? Northkey.”

“Westlock,” riprese Tom, con un tono piuttosto più alto del solito.

“Ah! Certo,” disse Martin, “Westlock. Sapevo che doveva esserci un legame tra una direzione della bussola e una porta. Beh. E cosa dice Westlock?”

“Oh! Ha raggiunto la sua proprietà,” rispose Tom, annuendo con la testa e sorridendo.

“È un cane fortunato,” disse Martin. “Vorrei che fosse mio al posto suo. È tutto qui il mistero che volevi raccontarmi?”

“No,” disse Tom; “non tutti.”

“Cosa c’è ancora?” chiese Martin.

“Per quanto riguarda questo,” disse Tom, “non è certo un mistero, e probabilmente non ci penserete molto; ma per me è davvero piacevole. John, quando era qui, diceva sempre: ‘Ascolta bene, Pinch. Quando gli esecutori di mio padre incasseranno i soldi’, ” A volte usava espressioni strane, ma era il suo modo di parlare.”

“‘Cash-up’ è un’espressione molto appropriata,” osservò Martin, “purché non venga usata contro di te. Beh! Che lento sei davvero, Pinch, ”

“Sì, lo so,” disse Tom; “ma mi metti a disagio se me lo dici così. Temo che tu mi abbia un po’ confuso ora, perché non ricordo più cosa volevo dire.”

“Quando gli esecutori del padre di John incassarono i soldi,” disse Martin con impazienza.

“Oh sì, certamente,” esclamò Tom; “sì. ‘Allora,’ disse John, ‘ti offrirò una cena, Pinch, e verrò appositamente a Salisbury.’ Beh, quando John ha scritto l’altro giorno, quella mattina in cui Pecksniff se n’è andato, sai, ha detto che la sua questione stava per essere risolta immediatamente, e poiché avrebbe ricevuto i suoi soldi direttamente, quando avrei potuto incontrarlo a Salisbury? Ho scritto dicendo che poteva essere qualsiasi giorno di questa settimana; e gli ho anche detto che qui c’era un nuovo studente, e quanto tu fossi una brava persona, e quali amici fossimo diventati. E così John mi ha risposto con questa lettera, ” Tom la tirò fuori, “propone di incontrarci domani; ti manda i suoi saluti; e chiede che noi tre abbiamo il piacere di pranzare insieme, non nella casa dove tu ed io eravamo, ma nel primo hotel della città. Leggi cosa dice.”

“Molto bene,” disse Martin, dando un’occhiata al documento con la sua solita freddezza; “Gli sono molto grato. Sono d’accordo.”

Tom avrebbe voluto che fosse un po’ più sorpreso, un po’ più felice, o in qualche modo un po’ più interessato a un evento del genere. Ma era perfettamente padrone di sé; e, ricorrendo al suo solito modo di consolarsi facendo il fischio, riprese a studiare la grammatica come se nulla fosse accaduto.

Il cavallo di Mr Pecksniff, essendo considerato un animale sacro, poteva essere guidato soltanto da lui stesso, il sommo sacerdote di quel tempio, o da qualcuno specificamente nominato per quell’incarico in quel momento da lui stesso. I due giovani decisero quindi di recarsi a Salisbury a piedi; dopotutto, era un modo di viaggiare migliore rispetto all’utilizzo della carrozza, visto che il tempo era molto freddo e secco.

Molto meglio! Una passeggiata rara, vigorosa e salutare – quattro miglia all’ora – è di gran lunga preferibile a quella vecchia, orribile carrozza che sobbalza, scuote e fa rumore in modo continuo. Le due cose non possono nemmeno essere paragonate: metterle una accanto all’altra sarebbe un insulto alla stessa nozione di passeggiata. Dove esiste un esempio in cui una carrozza abbia mai fatto circolare il sangue di una persona, se non quando, mettendola in pericolo di morte, suscitava nelle sue vene e nei suoi orecchi, lungo tutta la spina dorsale, una sensazione di calore formicolante, molto particolare, ma certamente poco piacevole? E quando mai una carrozza ha potuto affilare l’intelligenza e le energie di qualcuno, se non quando il cavallo scattava in avanti e, precipitando follemente giù per una ripida collina con un muro di pietra sul fondo, la situazione disperata induceva l’unico gentiluomo rimasto a bordo a inventare qualche modo stravagante per “uscire” dalla carrozza? Molto meglio della carrozza, decisamente!

L’aria era fredda, Tom; lo era davvero, non si poteva negarlo. Ma sarebbe stata più mite dentro quella carrozza? Il fuoco del fabbro ardeva molto intensamente, salendo alto verso il cielo, come se volesse riscaldare le persone. Ma sarebbe stato meno tentatore, visto da dentro quei cuscini umidi e appiccicosi della carrozza? Il vento soffiava forte, gelando i lineamenti di chi si sforzava di procedere; accecandolo con i propri capelli se ne aveva abbastanza. E sollevando nuvole di polvere invernale se non ne aveva. Fermando il respiro, come se fosse stato immerso in un bagno freddo. Strappando via i propri indumenti. E sibilando nelle ossa stesse. Ma tutto questo sarebbe stato cento volte più violento per chi si trovava dentro quella carrozza, non è vero? Che schifo quelle carrozze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘No!’ said Tom Pinch. ‘Have you?’

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

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

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

Migliore di quella vettura a ruote! Quando mai si sono visti viaggiatori su ruote o zoccoli con guance così rosee? Quando mai sono stati così di buon umore e allegramente vestiti? Quando mai il loro riso ha risuonato nell’aria mentre giravano intorno, soprattutto quando arrivavano raffiche più forti. E poi, voltandosi di nuovo mentre proseguivano il loro cammino, avanzavano con un tale splendore di salute rossastra che nulla poteva eguagliarlo, tranne lo spirito elevato che quella condizione generava. Migliore di quella vettura a ruote! Ecco, adesso arriva anche un uomo su una vettura simile. Guardatelo mentre passa: mette il frustino nella mano sinistra, si strofina le dita destre intorpidite sulla gamba di granito e batte quelle punte dei piedi contro il pavimento della vettura. Ahahah! Chi mai scambierebbe questa velocità con cui scorre il sangue in quella condizione stagnante e miserabile, anche se la velocità di quest’ultima fosse venti volte superiore?

Migliore di qualsiasi lavoro regolare! Nessuno che faccia un lavoro fisico potrebbe mostrare un tale interesse per i “punti salienti” del proprio percorso. Nessuno che faccia un lavoro fisico potrebbe vedere, sentire o pensare come coloro che utilizzano liberamente le proprie gambe. Guarda: mentre il vento soffia su queste colline ventose, lascia dietro di sé increspature scure sull’erba e ombre lisce sulle colline. Guarda intorno in questa pianura desolata. Anche in una giornata d’inverno, le ombre sono così belle! Ahimè. È proprio nella natura di queste cose essere così. Le cose più belle della vita, Tom, non sono altro che ombre. Arrivano e se ne vanno, cambiano e svaniscono, proprio come queste ombre.

Un’altra miglia ancora, e poi inizia una pioggia di .neve, che trasforma il corvo, che vola così basso sopra il terreno per sfuggire al vento, in un semplice punto nero sul paesaggio. Ma anche se la neve li colpisce mentre camminano, indurendo i loro vestiti e congelando le loro ciglia, non vorrebbero che ne cadesse nemmeno una singola fiocca. Anche se dovessero percorrere ancora venti miglia! E ecco: le torri dell’antica .cattedrale si ergono davanti a loro; poco dopo entrano nelle strade riparate, silenziose sotto quel tappeto bianco. Arrivano quindi all’ostello verso cui sono diretti; presentano ai camerieri i loro volti arrossati e pieni di energia. I camerieri, non avendo nulla con cui contrastare quell’“attacco” (essendo appena usciti dal caldo ambiente della sala da caffè), rimangono completamente sbalorditi.

Un famoso ostello! Il salone era pieno di carcasse di animali morti e articolazioni di carne d’agnello appese; in un angolo c’era una dispensa lussuosa, con porte di vetro che mostravano polli freddi, pezzi di carne pregiati e torte, dentro le quali la marmellata di lamponi si ritraeva timidamente, come fosse davvero una creatura preziosa, dietro una rete di pasta frolla. E guardate: al primo piano, all’estremità posteriore della casa, in una stanza con tutte le tende delle finestre chiuse, un fuoco ardeva fino a metà camino; piatti riscaldati davanti al fuoco, candele di cera che brillavano ovunque, e un tavolo imbandito per tre persone, con argenteria e stoviglie sufficienti per trenta persone. John Westlock: non il vecchio John di Pecksniff, ma un vero gentiluomo, che sembrava molto più importante, consapevole di essere padrone di sé stesso e di avere del denaro in banca. Eppure, in alcuni aspetti, era ancora quel vecchio John: non appena Tom Pinch apparve, lo afferrò per entrambe le mani e lo abbracciò calorosamente, nella sua cordiale accoglienza.

“E questo,” disse John, “è il signor Chuzzlewit. Sono molto felice di vederlo!” John aveva un modo disinvolto e naturale nel parlare; così si strinsero la mano calorosamente e divennero amici in un attimo.

“Aspetta un attimo, Tom,” gridò l’ex alunno, mettendo una mano su ciascuna spalla del signor Pinch e tenendolo a distanza di braccio. “Lasciami guardarti. Proprio lo stesso! Non sei cambiato affatto!”

“Beh, non è passato poi così tanto tempo, sai,” disse Tom Pinch, “dopo tutto.”

“Mi sembra un’eternità,” gridò John, “e dovrebbe sembrarlo anche a te, maledetto cane.” Poi spinse Tom nella sedia più comoda, gli diede una pacca sulla schiena con tanta affetto, proprio come faceva il vecchio John nella loro vecchia camera da letto a Pecksniff’s. Era così difficile decidere se dovesse ridere o piangere. Alla fine vinse la risata; e tutti e tre risero insieme.

“Ho ordinato tutto per la cena, quella che di solito mangiavamo insieme, Tom,” osservò John Westlock.

“No!” disse Tom Pinch. “L’hai davvero preso?”

“Tutto. Per favore, non ridete davanti ai camerieri. Io stesso non riuscivo a trattenere la risata quando l’ho ordinato. È come un sogno.”

John si sbagliava: nessuno avrebbe mai potuto immaginare una zuppa del genere servita subito dopo; né un pesce del genere; né contorni del genere; né piatti di carne e dolci del genere. In breve, nulla che si avvicinasse anche solo alla realtà di quel pasto, che costava dieci scellini a testa, senza contare i vini. Per quanto riguarda loro, chi riesce a sognare champagne ghiacciato, claretto, porto o sherry del genere, farebbe meglio ad andare a letto e basta.

Ma forse la caratteristica più straordinaria di quel banchetto era che nessuno era affatto più sorpreso da tutto ciò di quanto lo fosse John stesso, il quale, nella sua grande gioia, scoppiava continuamente in risate, per poi cercare di apparire estremamente serio, nel timore che i camerieri potessero pensare che non fosse abituato a simili cose. Alcuni degli oggetti che gli venivano portati per essere tagliati erano davvero scherzi così esagerati da essere insopportabili; e quando Tom Pinch, nonostante i consigli rispettosi di un cameriere, insistette nel rompere il guscio esterno di una torta con un cucchiaio e nel mangiarla subito dopo, John perse completamente la dignità e, seduto dietro quel bellissimo copritavola all’estremità del tavolo, rideva così forte che si poteva sentirlo anche in cucina. Non aveva affatto problemi a ridere di se stesso, come dimostrò quando tutti e tre si riunirono intorno al focolare con il dolce già pronto sul tavolo; in quel momento il capocameriere chiese con rispetto se quel vino rosso, essendo leggero e dal colore dorato, fosse di suo gusto, o se preferisse provare un vino più corposo e fruttato. A questa domanda John rispose seriamente che era molto soddisfatto di quello che aveva, che considerava, per così dire, una bottiglia davvero ottima; il cameriere gli ringraziò e si ritirò. Poi John disse ai suoi amici, con un gran sorriso, che probabilmente tutto andava bene, ma non ne era sicuro; e scoppiò in una risata ancora più fragorosa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John Westlock shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

John Westlock smiled, but made no answer.

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

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

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

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

‘Oh! well! Then I know what course they take beforehand,’ said Martin; ‘and, therefore, you can have no delicacy in speaking plainly. Don’t mind me, I beg. I don’t like him I tell you frankly. I am with him because it happens from particular circumstances to suit my convenience. I have some ability, I believe, in that way; and the obligation, if any, will most likely be on his side and not mine. At the lowest mark, the balance will be even, and there’ll be no obligation at all. So you may talk to me, as if I had no connection with him.’

‘If you press me to give my opinion—’ returned John Westlock.

‘Yes, I do,’ said Martin. ‘You’ll oblige me.’

‘—I should say,’ resumed the other, ‘that he is the most consummate scoundrel on the face of the earth.’

‘Oh!’ said Martin, as coolly as ever. ‘That’s rather strong.’

‘Not stronger than he deserves,’ said John; ‘and if he called upon me to express my opinion of him to his face, I would do so in the very same terms, without the least qualification. His treatment of Pinch is in itself enough to justify them; but when I look back upon the five years I passed in that house, and remember the hyprocrisy, the knavery, the meannesses, the false pretences, the lip service of that fellow, and his trading in saintly semblances for the very worst realities; when I remember how often I was the witness of all this and how often I was made a kind of party to it, by the fact of being there, with him for my teacher; I swear to you that I almost despise myself.’

Martin drained his glass, and looked at the fire.

‘I don’t mean to say that is a right feeling,’ pursued John Westlock ‘because it was no fault of mine; and I can quite understand—you for instance, fully appreciating him, and yet being forced by circumstances to remain there. I tell you simply what my feeling is; and even now, when, as you say, it’s all over; and when I have the satisfaction of knowing that he always hated me, and we always quarrelled, and I always told him my mind; even now, I feel sorry that I didn’t yield to an impulse I often had, as a boy, of running away from him and going abroad.’

‘Why abroad?’ asked Martin, turning his eyes upon the speaker.

‘In search,’ replied John Westlock, shrugging his shoulders, ‘of the livelihood I couldn’t have earned at home. There would have been something spirited in that. But, come! Fill your glass, and let us forget him.’

‘As soon as you please,’ said Martin. ‘In reference to myself and my connection with him, I have only to repeat what I said before. I have taken my own way with him so far, and shall continue to do so, even more than ever; for the fact is, to tell you the truth, that I believe he looks to me to supply his defects, and couldn’t afford to lose me. I had a notion of that in first going there. Your health!’

‘Thank you,’ returned young Westlock. ‘Yours. And may the new pupil turn out as well as you can desire!’

‘What new pupil?’

‘The fortunate youth, born under an auspicious star,’ returned John Westlock, laughing; ‘whose parents, or guardians, are destined to be hooked by the advertisement. What! Don’t you know that he has advertised again?’

Erano molto felici e divertiti per tutto il tempo, ma la parte più piacevole della festa fu quando i tre si sedettero intorno al >foco, rompendo noci, bevendo vino e chiacchierando allegramente. Accadde che Tom Pinch avesse qualcosa da dire al suo amico, l’assistente dell’organista, quindi lasciò per qualche minuto il suo angolo caldo, per non fare tardi; lasciando così gli altri due giovani da soli.

Naturalmente, nel suo assenza brindarono alla sua salute; e John Westlock approfittò dell’occasione per dire che non aveva mai pronunciato una parola cattiva su Tom durante tutto il periodo in cui avevano vissuto nella casa di Mr Pecksniff. Ciò lo spinse naturalmente a parlare del carattere di Tom, e a suggerire che Mr Pecksniff lo comprendesse abbastanza bene. Lo fece solo in modo velato, sapendo che a Tom Pinch dispiaceva molto quando quel signore lo diffamava, e pensando che fosse meglio lasciare che il nuovo allievo scoprisse da solo la verità.

“Sì,” disse Martin. “È impossibile amare Pinch più di quanto io lo faccia, o rendere giustizia alle sue buone qualità in modo migliore. È l’uomo più disponibile che abbia mai incontrato.”

“È davvero troppo disponibile,” osservò John, che era molto attento ai dettagli. “È proprio un difetto in lui.”

“Lo so,” disse Martin. “Assolutamente vero. C’era un tizio, solo una settimana fa, un certo signor Tigg, che prese in prestito tutto il denaro che aveva, promettendo di restituirlo in pochi giorni. Era soltanto mezzo sovrano, sicuramente; ma beh, ormai non lo rivedrà mai più.”

“Povero ragazzo!”, disse John, che aveva prestato molta attenzione a queste poche parole. “Forse non hai avuto l’opportunità di notare che, nelle sue stesse transazioni finanziarie, Tom è molto orgoglioso.”

“Non dici mica. No, non l’ha fatto. Cosa intendi? Non prenderà in prestito?”

John Westlock scosse la testa.

“È molto strano,” disse Martin, posando il suo bicchiere vuoto. “Senza dubbio, è una persona davvero particolare.”

“Per quanto riguarda l’accettare denaro come regalo”, riprese John Westlock, “penso che morirebbe prima lui”.

“È fatto di semplicità,” disse Martin. “Prendi pure quanto vuoi.”

“Tu, invece,” continuò John, riempiendo il proprio bicchiere e guardando il suo compagno con una certa curiosità, “che sei più anziano della maggior parte degli assistenti di Mr Pecksniff e che ovviamente hai molta più esperienza, lo capisci bene, ne sono certo. E vedi quindi quanto sia facile che venga sfruttato.”

“Certo,” disse Martin, allungando le gambe e tenendo il vino tra l’occhio e la luce. “Anche il signor Pecksniff lo sa. Lo sanno anche sue figlie. Eh?”

John Westlock sorrise, ma non rispose nulla.

“Arrivederci,” disse Martin, “questo mi ricorda. Che ne pensi di Pecksniff? Come ti ha sfruttato? Cosa ne pensi ora di lui?. In modo oggettivo, sai, quando tutto è finito.”

“Chiedete a Pinch,” rispose l’ex allievo. “Lui sa quali erano i miei sentimenti su questo argomento. Vi assicuro che non sono cambiati.”

“No, no,” disse Martin, “preferirei riceverle da te.”

“Ma Pinch dice che sono ingiusti,” insistette John sorridendo.

“Oh! Bene! Allora so già quale strada prenderanno in anticipo,” disse Martin;
“e quindi non c’è motivo di essere delicati nel parlare apertamente. Non badate a me, vi prego. Onestamente, non mi piace; sono con lui solo perché le circostanze particolari lo rendono conveniente per me. Credo di avere qualche capacità in questo campo. E, se mai ci fosse un obbligo, molto probabilmente spetterebbe a lui, non a me. Nel peggiore dei casi, le cose sarebbero in equilibrio, e non ci sarebbe alcun obbligo. Quindi potete parlarmi come se non avessi alcuna connessione con lui.”

“Se mi costringete a dare il mio parere, ” rispose John Westlock.

“Sì, lo farò,” disse Martin. “Mi renderete questo favore.”

“–Dovrei dire,” continuò l’altro, “che è il più completo farabutto che esista sulla faccia della terra.”

“Ah!” disse Martin, con la solita calma. “È davvero forte.”

“Non più forte di quanto meriti,” disse John; “e se mi chiedesse di esprimere la mia opinione su di lui in faccia a lui, lo farei esattamente con le stesse parole, senza alcuna riserva. Il modo in cui ha trattato Pinch è già di per sé sufficiente a giustificare tutto ciò; ma quando ripenso ai cinque anni trascorsi in quella >casa, e ricordo l’ipocrisia, la malvagità, le meschinerie, le false pretese di quell’uomo, e il modo in cui utilizzava un aspetto apparentemente pio per nascondere le cose più orribili; quando ricordo quante volte sono stato testimone di tutto questo, e quanto spesso ne sono diventato anche complice, trovandomi lì con lui come mio insegnante. Vi giuro che quasi mi disprezzo.”

Martin svuotò il suo bicchiere e guardò il fuoco.

“Non intendo dire che si tratti di un sentimento giusto,” proseguì John Westlock, “perché non è stata colpa mia; e posso ben capire, tu, ad esempio, lo apprezzi molto, eppure le circostanze ti costringono a rimanere lì. Ti dico semplicemente quale sia il mio sentimento; e anche ora, quando, come dici tu, tutto è finito; e quando sono soddisfatto di sapere che lui mi ha sempre odiato, che abbiamo sempre litigato, e che io gli ho sempre detto ciò che pensavo, anche ora, mi dispiace di non aver ceduto a quell’impulso che spesso avevo da ragazzo: quello di scappare da lui e andarmene all’estero.”

“Perché all’estero?”, chiese Martin, rivolgendo lo sguardo verso chi parlava.

“Cerco,” rispose John Westlock, scrollando le spalle, “un modo di guadagnarmi da vivere che non avrei potuto trovare a >casa. Lì ci sarebbe stata una sorta di, spirito. Ma suvvia! Riempite i vostri bicchieri e dimentichiamolo.”

“Quando vuoi tu,” disse Martin. “Per quanto riguarda me e il mio rapporto con lui, devo solo ripetere ciò che ho detto prima: finora ho agito secondo le mie decisioni al suo fianco, e continuerò a farlo ancora di più; perché, a dire la verità, credo che si affidi a me per compensare le sue mancanze, e non potrebbe permettersi di perdermi. Me ne ero fatto un’idea fin dall’inizio quando sono andato lì. Salute!”

“Grazie,” rispose il giovane Westlock. “A voi. E che il nuovo allievo si riveli davvero così buono quanto potreste desiderare!”

“Che nuovo studente?”

“Quel giovane fortunato, nato sotto una stella propizia,” disse ridendo John Westlock, “il cui padre o tutore è destinato ad essere attratto da quell’annuncio. Ma che cosa! Non sapete che ha pubblicizzato di nuovo?”

‘No.’

‘Oh, yes. I read it just before dinner in the old newspaper. I know it to be his; having some reason to remember the style. Hush! Here’s Pinch. Strange, is it not, that the more he likes Pecksniff (if he can like him better than he does), the greater reason one has to like HIM? Not a word more, or we shall spoil his whole enjoyment.’

Tom entered as the words were spoken, with a radiant smile upon his face; and rubbing his hands, more from a sense of delight than because he was cold (for he had been running fast), sat down in his warm corner again, and was as happy as only Tom Pinch could be. There is no other simile that will express his state of mind.

‘And so,’ he said, when he had gazed at his friend for some time in silent pleasure, ‘so you really are a gentleman at last, John. Well, to be sure!’

‘Trying to be, Tom; trying to be,’ he rejoined good-humouredly. ‘There is no saying what I may turn out, in time.’

‘I suppose you wouldn’t carry your own box to the mail now?’ said Tom Pinch, smiling; ‘although you lost it altogether by not taking it.’

‘Wouldn’t I?’ retorted John. ‘That’s all you know about it, Pinch. It must be a very heavy box that I wouldn’t carry to get away from Pecksniff’s, Tom.’

‘There!’ cried Pinch, turning to Martin, ‘I told you so. The great fault in his character is his injustice to Pecksniff. You mustn’t mind a word he says on that subject. His prejudice is most extraordinary.’

‘The absence of anything like prejudice on Tom’s part, you know,’ said John Westlock, laughing heartily, as he laid his hand on Mr Pinch’s shoulder, ‘is perfectly wonderful. If one man ever had a profound knowledge of another, and saw him in a true light, and in his own proper colours, Tom has that knowledge of Mr Pecksniff.’

‘Why, of course I have,’ cried Tom. ‘That’s exactly what I have so often said to you. If you knew him as well as I do—John, I’d give almost any money to bring that about—you’d admire, respect, and reverence him. You couldn’t help it. Oh, how you wounded his feelings when you went away!’

‘If I had known whereabout his feelings lay,’ retorted young Westlock, ‘I’d have done my best, Tom, with that end in view, you may depend upon it. But as I couldn’t wound him in what he has not, and in what he knows nothing of, except in his ability to probe them to the quick in other people, I am afraid I can lay no claim to your compliment.’

Mr Pinch, being unwilling to protract a discussion which might possibly corrupt Martin, forbore to say anything in reply to this speech; but John Westlock, whom nothing short of an iron gag would have silenced when Mr Pecksniff’s merits were once in question, continued notwithstanding.

‘HIS feelings! Oh, he’s a tender-hearted man. HIS feelings! Oh, he’s a considerate, conscientious, self-examining, moral vagabond, he is! HIS feelings! Oh!—what’s the matter, Tom?’

Mr Pinch was by this time erect upon the hearth-rug, buttoning his coat with great energy.

‘I can’t bear it,’ said Tom, shaking his head. ‘No. I really cannot. You must excuse me, John. I have a great esteem and friendship for you; I love you very much; and have been perfectly charmed and overjoyed to-day, to find you just the same as ever; but I cannot listen to this.’

‘Why, it’s my old way, Tom; and you say yourself that you are glad to find me unchanged.’

‘Not in this respect,’ said Tom Pinch. ‘You must excuse me, John. I cannot, really; I will not. It’s very wrong; you should be more guarded in your expressions. It was bad enough when you and I used to be alone together, but under existing circumstances, I can’t endure it, really. No. I cannot, indeed.’

‘You are quite right!’ exclaimed the other, exchanging looks with Martin. ‘and I am quite wrong, Tom, I don’t know how the deuce we fell on this unlucky theme. I beg your pardon with all my heart.’

‘You have a free and manly temper, I know,’ said Pinch; ‘and therefore, your being so ungenerous in this one solitary instance, only grieves me the more. It’s not my pardon you have to ask, John. You have done ME nothing but kindnesses.’

‘Well! Pecksniff’s pardon then,’ said young Westlock. ‘Anything Tom, or anybody. Pecksniff’s pardon—will that do? Here! let us drink Pecksniff’s health!’

‘Thank you,’ cried Tom, shaking hands with him eagerly, and filling a bumper. ‘Thank you; I’ll drink it with all my heart, John. Mr Pecksniff’s health, and prosperity to him!’

John Westlock echoed the sentiment, or nearly so; for he drank Mr Pecksniff’s health, and Something to him—but what, was not quite audible. The general unanimity being then completely restored, they drew their chairs closer round the fire, and conversed in perfect harmony and enjoyment until bed-time.

No slight circumstance, perhaps, could have better illustrated the difference of character between John Westlock and Martin Chuzzlewit, than the manner in which each of the young men contemplated Tom Pinch, after the little rupture just described. There was a certain amount of jocularity in the looks of both, no doubt, but there all resemblance ceased. The old pupil could not do enough to show Tom how cordially he felt towards him, and his friendly regard seemed of a graver and more thoughtful kind than before. The new one, on the other hand, had no impulse but to laugh at the recollection of Tom’s extreme absurdity; and mingled with his amusement there was something slighting and contemptuous, indicative, as it appeared, of his opinion that Mr Pinch was much too far gone in simplicity to be admitted as the friend, on serious and equal terms, of any rational man.

John Westlock, who did nothing by halves, if he could help it, had provided beds for his two guests in the hotel; and after a very happy evening, they retired. Mr Pinch was sitting on the side of his bed with his cravat and shoes off, ruminating on the manifold good qualities of his old friend, when he was interrupted by a knock at his chamber door, and the voice of John himself.

‘No.’

‘Oh, sì. L’ho letto poco prima di cena nel vecchio giornale. So che è suo; ho qualche motivo per ricordarmi dello stile in cui è scritto. Zitta! Ecco Pinch. Strano, non è vero? Più a lui piace Pecksniff (se mai riesce ad apprezzarlo di più di quanto lo faccia già), maggiori sono i motivi per apprezzARE ANCH’IO LUI. Niente altro da dire, altrimenti rovineremmo tutto il suo divertimento.’

Tom entrò mentre quelle parole venivano pronunciate, con un sorriso radioso sul viso; si strofinò le mani, più per gioia che perché avesse freddo (poiché aveva corso velocemente), e si sedette di nuovo nel suo angolo caldo, felice come solo Tom Pinch poteva essere. Non esiste alcun altro modo per descrivere il suo stato d’animo.

“E così,” disse, dopo aver fissato il suo amico per un po’ in silenziosa soddisfazione, “quindi finalmente sei diventato un vero gentiluomo, John. Beh, sicuramente sì!”

“Cerco di essere così, Tom. Cerco di esserlo,” rispose lui con buon umore. “Chi sa cosa diventerò, col passare del tempo, ”

“Immagino che ora non porteresti nemmeno tu stesso la tua scatola alla posta, vero?” disse Tom Pinch sorridendo; “anche se l’hai persa del tutto per non averla presa con te.”

“Non lo farei forse?”, ribatté John. “È tutto quello che sai al riguardo, Pinch. Deve essere una scatola molto pesante; non la porterei via certo per sfuggire a Pecksniff, Tom.”

“Eccola!” esclamò Pinch, rivolgendosi a Martin, “Te l’avevo detto. Il grande difetto del suo carattere è la sua ingiustizia verso Pecksniff. Non devi dare importanza a una parola che dice sull’argomento. Il suo pregiudizio è davvero straordinario.”

“L’assenza, da parte di Tom, di qualsiasi tipo di pregiudizio, sai,” disse John Westlock ridendo di cuore, mentre posava una mano sulla spalla del signor Pinch, “è davvero meravigliosa. Se mai un uomo ha avuto una profonda conoscenza di un altro e lo ha visto per quello che realmente è, nei suoi veri colori, allora Tom possiede proprio questa conoscenza riguardo al signor Pecksniff.”

“Perché, certo che ce l’ho,” esclamò Tom. “È proprio quello che ti ho detto molte volte. Se lo conoscessi come me. John, darei quasi qualsiasi cosa per far sì che accadesse. Lo ammireresti, lo rispetteresti e lo venereresti. Non potresti fare altrimenti. Oh, quanto hai ferito i suoi sentimenti quando te ne sei andato!”

“Se avessi saputo quali fossero i suoi veri sentimenti,” ribatté il giovane Westlock, “avrei fatto del mio meglio, Tom, te lo assicuro. Ma poiché non potevo ferirlo in ciò che non possiede e di cui non sa nulla, tranne nella sua capacità di esplorare a fondo i sentimenti altrui, temo di non meritare davvero il tuo complimento.”

Il signor Pinch, non volendo prolungare una discussione che avrebbe potuto corrompere Martin, si astenne dal dire qualsiasi cosa in risposta a quel discorso; ma John Westlock, il quale solo una morsa di ferro avrebbe potuto zittire non appena i meriti del signor Pecksniff fossero stati messi in discussione, continuò comunque.

“I suoi sentimenti. Oh, è un uomo dal cuore tenero. I suoi sentimenti. Oh, è davvero una persona premurosa, coscienziosa, che si esamina costantemente e ha principi morali. I suoi sentimenti. Oh! – Che c’è, Tom?”

A quell’ora, il signor Pinch era in piedi sul tappeto del camino, abbottonandosi il cappotto con grande impegno.

“Non ce la faccio più,” disse Tom scuotendo la testa. “No, davvero non posso. Devi scusarmi, John. Ho un grande rispetto e una profonda amicizia per te; ti amo molto. E oggi sono stato davvero felice e commosso nel scoprire che sei esattamente lo stesso di sempre. Ma non riesco ad ascoltare queste cose.”

“Ma è il mio vecchio modo di fare, Tom. E tu stesso dici che ti fa piacere trovarmi immutato.”

“Non in questo senso,” disse Tom Pinch. “Devi scusarmi, John. Non posso davvero; non lo farò. È molto sbagliato; dovresti essere più cauto nelle tue espressioni. Era già abbastanza grave quando eravamo soltanto noi due, ma nelle circostanze attuali, semplicemente non riesco a sopportarlo. No, davvero non posso.”

“Hai perfettamente ragione!”, esclamò l’altro, scambiando sguardi con Martin. “E io ho completamente torto, Tom. Non so proprio come diavolo siamo finiti su questo argomento sfortunato. Ti chiedo scusa con tutto il cuore.”

“So che hai un carattere libero e nobile,” disse Pinch; “perciò il fatto che tu sia così ingiusto in questa singola occasione mi addolora ancora di più. Non è il tuo perdono che devi chiedermi, John. Tu non mi hai mai fatto altro che del bene.”

‘Beh! Allora chiedo scusa a Pecksniff,’ disse il giovane Westlock. ‘Qualsiasi cosa, Tom, o chiunque altro. Chiedo scusa a Pecksniff, va bene così? Ecco! Brindiamo alla salute di Pecksniff!’

“Grazie,” esclamò Tom, stringendogli la mano con entusiasmo e riempiendo un bicchiere. “Grazie; lo berò con tutto il cuore, John. Alla salute e al successo del signor Pecksniff!”

John Westlock condivise lo stesso sentimento, o quasi; infatti brindò alla salute del signor Pecksniff e disse anche qualcos’altro, ma cosa esattamente, non fu del tutto udibile. Una volta ristabilita l’unanimità generale, si avvicinarono tutti alle sedie intorno al focolare e continuarono a conversare in perfetta armonia e piacere fino all’ora di andare a letto.

Nessuna circostanza, forse, avrebbe potuto illustrare meglio la differenza di carattere tra John Westlock e Martin Chuzzlewit del modo in cui ciascuno dei due giovani considerava Tom Pinch dopo la piccola disputa appena descritta. Nell’atteggiamento di entrambi c’era una certa dose di scherzo, senza dubbio, ma da lì in poi ogni somiglianza finiva. L’ex allievo non faceva nulla per non mostrare a Tom quanto fosse sinceramente affezionato a lui, e il suo sguardo amichevole sembrava essere più profondo e riflessivo di prima. Dall’altro lato, il nuovo arrivato non provava altro che deridere al ricordo dell’estrema assurdità di Tom; nel suo divertimento c’era qualcosa di sprezzante e disprezzativo, che sembrava indicare la sua opinione secondo cui Mr Pinch fosse troppo sempliciotto per poter essere considerato un amico a tutti gli effetti di una persona razionale.

John Westlock, che non faceva mai le cose a metà se poteva evitarlo, aveva procurato letti per i suoi due ospiti in hotel; dopo una serata molto piacevole, andarono a dormire. Il signor Pinch era seduto sul bordo del suo letto, senza cravatta né scarpe, riflettendo sulle molteplici qualità del suo vecchio amico, quando fu interrotto da un bussare alla porta della sua stanza, e dalla voce stessa di John.

‘You’re not asleep yet, are you, Tom?’

‘Bless you, no! not I. I was thinking of you,’ replied Tom, opening the door. ‘Come in.’

‘I am not going to detail you,’ said John; ‘but I have forgotten all the evening a little commission I took upon myself; and I am afraid I may forget it again, if I fail to discharge it at once. You know a Mr Tigg, Tom, I believe?’

‘Tigg!’ cried Tom. ‘Tigg! The gentleman who borrowed some money of me?’

‘Exactly,’ said John Westlock. ‘He begged me to present his compliments, and to return it with many thanks. Here it is. I suppose it’s a good one, but he is rather a doubtful kind of customer, Tom.’

Mr Pinch received the little piece of gold with a face whose brightness might have shamed the metal; and said he had no fear about that. He was glad, he added, to find Mr Tigg so prompt and honourable in his dealings; very glad.

‘Why, to tell you the truth, Tom,’ replied his friend, ‘he is not always so. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll avoid him as much as you can, in the event of your encountering him again. And by no means, Tom—pray bear this in mind, for I am very serious—by no means lend him money any more.’

‘Aye, aye!’ said Tom, with his eyes wide open.

‘He is very far from being a reputable acquaintance,’ returned young Westlock; ‘and the more you let him know you think so, the better for you, Tom.’

‘I say, John,’ quoth Mr Pinch, as his countenance fell, and he shook his head in a dejected manner. ‘I hope you are not getting into bad company.’

‘No, no,’ he replied laughing. ‘Don’t be uneasy on that score.’

‘Oh, but I AM uneasy,’ said Tom Pinch; ‘I can’t help it, when I hear you talking in that way. If Mr Tigg is what you describe him to be, you have no business to know him, John. You may laugh, but I don’t consider it by any means a laughing matter, I assure you.’

‘No, no,’ returned his friend, composing his features. ‘Quite right. It is not, certainly.’

‘You know, John,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘your very good nature and kindness of heart make you thoughtless, and you can’t be too careful on such a point as this. Upon my word, if I thought you were falling among bad companions, I should be quite wretched, for I know how difficult you would find it to shake them off. I would much rather have lost this money, John, than I would have had it back again on such terms.’

‘I tell you, my dear good old fellow,’ cried his friend, shaking him to and fro with both hands, and smiling at him with a cheerful, open countenance, that would have carried conviction to a mind much more suspicious than Tom’s; ‘I tell you there is no danger.’

‘Well!’ cried Tom, ‘I am glad to hear it; I am overjoyed to hear it. I am sure there is not, when you say so in that manner. You won’t take it ill, John, that I said what I did just now!’

‘Ill!’ said the other, giving his hand a hearty squeeze; ‘why what do you think I am made of? Mr Tigg and I are not on such an intimate footing that you need be at all uneasy, I give you my solemn assurance of that, Tom. You are quite comfortable now?’

‘Quite,’ said Tom.

‘Then once more, good night!’

‘Good night!’ cried Tom; ‘and such pleasant dreams to you as should attend the sleep of the best fellow in the world!’

‘—Except Pecksniff,’ said his friend, stopping at the door for a moment, and looking gayly back.

‘Except Pecksniff,’ answered Tom, with great gravity; ‘of course.’

And thus they parted for the night; John Westlock full of light-heartedness and good humour, and poor Tom Pinch quite satisfied; though still, as he turned over on his side in bed, he muttered to himself, ‘I really do wish, for all that, though, that he wasn’t acquainted with Mr Tigg.’

They breakfasted together very early next morning, for the two young men desired to get back again in good season; and John Westlock was to return to London by the coach that day. As he had some hours to spare, he bore them company for three or four miles on their walk, and only parted from them at last in sheer necessity. The parting was an unusually hearty one, not only as between him and Tom Pinch, but on the side of Martin also, who had found in the old pupil a very different sort of person from the milksop he had prepared himself to expect.

Young Westlock stopped upon a rising ground, when he had gone a little distance, and looked back. They were walking at a brisk pace, and Tom appeared to be talking earnestly. Martin had taken off his greatcoat, the wind being now behind them, and carried it upon his arm. As he looked, he saw Tom relieve him of it, after a faint resistance, and, throwing it upon his own, encumber himself with the weight of both. This trivial incident impressed the old pupil mightily, for he stood there, gazing after them, until they were hidden from his view; when he shook his head, as if he were troubled by some uneasy reflection, and thoughtfully retraced his steps to Salisbury.

In the meantime, Martin and Tom pursued their way, until they halted, safe and sound, at Mr Pecksniff’s house, where a brief epistle from that good gentleman to Mr Pinch announced the family’s return by that night’s coach. As it would pass the corner of the lane at about six o’clock in the morning, Mr Pecksniff requested that the gig might be in waiting at the finger-post about that time, together with a cart for the luggage. And to the end that he might be received with the greater honour, the young men agreed to rise early, and be upon the spot themselves.

It was the least cheerful day they had yet passed together. Martin was out of spirits and out of humour, and took every opportunity of comparing his condition and prospects with those of young Westlock; much to his own disadvantage always. This mood of his depressed Tom; and neither that morning’s parting, nor yesterday’s dinner, helped to mend the matter. So the hours dragged on heavily enough; and they were glad to go to bed early.

“Non sei ancora addormentato, vero, Tom?”

“Che Dio ti benedica, no, non io. Pensavo a te,” rispose Tom aprendo la porta. “Entra.”

“Non intendo entrare nei dettagli,” disse John; “ma ho dimenticato una piccola commissione che mi ero assunto stasera; temo di dimenticarla di nuovo se non la porto a termine subito. Conosci un certo signor Tigg, vero, Tom?”

“Tigg!” gridò Tom. “Tigg, quell’uomo che mi ha preso in prestito del denaro?”

“Esattamente,” disse John Westlock. “Mi ha supplicato di trasmettergli i suoi complimenti e di ringraziarlo molto. Ecco qui. Immagino che sia un oggetto di valore, ma, be’, è un cliente piuttosto dubioso, Tom.”

Il signor Pinch ricevette quel piccolo pezzo d’oro il cui splendore avrebbe potuto far vergognare lo stesso metallo; e disse di non avere alcuna paura al riguardo. Aggiunse inoltre di essere molto contento che il signor Tigg fosse così pronto e onesto nelle sue transazioni, davvero molto contento.

“Perché, per dirti la verità, Tom,” rispose il suo amico, “non è sempre così. Se segui il mio consiglio, lo eviterai il più possibile nel caso in cui lo incontrassi di nuovo. E assolutamente, Tom – ti prego, ricorda bene questo: non gli prestare mai più soldi.”

“Sì, sì!”, disse Tom, con gli occhi spalancati.

“Lui è tutt’altro che una conoscienza affidabile,” rispose il giovane Westlock; “e più gli fai capire che la pensi così, meglio sarà per te, Tom.”

“Dico, John,” disse il signor Pinch, con l’espressione del viso cupa e scuotendo la testa in modo scoraggiato. “Spero che tu non ti stia frequentando con cattive compagnie.”

“No, no,” rispose ridendo. “Non preoccuparti per questo.”

“Oh, ma IO sono davvero preoccupato,” disse Tom Pinch; “Non posso farci nulla: quando vi sento parlare in quel modo. Se il signor Tigg è davvero ciò che lo descrivete, allora non dovreste conoscerlo affatto, John. Potete ridere, ma vi assicuro che per me questa non è affatto una cosa da prendere alla leggera.”

“No, no,” rispose il suo amico, riacquistando la compostezza del viso. “Assolutamente no. Non lo è affatto.”

“Sai, John,” disse il signor Pinch, “la tua ottima natura e la tua bontà d’animo ti fanno essere spensierato, e in una questione del genere non si può mai essere abbastanza cauti. Te lo giuro, se pensassi che tu stessi frequentando cattive compagnie, mi sentirei davvero infelice, perché so quanto ti sarebbe difficile allontanartene. Preferirei perdere questi soldi, John, piuttosto che riaverli indietro in tali condizioni.”

“Te lo dico io, caro mio vecchio amico,” gridò il suo amico, scuotendolo avanti e indietro con entrambe le mani e sorridendogli con un volto allegro e sincero, che avrebbe convinto anche una persona molto più sospettosa di Tom; “Te lo dico io, non c’è alcun pericolo.”

‘Benissimo!’, esclamò Tom, ‘Sono felice di saperlo; sono davvero overjoyed. Sono sicuro che non ci sia nulla di male, visto il modo in cui l’hai detto. Non ti offenderai, vero, John, se ho detto quello che ho appena detto?’

“Mio caro!” disse l’altro, stringendogli vigorosamente la mano; “ma di cosa pensi che io sia fatto? Io e il signor Tigg non siamo così intimi da doverti preoccupare affatto. Te lo assicuro solennemente, Tom. Ora sei completamente a tuo agio, vero?”

“Proprio così,” disse Tom.

“Allora, ancora una volta, buona notte!”

“Buona notte!” esclamò Tom; “e che bei sogni ti vengano, come si addicono al sonno del miglior ragazzo del mondo!”

“–Tranne che Pecksniff,” disse il suo amico, fermandosi per un momento alla porta e guardandolo con aria allegra.

“Tranne Pecksniff,” rispose Tom con grande serietà; “certamente.”

E così si separarono per la notte; John Westlock, pieno di allegria e buon umorismo, e povero Tom Pinch, abbastanza soddisfatto; anche se, mentre si girava nel letto, mormorava tra sé: “Vorrei davvero, nonostante tutto, che lui non conoscesse il signor Tigg.”

La mattina seguente si alzarono molto presto per colazione, poiché i due giovani desideravano tornare a casa in tempo utile; John Westlock, infatti, doveva rientrare a Londra con la diligenza di quel giorno. Avendo ancora qualche ora libera, li accompagnò per tre o quattro miglia nel loro viaggio, separandosi da loro soltanto quando divenne assolutamente necessario. La separazione fu particolarmente affettuosa, non solo tra lui e Tom Pinch, ma anche da parte di Martin, che aveva scoperto in quel vecchio studente una persona molto diversa da quella che si era aspettato.

Il giovane Westlock si fermò su un terreno in salita; dopo aver percorso qualche distanza, si voltò indietro. Loro procedevano a passo svelto, e sembrava che Tom stesse parlando seriamente con Martin. Quest’ultimo aveva tolto il suo cappotto, poiché il vento soffiava ora alle loro spalle, e lo teneva sul braccio. Mentre li osservava, vide Tom sottrarglielo dopo una debole resistenza, poi gettarlo sul proprio braccio, caricandosi così del peso di entrambi i cappotti. Questo piccolo episodio colpì profondamente il vecchio allievo: rimase fermo lì a guardarli finché non scomparvero dalla sua vista; poi scosse la testa, come se fosse turbato da qualche pensiero preoccupante, e riprese lentamente la strada verso Salisbury.

Nel frattempo, Martin e Tom continuarono il loro viaggio, fino a quando non si fermarono, sani e salvi, presso la casa del signor Pecksniff. Una breve lettera di quel gentile signore al signor Pinch annunciava il ritorno della famiglia con la carrozza di quella stessa notte. Poiché la carrozza avrebbe attraversato l’angolo della strada verso le sei del mattino, il signor Pecksniff chiese che fosse pronta ad aspettare in quel luogo, insieme a un carretto per i bagagli. E affinché il suo arrivo fosse accolto con la massima dignità possibile, i giovani acconsentirono ad alzarsi presto e ad essere presenti personalmente sul posto.

Fu il giorno meno gioioso che avessero trascorso insieme fino ad allora. Martin era di cattivo umore e privo di umorismo, e coglieva ogni occasione per confrontare la sua situazione e le sue prospettive con quelle del giovane Westlock; sempre a suo svantaggio. Questo stato d’animo di Martin deprimeva Tom; né l’addio di quella mattina, né la cena di ieri contribuirono a migliorare le cose. Così le ore trascorsero lentamente e con difficoltà; furono felici di andare a letto presto.

They were not quite so glad to get up again at half-past four o’clock, in all the shivering discomfort of a dark winter’s morning; but they turned out punctually, and were at the finger-post full half-an-hour before the appointed time. It was not by any means a lively morning, for the sky was black and cloudy, and it rained hard; but Martin said there was some satisfaction in seeing that brute of a horse (by this, he meant Mr Pecksniff’s Arab steed) getting very wet; and that he rejoiced, on his account, that it rained so fast. From this it may be inferred that Martin’s spirits had not improved, as indeed they had not; for while he and Mr Pinch stood waiting under a hedge, looking at the rain, the gig, the cart, and its reeking driver, he did nothing but grumble; and, but that it is indispensable to any dispute that there should be two parties to it, he would certainly have picked a quarrel with Tom.

At length the noise of wheels was faintly audible in the distance and presently the coach came splashing through the mud and mire with one miserable outside passenger crouching down among wet straw, under a saturated umbrella; and the coachman, guard, and horses, in a fellowship of dripping wretchedness. Immediately on its stopping, Mr Pecksniff let down the window-glass and hailed Tom Pinch.

‘Dear me, Mr Pinch! Is it possible that you are out upon this very inclement morning?’

‘Yes, sir,’ cried Tom, advancing eagerly, ‘Mr Chuzzlewit and I, sir.’

‘Oh!’ said Mr Pecksniff, looking not so much at Martin as at the spot on which he stood. ‘Oh! Indeed. Do me the favour to see to the trunks, if you please, Mr Pinch.’

Then Mr Pecksniff descended, and helped his daughters to alight; but neither he nor the young ladies took the slightest notice of Martin, who had advanced to offer his assistance, but was repulsed by Mr Pecksniff’s standing immediately before his person, with his back towards him. In the same manner, and in profound silence, Mr Pecksniff handed his daughters into the gig; and following himself and taking the reins, drove off home.

Lost in astonishment, Martin stood staring at the coach, and when the coach had driven away, at Mr Pinch, and the luggage, until the cart moved off too; when he said to Tom:

‘Now will you have the goodness to tell me what THIS portends?’

‘What?’ asked Tom.

‘This fellow’s behaviour. Mr Pecksniff’s, I mean. You saw it?’

‘No. Indeed I did not,’ cried Tom. ‘I was busy with the trunks.’

‘It is no matter,’ said Martin. ‘Come! Let us make haste back!’ And without another word started off at such a pace, that Tom had some difficulty in keeping up with him.

He had no care where he went, but walked through little heaps of mud and little pools of water with the utmost indifference; looking straight before him, and sometimes laughing in a strange manner within himself. Tom felt that anything he could say would only render him the more obstinate, and therefore trusted to Mr Pecksniff’s manner when they reached the house, to remove the mistaken impression under which he felt convinced so great a favourite as the new pupil must unquestionably be labouring. But he was not a little amazed himself, when they did reach it, and entered the parlour where Mr Pecksniff was sitting alone before the fire, drinking some hot tea, to find that instead of taking favourable notice of his relative and keeping him, Mr Pinch, in the background, he did exactly the reverse, and was so lavish in his attentions to Tom, that Tom was thoroughly confounded.

‘Take some tea, Mr Pinch—take some tea,’ said Pecksniff, stirring the fire. ‘You must be very cold and damp. Pray take some tea, and come into a warm place, Mr Pinch.’

Tom saw that Martin looked at Mr Pecksniff as though he could have easily found it in his heart to give HIM an invitation to a very warm place; but he was quite silent, and standing opposite that gentleman at the table, regarded him attentively.

‘Take a chair, Pinch,’ said Pecksniff. ‘Take a chair, if you please. How have things gone on in our absence, Mr Pinch?’

‘You—you will be very much pleased with the grammar-school, sir,’ said Tom. ‘It’s nearly finished.’

‘If you will have the goodness, Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff, waving his hand and smiling, ‘we will not discuss anything connected with that question at present. What have YOU been doing, Thomas, humph?’

Mr Pinch looked from master to pupil, and from pupil to master, and was so perplexed and dismayed that he wanted presence of mind to answer the question. In this awkward interval, Mr Pecksniff (who was perfectly conscious of Martin’s gaze, though he had never once glanced towards him) poked the fire very much, and when he couldn’t do that any more, drank tea assiduously.

‘Now, Mr Pecksniff,’ said Martin at last, in a very quiet voice, ‘if you have sufficiently refreshed and recovered yourself, I shall be glad to hear what you mean by this treatment of me.’

‘And what,’ said Mr Pecksniff, turning his eyes on Tom Pinch, even more placidly and gently than before, ‘what have YOU been doing, Thomas, humph?’

When he had repeated this inquiry, he looked round the walls of the room as if he were curious to see whether any nails had been left there by accident in former times.

Tom was almost at his wit’s end what to say between the two, and had already made a gesture as if he would call Mr Pecksniff’s attention to the gentleman who had last addressed him, when Martin saved him further trouble, by doing so himself.

‘Mr Pecksniff,’ he said, softly rapping the table twice or thrice, and moving a step or two nearer, so that he could have touched him with his hand; ‘you heard what I said just now. Do me the favour to reply, if you please. I ask you’—he raised his voice a little here—‘what you mean by this?’

‘I will talk to you, sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff in a severe voice, as he looked at him for the first time, ‘presently.’

Non erano affatto felici di doversi alzare di nuovo alle cinque e mezza del mattino, nel freddo e nell’umidità di una gelida mattina invernale; tuttavia si presentarono puntualmente, arrivando addirittura con mezz’ora di anticipo rispetto all’orario previsto. Non era certo una mattinata allegra: il cielo era nero e nuvoloso, e pioveva a dirotto; ma Martin disse che c’era un certo piacere nel vedere quel maledetto cavallo (intendeva con questo il bellissimo stallone arabo di Mr Pecksniff) bagnarsi completamente. E si rallegrò persino del fatto che piovesse così forte. Da questo si può dedurre che lo spirito di Martin non fosse affatto migliorato. Infatti, mentre lui e Mr Pinch aspettavano sotto un recinto, osservando la pioggia, il calesse, il carretto e quel conducente disgustoso, non faceva altro che brontolare. E se non fosse stato per il fatto che ogni disputa richiede necessariamente due parti coinvolte, avrebbe sicuramente iniziato una lite con Tom.

Finalmente, il rumore delle ruote divenne appena percettibile in lontananza; poco dopo, la carrozza arrivò, schizzando fango e melma, con un povero passeggero esterno accovacciato tra paglia bagnata, sotto un ombrello zuppo d’acqua; il cocchiere, il guardiano e i cavalli formavano tutti insieme un gruppo di creature miserabili e fradice. Non appena la carrozza si fermò, il signor Pecksniff abbassò il finestrino e chiamò Tom Pinch.

“Mio Dio, signor Pinch! È davvero possibile che siate uscito in una mattina così inclemente?”

“Sì, signore,” esclamò Tom, avvicinandosi con entusiasmo, “io e il signor Chuzzlewit, signore.”

“Oh!” esclamò il signor Pecksniff, guardando non tanto Martin quanto il punto in cui si trovava lui stesso. “Oh! Davvero. Le dispiacerebbe occuparsi dei bauli, per favore, signor Pinch?”

Poi il signor Pecksniff scese e aiutò le sue figlie a scendere dalla vettura; ma né lui né le giovani donne prestarono la minima attenzione a Martin, che si era avvicinato per offrire il proprio aiuto, ma fu respinto dal signor Pecksniff, il quale si mise immediatamente davanti a lui, con le spalle rivolte verso di lui. Nello stesso modo, e in un profondo silenzio, il signor Pecksniff aiutò le sue figlie a salire nella vettura; poi, prendendo le redini, se ne andò a casa.

Immerso nello stupore, Martin rimase fermo a fissare il carro; e quando anche questo se ne fu andato, insieme al signor Pinch e al bagaglio, continuò a guardare fino a quando anche la carretta scomparve dalla vista. Poi disse a Tom:

“Ora, per favore, mi dica cosa significa tutto questo?”

“Cosa?”, chiese Tom.

“Il comportamento di questo tizio. Voglio dire, quello di Mr Pecksniff. L’avete visto?”

“No, davvero non l’ho fatto,” gridò Tom. “Ero troppo occupato con i bauli.”

“Non importa,” disse Martin. “Andiamo! Dobbiamo affrettarci a tornare!” E senza aggiungere altro partì a tale velocità che Tom faticò a seguirlo.

Non gli importava affatto dove andasse; camminava attraverso piccoli mucchi di fango e piccole pozzanghere d’acqua con estrema indifferenza, guardando dritto davanti a sé e a volte ridendo in modo strano tra sé e sé. Tom pensò che qualsiasi cosa avesse detto non avrebbe fatto altro che renderlo ancora più testardo; quindi si affidò al comportamento del signor Pecksniff quando arrivarono alla casa, nella speranza che potesse dissipare l’impressione errata secondo cui il nuovo studente dovesse essere considerato un favorito assoluto. Ma rimase piuttosto sorpreso quando, entrati nel salotto dove il signor Pecksniff sedeva da solo davanti al fuoco, bevendo del tè caldo, scoprì che invece di dare priorità a suo cugino e tenerlo in secondo piano, il signor Pecksniff dedicava tutte le sue attenzioni a Tom, lasciandolo completamente perplesso.

“Bevi un po’ di tè, signor Pinch. Bevi un po’ di tè,” disse Pecksniff, mescolando il fuoco. “Devi essere molto freddo e bagnato. Per favore, bevi un po’ di tè e vieni in un posto caldo, signor Pinch.”

Tom vide che Martin guardava il signor Pecksniff come se avesse potuto facilmente decidere di invitarlo in un posto molto accogliente; ma rimase del tutto silenzioso e, stando di fronte a quel gentiluomo al tavolo, lo osservò attentamente.

“Siediti, Pinch,” disse Pecksniff. “Per favore, siediti. Come sono andate le cose durante la nostra assenza, signor Pinch?”

“Voi, sarete molto soddisfatto della scuola elementare, signore,” disse Tom. “È quasi pronta.”

“Se vuole essere così gentile, signor Pinch,” disse Pecksniff, agitando la mano e sorridendo, “non discuteremo nulla in relazione a quella questione per il momento. Cosa ha fatto lei, Thomas, eh?”

Il signor Pinch guardò prima il maestro e poi lo scolaro, e viceversa; era così confuso e sconcertato che gli mancava la presenza di spirito necessaria per rispondere alla domanda. In quel momento imbarazzante, il signor Pecksniff (che era perfettamente consapevole dello sguardo di Martin, anche se non lo aveva mai guardato nemmeno una volta) ravvivò il fuoco con molta cura; quando non riuscì più a farlo, bevve il tè con grande diligenza.

“Ora, signor Pecksniff,” disse finalmente Martin, con una voce molto tranquilla, “se vi siete riposato a sufficienza e vi sentite meglio, sarò felice di sapere cosa intendete con questo trattamento nei miei confronti.”

“E allora,” disse il signor Pecksniff, rivolgendo lo sguardo verso Tom Pinch con ancora maggiore serenità e dolcezza del solito, “che cosa hai fatto tu, Thomas, hm?”

Dopo aver ripetuto questa domanda, guardò intorno alle pareti della stanza, come se fosse curioso di scoprire se in passato vi fossero rimasti accidentalmente qualche chiodo.

Tom non sapeva proprio cosa dire in quella situazione; aveva già fatto un gesto come per attirare l’attenzione di Mr Pecksniff su quell’uomo che gli aveva appena parlato, quando Martin lo salvò da ulteriori problemi, intervenendo lui stesso.

“Signor Pecksniff,” disse lui, battendo leggermente sul tavolo due o tre volte e avvicinandosi di un passo o due, tanto da poterlo toccare con la mano; “ha sentito quello che ho detto poco fa. Le chiedo il favore di rispondere, se le va bene. Le chiedo,” alzò leggermente la voce in quel punto, “che cosa intende dire con questo.”

“Parlerò con lei, signore,” disse il signor Pecksniff con voce severa, mentre lo guardava per la prima volta. “Subito.”

‘You are very obliging,’ returned Martin; ‘presently will not do. I must trouble you to talk to me at once.’

Mr Pecksniff made a feint of being deeply interested in his pocketbook, but it shook in his hands; he trembled so.

‘Now,’ retorted Martin, rapping the table again. ‘Now. Presently will not do. Now!’

‘Do you threaten me, sir?’ cried Mr Pecksniff.

Martin looked at him, and made no answer; but a curious observer might have detected an ominous twitching at his mouth, and perhaps an involuntary attraction of his right hand in the direction of Mr Pecksniff’s cravat.

‘I lament to be obliged to say, sir,’ resumed Mr Pecksniff, ‘that it would be quite in keeping with your character if you did threaten me. You have deceived me. You have imposed upon a nature which you knew to be confiding and unsuspicious. You have obtained admission, sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, rising, ‘to this house, on perverted statements and on false pretences.’

‘Go on,’ said Martin, with a scornful smile. ‘I understand you now. What more?’

‘Thus much more, sir,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, trembling from head to foot, and trying to rub his hands, as though he were only cold. ‘Thus much more, if you force me to publish your shame before a third party, which I was unwilling and indisposed to do. This lowly roof, sir, must not be contaminated by the presence of one who has deceived, and cruelly deceived, an honourable, beloved, venerated, and venerable gentleman; and who wisely suppressed that deceit from me when he sought my protection and favour, knowing that, humble as I am, I am an honest man, seeking to do my duty in this carnal universe, and setting my face against all vice and treachery. I weep for your depravity, sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘I mourn over your corruption, I pity your voluntary withdrawal of yourself from the flowery paths of purity and peace;’ here he struck himself upon his breast, or moral garden; ‘but I cannot have a leper and a serpent for an inmate. Go forth,’ said Mr Pecksniff, stretching out his hand: ‘go forth, young man! Like all who know you, I renounce you!’

With what intention Martin made a stride forward at these words, it is impossible to say. It is enough to know that Tom Pinch caught him in his arms, and that, at the same moment, Mr Pecksniff stepped back so hastily, that he missed his footing, tumbled over a chair, and fell in a sitting posture on the ground; where he remained without an effort to get up again, with his head in a corner, perhaps considering it the safest place.

‘Let me go, Pinch!’ cried Martin, shaking him away. ‘Why do you hold me? Do you think a blow could make him a more abject creature than he is? Do you think that if I spat upon him, I could degrade him to a lower level than his own? Look at him. Look at him, Pinch!’

Mr Pinch involuntarily did so. Mr Pecksniff sitting, as has been already mentioned, on the carpet, with his head in an acute angle of the wainscot, and all the damage and detriment of an uncomfortable journey about him, was not exactly a model of all that is prepossessing and dignified in man, certainly. Still he WAS Pecksniff; it was impossible to deprive him of that unique and paramount appeal to Tom. And he returned Tom’s glance, as if he would have said, ‘Aye, Mr Pinch, look at me! Here I am! You know what the Poet says about an honest man; and an honest man is one of the few great works that can be seen for nothing! Look at me!’

‘I tell you,’ said Martin, ‘that as he lies there, disgraced, bought, used; a cloth for dirty hands, a mat for dirty feet, a lying, fawning, servile hound, he is the very last and worst among the vermin of the world. And mark me, Pinch! The day will come—he knows it; see it written on his face, while I speak!—when even you will find him out, and will know him as I do, and as he knows I do. HE renounce ME! Cast your eyes on the Renouncer, Pinch, and be the wiser for the recollection!’

He pointed at him as he spoke, with unutterable contempt, and flinging his hat upon his head, walked from the room and from the house. He went so rapidly that he was already clear of the village, when he heard Tom Pinch calling breathlessly after him in the distance.

‘Well! what now?’ he said, when Tom came up.

‘Dear, dear!’ cried Tom, ‘are you going?’

‘Going!’ he echoed. ‘Going!’

‘I didn’t so much mean that, as were you going now at once—in this bad weather—on foot—without your clothes—with no money?’ cried Tom.

‘Yes,’ he answered sternly, ‘I am.’

‘And where?’ cried Tom. ‘Oh where will you go?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Yes, I do. I’ll go to America!’

‘No, no,’ cried Tom, in a kind of agony. ‘Don’t go there. Pray don’t. Think better of it. Don’t be so dreadfully regardless of yourself. Don’t go to America!’

‘My mind is made up,’ he said. ‘Your friend was right. I’ll go to America. God bless you, Pinch!’

‘Take this!’ cried Tom, pressing a book upon him in great agitation. ‘I must make haste back, and can’t say anything I would. Heaven be with you. Look at the leaf I have turned down. Good-bye, good-bye!’

The simple fellow wrung him by the hand, with tears stealing down his cheeks; and they parted hurriedly upon their separate ways.

“Sei molto gentile,” rispose Martin; “ma in questo momento non va bene. Devo chiederti di parlarmi subito.”

Il signor Pecksniff fingeva di essere profondamente interessato al suo portafoglio, ma esso tremolava nelle sue mani; tremava davvero molto.

“Ora,” ribatté Martin, battendo di nuovo sul tavolo. “Ora. Subito, non basta. Ora!”

“Mi state minacciando, signore?”, gridò il signor Pecksniff.

Martin lo guardò senza rispondere; ma un osservatore attento avrebbe potuto notare un movimento sinistro alle sue labbra, e forse anche un gesto involontario della sua mano destra nella direzione del colletto di Mr Pecksniff.

“Devo pur dirlo con rammarico, signore,” riprese il signor Pecksniff, “che sarebbe del tutto in linea con il vostro carattere se mi minacciaste. Mi avete ingannato. Avete approfittato di una natura che sapevate essere fiduciosa e insospettosa. Con dichiarazioni false e pretesti mendaci, signore,” aggiunse alzandosi, “avete ottenuto l’accesso a questa casa”.

“Vai avanti,” disse Martin con un sorriso sprezzante. “Ora ti capisco. Cosa c’è ancora?”

“Ancora di più, signore,” gridò il signor Pecksniff, tremando dalla testa ai piedi e cercando di strofinarsi le mani, come se avesse semplicemente freddo. “Ancora di più, se mi costringete a rendere pubblica la vostra vergogna davanti a terzi, cosa che io non volevo affatto fare. Questo umile tetto, signore, non deve essere contaminato dalla presenza di una persona che ha ingannato, e crudelmente ingannato, un onesto, amato, rispettato gentiluomo; una persona che, saggiamente, ha nascosto quel tradimento davanti a me quando cercò la mia protezione e il mio favore, sapendo che, per umile che fossi, ero comunque un uomo onesto, deciso a compiere il proprio dovere in questo mondo materiale, e pronto a combattere contro ogni vizio e tradimento. Piango per la vostra depravazione, signore,” disse il signor Pecksniff; “lutto per la vostra corruzione, mi dispiace che abbiate volontariamente abbandonato i sentieri della purezza e della pace, ” Qui si batté il petto, simbolo del proprio “giardino morale”; “ma non posso permettere che un lebbroso e un serpente vivano sotto il mio tetto. Andatevene,” disse il signor Pecksniff, tendendo la mano; “andatevene, giovane. Come tutti coloro che vi conoscono, io vi rinnego!”

Con quale intenzione Martin fece un passo avanti dopo aver sentito queste parole, è impossibile dirlo. Basta sapere che Tom Pinch lo afferrò tra le braccia, e che, nello stesso istante, il signor Pecksniff indietreggiò così rapidamente da perdere l’equilibrio, inciampare in una sedia e cadere a terra; rimase lì senza tentare nemmeno di rialzarsi, con la testa nascosta in un angolo, forse considerandolo il posto più sicuro.

“Lasciami andare, Pinch!” gridò Martin, scuotendolo via. “Perché mi tieni fermo? Pensi davvero che un colpo possa rendere una persona ancora più disprezzabile di quanto non sia già? Pensi che se gli sputassi addosso potrei umiliarlo ancora di più? Guardalo. Guardalo, Pinch!”

Il signor Pinch lo fece involontariamente. Il signor Pecksniff, seduto sul tappeto, con la testa inclinata in un angolo acuto rispetto alla parete, e circondato da tutti i segni di una scomoda viaggio, certamente non rappresentava l’esempio perfetto di ciò che è affascinante e dignitoso nell’uomo. Tuttavia, era pur sempre Pecksniff; era impossibile privarlo di quell’attrattiva unica e fondamentale per Tom. E lui ricambiò lo sguardo di Tom, come se volesse dire: “Ebbene, signor Pinch, guardatemi! Ecco qui! Sapete cosa dice il Poeta riguardo a un uomo onesto. E un uomo onesto è uno dei pochi grandi esempi che si possono ammirare gratuitamente! Guardatemi!”

“Ve lo dico,” disse Martin, “che mentre giace lì, disonorato, comprato e usato come un panno per mani sporche o una stuoia per piedi luridi; un cane bugiardo, adulante e servile, è davvero l’ultimo e il peggiore tra tutti i vermi di questo mondo. E ascoltate bene, Pinch: arriverà il giorno – lui lo sa; lo si legge sul suo viso mentre parlo – in cui anche voi lo scoprirete, e lo riconoscerete come lo faccio io, e come lui sa che lo faccio io. LUI MI HA RINUNCIATO! Guardate quell’uomo che mi ha rinnegato, Pinch, e imparate la lezione da questa esperienza.”

Mentre parlava, lo indicò con un disprezzo indescrivibile; poi si mise il cappello e uscì dalla stanza, quindi dalla casa. Si allontanò così rapidamente che aveva già lasciato il villaggio quando sentì Tom Pinch chiamarlo ansimando da lontano.

“Beh! E ora cosa facciamo?” disse quando Tom gli si avvicinò.

“Mio caro, mio caro!” gridò Tom, “te ne vai davvero?”

“Parto!”, ripeté. “Parto!”

“Non volevo dire esattamente questo. Volevo dire: come fai a partire subito adesso, in queste condizioni meteorologiche avverse, a piedi, senza vestiti e senza soldi?” gridò Tom.

“Sì,” rispose con severità, “lo sono.”

“E dove?” gridò Tom. “Oh, dove andrai?”

“Non lo so,” disse. “Sì, invece lo so. Andrò in America!”

“No, no,” gridò Tom, con un tono di vera angoscia. “Non andare lì. Per favore, non farlo. Pensaci bene. Non essere così spietatamente indifferente verso te stesso. Non andare in America!”

“Ho deciso,” disse. “Il tuo amico aveva ragione. Andrò in America. Che Dio ti benedica, Pinch!”

“Prendi questo!” gridò Tom, premendogli un libro addosso con grande agitazione. “Devo tornare subito indietro e non posso dire nulla di ciò che vorrei. Che il cielo ti aiuti. Guarda la pagina che ho segnato. Addio, addio!”

Quel semplice uomo gli strinse la mano, mentre le lacrime gli scorrevano lungo le guance; poi si separarono in fretta, ognuno per la propria strada.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SHOWING WHAT BECAME OF MARTIN AND HIS DESPARATE RESOLVE, AFTER HE LEFT MR PECKSNIFF’S HOUSE; WHAT PERSONS HE ENCOUNTERED; WHAT ANXIETIES HE SUFFERED; AND WHAT NEWS HE HEARD

Carrying Tom Pinch’s book quite unconsciously under his arm, and not even buttoning his coat as a protection against the heavy rain, Martin went doggedly forward at the same quick pace, until he had passed the finger-post, and was on the high road to London. He slackened very little in his speed even then, but he began to think, and look about him, and to disengage his senses from the coil of angry passions which hitherto had held them prisoner.

It must be confessed that, at that moment, he had no very agreeable employment either for his moral or his physical perceptions. The day was dawning from a patch of watery light in the east, and sullen clouds came driving up before it, from which the rain descended in a thick, wet mist. It streamed from every twig and bramble in the hedge; made little gullies in the path; ran down a hundred channels in the road; and punched innumerable holes into the face of every pond and gutter. It fell with an oozy, slushy sound among the grass; and made a muddy kennel of every furrow in the ploughed fields. No living creature was anywhere to be seen. The prospect could hardly have been more desolate if animated nature had been dissolved in water, and poured down upon the earth again in that form.

The range of view within the solitary traveller was quite as cheerless as the scene without. Friendless and penniless; incensed to the last degree; deeply wounded in his pride and self-love; full of independent schemes, and perfectly destitute of any means of realizing them; his most vindictive enemy might have been satisfied with the extent of his troubles. To add to his other miseries, he was by this time sensible of being wet to the skin, and cold at his very heart.

In this deplorable condition he remembered Mr Pinch’s book; more because it was rather troublesome to carry, than from any hope of being comforted by that parting gift. He looked at the dingy lettering on the back, and finding it to be an odd volume of the ‘Bachelor of Salamanca,’ in the French tongue, cursed Tom Pinch’s folly twenty times. He was on the point of throwing it away, in his ill-humour and vexation, when he bethought himself that Tom had referred him to a leaf, turned down; and opening it at that place, that he might have additional cause of complaint against him for supposing that any cold scrap of the Bachelor’s wisdom could cheer him in such circumstances, found!—

Well, well! not much, but Tom’s all. The half-sovereign. He had wrapped it hastily in a piece of paper, and pinned it to the leaf. These words were scrawled in pencil on the inside: ‘I don’t want it indeed. I should not know what to do with it if I had it.’

There are some falsehoods, Tom, on which men mount, as on bright wings, towards Heaven. There are some truths, cold bitter taunting truths, wherein your worldly scholars are very apt and punctual, which bind men down to earth with leaden chains. Who would not rather have to fan him, in his dying hour, the lightest feather of a falsehood such as thine, than all the quills that have been plucked from the sharp porcupine, reproachful truth, since time began!

Martin felt keenly for himself, and he felt this good deed of Tom’s keenly. After a few minutes it had the effect of raising his spirits, and reminding him that he was not altogether destitute, as he had left a fair stock of clothes behind him, and wore a gold hunting-watch in his pocket. He found a curious gratification, too, in thinking what a winning fellow he must be to have made such an impression on Tom; and in reflecting how superior he was to Tom; and how much more likely to make his way in the world. Animated by these thoughts, and strengthened in his design of endeavouring to push his fortune in another country, he resolved to get to London as a rallying-point, in the best way he could; and to lose no time about it.

He was ten good miles from the village made illustrious by being the abiding-place of Mr Pecksniff, when he stopped to breakfast at a little roadside alehouse; and resting upon a high-backed settle before the fire, pulled off his coat, and hung it before the cheerful blaze to dry. It was a very different place from the last tavern in which he had regaled; boasting no greater extent of accommodation than the brick-floored kitchen yielded; but the mind so soon accommodates itself to the necessities of the body, that this poor waggoner’s house-of-call, which he would have despised yesterday, became now quite a choice hotel; while his dish of eggs and bacon, and his mug of beer, were not by any means the coarse fare he had supposed, but fully bore out the inscription on the window-shutter, which proclaimed those viands to be ‘Good entertainment for Travellers.’

He pushed away his empty plate; and with a second mug upon the hearth before him, looked thoughtfully at the fire until his eyes ached. Then he looked at the highly-coloured scripture pieces on the walls, in little black frames like common shaving-glasses, and saw how the Wise Men (with a strong family likeness among them) worshipped in a pink manger; and how the Prodigal Son came home in red rags to a purple father, and already feasted his imagination on a sea-green calf. Then he glanced through the window at the falling rain, coming down aslant upon the sign-post over against the house, and overflowing the horse-trough; and then he looked at the fire again, and seemed to descry a double distant London, retreating among the fragments of the burning wood.

CAPITOLO TREDICESIMO

Mostrando cosa accadde a Martin e alla sua disperata risoluzione, dopo che lasciò la casa del signor Pecksniff; quali persone incontrò; quali ansie soffrì; e quali notizie ascoltò.

Tenendo inconsciamente il libro di Tom Pinch sotto il braccio, e senza nemmeno abbottonarsi il cappotto per proteggersi dalla pioggia battente, Martin proseguì con lo stesso passo veloce, fino a superare il cartello stradale e raggiungere la maestosa strada che portava a Londra. Anche allora non rallentò molto, ma iniziò a pensare, a guardarsi intorno e a liberare i propri sensi dal vortice di emozioni violente che fino ad allora li avevano dominati.

Deve essere ammesso che, in quel momento, né le sue percezioni morali né quelle fisiche trovavano nulla di particolarmente piacevole da osservare. L’alba stava spuntando da una striscia di luce acquosa a est, ma nuvole scure si avvicinavano rapidamente, facendo cadere la pioggia sotto forma di una fitta nebbia umida. La pioggia scorreva da ogni rametto e rovo del ciglio del fossato; formava piccoli solchi nel sentiero, si diramava in centinaia di ruscelli lungo la strada e creava innumerevoli buche sulle superfici dei laghetti e delle grondaie. Cadendo con un suono vischioso e fangoso tra l’erba, trasformava ogni solco nei campi arati in una massa di fango. Non si vedeva alcuna creatura vivente in giro; la scena sembrava davvero desolata, come se tutta la natura viva fosse stata dissolta nell’acqua e poi versata nuovamente sulla terra sotto quella forma.

La visuale di quel viaggiatore solitario era altrettanto desolata quanto il paesaggio circostante. Senza amici e senza un soldo; furioso fino all’estremo; profondamente ferito nel suo orgoglio e nel suo amor proprio; pieno di progetti indipendenti, ma completamente privo dei mezzi per realizzarli; anche il suo nemico più vendicativo avrebbe potuto ritenersi soddisfatto delle sue difficoltà. Per aggravare ulteriormente le sue sofferenze, a quel momento si rendeva conto di essere fradicio fino alla pelle e di avere freddo nel profondo del cuore.

In quella condizione deplorevole, gli venne in mente il libro di Mr Pinch; più per il fatto che fosse piuttosto scomodo da portare, che per qualche speranza di trovare conforto in quel dono d’addio. Guardò le scritte sbiadite sulla copertina e, riconoscendo che si trattava di un volume del “Baccalaureo di Salamanca” in lingua francese, maledisse venti volte la follia di Tom Pinch. Stava per gettarlo via, nel suo cattivo Umore e nella sua frustrazione, quando si ricordò che Tom gli aveva indicato una pagina specifica. Aprì il libro proprio lì, convinto di trovare ulteriori motivi per lamentarsi di lui: come poteva pensare che qualche banale frammento della saggezza di quel “Baccalaureo” potesse consolarlo in quelle circostanze? E invece.

Beh, non molto, ma c’è tutto ciò che possiede Tom: il mezzo-sovrano. L’aveva avvolto frettolosamente in un pezzo di carta e fissato al foglio. All’interno erano scritte a matita queste parole: “In realtà non lo voglio. Non saprei proprio cosa farne se l’avessi.”

Ci sono alcune menzogne su cui gli uomini si sollevano, come su ali luminose, verso il Cielo. Ci sono anche alcune verità, verità fredde e amareggianti, di fronte alle quali i vostri studiosi mondani sono molto abili e puntuali, verità che legano gli uomini a terra con catene di piombo. Chi non preferirebbe, nel momento della sua morte, essere rinfrescato dalla più leggera piuma di una menzogna come la tua, piuttosto che da tutte le piume strappate dal porcospino acuto, quelle verità accusatorie che esistono fin dall’inizio dei tempi?

Martin provava un profondo rimorso per se stesso, e sentiva altrettanto intensamente la bontà di quel gesto da parte di Tom. Dopo pochi minuti, questo pensiero ebbe l’effetto di sollevargli lo spirito e di fargli ricordare che non era del tutto senza risorse: aveva lasciato indietro un buon numero di vestiti e portava con sé un orologio da caccia d’oro in tasca. Trovava anche una sorta di soddisfazione nel pensare a quanto dovesse essere affascinante la sua persona per aver avuto un tale ascendente su Tom; rifletteva su quanto fosse superiore a lui e su quanto fosse più probabile che riuscisse a farsi strada nel mondo. Animato da questi pensieri, e ancora più determinato a cercare di migliorare la propria sorte in un altro paese, decise di recarsi a Londra come punto di partenza, utilizzando per farlo tutti i mezzi possibili, senza perdere nemmeno un minuto.

Si trovava a dieci miglia di distanza dal villaggio che era diventato famoso per essere la residenza permanente del signor Pecksniff, quando si fermò in una piccola taverna lungo la strada per fare colazione. Sedutosi su un alto sgabello davanti al focolare, si tolse il cappotto e lo appese davanti alle fiamme per farlo asciugare. Quel posto era molto diverso dall’ultima taverna in cui aveva mangiato: non offriva spazi più ampi di quelli della cucina con pavimento in mattoni; tuttavia, la mente si adatta facilmente alle necessità del corpo, e così quella misera locanda, che ieri avrebbe disprezzato, divenne ora un hotel davvero accogliente. Il suo piatto di uova e bacon, insieme alla sua tazza di birra, non erano affatto il cibo grossolano che aveva immaginato, ma corrispondevano perfettamente all’iscrizione presente sulla finestra, che prometteva che quei piatti fossero “un ottimo pasto per i viaggiatori”.

Allontanò il suo piatto vuoto; poi, con un’altra tazza davanti al camino, fissò pensieroso il fuoco fino a quando gli occhi non iniziarono a dolergli. Poi guardò i frammenti di scrittura dai colori vivaci appesi alle pareti, racchiusi in piccoli telai neri simili a comuni specchi da barba; vide come i Saggi (tra loro c’era una forte somiglianza familiare) adorassero in un presepe rosa; e come il Figlio Perduto tornasse a casa in stracci rossi davanti a un padre viola. E già la sua immaginazione si soffermava su un vitello di colore verde mare. Poi guardò fuori dalla finestra: la pioggia cadeva obliquamente sul cartello sopra la casa, riempiendo il secchio per i cavalli. E poi tornò a fissare il fuoco, come se potesse intravedere una doppia immagine di Londra, lontana, che si allontanava tra i frammenti di legno in fiamme.

He had repeated this process in just the same order, many times, as if it were a matter of necessity, when the sound of wheels called his attention to the window out of its regular turn; and there he beheld a kind of light van drawn by four horses, and laden, as well as he could see (for it was covered in), with corn and straw. The driver, who was alone, stopped at the door to water his team, and presently came stamping and shaking the wet off his hat and coat, into the room where Martin sat.

He was a red-faced burly young fellow; smart in his way, and with a good-humoured countenance. As he advanced towards the fire he touched his shining forehead with the forefinger of his stiff leather glove, by way of salutation; and said (rather unnecessarily) that it was an uncommon wet day.

‘Very wet,’ said Martin.

‘I don’t know as ever I see a wetter.’

‘I never felt one,’ said Martin.

The driver glanced at Martin’s soiled dress, and his damp shirt-sleeves, and his coat hung up to dry; and said, after a pause, as he warmed his hands:

‘You have been caught in it, sir?’

‘Yes,’ was the short reply.

‘Out riding, maybe?’ said the driver

‘I should have been, if I owned a horse; but I don’t,’ returned Martin.

‘That’s bad,’ said the driver.

‘And may be worse,’ said Martin.

Now the driver said ‘That’s bad,’ not so much because Martin didn’t own a horse, as because he said he didn’t with all the reckless desperation of his mood and circumstances, and so left a great deal to be inferred. Martin put his hands in his pockets and whistled when he had retorted on the driver; thus giving him to understand that he didn’t care a pin for Fortune; that he was above pretending to be her favourite when he was not; and that he snapped his fingers at her, the driver, and everybody else.

The driver looked at him stealthily for a minute or so; and in the pauses of his warming whistled too. At length he asked, as he pointed his thumb towards the road.

‘Up or down?’

‘Which IS up?’ said Martin.

‘London, of course,’ said the driver.

‘Up then,’ said Martin. He tossed his head in a careless manner afterwards, as if he would have added, ‘Now you know all about it.’ put his hands deeper into his pockets; changed his tune, and whistled a little louder.

‘I’m going up,’ observed the driver; ‘Hounslow, ten miles this side London.’

‘Are you?’ cried Martin, stopping short and looking at him.

The driver sprinkled the fire with his wet hat until it hissed again and answered, ‘Aye, to be sure he was.’

‘Why, then,’ said Martin, ‘I’ll be plain with you. You may suppose from my dress that I have money to spare. I have not. All I can afford for coach-hire is a crown, for I have but two. If you can take me for that, and my waistcoat, or this silk handkerchief, do. If you can’t, leave it alone.’

‘Short and sweet,’ remarked the driver.

‘You want more?’ said Martin. ‘Then I haven’t got more, and I can’t get it, so there’s an end of that.’ Whereupon he began to whistle again.

‘I didn’t say I wanted more, did I?’ asked the driver, with something like indignation.

‘You didn’t say my offer was enough,’ rejoined Martin.

‘Why, how could I, when you wouldn’t let me? In regard to the waistcoat, I wouldn’t have a man’s waistcoat, much less a gentleman’s waistcoat, on my mind, for no consideration; but the silk handkerchief’s another thing; and if you was satisfied when we got to Hounslow, I shouldn’t object to that as a gift.’

‘Is it a bargain, then?’ said Martin.

‘Yes, it is,’ returned the other.

‘Then finish this beer,’ said Martin, handing him the mug, and pulling on his coat with great alacrity; ‘and let us be off as soon as you like.’

In two minutes more he had paid his bill, which amounted to a shilling; was lying at full length on a truss of straw, high and dry at the top of the van, with the tilt a little open in front for the convenience of talking to his new friend; and was moving along in the right direction with a most satisfactory and encouraging briskness.

The driver’s name, as he soon informed Martin, was William Simmons, better known as Bill; and his spruce appearance was sufficiently explained by his connection with a large stage-coaching establishment at Hounslow, whither he was conveying his load from a farm belonging to the concern in Wiltshire. He was frequently up and down the road on such errands, he said, and to look after the sick and rest horses, of which animals he had much to relate that occupied a long time in the telling. He aspired to the dignity of the regular box, and expected an appointment on the first vacancy. He was musical besides, and had a little key-bugle in his pocket, on which, whenever the conversation flagged, he played the first part of a great many tunes, and regularly broke down in the second.

‘Ah!’ said Bill, with a sigh, as he drew the back of his hand across his lips, and put this instrument in his pocket, after screwing off the mouth-piece to drain it; ‘Lummy Ned of the Light Salisbury, HE was the one for musical talents. He WAS a guard. What you may call a Guard’an Angel, was Ned.’

‘Is he dead?’ asked Martin.

‘Dead!’ replied the other, with a contemptuous emphasis. ‘Not he. You won’t catch Ned a-dying easy. No, no. He knows better than that.’

‘You spoke of him in the past tense,’ observed Martin, ‘so I supposed he was no more.

‘He’s no more in England,’ said Bill, ‘if that’s what you mean. He went to the U-nited States.’

‘Did he?’ asked Martin, with sudden interest. ‘When?’

‘Five year ago, or then about,’ said Bill. ‘He had set up in the public line here, and couldn’t meet his engagements, so he cut off to Liverpool one day, without saying anything about it, and went and shipped himself for the U-nited States.’

‘Well?’ said Martin.

‘Well! as he landed there without a penny to bless himself with, of course they wos very glad to see him in the U-nited States.’

Egli aveva ripetuto questo processo più volte, sempre nello stesso ordine, come se fosse una questione di necessità. Quando il rumore delle ruote attirò la sua attenzione verso la finestra, che non era nella sua posizione abituale, vide un carro coperto da sacchi di mais e paglia, trainato da quattro cavalli. Il conducente, che era sicuramente solo, si fermò alla porta per far bere l’acqua ai cavalli; poco dopo entrò nella stanza dove sedeva Martin, battendo i piedi per scuotere via l’acqua dal cappello e dal mantello.

Era un giovane robusto con il viso rosso; intelligente a suo modo, e dal volto cordiale. Mentre si avvicinava al fuoco, toccò la propria fronte lucida con l’indice del guanto di pelle rigido, come segno di saluto; e disse (piuttosto inutilmente) che era una giornata insolitamente umida.

“Molto bagnato,” disse Martin.

“Non credo di aver mai visto niente di più umido, ”

“Non ne ho mai provata nessuna,” disse Martin.

Il conducente lanciò un’occhiata al vestito sporco di Martin, alle maniche della camicia bagnate, e al suo cappotto appeso ad asciugare; dopo una pausa, mentre si scaldava le mani, disse:

“È stato lei ad essere coinvolto in questa situazione, signore?”

“Sì,” fu la breve risposta.

“Forse potremmo andare a fare un giro in carrozza, ”, disse il conducente.

“Avrei dovuto farlo, se avessi posseduto un cavallo; ma non ne ho uno,” rispose Martin.

“È grave,” disse il conducente.

“E potrebbe anche essere peggio,” disse Martin.

Ora il conducente disse: “Questo è grave”, non tanto perché Martin non possedesse un cavallo, ma perché lo disse con tutta la disperazione e l’irresponsabilità del suo umore e delle circostanze in cui si trovava, quindi lasciava molto spazio alle interpretazioni. Martin mise le mani in tasca e fischiò dopo aver risposto al conducente; in questo modo gli fece capire che non gli importava affatto di Fortune; che non aveva alcuna intenzione di fingere di essere il suo favorito quando non lo era; e che, in definitiva, le stava dando del filo da torcere, a lei, al conducente e a tutti gli altri.

Il conducente lo osservò di nascosto per un minuto o più; e durante le pause, continuava anche a fischiare. Alla fine, indicando con il pollice la strada, gli chiese qualcosa.

“Su o giù?”

“Quale è quella in alto?” disse Martin.

“‘Londra, naturalmente’, disse il conducente.”

“Allora, andiamo,” disse Martin. Poi scosse la testa con noncuranza, come se volesse aggiungere: “Ora sai tutto.” Infilò le mani più profondamente nelle tasche, cambiò tono e iniziò a fischiare più forte.

“Sto andando verso l’alto,” osservò il conducente; “Hounslow, dieci miglia da questa parte di Londra.”

“Sei davvero tu?”, gridò Martin, fermandosi di colpo e guardandolo.

Il conducente spruzzò l’fuoco con il suo cappello bagnato, finché non iniziò di nuovo a sibilare e rispose: “Sì, sicuramente lo era.”

“Allora,” disse Martin, “sarò franco con voi. Potreste pensare, dal mio abbigliamento, che abbia denaro in abbondanza. Ma non è vero. Tutto ciò che posso permettermi per noleggiare una carrozza è una corona, perché ne ho soltanto due. Se siete disposti ad accettarmi per questa somma, insieme al mio gilet o a questo fazzoletto di seta, bene. Altrimenti, lasciatemi stare.”

“Breve e dolce,” commentò il conducente.

“Vuoi ancora di più?” disse Martin. “Allora non ne ho più, e non posso procurarmene, quindi basta così.” Detto ciò, iniziò di nuovo a suonare il flauto.

“Non ho detto che volessi di più, vero?” chiese il conducente, con un tono quasi offeso.

“Non hai detto che la mia offerta fosse sufficiente,” ribatté Martin.

“Perché, come potrei farlo, se tu non me lo permettevi? Per quanto riguarda il gilet. Non avrei mai pensato di prendere un gilet da uomo, figuriamoci uno da gentiluomo, per nessuna ragione; ma il fazzoletto di seta è un’altra cosa. E se fossi stata soddisfatta quando siamo arrivati a Hounslow, non avrei obiettato affatto che me lo regalassi.”

“Allora, è davvero un affare vantaggioso?” disse Martin.

“Sì, lo è,” rispose l’altro.

“Allora finisci questa birra,” disse Martin, porgendogli la tazza e infilando il cappotto con grande fretta; “e possiamo partire non appena vuoi.”

In altri due minuti aveva pagato il suo conto, che ammontava a un scellino; giaceva disteso su un mucchio di paglia, al sicuro e asciutto in cima al furgone, con la parte anteriore leggermente aperta per facilitare la conversazione con il suo nuovo amico; e si stava muovendo nella direzione giusta con una velocità davvero soddisfacente e incoraggiante.

Il nome del conducente, come presto comunicò a Martin, era William Simmons, meglio conosciuto come Bill; il suo aspetto curato si spiegava facilmente grazie al suo legame con un’importante compagnia di trasporto su carrozza a Hounslow, dove portava i carichi provenienti da una fattoria appartenente alla stessa società nel Wiltshire. Diceva che spesso viaggiava avanti e indietro lungo quella strada per svolgere tali compiti, nonché per prendersi cura dei cavalli malati e farli riposare; aveva molte cose da raccontare a proposito di questi animali, e il racconto richiese molto tempo. Aspirava alla dignità di un posto fisso nella compagnia e si aspettava di essere assunto non appena si fosse liberato un posto. Inoltre era anche musicista: aveva sempre con sé una piccola tromba a chiavi nel taschino, e ogni volta che la conversazione languiva, suonava il primo movimento di molte canzoni, per poi interrompersi regolarmente al secondo movimento.

“Ah!” disse Bill, sospirando, mentre si passava il dorso della mano sulle labbra e metteva quell’oggetto in tasca, dopo aver smontato la parte destinata alla bocca per svuotarlo; “Lummy Ned di Light Salisbury. Lui era davvero dotato musicalmente. Era una guardia. Si potrebbe dire che fosse un ‘Angelo tra le guardie’, Ned.”

“È morto?” chiese Martin.

“Morto!” rispose l’altro, con un tono di disprezzo. “Non lui. Non riuscirete mai a far morire Ned facilmente. No, lui lo sa bene.”

“Hai parlato di lui al passato”, osservò Martin, “quindi ho pensato che non fosse più vivo”.

“Non è più in Inghilterra,” disse Bill, “se è questo che intendi. È andato negli Stati Uniti.”

“Davvero?” chiese Martin, improvvisamente interessato. “Quando?”

“Circa cinque anni fa,” disse Bill, “si era stabilito qui, sulla linea pubblica, ma non riusciva a rispettare gli appuntamenti previsti; così un giorno partì per Liverpool senza dire nulla e si imbarcò per gli Stati Uniti.”

“‘Bene?’” disse Martin.

‘Beh!’ Quando atterrò lì senza nemmeno un centesimo, ovviamente furono molto felici di vederlo negli Stati Uniti.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Martin, with some scorn.

‘What do I mean?’ said Bill. ‘Why, THAT. All men are alike in the U-nited States, an’t they? It makes no odds whether a man has a thousand pound, or nothing, there. Particular in New York, I’m told, where Ned landed.’

‘New York, was it?’ asked Martin, thoughtfully.

‘Yes,’ said Bill. ‘New York. I know that, because he sent word home that it brought Old York to his mind, quite vivid, in consequence of being so exactly unlike it in every respect. I don’t understand what particular business Ned turned his mind to, when he got there; but he wrote home that him and his friends was always a-singing, Ale Columbia, and blowing up the President, so I suppose it was something in the public line; or free-and-easy way again. Anyhow, he made his fortune.’

‘No!’ cried Martin.

‘Yes, he did,’ said Bill. ‘I know that, because he lost it all the day after, in six-and-twenty banks as broke. He settled a lot of the notes on his father, when it was ascertained that they was really stopped and sent ‘em over with a dutiful letter. I know that, because they was shown down our yard for the old gentleman’s benefit, that he might treat himself with tobacco in the workus.’

‘He was a foolish fellow not to take care of his money when he had it,’ said Martin, indignantly.

‘There you’re right,’ said Bill, ‘especially as it was all in paper, and he might have took care of it so very easy, by folding it up in a small parcel.’

Martin said nothing in reply, but soon afterwards fell asleep, and remained so for an hour or more. When he awoke, finding it had ceased to rain, he took his seat beside the driver, and asked him several questions; as how long had the fortunate guard of the Light Salisbury been in crossing the Atlantic; at what time of the year had he sailed; what was the name of the ship in which he made the voyage; how much had he paid for passage-money; did he suffer greatly from sea-sickness? and so forth. But on these points of detail his friend was possessed of little or no information; either answering obviously at random or acknowledging that he had never heard, or had forgotten; nor, although he returned to the charge very often, could he obtain any useful intelligence on these essential particulars.

They jogged on all day, and stopped so often—now to refresh, now to change their team of horses, now to exchange or bring away a set of harness, now on one point of business, and now upon another, connected with the coaching on that line of road—that it was midnight when they reached Hounslow. A little short of the stables for which the van was bound, Martin got down, paid his crown, and forced his silk handkerchief upon his honest friend, notwithstanding the many protestations that he didn’t wish to deprive him of it, with which he tried to give the lie to his longing looks. That done, they parted company; and when the van had driven into its own yard and the gates were closed, Martin stood in the dark street, with a pretty strong sense of being shut out, alone, upon the dreary world, without the key of it.

But in this moment of despondency, and often afterwards, the recollection of Mr Pecksniff operated as a cordial to him; awakening in his breast an indignation that was very wholesome in nerving him to obstinate endurance. Under the influence of this fiery dram he started off for London without more ado. Arriving there in the middle of the night, and not knowing where to find a tavern open, he was fain to stroll about the streets and market-places until morning.

He found himself, about an hour before dawn, in the humbler regions of the Adelphi; and addressing himself to a man in a fur-cap, who was taking down the shutters of an obscure public-house, informed him that he was a stranger, and inquired if he could have a bed there. It happened by good luck that he could. Though none of the gaudiest, it was tolerably clean, and Martin felt very glad and grateful when he crept into it, for warmth, rest, and forgetfulness.

It was quite late in the afternoon when he awoke; and by the time he had washed and dressed, and broken his fast, it was growing dusk again. This was all the better, for it was now a matter of absolute necessity that he should part with his watch to some obliging pawn-broker. He would have waited until after dark for this purpose, though it had been the longest day in the year, and he had begun it without a breakfast.

He passed more Golden Balls than all the jugglers in Europe have juggled with, in the course of their united performances, before he could determine in favour of any particular shop where those symbols were displayed. In the end he came back to one of the first he had seen, and entering by a side-door in a court, where the three balls, with the legend ‘Money Lent,’ were repeated in a ghastly transparency, passed into one of a series of little closets, or private boxes, erected for the accommodation of the more bashful and uninitiated customers. He bolted himself in; pulled out his watch; and laid it on the counter.

‘Upon my life and soul!’ said a low voice in the next box to the shopman who was in treaty with him, ‘you must make it more; you must make it a trifle more, you must indeed! You must dispense with one half-quarter of an ounce in weighing out your pound of flesh, my best of friends, and make it two-and-six.’

Martin drew back involuntarily, for he knew the voice at once.

‘You’re always full of your chaff,’ said the shopman, rolling up the article (which looked like a shirt) quite as a matter of course, and nibbing his pen upon the counter.

‘I shall never be full of my wheat,’ said Mr Tigg, ‘as long as I come here. Ha, ha! Not bad! Make it two-and-six, my dear friend, positively for this occasion only. Half-a-crown is a delightful coin. Two-and-six. Going at two-and-six! For the last time at two-and-six!’

“Cosa intendi dire?”, chiese Martin con un certo disprezzo.

“Cosa intendo?” disse Bill. “Beh, quello. Tutti gli uomini negli Stati Uniti sono uguali, no? Non fa differenza se uno ha mille sterline o nulla; soprattutto a New York, mi hanno detto, dove è sbarcato Ned.”

“‘New York’, giusto?”, chiese Martin, pensieroso.

“Sì,” disse Bill. “New York. Lo so perché ha mandato notizie a casa, dicendo che quel posto gli aveva riportato alla mente l’immagine di Old York in modo molto vivido, proprio perché era completamente diverso da esso sotto ogni aspetto. Non capisco esattamente quale fosse la sua occupazione quando è arrivato là; ma ha scritto a casa dicendo che lui e i suoi amici passavano il tempo cantando ‘Ale Columbia’ e criticando il Presidente. Quindi immagino che si trattasse di qualcosa legato alla vita pubblica, o semplicemente di divertimenti. Comunque sia, è riuscito a fare fortuna.”

“No!” gridò Martin.

“Sì, l’ha fatto,” disse Bill. “Lo so perché il giorno dopo perse tutto: ventisei banche si trovarono improvvisamente senza fondi. Risolse molti di quei titoli a nome di suo padre, quando si verificò che erano davvero invalidi; li inviò insieme a una lettera piena di rispetto. Lo so perché quei documenti furono portati nel cortile di casa nostra per il bene del vecchio signore, affinché potesse permettersi del tabacco durante il lavoro.”

“Era davvero un idiota a non curarsi dei suoi soldi quando li aveva,” disse Martin, indignato.

“Hai ragione,” disse Bill, “soprattutto perché tutto era scritto su carta, e avrebbe potuto sistemare la questione molto facilmente, semplicemente ripiegandola in un piccolo pacchetto.”

Martin non disse nulla in risposta, ma poco dopo si addormentò e rimase così per un’ora o più. Quando si svegliò, vedendo che la pioggia era cessata, prese posto accanto al conducente e gli pose diverse domande: da quanto tempo il fortunato guardiano della Luce di Salisbury stava attraversando l’Atlantico; a quale ora dell’anno aveva iniziato il viaggio; qual era il nome della nave su cui aveva navigato; quanta aveva pagato per il passaggio; soffriva molto di mal di mare, e così via. Ma su questi dettagli il suo amico possedeva poche o nessuna informazione: rispondeva in modo apparentemente casuale, oppure ammetteva di non aver mai sentito parlare di quelle cose, o di essersene dimenticato; e nonostante ripetesse spesso le domande, non riusciva ad ottenere alcuna informazione utile su questi aspetti fondamentali.

Corsero per tutto il giorno, fermandosi spesso: ora per rinfrescarsi, ora per cambiare i cavalli, ora per scambiare o prendere un insieme di finimenti, ora per una questione legata alla guida lungo quella strada. Arrivarono a Hounslow a mezzanotte. Poco prima delle stalle verso cui era diretta la carrozza, Martin scese, pagò il suo prezzo e diede il proprio fazzoletto di seta al suo onesto amico, nonostante le sue ripetute proteste che non voleva privarlo di esso. Fatto ciò, si separarono. Quando la carrozza entrò nel cortile e i cancelli si chiusero, Martin rimase fermo nella strada buia, con la netta sensazione di essere stato escluso da tutto, solo, in questo mondo desolato, senza alcuna “chiave” per comprenderlo o entrarvi.

Ma in questo momento di disperazione, e spesso anche dopo, il ricordo di Mr Pecksniff agiva su di lui come un tonico; suscitava nel suo petto un’indignazione che era molto benefica, aiutandolo a mantenere una tenace resistenza. Sotto l’influenza di questo sentimento appassionato, partì senza indugi per Londra. Arrivato là a mezzanotte, non sapendo dove trovare una taverna aperta, dovette passeggiare per le strade e nei mercati fino all’alba.

Si trovò, circa un’ora prima dell’‘alba, nelle zone più umili di Adelphi; e rivolgendosi a un uomo con un cappello di pelliccia che stava abbassando le persiane di una modesta locanda pubblica, gli spiegò di essere uno straniero e chiese se potesse trovare lì un posto dove dormire. Per fortuna, gli fu possibile. Anche se non era il più confortevole, era abbastanza pulito, e Martin si sentì molto felice e grato quando vi si infilò per godersi calore, riposo e dimenticanza.

Era già molto tardi nel pomeriggio quando si svegliò; e quando finì di lavarsi, vestirsi e fare colazione, stava già calando la sera. Questo era anzi meglio, perché ormai era assolutamente necessario che consegnasse l’orologio a qualche sollecito usuraio. Avrebbe potuto aspettare fino al buio per farlo, anche se quella era la giornata più lunga dell’anno e aveva iniziato la giornata senza colazione.

Ne passò più di quante tutti i giocolieri d’Europa avessero mai fatto roteare durante le loro esibizioni congiunte, prima di riuscire a decidere quale negozio mostrasse quei simboli. Alla fine tornò in uno dei primi che aveva visto; entrando da una porta laterale in un courtyard, vide le tre palle, accompagnate dalla scritta “Denaro prestato”, riflettersi in modo stranamente trasparente. Entrò quindi in una serie di piccoli locali o cabine private, allestite per i clienti più timidi o meno informati. Si chiuse dentro, tirò fuori l’orologio e lo posò sul bancone.

“Per la mia vita e la mia ‘anima!” disse una voce bassa nella scatola accanto a quella del negoziante, che aveva un accordo con lui. “Devi aumentare la quantità; devi aggiungere qualcosa in più, davvero! Devi eliminare mezzo quarto di oncia dalla dose di carne da pesare, una libbra intera, mio carissimo amico, e farne due e sei once.”

Martin indietreggiò involontariamente, perché riconobbe immediatamente quella voce.

“Sei sempre pieno di sciocchezze,” disse il negoziante, arrotolando l’articolo (che sembrava una camicia) con estrema naturalezza e mordicchiando la penna sul bancone.

“Non sarò mai sazio del mio grano,” disse il signor Tigg, “finché verrò qui. Ahah! Niente male! Facciamo due e sei, caro amico, solo per questa occasione. Mezza corona è davvero una moneta deliziosa. Due e sei. L’ultima volta è stato anche a due e sei!”

‘It’ll never be the last time till it’s quite worn out,’ rejoined the shopman. ‘It’s grown yellow in the service as it is.’

‘Its master has grown yellow in the service, if you mean that, my friend,’ said Mr Tigg; ‘in the patriotic service of an ungrateful country. You are making it two-and-six, I think?’

‘I’m making it,’ returned the shopman, ‘what it always has been—two shillings. Same name as usual, I suppose?’

‘Still the same name,’ said Mr Tigg; ‘my claim to the dormant peerage not being yet established by the House of Lords.’

‘The old address?’

‘Not at all,’ said Mr Tigg; ‘I have removed my town establishment from thirty-eight, Mayfair, to number fifteen-hundred-and-forty-two, Park Lane.’

‘Come, I’m not going to put down that, you know,’ said the shopman with a grin.

‘You may put down what you please, my friend,’ quoth Mr Tigg. ‘The fact is still the same. The apartments for the under-butler and the fifth footman being of a most confounded low and vulgar kind at thirty-eight, Mayfair, I have been compelled, in my regard for the feelings which do them so much honour, to take on lease for seven, fourteen, or twenty-one years, renewable at the option of the tenant, the elegant and commodious family mansion, number fifteen-hundred-and-forty-two Park Lane. Make it two-and-six, and come and see me!’

The shopman was so highly entertained by this piece of humour that Mr Tigg himself could not repress some little show of exultation. It vented itself, in part, in a desire to see how the occupant of the next box received his pleasantry; to ascertain which he glanced round the partition, and immediately, by the gaslight, recognized Martin.

‘I wish I may die,’ said Mr Tigg, stretching out his body so far that his head was as much in Martin’s little cell as Martin’s own head was, ‘but this is one of the most tremendous meetings in Ancient or Modern History! How are you? What is the news from the agricultural districts? How are our friends the P.’s? Ha, ha! David, pay particular attention to this gentleman immediately, as a friend of mine, I beg.’

‘Here! Please to give me the most you can for this,’ said Martin, handing the watch to the shopman. ‘I want money sorely.’

‘He wants money, sorely!’ cried Mr Tigg with excessive sympathy. ‘David, will you have the goodness to do your very utmost for my friend, who wants money sorely. You will deal with my friend as if he were myself. A gold hunting-watch, David, engine-turned, capped and jewelled in four holes, escape movement, horizontal lever, and warranted to perform correctly, upon my personal reputation, who have observed it narrowly for many years, under the most trying circumstances’—here he winked at Martin, that he might understand this recommendation would have an immense effect upon the shopman; ‘what do you say, David, to my friend? Be very particular to deserve my custom and recommendation, David.’

‘I can lend you three pounds on this, if you like’ said the shopman to Martin, confidentially. ‘It is very old-fashioned. I couldn’t say more.’

‘And devilish handsome, too,’ cried Mr Tigg. ‘Two-twelve-six for the watch, and seven-and-six for personal regard. I am gratified; it may be weakness, but I am. Three pounds will do. We take it. The name of my friend is Smivey: Chicken Smivey, of Holborn, twenty-six-and-a-half B: lodger.’ Here he winked at Martin again, to apprise him that all the forms and ceremonies prescribed by law were now complied with, and nothing remained but the receipt for the money.

In point of fact, this proved to be the case, for Martin, who had no resource but to take what was offered him, signified his acquiescence by a nod of his head, and presently came out with the cash in his pocket. He was joined in the entry by Mr Tigg, who warmly congratulated him, as he took his arm and accompanied him into the street, on the successful issue of the negotiation.

‘As for my part in the same,’ said Mr Tigg, ‘don’t mention it. Don’t compliment me, for I can’t bear it!’

‘I have no such intention, I assure you,’ retorted Martin, releasing his arm and stopping.

‘You oblige me very much’ said Mr Tigg. ‘Thank you.’

‘Now, sir,’ observed Martin, biting his lip, ‘this is a large town, and we can easily find different ways in it. If you will show me which is your way, I will take another.’

Mr Tigg was about to speak, but Martin interposed:

‘I need scarcely tell you, after what you have just seen, that I have nothing to bestow upon your friend Mr Slyme. And it is quite as unnecessary for me to tell you that I don’t desire the honour of your company.’

‘Stop’ cried Mr Tigg, holding out his hand. ‘Hold! There is a most remarkably long-headed, flowing-bearded, and patriarchal proverb, which observes that it is the duty of a man to be just before he is generous. Be just now, and you can be generous presently. Do not confuse me with the man Slyme. Do not distinguish the man Slyme as a friend of mine, for he is no such thing. I have been compelled, sir, to abandon the party whom you call Slyme. I have no knowledge of the party whom you call Slyme. I am, sir,’ said Mr Tigg, striking himself upon the breast, ‘a premium tulip, of a very different growth and cultivation from the cabbage Slyme, sir.’

‘It matters very little to me,’ said Martin coolly, ‘whether you have set up as a vagabond on your own account, or are still trading on behalf of Mr Slyme. I wish to hold no correspondence with you. In the devil’s name, man’ said Martin, scarcely able, despite his vexation, to repress a smile as Mr Tigg stood leaning his back against the shutters of a shop window, adjusting his hair with great composure, ‘will you go one way or other?’

‘You will allow me to remind you, sir,’ said Mr Tigg, with sudden dignity, ‘that you—not I—that you—I say emphatically, YOU—have reduced the proceedings of this evening to a cold and distant matter of business, when I was disposed to place them on a friendly footing. It being made a matter of business, sir, I beg to say that I expect a trifle (which I shall bestow in charity) as commission upon the pecuniary advance, in which I have rendered you my humble services. After the terms in which you have addressed me, sir,’ concluded Mr Tigg, ‘you will not insult me, if you please, by offering more than half-a-crown.’

“Non sarà mai l’ultima volta che si uscirà fino a quando non sarà completamente logoro,” ribatté il negoziante. “È già diventato giallo a causa dell’uso frequente.”

“Il suo padrone è diventato ‘giallo’ nel corso di questo servizio, se intendi dire questo, mio amico,” disse il signor Tigg; “nel servizio patriottico di una nazione ingrata. Stai facendo due più sei, credo, ”

“Ce la farò,” rispose il negoziante, “come sempre: due scellini. Lo stesso nome di sempre, immagino, ”

“Lo stesso nome ancora,” disse il signor Tigg; “la mia rivendicazione al titolo nobiliare non è stata ancora confermata dalla >Casa dei Lord.”

“L’antica indirizzo?”

“Assolutamente no,” disse il signor Tigg; “ho trasferito la mia attività commerciale da 38, Mayfair, al numero 1542 di Park Lane.”

“Ma no, non intendo certo metterlo giù, sai,” disse il negoziante con un sorriso.

“Puoi scrivere quello che vuoi, amico mio,” disse il signor Tigg. “Il fatto rimane lo stesso: gli appartamenti riservati all’aiutante di cucina e al quinto valletto sono di una qualità davvero molto bassa e volgare. Pertanto, per rispetto verso i sentimenti che questi ruoli suscitano in me – sentimenti che li rendono davvero degni di onore – ho dovuto affittarli per sette, quattordici o ventuno anni, rinnovabili a scelta dell’inquilino. Si tratta della elegante e comoda residenza numero 1542 di Park Lane. Fai duecentosessanta sterline e vieni a trovarmi!”

Il negoziante fu così divertito da questo pezzo di umorismo che nemmeno il signor Tigg riuscì a trattenere un certo entusiasmo. Questo entusiasmo si manifestò, in parte, nel desiderio di vedere come avrebbe reagito la persona che si trovava nella cabina accanto; voleva scoprire se avrebbe guardato intorno e, alla luce della lampada a gas, riconoscere immediatamente Martin.

“Vorrei poter morire,” disse il signor Tigg, allungando il proprio -corpo tanto che la sua testa si trovava nella stessa cella di Martin quanto quella di Martin stesso, “ma questa è davvero una delle più straordinarie riunioni della storia antica o moderna! Come stai? Quali novità ci sono dalle zone agricole? E i nostri amici, la famiglia P.? Ahah! David, presta particolare attenzione a questo signore, è un mio amico, te lo chiedo per favore.”

“Ecco! Per favore, date-mi il massimo che potete per questo,” disse Martin, porgendo l’orologio al negoziante. “Ho davvero bisogno di soldi.”

“Vuole soldi, disperatamente!” esclamò il signor Tigg con eccessiva compassione. “David, potresti fare del tuo meglio per mio amico, che ha davvero bisogno di soldi? Tratta mio amico come se fosse me stesso. Un orologio da caccia al tesoro, in oro, con movimento a carica automatica, cassa incastonata di pietre preziose in quattro fori, leva orizzontale. Garantito che funziona correttamente, sulla mia parola personale: l’ho osservato attentamente per molti anni, nelle circostanze più difficili, ” Qui fece l’occhiolino a Martin, per far capire che quella raccomandazione avrebbe avuto un enorme effetto sul negoziante, “Che ne dici, David? Fai del tuo meglio per meritare la mia fiducia e questa raccomandazione.”

“Posso prestarti tre sterline per questo, se vuoi,” disse il negoziante a Martin in tono confidenziale. “È molto vecchio stile. Non posso dire di più.”

“E anche di una bellezza demoniaca,” esclamò il signor Tigg. “Duecentoventisei per l’orologio, e sette e sei per i servizi personali. Sono soddisfatto; forse è debolezza da parte mia, ma lo sono davvero. Tre sterline andranno bene. Lo prendiamo. Il nome del mio amico è Smivey: Chicken Smivey, di Holborn, inquilino al numero ventisei e mezzo, ” Qui fece di nuovo l’occhiolino a Martin, per fargli capire che tutte le formalità previste dalla legge erano state rispettate, e non restava più nulla se non il ricevuto del denaro.

Infatti, così fu: Martin, non avendo altra scelta se non accettare ciò che gli veniva offerto, acconsentì con un cenno del capo e poco dopo uscì con i soldi in tasca. Lo accompagnò nell’uscita il signor Tigg, il quale lo congratulò calorosamente per il successo della negoziazione, prendendogli il braccio e guidandolo verso la strada.

“Per quanto riguarda la mia parte in tutto questo,” disse il signor Tigg, “non ne parlate nemmeno. Non fatemi complimenti, perché non lo sopporto!”

“Non ho alcuna intenzione del genere, vi assicuro,” ribatté Martin, liberando il suo braccio e fermandosi.

“Mi fate davvero un grande favore”, disse il signor Tigg. “Grazie.”

“Ora, signore,” osservò Martin, mordendosi il labbro, “questa è una città grande, e possiamo facilmente trovare strade diverse per arrivarci. Se mi mostrerete quale è la vostra strada, ne prenderò un’altra.”

Il signor Tigg stava per parlare, ma Martin intervenne prima che potesse farlo.

‘Dopo quello che avete appena visto, non c’è bisogno che vi dica che non ho nulla da offrire a vostro amico, il signor Slyme. E è altrettanto inutile che vi dichiari di non desiderare l’onore della vostra compagnia.’

“Fermatevi!” gridò il signor Tigg, tendendo la mano. “Aspettate! Esiste un proverbio molto lungo, con una barba fluente e un tono patriarcale, che afferma che sia dovere di un uomo essere giusto prima di essere generoso. Siate giusti ora, e potrete essere generosi in seguito. Non confondetemi con quell’uomo chiamato Slyme. Non consideratelo mio amico, perché non lo è affatto. Sono stato costretto, signore, ad abbandonare quella persona che voi chiamate Slyme. Non conosco nulla di quella persona. Io, signore,” disse il signor Tigg, battendosi il petto, “sono una tulipa di pregio, di una razza e di un’educazione completamente diverse da quelle del ‘cavolo’ chiamato Slyme, ”

“Per me non fa alcuna differenza,” disse Martin con calma, “se ti sei messo in viaggio da solo come vagabondo o se continui ancora a fare affari per conto del signor Slyme. Non desidero avere alcun rapporto con te. Per l’amor del cielo, ” disse Martin, a malapena riuscendo, nonostante la sua irritazione, a trattenere un sorriso, mentre il signor Tigg si appoggiava alle persiane di una vetrina, sistemandosi i capelli con grande tranquillità, “Vai pure da una parte o dall’altra, ”

“Le permetto di ricordarglielo, signore,” disse il signor Tigg con improvvisa dignità, “che è lei – non io – che ha trasformato le discussioni di stasera in una questione fredda e distaccata, quando io avevo intenzione di rendere l’atmosfera più cordiale. Poiché ora si tratta di una questione di affari, signore, le chiedo un piccolo compenso (che destinerò in carità) come ricompensa per l’aiuto finanziario che le ho fornito. Dopo il modo in cui mi ha parlato, signore,” concluse il signor Tigg, “non mi offenderà certo se offrirà meno di mezza >crown.”

Martin drew that piece of money from his pocket, and tossed it towards him. Mr Tigg caught it, looked at it to assure himself of its goodness, spun it in the air after the manner of a pieman, and buttoned it up. Finally, he raised his hat an inch or two from his head with a military air, and, after pausing a moment with deep gravity, as to decide in which direction he should go, and to what Earl or Marquis among his friends he should give the preference in his next call, stuck his hands in his skirt-pockets and swaggered round the corner. Martin took the directly opposite course; and so, to his great content, they parted company.

It was with a bitter sense of humiliation that he cursed, again and again, the mischance of having encountered this man in the pawnbroker’s shop. The only comfort he had in the recollection was, Mr Tigg’s voluntary avowal of a separation between himself and Slyme, that would at least prevent his circumstances (so Martin argued) from being known to any member of his family, the bare possibility of which filled him with shame and wounded pride. Abstractedly there was greater reason, perhaps, for supposing any declaration of Mr Tigg’s to be false, than for attaching the least credence to it; but remembering the terms on which the intimacy between that gentleman and his bosom friend had subsisted, and the strong probability of Mr Tigg’s having established an independent business of his own on Mr Slyme’s connection, it had a reasonable appearance of probability; at all events, Martin hoped so; and that went a long way.

His first step, now that he had a supply of ready money for his present necessities, was, to retain his bed at the public-house until further notice, and to write a formal note to Tom Pinch (for he knew Pecksniff would see it) requesting to have his clothes forwarded to London by coach, with a direction to be left at the office until called for. These measures taken, he passed the interval before the box arrived—three days—in making inquiries relative to American vessels, at the offices of various shipping-agents in the city; and in lingering about the docks and wharves, with the faint hope of stumbling upon some engagement for the voyage, as clerk or supercargo, or custodian of something or somebody, which would enable him to procure a free passage. But finding, soon, that no such means of employment were likely to present themselves, and dreading the consequences of delay, he drew up a short advertisement, stating what he wanted, and inserted it in the leading newspapers. Pending the receipt of the twenty or thirty answers which he vaguely expected, he reduced his wardrobe to the narrowest limits consistent with decent respectability, and carried the overplus at different times to the pawnbroker’s shop, for conversion into money.

And it was strange, very strange, even to himself, to find how, by quick though almost imperceptible degrees, he lost his delicacy and self-respect, and gradually came to do that as a matter of course, without the least compunction, which but a few short days before had galled him to the quick. The first time he visited the pawnbroker’s, he felt on his way there as if every person whom he passed suspected whither he was going; and on his way back again, as if the whole human tide he stemmed, knew well where he had come from. When did he care to think of their discernment now! In his first wanderings up and down the weary streets, he counterfeited the walk of one who had an object in his view; but soon there came upon him the sauntering, slipshod gait of listless idleness, and the lounging at street-corners, and plucking and biting of stray bits of straw, and strolling up and down the same place, and looking into the same shop-windows, with a miserable indifference, fifty times a day. At first, he came out from his lodging with an uneasy sense of being observed—even by those chance passers-by, on whom he had never looked before, and hundreds to one would never see again—issuing in the morning from a public-house; but now, in his comings-out and goings-in he did not mind to lounge about the door, or to stand sunning himself in careless thought beside the wooden stem, studded from head to heel with pegs, on which the beer-pots dangled like so many boughs upon a pewter-tree. And yet it took but five weeks to reach the lowest round of this tall ladder!

Oh, moralists, who treat of happiness and self-respect, innate in every sphere of life, and shedding light on every grain of dust in God’s highway, so smooth below your carriage-wheels, so rough beneath the tread of naked feet, bethink yourselves in looking on the swift descent of men who HAVE lived in their own esteem, that there are scores of thousands breathing now, and breathing thick with painful toil, who in that high respect have never lived at all, nor had a chance of life! Go ye, who rest so placidly upon the sacred Bard who had been young, and when he strung his harp was old, and had never seen the righteous forsaken, or his seed begging their bread; go, Teachers of content and honest pride, into the mine, the mill, the forge, the squalid depths of deepest ignorance, and uttermost abyss of man’s neglect, and say can any hopeful plant spring up in air so foul that it extinguishes the soul’s bright torch as fast as it is kindled! And, oh! ye Pharisees of the nineteen hundredth year of Christian Knowledge, who soundingly appeal to human nature, see that it be human first. Take heed it has not been transformed, during your slumber and the sleep of generations, into the nature of the Beasts!

Five weeks! Of all the twenty or thirty answers, not one had come. His money—even the additional stock he had raised from the disposal of his spare clothes (and that was not much, for clothes, though dear to buy, are cheap to pawn)—was fast diminishing. Yet what could he do? At times an agony came over him in which he darted forth again, though he was but newly home, and, returning to some place where he had been already twenty times, made some new attempt to gain his end, but always unsuccessfully. He was years and years too old for a cabin-boy, and years upon years too inexperienced to be accepted as a common seaman. His dress and manner, too, militated fatally against any such proposal as the latter; and yet he was reduced to making it; for even if he could have contemplated the being set down in America totally without money, he had not enough left now for a steerage passage and the poorest provisions upon the voyage.

Martin tirò fuori quel pezzo di denaro dalla tasca e lo gettò verso di lui. Il signor Tigg lo afferrò, lo esaminò per assicurarsi che fosse autentico, lo fece girare in aria come fanno i mimi e poi se lo infilò nella tasca. Infine, sollevò il cappello di un paio di centimetri con fare militare, rimase fermo per un momento con aria molto seria, come se stesse decidendo in quale direzione andare o a quale conte o marchese tra i suoi amici dare la precedenza nella sua prossima visita, poi mise le mani nelle tasche dei pantaloni e si allontanò con passo deciso. Martin prese la direzione opposta; e così, per suo grande sollievo, si separarono.

Con un amaro senso di umiliazione, malediceva ancora e ancora la sfortuna di aver incontrato quell’uomo nel negozio dell’usuraio. L’unica consolazione che trovava in quel ricordo era il fatto che il signor Tigg avesse volontariamente ammesso l’esistenza di una separazione tra lui e Slyme; questo, almeno, avrebbe impedito che le sue condizioni finanziarie venissero conosciute da alcun membro della sua famiglia, un’eventualità che lo riempiva di vergogna e feriva il suo orgoglio. In teoria, ci sarebbero state molte più ragioni per ritenere falsa qualsiasi dichiarazione del signor Tigg piuttosto che darle credito; ma ricordando le circostanze in cui si era sviluppata quella relazione tra quel gentiluomo e il suo caro amico, nonché la forte probabilità che il signor Tigg avesse avviato una propria attività indipendente grazie alle connessioni di Slyme, quelle dichiarazioni sembravano avere un certo fondamento di veridicità. Comunque fosse, Martin lo sperava, e questo contava molto per lui.

Il suo primo passo, ora che disponeva di denaro contante per le sue esigenze immediate, fu quello di mantenere la sua stanza presso l’ostello pubblico fino a nuove istruzioni, e di scrivere una lettera formale a Tom Pinch (poiché sapeva che Pecksniff l’avrebbe letta) chiedendo che i suoi vestiti venissero inviati a Londra in carrozza, con l’ordine di lasciarli presso l’ufficio fino al suo arrivo. Dopo aver preso queste misure, trascorse i tre giorni precedenti l’arrivo della nave esaminando informazioni riguardanti le navi americane presso gli uffici di diversi agenti marittimi della città; inoltre passeggiava spesso nei porti e nelle banchine, con la vaga speranza di trovare qualche opportunità di lavoro che gli permettesse di ottenere un passaggio gratuito. Tuttavia, constatando presto che nessuna tale opportunità si presentava e temendo le conseguenze del ritardo, redasse un breve annuncio in cui descriveva ciò di cui aveva bisogno e lo pubblicò nei principali giornali. Nel frattempo, aspettando le risposte che sperava di ricevere – circa venti o trenta – ridusse il proprio guardaroba al minimo indispensabile per mantenere un’apparenza decente, e portò via i vestiti in eccesso presso il pegniatore per convertirli in denaro.

E fu strano, molto strano, persino per lui stesso, scoprire come, attraverso gradazioni rapide ma quasi impercettibili, avesse perso la propria delicatezza e il proprio rispetto di sé, arrivando gradualmente a fare quelle cose come se fossero del tutto naturali, senza il minimo rimorso. Quando mai, solo pochi giorni prima, tali comportamenti lo avevano profondamente offeso! La prima volta che andò dal pegniere, mentre vi si recava, gli sembrava che ognuno che incrociava sospettasse dove stesse andando; al ritorno, invece, gli pareva che tutta la folla intorno a lui sapesse perfettamente da dove provenisse. Ora, perché mai avrebbe dovuto preoccuparsi del loro giudizio? Nei suoi primi vagabondaggi per le strade polverose, imitava l’andatura di chi aveva uno scopo preciso; ma presto assunse l’aria svogliata e indolente di chi non ha nulla da fare, iniziò a fermarsi agli angoli delle strade, a mordicchiare pezzetti di paglia, a passeggiare sempre nello stesso posto, a guardare sempre negli stessi negozi, con una distacco disperato, cinquanta volte al giorno. All’inizio, usciva dal suo alloggio con la sensazione sgradevole di essere osservato, anche da quei passanti casuali che prima non aveva mai degnato di uno sguardo, e che probabilmente non avrebbe mai più rivisto. Ma ora, quando entrava o usciva, non si curava nemmeno di stare davanti alla porta, né di mettersi al sole accanto a quel palo di legno pieno di ganci su cui pendevano le bottiglie di birra. Eppure bastarono soltanto cinque settimane per raggiungere il gradino più basso di quella “alta scala”.

Oh, moralisti, che parlate di felicità e di rispetto di sé, qualità innate in ogni ambito della vita e che illuminano ogni dettaglio del cammino tracciato da Dio. Cammino così liscio sotto le ruote delle vostre carrozze, ma così accidentato sotto i passi dei piedi nudi. Pensate un po’ a coloro che hanno vissuto nella loro stessa considerazione di sé: ci sono decine di migliaia di persone che oggi respirano, ma lo fanno con grande fatica e dolore; quelle persone, infatti, non hanno mai conosciuto il vero rispetto di sé, né hanno avuto nemmeno la possibilità di viverlo! Andate voi, che riposate così serenamente sulle spalle del sacro Poeta. Il quale, quando suonava l’arpa, era già vecchio; eppure non ha mai visto i giusti abbandonati, né i loro discendenti mendicare il pane. Andate voi, Insegnanti di contentezza e onesto orgoglio, nelle miniere, nei mulini, nelle fucine. Nelle profondità più squallide dell’ignoranza, negli abissi più oscuri dell’abbandono umano. E dite: può davvero germogliare qualche speranza in un ambiente così corrotto, da estinguere rapidamente la luminosa “torcia” dell’anima non appena viene accesa? Oh, voi Farisei del diciannovesimo secolo della conoscenza cristiana. Che invocate con forza la natura umana. Ricordatevi che essa deve prima di tutto rimanere umana. Fate attenzione: durante il vostro sonno e quello delle generazioni passate, non è forse trasformata nella “natura” degli animali.

Cinque settimane! Di tutte le venti o trenta risposte ricevute, nessuna era arrivata. I suoi soldi, persino la somma aggiuntiva ottenuta vendendo i suoi vestiti di scorta (e non era molto, poiché i vestiti, sebbene costosi da comprare, sono economici da impegnare) stavano rapidamente diminuendo. Eppure, cosa poteva fare? A volte lo assaliva un’angoscia tale che usciva di nuovo, anche se era appena tornato a casa, e ritornava in luoghi dove aveva già provato venti volte, tentando ancora una volta di raggiungere il suo scopo, ma sempre senza successo. Era troppo vecchio per fare il cameriere di bordo, e troppo inesperto per essere assunto come semplice marinaio. Anche il suo aspetto e i suoi modi erano decisamente controindicati per una simile opportunità; eppure non gli restava altra scelta, perché anche se avesse potuto accettare l’idea di arrivare in America senza un soldo, ormai non gli rimaneva abbastanza denaro nemmeno per un viaggio in terza classe e le provviste più semplici.

It is an illustration of a very common tendency in the mind of man, that all this time he never once doubted, one may almost say the certainty of doing great things in the New World, if he could only get there. In proportion as he became more and more dejected by his present circumstances, and the means of gaining America receded from his grasp, the more he fretted himself with the conviction that that was the only place in which he could hope to achieve any high end, and worried his brain with the thought that men going there in the meanwhile might anticipate him in the attainment of those objects which were dearest to his heart. He often thought of John Westlock, and besides looking out for him on all occasions, actually walked about London for three days together for the express purpose of meeting with him. But although he failed in this; and although he would not have scrupled to borrow money of him; and although he believed that John would have lent it; yet still he could not bring his mind to write to Pinch and inquire where he was to be found. For although, as we have seen, he was fond of Tom after his own fashion, he could not endure the thought (feeling so superior to Tom) of making him the stepping-stone to his fortune, or being anything to him but a patron; and his pride so revolted from the idea that it restrained him even now.

It might have yielded, however; and no doubt must have yielded soon, but for a very strange and unlooked-for occurrence.

The five weeks had quite run out, and he was in a truly desperate plight, when one evening, having just returned to his lodging, and being in the act of lighting his candle at the gas jet in the bar before stalking moodily upstairs to his own room, his landlord called him by his name. Now as he had never told it to the man, but had scrupulously kept it to himself, he was not a little startled by this; and so plainly showed his agitation that the landlord, to reassure him, said ‘it was only a letter.’

‘A letter!’ cried Martin.

‘For Mr Martin Chuzzlewit,’ said the landlord, reading the superscription of one he held in his hand. ‘Noon. Chief office. Paid.’

Martin took it from him, thanked him, and walked upstairs. It was not sealed, but pasted close; the handwriting was quite unknown to him. He opened it and found enclosed, without any name, address, or other inscription or explanation of any kind whatever, a Bank of England note for Twenty Pounds.

To say that he was perfectly stunned with astonishment and delight; that he looked again and again at the note and the wrapper; that he hurried below stairs to make quite certain that the note was a good note; and then hurried up again to satisfy himself for the fiftieth time that he had not overlooked some scrap of writing on the wrapper; that he exhausted and bewildered himself with conjectures; and could make nothing of it but that there the note was, and he was suddenly enriched; would be only to relate so many matters of course to no purpose. The final upshot of the business at that time was, that he resolved to treat himself to a comfortable but frugal meal in his own chamber; and having ordered a fire to be kindled, went out to purchase it forthwith.

He bought some cold beef, and ham, and French bread, and butter, and came back with his pockets pretty heavily laden. It was somewhat of a damping circumstance to find the room full of smoke, which was attributable to two causes; firstly, to the flue being naturally vicious and a smoker; and secondly, to their having forgotten, in lighting the fire, an odd sack or two and some trifles, which had been put up the chimney to keep the rain out. They had already remedied this oversight, however; and propped up the window-sash with a bundle of firewood to keep it open; so that except in being rather inflammatory to the eyes and choking to the lungs, the apartment was quite comfortable.

Martin was in no vein to quarrel with it, if it had been in less tolerable order, especially when a gleaming pint of porter was set upon the table, and the servant-girl withdrew, bearing with her particular instructions relative to the production of something hot when he should ring the bell. The cold meat being wrapped in a playbill, Martin laid the cloth by spreading that document on the little round table with the print downwards, and arranging the collation upon it. The foot of the bed, which was very close to the fire, answered for a sideboard; and when he had completed these preparations, he squeezed an old arm-chair into the warmest corner, and sat down to enjoy himself.

He had begun to eat with great appetite, glancing round the room meanwhile with a triumphant anticipation of quitting it for ever on the morrow, when his attention was arrested by a stealthy footstep on the stairs, and presently by a knock at his chamber door, which, although it was a gentle knock enough, communicated such a start to the bundle of firewood, that it instantly leaped out of window, and plunged into the street.

‘More coals, I suppose,’ said Martin. ‘Come in!’

‘It an’t a liberty, sir, though it seems so,’ rejoined a man’s voice. ‘Your servant, sir. Hope you’re pretty well, sir.’

Martin stared at the face that was bowing in the doorway, perfectly remembering the features and expression, but quite forgetting to whom they belonged.

‘Tapley, sir,’ said his visitor. ‘Him as formerly lived at the Dragon, sir, and was forced to leave in consequence of a want of jollity, sir.’

‘To be sure!’ cried Martin. ‘Why, how did you come here?’

‘Right through the passage, and up the stairs, sir,’ said Mark.

‘How did you find me out, I mean?’ asked Martin.

‘Why, sir,’ said Mark, ‘I’ve passed you once or twice in the street, if I’m not mistaken; and when I was a-looking in at the beef-and-ham shop just now, along with a hungry sweep, as was very much calculated to make a man jolly, sir—I see you a-buying that.’

È un esempio di una tendenza molto comune nell’animo umano: per tutto quel tempo, non ebbe mai il minimo dubbio, si potrebbe quasi dire, sulla certezza di riuscire a compiere grandi imprese nel Nuovo Mondo, se solo avesse potuto raggiungerlo. Tuttavia, più si sentiva scoraggiato dalle sue circostanze attuali e più i mezzi per ottenere America gli sfuggivano di mano, più si tormentava con l’idea che quel fosse l’unico luogo in cui potesse sperare di realizzare i suoi obiettivi più ambiziosi. Spesso pensava a John Westlock: non solo lo cercava in ogni occasione, ma addirittura percorse tre giorni interi a Londra con l’intento esclusivo di incontrarlo. Tuttavia, nonostante fallì nel suo tentativo, nonostante non avrebbe esitato a chiedergli in prestito del denaro e fosse convinto che John glielo avrebbe prestato, non riuscì mai a decidersi a scrivere a Pinch per chiedergli dove si trovasse. Perché, sebbene amasse Tom a suo modo, non poteva sopportare l’idea (sentendosi così superiore a lui) di usarlo come strumento per raggiungere la propria fortuna, o di essere per lui altro che un protettore. La sua orgoglio si ribellava con forza a tale pensiero.

Avrebbe potuto funzionare, comunque; e nessun >dubbio avrebbe dovuto sorgere presto, se non per un evento molto strano e inaspettato.

Le cinque settimane erano ormai quasi trascorse, e si trovava in una situazione davvero disperata, quando una sera, appena rientrato nel suo alloggio e mentre accendeva la candela vicino alla fiamma del gas nel bar, prima di salire malinconicamente al proprio piano, il proprietario lo chiamò per nome. Poiché non glielo aveva mai detto e se l’era tenuto rigorosamente per sé, rimase piuttosto sorpreso; la sua agitazione era così evidente che il proprietario, per rassicurarlo, disse: “È solo una lettera.”

“Una lettera!” esclamò Martin.

“Per il signor Martin Chuzzlewit”, disse il padrone di casa leggendo l’intestazione di una lettera che teneva in mano. “Mezzogiorno. Ufficio principale. Pagato.”

Martin glielo prese, gli ringraziò e salì al piano di sopra. Non era sigillato, ma le pagine erano ben attaccate tra loro; la scrittura gli risultava del tutto sconosciuta. Lo aprì e trovò all’interno, senza alcun nome, indirizzo o qualsiasi altro tipo di iscrizione o spiegazione, un biglietto della Banca d’Inghilterra da venti sterline.

Dire che fosse completamente sbalordito dall’ammirazione e dalla gioia; che guardasse ancora e ancora la lettera e il foglietto di carta in cui era avvolta; che corresse giù per le scale per assicurarsi che si trattasse davvero di una lettera importante; e poi tornò su di corsa, per la cinquantesima volta, per verificare che non avesse tralasciato alcun frammento di scrittura sul foglietto. Significherebbe semplicemente raccontare tante cose ovvie senza alcuno scopo. L’esito finale, in quel momento, fu che decise di concedersi un pasto confortevole ma frugale nella sua stanza; ordinò quindi di accendere il fuoco e uscì immediatamente per andare a comprare il cibo necessario.

Comprò del manzo freddo, della carne di maiale, del pane francese, del burro, e tornò con le tasche piene zepe. Fu un po’ sconcertante trovare la stanza piena di fumo, il quale aveva due cause principali: innanzitutto, il camino era naturalmente poco efficiente, e inoltre c’era qualcuno che fumava; in secondo luogo, avevano dimenticato di rimuovere un paio di sacchi e alcune altre cose che avevano messo nel camino per tenere fuori la pioggia. Tuttavia, avevano già corretto questo errore: avevano appoggiato le persiane della finestra con un mucchio di legna da ardere per tenerle aperte; quindi, a parte il fumo che poteva irritare gli occhi e soffocare i polmoni, l’appartamento era abbastanza confortevole.

Martin non aveva affatto voglia di litigare con quella situazione; soprattutto quando c’era una pinta di birra pronta sul tavolo e la serva se n’era andata, lasciandogli precise istruzioni su come preparare qualcosa di caldo non appena avesse suonato il campanello. La carne fredda, avvolta in un cartellone teatrale, fu disposta sul piccolo tavolo rotondo con la stampa rivolta verso il basso. Il piede del letto, che si trovava molto vicino al focolare, fungeva da comodino; una volta completati questi preparativi, Martin sistemò un vecchio divano nell’angolo più caldo e si sedette per godersela.

Aveva iniziato a mangiare con grande appetito, guardandosi intorno nella stanza mentre si aspettava con trionfo di poterla lasciare per sempre il giorno dopo. Quando la sua attenzione fu attratta da un passo furtivo sulle scale, e poco dopo da un colpo alla porta della sua camera. Il colpo, sebbene delicato, fece sì che il mucchio di legna da ardere balzasse immediatamente fuori dalla finestra e finisse per strada.

“Altre braci, immagino. Entrate!” disse Martin.

“Non è certo una libertà, signore, anche se sembra tale,” rispose la voce di un uomo.
“A vostro servizio, signore. Spero che siate in buona salute.”

Martin fissava quel volto che si inchinava sulla soglia, ricordando perfettamente i tratti e l’espressione, ma dimenticando completamente a chi appartenessero.

“Tapley, signore,” disse il suo visitatore. “Quell’uomo che un tempo viveva al Dragon e fu costretto ad andarsene a causa della mancanza di allegria, ”

“Certamente!” esclamò Martin. “Ma come hai fatto ad arrivare qui?”

“Proprio attraverso il corridoio, poi su per le scale, signore,” disse Mark.

“Come hai fatto a scoprirlo, intendo?” chiese Martin.

“Perché, signore,” disse Mark, “vi ho incrociato un paio di volte per strada, se non mi sbaglio; e poco fa, mentre guardavo dentro quel negozio di carne e prosciutto, insieme a un senso di fame, che di certo può rendere una persona felice, vi ho visto comprare quella roba.”

Martin reddened as he pointed to the table, and said, somewhat hastily:

‘Well! What then?’

‘Why, then, sir,’ said Mark, ‘I made bold to foller; and as I told ‘em downstairs that you expected me, I was let up.’

‘Are you charged with any message, that you told them you were expected?’ inquired Martin.

‘No, sir, I an’t,’ said Mark. ‘That was what you may call a pious fraud, sir, that was.’

Martin cast an angry look at him; but there was something in the fellow’s merry face, and in his manner—which with all its cheerfulness was far from being obtrusive or familiar—that quite disarmed him. He had lived a solitary life too, for many weeks, and the voice was pleasant in his ear.

‘Tapley,’ he said, ‘I’ll deal openly with you. From all I can judge and from all I have heard of you through Pinch, you are not a likely kind of fellow to have been brought here by impertinent curiosity or any other offensive motive. Sit down. I’m glad to see you.’

‘Thankee, sir,’ said Mark. ‘I’d as lieve stand.’

‘If you don’t sit down,’ retorted Martin, ‘I’ll not talk to you.’

‘Very good, sir,’ observed Mark. ‘Your will’s a law, sir. Down it is;’ and he sat down accordingly upon the bedstead.

‘Help yourself,’ said Martin, handing him the only knife.

‘Thankee, sir,’ rejoined Mark. ‘After you’ve done.’

‘If you don’t take it now, you’ll not have any,’ said Martin.

‘Very good, sir,’ rejoined Mark. ‘That being your desire—now it is.’ With which reply he gravely helped himself and went on eating. Martin having done the like for a short time in silence, said abruptly:

‘What are you doing in London?’

‘Nothing at all, sir,’ rejoined Mark.

‘How’s that?’ asked Martin.

‘I want a place,’ said Mark.

‘I’m sorry for you,’ said Martin.

‘—To attend upon a single gentleman,’ resumed Mark. ‘If from the country the more desirable. Makeshifts would be preferred. Wages no object.’

He said this so pointedly, that Martin stopped in his eating, and said:

‘If you mean me—’

‘Yes, I do, sir,’ interposed Mark.

‘Then you may judge from my style of living here, of my means of keeping a man-servant. Besides, I am going to America immediately.’

‘Well, sir,’ returned Mark, quite unmoved by this intelligence ‘from all that ever I heard about it, I should say America is a very likely sort of place for me to be jolly in!’

Again Martin looked at him angrily; and again his anger melted away in spite of himself.

‘Lord bless you, sir,’ said Mark, ‘what is the use of us a-going round and round, and hiding behind the corner, and dodging up and down, when we can come straight to the point in six words? I’ve had my eye upon you any time this fortnight. I see well enough there’s a screw loose in your affairs. I know’d well enough the first time I see you down at the Dragon that it must be so, sooner or later. Now, sir here am I, without a sitiwation; without any want of wages for a year to come; for I saved up (I didn’t mean to do it, but I couldn’t help it) at the Dragon—here am I with a liking for what’s wentersome, and a liking for you, and a wish to come out strong under circumstances as would keep other men down; and will you take me, or will you leave me?’

‘How can I take you?’ cried Martin.

‘When I say take,’ rejoined Mark, ‘I mean will you let me go? and when I say will you let me go, I mean will you let me go along with you? for go I will, somehow or another. Now that you’ve said America, I see clear at once, that that’s the place for me to be jolly in. Therefore, if I don’t pay my own passage in the ship you go in, sir, I’ll pay my own passage in another. And mark my words, if I go alone it shall be, to carry out the principle, in the rottenest, craziest, leakingest tub of a wessel that a place can be got in for love or money. So if I’m lost upon the way, sir, there’ll be a drowned man at your door—and always a-knocking double knocks at it, too, or never trust me!’

‘This is mere folly,’ said Martin.

‘Very good, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘I’m glad to hear it, because if you don’t mean to let me go, you’ll be more comfortable, perhaps, on account of thinking so. Therefore I contradict no gentleman. But all I say is, that if I don’t emigrate to America in that case, in the beastliest old cockle-shell as goes out of port, I’m—’

‘You don’t mean what you say, I’m sure,’ said Martin.

‘Yes I do,’ cried Mark.

‘I tell you I know better,’ rejoined Martin.

‘Very good, sir,’ said Mark, with the same air of perfect satisfaction. ‘Let it stand that way at present, sir, and wait and see how it turns out. Why, love my heart alive! the only doubt I have is, whether there’s any credit in going with a gentleman like you, that’s as certain to make his way there as a gimlet is to go through soft deal.’

This was touching Martin on his weak point, and having him at a great advantage. He could not help thinking, either, what a brisk fellow this Mark was, and how great a change he had wrought in the atmosphere of the dismal little room already.

‘Why, certainly, Mark,’ he said, ‘I have hopes of doing well there, or I shouldn’t go. I may have the qualifications for doing well, perhaps.’

‘Of course you have, sir,’ returned Mark Tapley. ‘Everybody knows that.’

‘You see,’ said Martin, leaning his chin upon his hand, and looking at the fire, ‘ornamental architecture applied to domestic purposes, can hardly fail to be in great request in that country; for men are constantly changing their residences there, and moving further off; and it’s clear they must have houses to live in.’

‘I should say, sir,’ observed Mark, ‘that that’s a state of things as opens one of the jolliest look-outs for domestic architecture that ever I heerd tell on.’

Martin glanced at him hastily, not feeling quite free from a suspicion that this remark implied a doubt of the successful issue of his plans. But Mr Tapley was eating the boiled beef and bread with such entire good faith and singleness of purpose expressed in his visage that he could not but be satisfied. Another doubt arose in his mind however, as this one disappeared. He produced the blank cover in which the note had been enclosed, and fixing his eyes on Mark as he put it in his hands, said:

“Martin arrossì mentre indicava il tavolo e disse, in modo piuttosto affrettato, ”

‘Beh! E allora?’

“Allora, signore,” disse Mark, “ho avuto il coraggio di seguirvi; e poiché ho detto loro al piano di sotto che vi aspettavo, mi hanno lasciato salire.”

“Sei stato incaricato di portare qualche messaggio? Hanno detto che ti aspettavano?” chiese Martin.

“No, signore, non lo sono,” disse Mark. “Quello che avete fatto era una sorta di frode devota, signore, proprio così.”

Martin gli lanciò uno sguardo arrabbiato; ma c’era qualcosa nel viso allegro di quell’uomo, e nel suo modo di comportarsi – nonostante tutta la sua allegria, lontano dall’essere invadente o familiare – che lo disarmò completamente. Anche lui aveva vissuto una vita solitaria per molte settimane, e quella voce gli suonava piacevole all’orecchio.

“Tapley,” disse, “parlerò con te apertamente. Da tutto ciò che ho potuto giudicare e da quanto ho sentito dire di te attraverso Pinch, non sembri il tipo di persona che possa essere stata portata qui per curiosità impertinente o per qualche altro motivo offensivo. Siediti. Mi fa piacere vederti.”

“Grazie mille, signore,” disse Mark. “Preferisco restare in piedi.”

“Se non ti siedi,” ribatté Martin, “non parlerò con te.”

“Molto bene, signore,” osservò Mark. “La vostra volontà è legge, signore. Ecco fatto.” Poi si sedette sul letto.

“Prendi pure quello che vuoi,” disse Martin, porgendogli l’unico coltello disponibile.

“Grazie, signore,” rispose Mark. “Dopo che avrà finito.”

“Se non la prendi ora, non ne avrai più,” disse Martin.

“Molto bene, signore,” rispose Mark. “Poiché questa è la sua desiderio, ora lo è davvero.”
Dopo aver detto questo, continuò a mangiare con calma. Dopo che Martin aveva fatto lo stesso in silenzio per un po’, disse improvvisamente:

“Cosa stai facendo a Londra?”

“Assolutamente nulla, signore,” rispose Mark.

“Come va?” chiese Martin.

“Voglio un posto,” disse Mark.

“Mi dispiace per te,” disse Martin.

“–Per servire un solo gentiluomo,” continuò Mark. “Preferibilmente proveniente dalla campagna. Qualsiasi tipo di lavoro andrebbe bene; lo stipendio non è un problema.”

Lo disse in modo così diretto che Martin smise di mangiare e disse:

“Se ti riferisci a me, ”

“Sì, signore,” intervenne Mark.

“Allora potete giudicare dal mio stile di vita qui, dai mezzi che uso per mantenere un servitore. Inoltre, sto per partire immediatamente per l’America.”

“Beh, signore,” rispose Mark, del tutto indifferente a queste informazioni. “Da tutto ciò che ho mai sentito al riguardo, direi che America è senz’altro un posto molto adatto per divertirmi!”

Di nuovo Martin lo guardò con rabbia; ma ancora una volta la sua rabbia svanì, nonostante se ne desiderasse il contrario.

“Che il Signore vi benedica, signore,” disse Mark, “di che utilità è che noi andiamo avanti e indietro, ci nascondiamo dietro gli angoli, ci muoviamo in modo furtivo, quando possiamo arrivare direttamente al punto con soltanto sei parole? Da quando vi ho visto la prima volta in questa quindicina di giorni, ho notato che c’è qualcosa che non va nelle vostre faccende. La prima volta che vi ho incontrato al Dragon, ho capito subito che questo sarebbe successo, prima o poi. Ora, eccomi qui: senza un lavoro, senza alcun reddito per l’intero prossimo anno, perché ho risparmiato (non volevo farlo, ma non sono riuscito a evitarlo) al Dragon. E ora ho una passione per le cose difficili, ho simpatia per voi, e desidero uscire indenne da situazioni che di solito manderebbero altri uomini al fallimento. Allora, mi prenderete con voi, o mi lascerete andare?”

“Come posso portarti con me?” gridò Martin.

“Quando dico ‘vieni con me’,” ribatté Mark, “intendo dire che mi permetterai di andare? E quando dico ‘mi permetterai di andare’, intendo dire che mi permetterai di accompagnarti. Perché andrò comunque, in un modo o nell’altro. Ora che hai menzionato l’America, ho capito subito che è il posto giusto per me. Quindi, se non pago io stesso la mia tariffa di viaggio sull’navica su cui viaggerai tu, signore, pagherò con i miei soldi un’altra nave. E ascolta bene: se andrò da solo, lo farò per attuare questo principio, anche a bordo della nave più vecchia, più malandata e più traboccante che esista, pur di raggiungere quel posto per amore o denaro. Quindi, se mi perderò lungo la strada, signore, ci sarà un uomo annegato alla tua porta, e busserà sempre, due volte, anzi, non fidarti mai di me!”

“È solo follia,” disse Martin.

“Molto bene, signore,” rispose Mark. “Sono felice di sentirlo, perché se non avete intenzione di lasciarmi andare, forse vi sentirete più a vostro agio pensandolo così. Quindi non contraddico nessun gentiluomo. Ma tutto ciò che dico è che, in tal caso, se non emigro in America, nella peggiore e più vecchia nave che esista, allora io sono, ”

“Non intendi davvero quello che dici, ne sono sicuro,” disse Martin.

“Sì, lo faccio,” gridò Mark.

“Vi dico che so meglio,” ribatté Martin.

“Molto bene, signore,” disse Mark, con lo stesso tono di perfetta soddisfazione. “Per ora lasciamo le cose così e vediamo come andranno a finire. Oh, mio caro cuore. L’unica cosa che mi preoccupa è se seguire un gentiluomo come voi possa davvero portare a qualche risultato concreto, o se non sia semplicemente come usare uno strumento affilato su materiale morbido: sicuramente funziona, ma non necessariamente porta a qualcosa di significativo.”

Questo colpì Martin nel suo punto debole, dando a lui un grande vantaggio. Non poteva fare a meno di pensare anche quanto fosse vivace questo Mark, e quanto grande fosse il cambiamento che aveva già apportato nell’atmosfera di quella triste stanzetta.

“Certo, Mark,” disse, “ho delle speranze di riuscire bene lì, altrimenti non andrei. Forse ho le qualifiche necessarie per farcela.”

“Certo che sì, signore,” rispose Mark Tapley. “Tutti lo sanno.”

“Vedi,” disse Martin, appoggiando il mento sulla mano e guardando il fuoco, “l’architettura ornamentale applicata a scopi residenziali difficilmente può non essere molto richiesta in quel paese; infatti, le persone lì cambiano costantemente residenza, spostandosi sempre più lontano, e è evidente che abbiano bisogno di case in cui vivere.”

“Devo dire, signore,” osservò Mark, “che questa situazione offre una delle prospettive più interessanti sull’architettura domestica di cui abbia mai sentito parlare.”

Martin lo guardò rapidamente, sentendosi ancora pervadere da un sospetto: quel commento poteva implicare una dubbio riguardo al successo dei suoi piani. Ma il signor Tapley mangiava la carne cotta e il pane con tale fiducia e determinazione, che non poté fare a meno di sentirsi soddisfatto. Tuttavia, non appena quel primo dubbio svanì, ne emerse un altro: estrasse la copertina bianca in cui era stata inserita la nota e, porgendola a Mark, disse:

‘Now tell me the truth. Do you know anything about that?’

Mark turned it over and over; held it near his eyes; held it away from him at arm’s length; held it with the superscription upwards and with the superscription downwards; and shook his head with such a genuine expression of astonishment at being asked the question, that Martin said, as he took it from him again:

‘No, I see you don’t. How should you! Though, indeed, your knowing about it would not be more extraordinary than its being here. Come, Tapley,’ he added, after a moment’s thought, ‘I’ll trust you with my history, such as it is, and then you’ll see more clearly what sort of fortunes you would link yourself to, if you followed me.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Mark; ‘but afore you enter upon it will you take me if I choose to go? Will you turn off me—Mark Tapley—formerly of the Blue Dragon, as can be well recommended by Mr Pinch, and as wants a gentleman of your strength of mind to look up to; or will you, in climbing the ladder as you’re certain to get to the top of, take me along with you at a respectful distance? Now, sir,’ said Mark, ‘it’s of very little importance to you, I know, there’s the difficulty; but it’s of very great importance to me, and will you be so good as to consider of it?’

If this were meant as a second appeal to Martin’s weak side, founded on his observation of the effect of the first, Mr Tapley was a skillful and shrewd observer. Whether an intentional or an accidental shot, it hit the mark fully for Martin, relenting more and more, said with a condescension which was inexpressibly delicious to him, after his recent humiliation:

‘We’ll see about it, Tapley. You shall tell me in what disposition you find yourself to-morrow.’

‘Then, sir,’ said Mark, rubbing his hands, ‘the job’s done. Go on, sir, if you please. I’m all attention.’

Throwing himself back in his arm-chair, and looking at the fire, with now and then a glance at Mark, who at such times nodded his head sagely, to express his profound interest and attention. Martin ran over the chief points in his history, to the same effect as he had related them, weeks before, to Mr Pinch. But he adapted them, according to the best of his judgment, to Mr Tapley’s comprehension; and with that view made as light of his love affair as he could, and referred to it in very few words. But here he reckoned without his host; for Mark’s interest was keenest in this part of the business, and prompted him to ask sundry questions in relation to it; for which he apologised as one in some measure privileged to do so, from having seen (as Martin explained to him) the young lady at the Blue Dragon.

‘And a young lady as any gentleman ought to feel more proud of being in love with,’ said Mark, energetically, ‘don’t draw breath.’

‘Aye! You saw her when she was not happy,’ said Martin, gazing at the fire again. ‘If you had seen her in the old times, indeed—’

‘Why, she certainly was a little down-hearted, sir, and something paler in her colour than I could have wished,’ said Mark, ‘but none the worse in her looks for that. I think she seemed better, sir, after she come to London.’

Martin withdrew his eyes from the fire; stared at Mark as if he thought he had suddenly gone mad; and asked him what he meant.

‘No offence intended, sir,’ urged Mark. ‘I don’t mean to say she was any the happier without you; but I thought she was a-looking better, sir.’

‘Do you mean to tell me she has been in London?’ asked Martin, rising hurriedly, and pushing back his chair.

‘Of course I do,’ said Mark, rising too, in great amazement from the bedstead.

‘Do you mean to tell me she is in London now?’

‘Most likely, sir. I mean to say she was a week ago.’

‘And you know where?’

‘Yes!’ cried Mark. ‘What! Don’t you?’

‘My good fellow!’ exclaimed Martin, clutching him by both arms, ‘I have never seen her since I left my grandfather’s house.’

‘Why, then!’ cried Mark, giving the little table such a blow with his clenched fist that the slices of beef and ham danced upon it, while all his features seemed, with delight, to be going up into his forehead, and never coming back again any more, ‘if I an’t your nat’ral born servant, hired by Fate, there an’t such a thing in natur’ as a Blue Dragon. What! when I was a-rambling up and down a old churchyard in the City, getting myself into a jolly state, didn’t I see your grandfather a-toddling to and fro for pretty nigh a mortal hour! Didn’t I watch him into Todgers’s commercial boarding-house, and watch him out, and watch him home to his hotel, and go and tell him as his was the service for my money, and I had said so, afore I left the Dragon! Wasn’t the young lady a-sitting with him then, and didn’t she fall a-laughing in a manner as was beautiful to see! Didn’t your grandfather say, “Come back again next week,” and didn’t I go next week; and didn’t he say that he couldn’t make up his mind to trust nobody no more; and therefore wouldn’t engage me, but at the same time stood something to drink as was handsome! Why,’ cried Mr Tapley, with a comical mixture of delight and chagrin, ‘where’s the credit of a man’s being jolly under such circumstances! Who could help it, when things come about like this!’

For some moments Martin stood gazing at him, as if he really doubted the evidence of his senses, and could not believe that Mark stood there, in the body, before him. At length he asked him whether, if the young lady were still in London, he thought he could contrive to deliver a letter to her secretly.

‘Do I think I can?’ cried Mark. ‘THINK I can? Here, sit down, sir. Write it out, sir!’

With that he cleared the table by the summary process of tilting everything upon it into the fireplace; snatched some writing materials from the mantel-shelf; set Martin’s chair before them; forced him down into it; dipped a pen into the ink; and put it in his hand.

‘Cut away, sir!’ cried Mark. ‘Make it strong, sir. Let it be wery pinted, sir. Do I think so? I should think so. Go to work, sir!’

Martin required no further adjuration, but went to work at a great rate; while Mr Tapley, installing himself without any more formalities into the functions of his valet and general attendant, divested himself of his coat, and went on to clear the fireplace and arrange the room; talking to himself in a low voice the whole time.

‘Jolly sort of lodgings,’ said Mark, rubbing his nose with the knob at the end of the fire-shovel, and looking round the poor chamber; ‘that’s a comfort. The rain’s come through the roof too. That an’t bad. A lively old bedstead, I’ll be bound; popilated by lots of wampires, no doubt. Come! my spirits is a-getting up again. An uncommon ragged nightcap this. A very good sign. We shall do yet! Here, Jane, my dear,’ calling down the stairs, ‘bring up that there hot tumbler for my master as was a-mixing when I come in. That’s right, sir,’ to Martin. ‘Go at it as if you meant it, sir. Be very tender, sir, if you please. You can’t make it too strong, sir!’

“Ora dimmi la verità. Sai qualcosa al riguardo?”

Mark lo girò più e più volte; lo avvicinò agli occhi; lo allontanò tenendolo a distanza di braccio; lo tenne con la didascalia rivolta verso l’alto e poi con la didascalia rivolta verso il basso; scosse la testa con un’espressione così genuina di stupore per quella domanda, che Martin disse, mentre glielo riprendeva:

“No, vedo che non capisci. Come potresti anche! Del resto, il fatto che tu ne sia a conoscenza non sarebbe affatto più straordinario del suo trovarsi qui. Vieni, Tapley,” aggiunse dopo un momento di riflessione, “ti confiderò la mia storia, così com’è, e allora capirai meglio a quali fortune ti esporresti se mi seguissero.”

“Perdonatemi, signore,” disse Mark; “ma prima di iniziare, mi prendereste con voi se decidessi di accompagnarvi? Mi respingereste. Mark Tapley, un tempo del Blue Dragon, come può testimoniare il signor Pinch, e che ha bisogno di un gentiluomo con la vostra forza d’animo al proprio fianco; oppure, mentre salite quella scala verso la vetta, mi permetterete di seguirvi a una distanza rispettabile? Ora, signore,” continuò Mark, “so che per voi questa questione non ha molta importanza, ma per me è di vitale importanza. Vi prego, consideratela.”

Se ciò doveva rappresentare un secondo tentativo di colpire il punto debole di Martin, basato sull’osservazione degli effetti del primo approccio, allora il signor Tapley era davvero un osservatore abile e astuto. Che si trattasse di un attacco intenzionale o casuale, aveva colpito perfettamente il bersaglio per Martin: dopo l’umiliazione recente, questi si sentiva sempre più sopraffatto da una sensazione di sottomissione che, per lui, era indescrivibilmente piacevole.

“Ne parleremo più tardi, Tapley. Mi dirai domani in quale stato d’animo ti troverai.”

“Allora, signore,” disse Mark strofinandosi le mani, “il lavoro è finito. Proseguite pure, per favore; sono tutto orecchie.”

Ritirandosi nuovamente nella sua poltrona e fissando il fuoco, di tanto in tanto gettava uno sguardo su Mark, che in quei momenti annuiva saggiamente per esprimere il suo profondo interesse e attenzione. Martin ripassò i punti principali della sua storia, con lo stesso effetto che aveva ottenuto raccontandola settimane prima al signor Pinch. Tuttavia, li adattò, secondo il miglior giudizio possibile, alla comprensione del signor Tapley; per questo motivo minimizzò al massimo l’importanza della sua storia d’amore, menzionandola solo brevemente. Ma in questo si sbagliava: Mark era infatti particolarmente interessato a questa parte del racconto e gli pose diverse domande al riguardo; per le quali si scusò, sostenendo di avere una certa privilegiata conoscenza della giovane signora, avendola vista (come Martin gli spiegò) al Blue Dragon.

“E una giovane signora di cui qualsiasi gentiluomo dovrebbe sentirsi particolarmente orgoglioso di essere innamorato, ”, disse Mark con entusiasmo, “non fiatare.”

“Sì! L’avete vista quando non era felice,” disse Martin, guardando di nuovo il fuoco. “Se l’aveste vista ai tempi passati, davvero, ”

“Beh, sicuramente era un po’ depressa, signore, e il suo colorito era più pallido di quanto avrei desiderato,” disse Mark, “ma per questo non era affatto meno attraente. Credo che dopo essere arrivata a Londra sembrasse anche meglio, signore.”

Martin distolse lo sguardo dal fuoco; fissò Mark come se pensasse che fosse improvvisamente impazzito; e gli chiese cosa intendesse.

“Non intendo offendervi, signore,” insistette Mark. “Non voglio dire che fosse più felice senza di voi; ma mi sembrava che stesse meglio, signore.”

“Vuoi dire che è stata a Londra?”, chiese Martin alzandosi di scatto e spingendo indietro la sedia.

“Certo che sì,” disse Mark, alzandosi a sua volta, estremamente sorpreso, dal letto.

“Vuoi dire che adesso si trova a Londra?”

“Probabilmente sì, signore. Voglio dire, era una settimana fa.”

“E sai dove?”

“Sì!” esclamò Mark. “Cosa? Anche tu no?”

“Mio caro amico!”, esclamò Martin, afferrandolo per entrambe le braccia, “Non l’ho più vista da quando ho lasciato la casa di mio nonno”.

“Ma allora!” esclamò Mark, dando al piccolo tavolo un colpo così forte con il pugno chiuso che le fette di manzo e prosciutto iniziarono a danzare sopra di esso; tutti i suoi tratti del viso sembravano, per l’emozione, spingersi verso la fronte, e non tornarci mai più. “Se non sono il tuo servo naturale, assunto dal Destino stesso, allora non esiste davvero nulla al mondo come un Drago Azzurro! Che cosa? Quando vagavo su e giù per un vecchio cimitero in città, riducendomi in uno stato pietoso, non ho forse visto tuo nonno muoversi avanti e indietro per quasi un’ora intera? Non l’ho visto entrare nella scuola di materna di Todgers, uscire di nuovo, tornare al suo hotel, e non gli ho detto che era stato lui ad occuparsi dei miei affari, proprio come avevo promesso prima di lasciare il Drago Azzurro? Non c’era anche quella giovane signorina con lui, e non ha riso in modo così bello da vedere? Tuo nonno non mi ha forse detto ‘Torna la prossima settimana’? E io ci sono tornato davvero. Lui non voleva più fidarsi di nessuno, quindi non mi ha assunto, ma allo stesso tempo mi ha offerto qualcosa da bere, molto generosamente! Ma insomma, ” gridò il signor Tapley, con un misto comico di gioia e delusione, “dove va a finire la reputazione di una persona che riesce ad essere felice in situazioni del genere? Chi potrebbe evitarlo, quando le cose succedono proprio così?”

Per alcuni momenti Martin rimase fermo a guardarlo, come se davvero dubitasse delle prove fornite dai suoi sensi, e non riuscisse a credere che Mark fosse lì, nel suo -corpo, davanti a lui. Alla fine gli chiese se, qualora la giovane signorina fosse ancora a Londra, avrebbe potuto trovare un modo per consegnarle una lettera in segreto.

“Pensa davvero di poterci riuscire?” esclamò Mark. “Pensi davvero di poterlo fare? Ecco, si sieda, signore. Scriviamolo giù

Con quel gesto, sgombrò il tavolo rovesciando tutto ciò che c’era sopra nel caminetto; afferrò alcuni materiali da scrivere dall’armadietto sopra il camino; posizionò la sedia di Martin davanti a loro; lo costrinse a sedersi; intinse una penna nell’inchiostro e gliela mise in mano.

“Tagliate via, signore!” gridò Mark. “Fatelo forte, signore. Che sia ben dipinto, signore. Cosa ne penso? Penso di sì. Mettetevi all’opera, signore!”

A Martin non servivano ulteriori incoraggiamenti; iniziò immediatamente a lavorare con grande impegno. Intanto, il signor Tapley, senza ulteriori formalità, assunse le funzioni di valletto e assistente personale: si tolse il cappotto e iniziò a pulire la caminiera e ad arredare la stanza, parlando tra sé a bassa voce per tutto il tempo.

“Che strana sistemazione abitativa, ”, disse Mark, strofinandosi il naso con l’estremità della pala da fuoco e guardandosi intorno in quella misera stanza; “È davvero confortante. Anche la pioggia è entrata dal tetto. Ma non è poi così male. Quel letto sembra molto vecchio. Sicuramente è stato occupato da molti vampiri, senza dubbio. Ehi! Mi sto già sentendo meglio. Che strana coperta. Un ottimo segno. Ce la faremo! Ehi, Jane, cara, ”, chiamò giù per le scale, “portami su quella tazza di tè caldo che stava preparando il mio padrone quando sono entrato. Bene fatto, Martin. Procedi con impegno. E sii molto delicato, per favore. Non può essere troppo forte, ”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

IN WHICH MARTIN BIDS ADIEU TO THE LADY OF HIS LOVE; AND HONOURS AN OBSCURE INDIVIDUAL WHOSE FORTUNE HE INTENDS TO MAKE BY COMMENDING HER TO HIS PROTECTION

The letter being duly signed, sealed, and delivered, was handed to Mark Tapley, for immediate conveyance if possible. And he succeeded so well in his embassy as to be enabled to return that same night, just as the house was closing, with the welcome intelligence that he had sent it upstairs to the young lady, enclosed in a small manuscript of his own, purporting to contain his further petition to be engaged in Mr Chuzzlewit’s service; and that she had herself come down and told him, in great haste and agitation, that she would meet the gentleman at eight o’clock to-morrow morning in St. James’s Park. It was then agreed between the new master and the new man, that Mark should be in waiting near the hotel in good time, to escort the young lady to the place of appointment; and when they had parted for the night with this understanding, Martin took up his pen again; and before he went to bed wrote another letter, whereof more will be seen presently.

He was up before daybreak, and came upon the Park with the morning, which was clad in the least engaging of the three hundred and sixty-five dresses in the wardrobe of the year. It was raw, damp, dark, and dismal; the clouds were as muddy as the ground; and the short perspective of every street and avenue was closed up by the mist as by a filthy curtain.

‘Fine weather indeed,’ Martin bitterly soliloquised, ‘to be wandering up and down here in, like a thief! Fine weather indeed, for a meeting of lovers in the open air, and in a public walk! I need be departing, with all speed, for another country; for I have come to a pretty pass in this!’

He might perhaps have gone on to reflect that of all mornings in the year, it was not the best calculated for a young lady’s coming forth on such an errand, either. But he was stopped on the road to this reflection, if his thoughts tended that way, by her appearance at a short distance, on which he hurried forward to meet her. Her squire, Mr Tapley, at the same time fell discreetly back, and surveyed the fog above him with an appearance of attentive interest.

‘My dear Martin,’ said Mary.

‘My dear Mary,’ said Martin; and lovers are such a singular kind of people that this is all they did say just then, though Martin took her arm, and her hand too, and they paced up and down a short walk that was least exposed to observation, half-a-dozen times.

‘If you have changed at all, my love, since we parted,’ said Martin at length, as he looked upon her with a proud delight, ‘it is only to be more beautiful than ever!’

Had she been of the common metal of love-worn young ladies, she would have denied this in her most interesting manner; and would have told him that she knew she had become a perfect fright; or that she had wasted away with weeping and anxiety; or that she was dwindling gently into an early grave; or that her mental sufferings were unspeakable; or would, either by tears or words, or a mixture of both, have furnished him with some other information to that effect, and made him as miserable as possible. But she had been reared up in a sterner school than the minds of most young girls are formed in; she had had her nature strengthened by the hands of hard endurance and necessity; had come out from her young trials constant, self-denying, earnest, and devoted; had acquired in her maidenhood—whether happily in the end, for herself or him, is foreign to our present purpose to inquire—something of that nobler quality of gentle hearts which is developed often by the sorrows and struggles of matronly years, but often by their lessons only. Unspoiled, unpampered in her joys or griefs; with frank and full, and deep affection for the object of her early love; she saw in him one who for her sake was an outcast from his home and fortune, and she had no more idea of bestowing that love upon him in other than cheerful and sustaining words, full of high hope and grateful trustfulness, than she had of being unworthy of it, in her lightest thought or deed, for any base temptation that the world could offer.

‘What change is there in YOU, Martin,’ she replied; ‘for that concerns me nearest? You look more anxious and more thoughtful than you used.’

‘Why, as to that, my love,’ said Martin as he drew her waist within his arm, first looking round to see that there were no observers near, and beholding Mr Tapley more intent than ever on the fog; ‘it would be strange if I did not; for my life—especially of late—has been a hard one.’

‘I know it must have been,’ she answered. ‘When have I forgotten to think of it and you?’

‘Not often, I hope,’ said Martin. ‘Not often, I am sure. Not often, I have some right to expect, Mary; for I have undergone a great deal of vexation and privation, and I naturally look for that return, you know.’

‘A very, very poor return,’ she answered with a fainter smile. ‘But you have it, and will have it always. You have paid a dear price for a poor heart, Martin; but it is at least your own, and a true one.’

‘Of course I feel quite certain of that,’ said Martin, ‘or I shouldn’t have put myself in my present position. And don’t say a poor heart, Mary, for I say a rich one. Now, I am about to break a design to you, dearest, which will startle you at first, but which is undertaken for your sake. I am going,’ he added slowly, looking far into the deep wonder of her bright dark eyes, ‘abroad.’

‘Abroad, Martin!’

‘Only to America. See now. How you droop directly!’

‘If I do, or, I hope I may say, if I did,’ she answered, raising her head after a short silence, and looking once more into his face, ‘it was for grief to think of what you are resolved to undergo for me. I would not venture to dissuade you, Martin; but it is a long, long distance; there is a wide ocean to be crossed; illness and want are sad calamities in any place, but in a foreign country dreadful to endure. Have you thought of all this?’

CAPITOLO QUATTORDICESIMO

In cui Martin dice addio alla donna del suo amore; e onora una persona oscura la cui fortuna intende migliorare mettendola sotto la sua protezione.

La lettera, una volta debitamente firmata, sigillata e consegnata, fu data a Mark Tapley affinché la trasmettesse immediatamente, se possibile. Egli riuscì così bene nella sua missione che, quella stessa notte, proprio mentre la casa stava per chiudere, poté comunicare con soddisfazione che l’aveva fatta consegnare alla giovane signorina, insieme a un piccolo manoscritto suo contenente la sua ulteriore richiesta di essere assunto al servizio del signor Chuzzlewit; inoltre, lei stessa era scesa di corsa e gli aveva detto, con grande fretta e agitazione, che avrebbe incontrato il gentiluomo l’indomani mattina alle otto in St. James’s Park. Fu così concordato tra il nuovo padrone e il nuovo servitore che Mark dovesse attendere vicino all’hotel, in tempo, per scortare la giovane signorina al luogo dell’appuntamento; dopo essersi separati con questo accordo, Martin riprese a scrivere; prima di andare a letto, redasse un’altra lettera, della quale si parlerà più avanti.

Si alzò prima dell’alba e si recò nel parco all’arrivo della mattina, che indossava uno dei trecentosessantacinque abiti meno attraenti presenti nell’armadio dell’anno. Era freddo, umido, buio e desolato; le nuvole erano tanto fangose quanto il terreno; e la breve visuale di ogni strada e viale era oscurata dalla nebbia, come se fosse coperta da una lurida tenda.

“Che bel tempo davvero,” mormorò amaramente Martin tra sé, “per vagabondare su e giù qui, come un ladro! Che bel tempo davvero, per un incontro di innamorati all’aperto, in un luogo pubblico. Devo andarmene al più presto, verso un altro paese; perché sono davvero nei guai!”

Forse avrebbe potuto continuare a riflettere su come, tra tutte le mattine dell’anno, quella non fosse certo la più adatta per che una giovane signorina uscisse a svolgere un compito del genere. Ma prima che potesse arrivare a questa conclusione, il suo sguardo fu attirato da lei, che si trovava a poca distanza; così si affrettò ad andarle incontro. Il suo accompagnatore, il signor Tapley, nel frattempo si allontanò discretamente e iniziò ad osservare la nebbia sopra di lui con aria apparentemente interessata.

“Mio caro Martin,” disse Mary.

“Mia cara Mary,” disse Martin; e gli innamorati sono proprio un tipo di persone così particolare che questo fu tutto ciò che dissero in quel momento. Anche se Martin le prese il braccio e anche la mano, e camminarono avanti e indietro per quella breve strada poco esposta alle occhi altrui, per mezza dozzina di volte.

“Se tu sei cambiata in qualche modo, mia amore, da quando ci siamo separati, ”, disse finalmente Martin, guardandola con orgoglio e felicità, “allora è solo perché sei diventata ancora più bella di prima!”

Se fosse stata una di quelle giovani donne comuni, soggette alle influenze del amore, avrebbe negato tutto questo nel modo più affascinante possibile; gli avrebbe detto che si sentiva terribilmente in colpa, che aveva passato le notti piangendo e angosciata, o che stava lentamente morendo di tristezza. O forse gli avrebbe raccontato, attraverso lacrime, parole o entrambi, qualcosa del genere, per renderlo il più infelice possibile. Ma lei era stata educata in un ambiente molto diverso da quello in cui crescono la maggior parte delle ragazze; la sua natura era stata temprata dalla dura necessità e dall’resilienza; aveva superato le difficoltà della giovinezza rimanendo costante, sacrificandosi per gli altri, sincera e devota. Aveva acquisito, nella sua adolescenza – che poi si fosse conclusa felicemente o meno, non è importante per il nostro scopo attuale – quella nobile qualità di cuore gentile che spesso si sviluppa solo attraverso le sofferenze e le difficoltà della vita. Intatta, senza essere viziata né dalle gioie né dai dolori; con un affetto sincero e profondo per l’oggetto del suo primo amore, vedeva in lui una persona che, a causa sua, era stata esclusa dalla propria famiglia e dalla propria fortuna. E non avrebbe mai pensato di donargli quel amore se non con parole piene di gioia e incoraggiamento, di speranza e fiducia. Proprio come non avrebbe mai pensato di non meritarlo, nemmeno per un istante, a causa di qualche tentazione meschina che il mondo potesse offrirle.

“Qual cambiamento c’è in te, Martin,” rispose lei; “perché questo mi riguarda di più. Sembri più ansioso e più pensieroso del solito.”

“Perché, in merito a questo, mia amata, ”, disse Martin avvicinando la sua vita al proprio braccio, guardandosi intorno per assicurarsi che non ci fossero osservatori nelle vicinanze, e vedendo il signor Tapley ancora più assorto del solito nella nebbia; “sarebbe strano se non lo facessi. Perché la mia vita, soprattutto negli ultimi tempi, è stata davvero dura.”

“Lo so che deve essere stato così,” rispose lei. “Quando mai ho dimenticato di pensare a te e a queste cose?”

“Non molto spesso, spero,” disse Martin. “Di certo non molto spesso. Non ho alcun diritto di aspettarmelo, Mary. Dopo aver subito tante difficoltà e privazioni, è naturale che cerchi un po’ di compensazione, capisci.”

“Un ritorno molto, molto povero,” rispose lei con un sorriso più debole. “Ma tu ce l’hai, e ce l’avrai per sempre. Hai pagato un prezzo alto per un cuore freddo e meschino, Martin. Ma almeno è tuo, ed è un cuore vero.”

“Certo che ne sono abbastanza sicuro,” disse Martin, “altrimenti non mi sarei messo nella situazione in cui mi trovo ora. E non dire che ho un cuore malinconico, Mary, anzi, è un cuore pieno di gioia. Ora, devo rivelarti qualcosa che all’inizio ti sorprenderà, ma lo faccio per il tuo bene. Sto per partire,” aggiunse lentamente, guardando profondamente negli occhi scuri e luminosi di lei.

“Via all’estero, Martin!”

“Solo per l’America. Guardate ora. Come vi abbassate immediatamente!”

“Se lo facessi, o, per meglio dire, spero di poterlo fare,” rispose lei, alzando la testa dopo un breve silenzio e guardandolo nuovamente negli occhi. “Il solo pensiero di ciò che sei disposto a sopportare per me mi riempie di dolore. Non oserei cercare di dissuaderti, Martin. Ma è una strada lunga, molto lunga; bisogna attraversare un oceano vasto; malattia e povertà sono già calamità terribili ovunque, ma in un paese straniero diventano davvero insopportabili. Hai pensato a tutto questo?”

‘Thought of it!’ cried Martin, abating, in his fondness—and he WAS very fond of her—hardly an iota of his usual impetuosity. ‘What am I to do? It’s very well to say, “Have I thought of it?” my love; but you should ask me in the same breath, have I thought of starving at home; have I thought of doing porter’s work for a living; have I thought of holding horses in the streets to earn my roll of bread from day to day? Come, come,’ he added, in a gentler tone, ‘do not hang down your head, my dear, for I need the encouragement that your sweet face alone can give me. Why, that’s well! Now you are brave again.’

‘I am endeavouring to be,’ she answered, smiling through her tears.

‘Endeavouring to be anything that’s good, and being it, is, with you, all one. Don’t I know that of old?’ cried Martin, gayly. ‘So! That’s famous! Now I can tell you all my plans as cheerfully as if you were my little wife already, Mary.’

She hung more closely on his arm, and looking upwards in his face, bade him speak on.

‘You see,’ said Martin, playing with the little hand upon his wrist, ‘that my attempts to advance myself at home have been baffled and rendered abortive. I will not say by whom, Mary, for that would give pain to us both. But so it is. Have you heard him speak of late of any relative of mine or his, called Pecksniff? Only tell me what I ask you, no more.’

‘I have heard, to my surprise, that he is a better man than was supposed.’

‘I thought so,’ interrupted Martin.

‘And that it is likely we may come to know him, if not to visit and reside with him and—I think—his daughters. He HAS daughters, has he, love?’

‘A pair of them,’ Martin answered. ‘A precious pair! Gems of the first water!’

‘Ah! You are jesting!’

‘There is a sort of jesting which is very much in earnest, and includes some pretty serious disgust,’ said Martin. ‘I jest in reference to Mr Pecksniff (at whose house I have been living as his assistant, and at whose hands I have received insult and injury), in that vein. Whatever betides, or however closely you may be brought into communication with this family, never forget that, Mary; and never for an instant, whatever appearances may seem to contradict me, lose sight of this assurance—Pecksniff is a scoundrel.’

‘Indeed!’

‘In thought, and in deed, and in everything else. A scoundrel from the topmost hair of his head, to the nethermost atom of his heel. Of his daughters I will only say that, to the best of my knowledge and belief, they are dutiful young ladies, and take after their father closely. This is a digression from the main point, and yet it brings me to what I was going to say.’

He stopped to look into her eyes again, and seeing, in a hasty glance over his shoulder, that there was no one near, and that Mark was still intent upon the fog, not only looked at her lips, too, but kissed them into the bargain.

‘Now I am going to America, with great prospects of doing well, and of returning home myself very soon; it may be to take you there for a few years, but, at all events, to claim you for my wife; which, after such trials, I should do with no fear of your still thinking it a duty to cleave to him who will not suffer me to live (for this is true), if he can help it, in my own land. How long I may be absent is, of course, uncertain; but it shall not be very long. Trust me for that.’

‘In the meantime, dear Martin—’

‘That’s the very thing I am coming to. In the meantime you shall hear, constantly, of all my goings-on. Thus.’

He paused to take from his pocket the letter he had written overnight, and then resumed:

‘In this fellow’s employment, and living in this fellow’s house (by fellow, I mean Mr Pecksniff, of course), there is a certain person of the name of Pinch. Don’t forget; a poor, strange, simple oddity, Mary; but thoroughly honest and sincere; full of zeal; and with a cordial regard for me. Which I mean to return one of these days, by setting him up in life in some way or other.’

‘Your old kind nature, Martin!’

‘Oh!’ said Martin, ‘that’s not worth speaking of, my love. He’s very grateful and desirous to serve me; and I am more than repaid. Now one night I told this Pinch my history, and all about myself and you; in which he was not a little interested, I can tell you, for he knows you! Aye, you may look surprised—and the longer the better for it becomes you—but you have heard him play the organ in the church of that village before now; and he has seen you listening to his music; and has caught his inspiration from you, too!’

‘Was HE the organist?’ cried Mary. ‘I thank him from my heart!’

‘Yes, he was,’ said Martin, ‘and is, and gets nothing for it either. There never was such a simple fellow! Quite an infant! But a very good sort of creature, I assure you.’

‘I am sure of that,’ she said with great earnestness. ‘He must be!’

‘Oh, yes, no doubt at all about it,’ rejoined Martin, in his usual careless way. ‘He is. Well! It has occurred to me—but stay. If I read you what I have written and intend sending to him by post to-night it will explain itself. “My dear Tom Pinch.” That’s rather familiar perhaps,’ said Martin, suddenly remembering that he was proud when they had last met, ‘but I call him my dear Tom Pinch because he likes it, and it pleases him.’

‘Very right, and very kind,’ said Mary.

‘Exactly so!’ cried Martin. ‘It’s as well to be kind whenever one can; and, as I said before, he really is an excellent fellow. “My dear Tom Pinch—I address this under cover to Mrs Lupin, at the Blue Dragon, and have begged her in a short note to deliver it to you without saying anything about it elsewhere; and to do the same with all future letters she may receive from me. My reason for so doing will be at once apparent to you”—I don’t know that it will be, by the bye,’ said Martin, breaking off, ‘for he’s slow of comprehension, poor fellow; but he’ll find it out in time. My reason simply is, that I don’t want my letters to be read by other people; and particularly by the scoundrel whom he thinks an angel.’

“Ci ho pensato!” esclamò Martin, mitigando, nella sua affetto profondo – e lui la amava davvero molto – quasi del tutto la sua solita impulsività. “Cosa devo fare? È molto bello dire ‘Ci ho pensato?’ mia cara, ma dovresti anche chiedermi, nello stesso istante, se abbia mai pensato di morire di fame a casa; se abbia mai pensato di guadagnarmi da vivere facendo il portiere; se abbia mai pensato di tenere cavalli per strada pur di avere un pezzo di pane ogni giorno. Vieni, vieni,” aggiunse con tono più gentile, “non abbassare la testa, mia cara, ho bisogno del sostegno che solo il tuo dolce viso può darmi. Ecco, ora sei di nuovo coraggiosa.”

“Sto cercando di essere così”, rispose lei, sorridendo nonostante le lacrime.

“Sforzarsi di essere qualcosa di buono, e poi esserlo davvero, significa, per te, essere tutto. Non lo sapevo già da tempo?” esclamò Martin, felice. “Ecco! Questo è famoso. Ora posso raccontarti tutti i miei piani con la stessa allegria, come se tu fossi già mia mogliettina, Mary.”

Si aggrappò più strettamente al suo braccio e, guardandolo negli occhi, lo esortò a continuare a parlare.

“Vedi,” disse Martin, giocando con la piccola mano sulla sua polsiera, “i miei tentativi di fare carriera a casa sono stati ostacolati e hanno fallito. Non dirò da chi, Mary, perché questo ci causerebbe entrambi dolore. Ma è così. Hai sentito parlare ultimamente di qualche parente mio o suo di nome Pecksniff? Dimmi solo quello che ti chiedo, nient’altro.”

“Ho sentito, con mia sorpresa, che è una persona migliore di quanto si pensasse.”

“Lo pensavo anch’io,” intervenne Martin.

“E è molto probabile che possiamo finire per conoscerlo, se non addirittura andare a trovarlo e vivere con lui. E, credo, anche con sue figlie. Lui ha delle figlie, vero, amore?”

“Un paio di loro,” rispose Martin. “Un paio davvero prezioso! Gemme delle migliori qualità!”

“Ah! Stai scherzando!”

“C’è un tipo di scherzo che in realtà è molto serio e che comporta anche un certo disgusto,” disse Martin. “Io scherzo riguardo al signor Pecksniff (in casa sua ho vissuto come suo assistente, ed è stato lui a insultarmi e ferirmi), proprio in quel senso. Qualunque cosa accada, o per quanto tu possa entrare in contatto con questa famiglia, non dimenticarlo mai, Mary; e nemmeno per un istante, per quanto le apparenze possano contraddirmi, perdere di vista questa certezza: Pecksniff è un farabutto.”

‘Davvero!’

‘Nel pensiero, nell’azione e in tutto il resto. Un farabutto, dalla testa ai piedi. Per quanto ne so e credo, le sue figlie sono giovani donne perbene, che assomigliano molto a loro padre. Questo è un digresso dal tema principale, ma mi porta proprio a ciò che volevo dire.’

Si fermò di nuovo per guardarla negli occhi; dopo aver dato un’occhiata rapida alle sue spalle per assicurarsi che non ci fosse nessuno nelle vicinanze, e vedendo che Mark era ancora concentrato sulla nebbia, non solo le guardò le labbra, ma le baciò anche.

“Ora sto per andare in America, con grandi possibilità di avere successo e di tornare a casa molto presto; forse potrò portarti lì per alcuni anni, ma in ogni caso verrò a reclamarti come mia moglie. Dopo tutte queste prove, lo farò senza alcuna paura che tu possa ancora ritenere tuo dovere rimanere con colui che non permette che io viva nel mio stesso paese, se può evitarlo, ovviamente. Quanto tempo sarò assente? Certo, è impossibile dirlo con certezza; ma non sarà molto a lungo. Fidati di me.”

“Nel frattempo, caro Martin, ”

“Ecco esattamente di questo che sono venuto a parlare. Nel frattempo, ascolterete continuamente notizie di tutte le mie attività. Ecco come faranno.”

Si fermò per estrarre dalla tasca la lettera che aveva scritto durante la notte, poi continuò.

Nel lavoro di quest’uomo, e vivendo nella sua casa (intendo naturalmente il signor Pecksniff), c’è una certa persona di nome Pinch. Non dimenticatevelo: un poveretto strano, semplice e un po’ eccentrico, Mary, ma assolutamente onesto e sincero, pieno di zelo, e con grande affetto per me. Intendo ricambiare questo affetto nei prossimi giorni, trovandogli in qualche modo una sistemazione nella vita.

“La tua vecchia natura gentile, Martin!”

“Oh!”, disse Martin, “non vale nemmeno la pena parlarne, mia amata. Lui è molto grato e desideroso di servirmi; e io sono più che ripagato. Una notte ho raccontato a questo Pinch tutta la mia storia, tutto su me stesso e su di te; e devo dire che lui ne è stato molto interessato, perché ti conosce! Sì, potresti sembrare sorpresa. E più ci pensi, meglio sarà per te. Ma hai già sentito suonare l’organo in chiesa da quel villaggio; e lo hai visto mentre tu ascoltavi la sua musica. E anche lui ha tratto ispirazione da te!”

“Era lui l’organista?”, esclamò Mary. “Gli sono davvero grata dal profondo del cuore!”

“Sì, lo era,” disse Martin, “e lo è ancora oggi, e per di più non ne ricava nulla. Non c’è mai stato un tipo così semplice. Davvero come un bambino! Ma vi assicuro che è una persona molto buona.”

“Ne sono sicura,” disse con grande sincerità. “Deve esserlo!”

“Oh, sì, nessun dubbio al riguardo,” rispose Martin, con il suo solito modo negligente. “Lo è davvero. Beh! Mi è venuto in mente, ma aspetta. Se ti leggo quello che ho scritto e intendo inviargli per posta stasera, tutto si spiegherà. ‘Mio caro Tom Pinch.’ Forse suona un po’ troppo familiare,” disse Martin, ricordando improvvisamente di essere stato orgoglioso quando si erano incontrati l’ultima volta, “ma lo chiamo così perché a lui piace e gli fa piacere.”

“Esatto, e molto gentile anche,” disse Mary.

‘Esattamente!’ esclamò Martin. ‘È davvero meglio essere gentili ogni volta che si può; e, come ho detto prima, lui è davvero un ottimo ragazzo. “Mio caro Tom Pinch. Scrivo questa lettera sotto pseudonimo alla signora Lupin, al Blue Dragon, e le ho chiesto in una breve nota di consegnarla a te senza dire nulla ad altri; lo stesso deve fare con tutte le future lettere che riceverà da me. Il motivo per cui faccio questo sarà subito chiaro per te, ” – Beh, non so se lo sarà davvero, del resto, ’, aggiunse Martin interrompendosi, ‘perché lui è un po’ lento a capire, poverino; ma col tempo lo scoprirà. Il motivo principale, semplicemente, è che non voglio che le mie lettere vengano lette da altre persone, soprattutto da quel farabutto che lui considera un angelo.’

‘Mr Pecksniff again?’ asked Mary.

‘The same,’ said Martin ‘—will be at once apparent to you. I have completed my arrangements for going to America; and you will be surprised to hear that I am to be accompanied by Mark Tapley, upon whom I have stumbled strangely in London, and who insists on putting himself under my protection’—meaning, my love,’ said Martin, breaking off again, ‘our friend in the rear, of course.’

She was delighted to hear this, and bestowed a kind glance upon Mark, which he brought his eyes down from the fog to encounter and received with immense satisfaction. She said in his hearing, too, that he was a good soul and a merry creature, and would be faithful, she was certain; commendations which Mr Tapley inwardly resolved to deserve, from such lips, if he died for it.

‘“Now, my dear Pinch,”’ resumed Martin, proceeding with his letter; ‘“I am going to repose great trust in you, knowing that I may do so with perfect reliance on your honour and secrecy, and having nobody else just now to trust in.”’

‘I don’t think I would say that, Martin.’

‘Wouldn’t you? Well! I’ll take that out. It’s perfectly true, though.’

‘But it might seem ungracious, perhaps.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind Pinch,’ said Martin. ‘There’s no occasion to stand on any ceremony with HIM. However, I’ll take it out, as you wish it, and make the full stop at “secrecy.” Very well! “I shall not only”—this is the letter again, you know.’

‘I understand.’

‘“I shall not only enclose my letters to the young lady of whom I have told you, to your charge, to be forwarded as she may request; but I most earnestly commit her, the young lady herself, to your care and regard, in the event of your meeting in my absence. I have reason to think that the probabilities of your encountering each other—perhaps very frequently—are now neither remote nor few; and although in our position you can do very little to lessen the uneasiness of hers, I trust to you implicitly to do that much, and so deserve the confidence I have reposed in you.” You see, my dear Mary,’ said Martin, ‘it will be a great consolation to you to have anybody, no matter how simple, with whom you can speak about ME; and the very first time you talk to Pinch, you’ll feel at once that there is no more occasion for any embarrassment or hesitation in talking to him, than if he were an old woman.’

‘However that may be,’ she returned, smiling, ‘he is your friend, and that is enough.’

‘Oh, yes, he’s my friend,’ said Martin, ‘certainly. In fact, I have told him in so many words that we’ll always take notice of him, and protect him; and it’s a good trait in his character that he’s grateful—very grateful indeed. You’ll like him of all things, my love, I know. You’ll observe very much that’s comical and old-fashioned about Pinch, but you needn’t mind laughing at him; for he’ll not care about it. He’ll rather like it indeed!’

‘I don’t think I shall put that to the test, Martin.’

‘You won’t if you can help it, of course,’ he said, ‘but I think you’ll find him a little too much for your gravity. However, that’s neither here nor there, and it certainly is not the letter; which ends thus: “Knowing that I need not impress the nature and extent of that confidence upon you at any greater length, as it is already sufficiently established in your mind, I will only say, in bidding you farewell and looking forward to our next meeting, that I shall charge myself from this time, through all changes for the better, with your advancement and happiness, as if they were my own. You may rely upon that. And always believe me, my dear Tom Pinch, faithfully your friend, Martin Chuzzlewit. P.S.—I enclose the amount which you so kindly”—Oh,’ said Martin, checking himself, and folding up the letter, ‘that’s nothing!’

At this crisis Mark Tapley interposed, with an apology for remarking that the clock at the Horse Guards was striking.

‘Which I shouldn’t have said nothing about, sir,’ added Mark, ‘if the young lady hadn’t begged me to be particular in mentioning it.’

‘I did,’ said Mary. ‘Thank you. You are quite right. In another minute I shall be ready to return. We have time for a very few words more, dear Martin, and although I had much to say, it must remain unsaid until the happy time of our next meeting. Heaven send it may come speedily and prosperously! But I have no fear of that.’

‘Fear!’ cried Martin. ‘Why, who has? What are a few months? What is a whole year? When I come gayly back, with a road through life hewn out before me, then indeed, looking back upon this parting, it may seem a dismal one. But now! I swear I wouldn’t have it happen under more favourable auspices, if I could; for then I should be less inclined to go, and less impressed with the necessity.’

‘Yes, yes. I feel that too. When do you go?’

‘To-night. We leave for Liverpool to-night. A vessel sails from that port, as I hear, in three days. In a month, or less, we shall be there. Why, what’s a month! How many months have flown by, since our last parting!’

‘Long to look back upon,’ said Mary, echoing his cheerful tone, ‘but nothing in their course!’

‘Nothing at all!’ cried Martin. ‘I shall have change of scene and change of place; change of people, change of manners, change of cares and hopes! Time will wear wings indeed! I can bear anything, so that I have swift action, Mary.’

Was he thinking solely of her care for him, when he took so little heed of her share in the separation; of her quiet monotonous endurance, and her slow anxiety from day to day? Was there nothing jarring and discordant even in his tone of courage, with this one note ‘self’ for ever audible, however high the strain? Not in her ears. It had been better otherwise, perhaps, but so it was. She heard the same bold spirit which had flung away as dross all gain and profit for her sake, making light of peril and privation that she might be calm and happy; and she heard no more. That heart where self has found no place and raised no throne, is slow to recognize its ugly presence when it looks upon it. As one possessed of an evil spirit was held in old time to be alone conscious of the lurking demon in the breasts of other men, so kindred vices know each other in their hiding-places every day, when Virtue is incredulous and blind.

“Di nuovo il signor Pecksniff?” chiese Mary.

“Lo stesso,” disse Martin, “vi sarà subito chiaro. Ho completato tutti i preparativi per partire per l’America; e sarete sorpresi di sapere che mi accompagnerà Mark Tapley, che ho incontrato in modo strano a Londra e che insiste nel mettersi sotto la mia protezione, ” – intendendo, ovviamente, la mia amore – aggiunse Martin, interrompendosi di nuovo. “Il nostro amico, naturalmente.”

Lei fu molto felice di sentire queste parole e gli rivolse uno sguardo gentile; lui abbassò lo sguardo dal foglio che stava leggendo per incrociare il suo e lo accolse con grande soddisfazione. Lei gli disse anche, ad alta voce, che era una buona ‘anima e una persona allegra, e che sarebbe stato fedele, ne era certa; lodi che il signor Tapley si ripromise di meritare davvero, se fosse stato necessario morire per esse.

“Ora, mio caro Pinch,” proseguì Martin, continuando a scrivere la sua lettera; “intendo affidarti una grande responsabilità, sapendo di poterlo fare con assoluta fiducia nella tua onorevolezza e nel tuo rispetto della segretezza, poiché al momento non ho nessun altro in cui confidare.”

“Non credo che lo direi, Martin.”

“Non lo faresti anche tu? Beh, allora lo eliminerò. Comunque, è assolutamente vero.”

“Ma forse potrebbe sembrare scortese, ”

“Oh, non mi dispiace Pinch,” disse Martin. “Non c’è motivo di essere troppo formali con LUI. Comunque, lo farò come desideri tu, e metterò il punto fermo dopo ‘segretezza’. Molto bene! ‘Non solo, ’ – è di nuovo quella lettera, sai.”

“Capisco.”

“Non solo invierò le mie lettere alla giovane signora di cui vi ho parlato, affidandole alle vostre cure affinché vengano inoltrate secondo i suoi desideri; ma vi affido anche lei stessa, con la massima fiducia, alla vostra protezione e attenzione nel caso in cui doveste incontrarvi in mia assenza. Ho motivo di ritenere che le probabilità di incontrarvi – forse molto spesso – siano ora tutt’altro che scarse; e sebbene, nella nostra situazione, non possiate fare molto per alleviare la sua ansia, confido implicitamente in voi affinché lo facciate, e così meritate la fiducia che ho riposto in voi.” Vedi, mia cara Mary,” disse Martin, “sarà un grande conforto per te avere qualcuno, per quanto semplice possa essere, con cui poter parlare di ME; e dalla prima volta che parlerai con Pinch, sentirai immediatamente che non c’è più alcun motivo di imbarazzo o esitazione nel farlo, come se fosse una donna anziana.”

“Comunque sia,” rispose lei sorridendo, “lui è tuo amico, e questo basta.”

“Oh sì, è mio amico,” disse Martin, “certamente. Anzi, gli ho detto chiaramente che lo prenderemo sempre in considerazione e lo proteggeremo; ed è una bella qualità della sua natura il fatto che sia grato, davvero molto grato. Gli piacerà moltissimo, mia amata, ne sono sicuro. Noterai sicuramente molte cose comiche e un po’ vecchio stile in Pinch, ma non c’è bisogno di ridere di lui; a lui non importerà affatto. Anzi, probabilmente gli piacerà!”

“Non credo che lo metterò alla prova, Martin.”

“Certo che non lo farai se potrai evitarlo,” disse, “ma penso che quel ragazzo sia un po’ troppo per le tue capacità. Comunque, questo non è il punto principale; il vero problema è la lettera, che finisce così: ‘Sapendo che non ho bisogno di spiegarti più a lungo l’entità e la profondità della mia fiducia in te, poiché essa è già ben radicata nella tua mente, ti dico soltanto, mentre ci congediamo e aspettiamo il nostro prossimo incontro, che da questo momento in poi, nonostante eventuali cambiamenti positivi, mi impegnerò personalmente per il tuo progresso e la tua felicità, come se fossero i miei stessi. Puoi contarci. E credimi sempre, caro mio Tom Pinch, con affetto, il tuo fedele amico, Martin Chuzzlewit.’ P.S.: Ti allego l’importo che hai gentilmente, ” Oh,” disse Martin, interrompendosi e ripiegando la lettera, “questo non è niente!”

In questa crisi, Mark Tapley intervenne scusandosi per aver osservato che l’orologio della Guardia a Cavallo stava battendo le ore.

“Non avrei dovuto dire nulla al riguardo, signore,” aggiunse Mark, “se la giovane signora non mi avesse supplicato di menzionarlo esplicitamente.”

“Lo ho fatto,” disse Mary. “Grazie. Hai perfettamente ragione. Tra un minuto sarò pronta a tornare. Abbiamo ancora un po’ di tempo per parlare, caro Martin. Anche se avevo molto da dire, dovrà rimanere inespresso fino al felice momento del nostro prossimo incontro. Che il cielo lo faccia avvenire presto e senza intoppi! Ma non ho alcuna paura al riguardo.”

“‘Paura!’ gridò Martin. ‘Ma chi l’ha provata? Cosa significano pochi mesi? Cosa significa un intero anno? Quando tornerò felice, con una strada chiara davanti a me nella vita, allora sì, ripensando a questo addio, potrebbe sembrare triste. Ma ora! Giuro che non vorrei che tutto ciò accadesse nemmeno sotto auspici più favorevoli, se potessi; perché in quel caso sarei meno propenso ad andarmene e meno convinto della necessità di farlo.’”

“Sì, sì. Anche io la penso così. Quando parti?”

‘Stasera partiamo per Liverpool. Una nave salpa da quel porto tra tre giorni. Tra un mese, o meno, saremo lì. Ma che cos’è un mese. Quanti mesi sono già trascorsi da quando ci siamo separati l’ultima volta!’

“Bello ricordarlo,” disse Mary, imitando il suo tono allegro, “ma nulla di significativo nel loro percorso, ”

“Niente affatto!” esclamò Martin. “Avrò un cambiamento di scena, un cambio di luogo; un cambiamento di persone, di usanze, di preoccupazioni e di speranze! Il tempo davvero volerà. Posso sopportare qualsiasi cosa, purché possa agire rapidamente, Mary.”

Mentre prestava così poca attenzione al suo contributo nella separazione, alla sua silenziosa e monotona sopportazione e alla sua crescente ansia giorno dopo giorno, stava forse pensando soltanto alle sue cure per lui? Non c’era nulla di discordante nemmeno nel tono del suo coraggio, nonostante quella nota costante dell’“io” che risuonava sempre, per quanto alta fosse la pressione. Ma lei non la sentiva. Forse sarebbe stato meglio diversamente, ma era così com’era. Sentiva lo stesso spirito audace che aveva gettato via ogni guadagno e profitto per il suo bene, che aveva disprezzato pericoli e privazioni pur di mantenerla calma e felice. E non sentiva più nulla. Quel cuore in cui l’“io” non aveva trovato posto né potere, faticava a riconoscere la propria brutta presenza quando si guardava dentro. Proprio come un uomo posseduto da uno spirito malvagio era considerato nell’antichità l’unico a essere consapevole del demone nascosto nel petto degli altri uomini, così anche vizi simili si riconoscono a vicenda nei loro nascondigli, ogni giorno, mentre la Virtù rimane incredula e cieca.

‘The quarter’s gone!’ cried Mr Tapley, in a voice of admonition.

‘I shall be ready to return immediately,’ she said. ‘One thing, dear Martin, I am bound to tell you. You entreated me a few minutes since only to answer what you asked me in reference to one theme, but you should and must know (otherwise I could not be at ease) that since that separation of which I was the unhappy occasion, he has never once uttered your name; has never coupled it, or any faint allusion to it, with passion or reproach; and has never abated in his kindness to me.’

‘I thank him for that last act,’ said Martin, ‘and for nothing else. Though on consideration I may thank him for his other forbearance also, inasmuch as I neither expect nor desire that he will mention my name again. He may once, perhaps—to couple it with reproach—in his will. Let him, if he please! By the time it reaches me, he will be in his grave; a satire on his own anger, God help him!’

‘Martin! If you would but sometimes, in some quiet hour; beside the winter fire; in the summer air; when you hear gentle music, or think of Death, or Home, or Childhood; if you would at such a season resolve to think, but once a month, or even once a year, of him, or any one who ever wronged you, you would forgive him in your heart, I know!’

‘If I believed that to be true, Mary,’ he replied, ‘I would resolve at no such time to bear him in my mind; wishing to spare myself the shame of such a weakness. I was not born to be the toy and puppet of any man, far less his; to whose pleasure and caprice, in return for any good he did me, my whole youth was sacrificed. It became between us two a fair exchange—a barter—and no more; and there is no such balance against me that I need throw in a mawkish forgiveness to poise the scale. He has forbidden all mention of me to you, I know,’ he added hastily. ‘Come! Has he not?’

‘That was long ago,’ she returned; ‘immediately after your parting; before you had left the house. He has never done so since.’

‘He has never done so since because he has seen no occasion,’ said Martin; ‘but that is of little consequence, one way or other. Let all allusion to him between you and me be interdicted from this time forth. And therefore, love’—he drew her quickly to him, for the time of parting had now come—‘in the first letter that you write to me through the Post Office, addressed to New York; and in all the others that you send through Pinch; remember he has no existence, but has become to us as one who is dead. Now, God bless you! This is a strange place for such a meeting and such a parting; but our next meeting shall be in a better, and our next and last parting in a worse.’

‘One other question, Martin, I must ask. Have you provided money for this journey?’

‘Have I?’ cried Martin; it might have been in his pride; it might have been in his desire to set her mind at ease: ‘Have I provided money? Why, there’s a question for an emigrant’s wife! How could I move on land or sea without it, love?’

‘I mean, enough.’

‘Enough! More than enough. Twenty times more than enough. A pocket-full. Mark and I, for all essential ends, are quite as rich as if we had the purse of Fortunatus in our baggage.’

‘The half-hour’s a-going!’ cried Mr Tapley.

‘Good-bye a hundred times!’ cried Mary, in a trembling voice.

But how cold the comfort in Good-bye! Mark Tapley knew it perfectly. Perhaps he knew it from his reading, perhaps from his experience, perhaps from intuition. It is impossible to say; but however he knew it, his knowledge instinctively suggested to him the wisest course of proceeding that any man could have adopted under the circumstances. He was taken with a violent fit of sneezing, and was obliged to turn his head another way. In doing which, he, in a manner fenced and screened the lovers into a corner by themselves.

There was a short pause, but Mark had an undefined sensation that it was a satisfactory one in its way. Then Mary, with her veil lowered, passed him with a quick step, and beckoned him to follow. She stopped once more before they lost that corner; looked back; and waved her hand to Martin. He made a start towards them at the moment as if he had some other farewell words to say; but she only hurried off the faster, and Mr Tapley followed as in duty bound.

When he rejoined Martin again in his own chamber, he found that gentleman seated moodily before the dusty grate, with his two feet on the fender, his two elbows on his knees, and his chin supported, in a not very ornamental manner, on the palms of his hands.

‘Well, Mark!’

‘Well, sir,’ said Mark, taking a long breath, ‘I see the young lady safe home, and I feel pretty comfortable after it. She sent a lot of kind words, sir, and this,’ handing him a ring, ‘for a parting keepsake.’

‘Diamonds!’ said Martin, kissing it—let us do him justice, it was for her sake; not for theirs—and putting it on his little finger. ‘Splendid diamonds! My grandfather is a singular character, Mark. He must have given her this now.’

Mark Tapley knew as well that she had bought it, to the end that that unconscious speaker might carry some article of sterling value with him in his necessity; as he knew that it was day, and not night. Though he had no more acquaintance of his own knowledge with the history of the glittering trinket on Martin’s outspread finger, than Martin himself had, he was as certain that in its purchase she had expended her whole stock of hoarded money, as if he had seen it paid down coin by coin. Her lover’s strange obtuseness in relation to this little incident, promptly suggested to Mark’s mind its real cause and root; and from that moment he had a clear and perfect insight into the one absorbing principle of Martin’s character.

‘She is worthy of the sacrifices I have made,’ said Martin, folding his arms, and looking at the ashes in the stove, as if in resumption of some former thoughts. ‘Well worthy of them. No riches’—here he stroked his chin and mused—‘could have compensated for the loss of such a nature. Not to mention that in gaining her affection I have followed the bent of my own wishes, and baulked the selfish schemes of others who had no right to form them. She is quite worthy—more than worthy—of the sacrifices I have made. Yes, she is. No doubt of it.’

These ruminations might or might not have reached Mark Tapley; for though they were by no means addressed to him, yet they were softly uttered. In any case, he stood there, watching Martin with an indescribable and most involved expression on his visage, until that young man roused himself and looked towards him; when he turned away, as being suddenly intent upon certain preparations for the journey, and, without giving vent to any articulate sound, smiled with surpassing ghastliness, and seemed by a twist of his features and a motion of his lips, to release himself of this word:

‘Jolly!’

“Quarto d’ora finito!”, esclamò il signor Tapley con voce ammonitrice.

“Sarò pronta a tornare immediatamente,” disse. “C’è una cosa, caro Martin, che devo assolutamente dirti. Qualche minuto fa mi hai chiesto di rispondere solo a quella domanda riguardante un certo argomento, ma dovresti e devi sapere (altrimenti non potrei stare in pace) che da quando ci siamo separati – e io ne sono stata la causa involontaria – lui non ha mai più menzionato il tuo nome; non l’ha mai collegato, né fatto alcuna allusione a esso, né con passione né con rimproveri; e non ha mai diminuito la sua gentilezza verso di me.”

“Gli sono grato per quell’ultimo atto,” disse Martin, “e nient’altro. Anche se, riflettendoci bene, potrei ringraziarlo anche per le altre sue tolleranze, poiché né mi aspetto né desidero che menzioni di nuovo il mio nome. Forse una volta, forse, potrebbe farlo nella sua volontà, magari per associarlo a rimproveri. Lasciamo che lo faccia, se vuole! Quando quella volontà arriverà fino a me, lui sarà già nel suo sepulcro. Sarà una satira sulla sua stessa rabbia. Che Dio lo aiuti!”

‘Martin! Se solo ogni tanto, in un momento di tranquillità; accanto al inverno e al fuoco; nell’aria fresca dell’estate; quando ascolti musica dolce, o pensi alla Morte, o a Casa, o all’Infanzia; se solo in quei momenti decidessi di pensare, anche solo una volta al mese, o una volta all’anno, a lui, o a chiunque ti abbia mai fatto del male, lo perdoneresti nel tuo cuore. Lo so!’

“Se credessi che fosse vero, Mary,” rispose lui, “non penserei mai più a lui; preferirei evitare la vergogna di una tale debolezza. Non sono nato per essere il giocattolo o la marionetta di nessun uomo, tantomeno della sua. Per il piacere e capriccio di quell’uomo, in cambio di qualche piccolo favore che mi ha fatto, tutta la mia giovinezza è stata sacrificata. Tra noi due c’è stato soltanto uno scambio equo, un baratto, nient’altro. E non esiste alcun equilibrio a mio favore che mi costringa ad offrire una patetica perdono per bilanciare la situazione. So che lui ti ha proibito di parlarmi di me,” aggiunse in fretta. “Ma davvero, non l’ha fatto?”

“È successo molto tempo fa,” rispose lei; “subito dopo la tua partenza, prima ancora che tu lasciassi la casa. Da allora non l’ha mai più fatto.”

“Non l’ha mai più fatto da allora perché non ne ha visto l’occasione,” disse Martin; “ma questo, in fondo, non ha molta importanza. Da questo momento in poi, vietiamoci qualsiasi allusione a lui tra di noi. E quindi, amore, ” La attirò rapidamente a sé, perché il momento dell’addio era finalmente arrivato, “Nella prima lettera che mi scriverai tramite la Posta, indirizzata a New York; e in tutte le altre che manderai tramite Pinch, ricorda: lui non esiste più; per noi è come se fosse morto. Ora, che Dio ti benedica! È un luogo strano per un incontro del genere e per un addio del genere. Ma il nostro prossimo incontro sarà in un posto migliore, e il nostro ultimo addio, in uno peggiore.”

“Un’altra domanda, Martin: devo chiedertelo. Hai fornito i fondi per questo Viaggio?”

“L’ho fatto davvero?” gridò Martin; forse era dovuto al suo orgoglio, o forse al suo desiderio di tranquillizzarla: “Le ho fornito i soldi? Ma certo. Che domanda da parte della moglie di un emigrante! Come potrei partire, sia per terra che per mare, senza di essi, amore mio?”

“Insomma, basta.”

Basta! Più che abbastanza. Venti volte di più di quanto ci serva. Un intero taschino pieno.
Io e Mark siamo, per ogni scopo essenziale, altrettanto ricchi come se avessimo con noi il borsello di Fortunato nel bagaglio.

“Mezz’ora è già passata!”, gridò il signor Tapley.

“Addio cento volte!” gridò Mary, con voce tremante.

Ma quanto freddo fosse quel “consolamento” nel “Addio”! Mark Tapley lo sapeva perfettamente. Forse lo aveva imparato dai suoi letti, forse dalla sua esperienza, forse per intuizione. È impossibile dirlo con certezza; ma comunque fosse, la sua conoscenza gli suggerì istintivamente il comportamento più saggio che un uomo potesse adottare in quelle circostanze. Fu colpito da un violento attacco di starnuti e dovette girare la testa dall’altra parte; facendolo, in qualche modo isolò i due innamorati, lasciandoli soli in un angolo.

Ci fu una breve pausa, ma Mark provò una sensazione indefinita, che, a suo modo, era soddisfacente. Poi Mary, con il velo abbassato, gli passò accanto velocemente e lo invitò a seguirla. Si fermò ancora una volta prima di girare l’angolo; si voltò indietro e fece un gesto con la mano verso Martin. In quel momento lui iniziò ad avvicinarsi, come se avesse altre parole da dirle per salutarsi. Ma lei accelerò il passo, e il signor Tapley la seguì, come se fosse suo dovere farlo.

Quando tornò nella stanza di Martin, trovò quel gentiluomo seduto con aria malinconica davanti alla grata polverosa: i piedi appoggiati al parapetto, i gomiti sulle ginocchia, e il mento sostenuto, in modo non molto elegante, dalle palme delle mani.

“Beh, Mark!”

“Beh, signore,” disse Mark, prendendo un lungo respiro, “vedo che la giovane signora è al sicuro a casa, e ora mi sento molto sollevato. Mi ha inviato molte parole gentili, signore. E questo,” aggiunse, porgendogli un anello, “come ricordo del nostro addio.”

“Diamanti!” disse Martin, baciandoli. Diamo giustizia a lui: li aveva dati per lei, non per loro. E se li mise al dito mignolo. “Diamanti splendidi! Mio nonno è davvero un personaggio straordinario, Mark. Deve averglieli dati proprio ora.”

Mark Tapley sapeva molto bene che lei l’aveva comprato; sapeva anche che quel parlante inconsapevole poteva portare con sé, in un momento di necessità, qualche oggetto di grande valore; sapeva inoltre che era giorno, e non notte. Anche se non conosceva meglio di Martin stesso la storia di quel brillante gingillo che il ragazzo teneva sul dito, era altrettanto certo che lei aveva speso tutto il denaro che aveva risparmiato per comprarlo, come se avesse visto personalmente i soldi essere pagati moneta dopo moneta. La strana ottusità del amante di lei riguardo a questo piccolo episodio gli fece subito intuire la vera causa e radice della situazione; da quel momento in poi, ebbe una comprensione chiara e completa del principale tratto caratteriale di Martin.

“Merita davvero i sacrifici che ho fatto,” disse Martin, incrociando le braccia e guardando le ceneri nel camino, come se riprendesse un pensiero precedente. “Davvero merita. Nessuna ricchezza, ” – si accarezzò il mento, meditando – “avrebbe potuto compensare la perdita di una tale natura. Per non parlare del fatto che, conquistando il suo affetto, ho seguito soltanto i miei desideri personali, ignorando le meschine strategie di coloro che non avevano alcun diritto di concepirle. Lei merita davvero, più di quanto meriti. Nessun dubbio al riguardo.”

Queste riflessioni potrebbero o non essere giunte fino a Mark Tapley; poiché, sebbene non fossero affatto indirizzate a lui, venivano comunque pronunciate in tono sommesso. In ogni caso, lui rimase lì, osservando Martin con un’espressione indescrivibile e profondamente coinvolta sul viso, fino a quando quel giovane non si riscosse e lo guardò; allora Mark distolse lo sguardo, come se improvvisamente fosse impegnato in alcune preparazioni per il viaggio, e, senza emettere alcun suono, sorrise con un orrore estremo. Con un movimento delle sue fattezze e dei suoi labbra, sembrò liberarsi da quel pensiero.

“Che allegria!”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE BURDEN WHEREOF, IS HAIL COLUMBIA!

A dark and dreary night; people nestling in their beds or circling late about the fire; Want, colder than Charity, shivering at the street corners; church-towers humming with the faint vibration of their own tongues, but newly resting from the ghostly preachment ‘One!’ The earth covered with a sable pall as for the burial of yesterday; the clumps of dark trees, its giant plumes of funeral feathers, waving sadly to and fro: all hushed, all noiseless, and in deep repose, save the swift clouds that skim across the moon, and the cautious wind, as, creeping after them upon the ground, it stops to listen, and goes rustling on, and stops again, and follows, like a savage on the trail.

Whither go the clouds and wind so eagerly? If, like guilty spirits, they repair to some dread conference with powers like themselves, in what wild regions do the elements hold council, or where unbend in terrible disport?

Here! Free from that cramped prison called the earth, and out upon the waste of waters. Here, roaring, raging, shrieking, howling, all night long. Hither come the sounding voices from the caverns on the coast of that small island, sleeping, a thousand miles away, so quietly in the midst of angry waves; and hither, to meet them, rush the blasts from unknown desert places of the world. Here, in the fury of their unchecked liberty, they storm and buffet with each other, until the sea, lashed into passion like their own, leaps up, in ravings mightier than theirs, and the whole scene is madness.

On, on, on, over the countless miles of angry space roll the long heaving billows. Mountains and caves are here, and yet are not; for what is now the one, is now the other; then all is but a boiling heap of rushing water. Pursuit, and flight, and mad return of wave on wave, and savage struggle, ending in a spouting-up of foam that whitens the black night; incessant change of place, and form, and hue; constancy in nothing, but eternal strife; on, on, on, they roll, and darker grows the night, and louder howls the wind, and more clamorous and fierce become the million voices in the sea, when the wild cry goes forth upon the storm ‘A ship!’

Onward she comes, in gallant combat with the elements, her tall masts trembling, and her timbers starting on the strain; onward she comes, now high upon the curling billows, now low down in the hollows of the sea, as hiding for the moment from its fury; and every storm-voice in the air and water cries more loudly yet, ‘A ship!’

Still she comes striving on; and at her boldness and the spreading cry, the angry waves rise up above each other’s hoary heads to look; and round about the vessel, far as the mariners on the decks can pierce into the gloom, they press upon her, forcing each other down and starting up, and rushing forward from afar, in dreadful curiosity. High over her they break; and round her surge and roar; and giving place to others, moaningly depart, and dash themselves to fragments in their baffled anger. Still she comes onward bravely. And though the eager multitude crowd thick and fast upon her all the night, and dawn of day discovers the untiring train yet bearing down upon the ship in an eternity of troubled water, onward she comes, with dim lights burning in her hull, and people there, asleep; as if no deadly element were peering in at every seam and chink, and no drowned seaman’s grave, with but a plank to cover it, were yawning in the unfathomable depths below.

Among these sleeping voyagers were Martin and Mark Tapley, who, rocked into a heavy drowsiness by the unaccustomed motion, were as insensible to the foul air in which they lay, as to the uproar without. It was broad day when the latter awoke with a dim idea that he was dreaming of having gone to sleep in a four-post bedstead which had turned bottom upwards in the course of the night. There was more reason in this too, than in the roasting of eggs; for the first objects Mr Tapley recognized when he opened his eyes were his own heels—looking down to him, as he afterwards observed, from a nearly perpendicular elevation.

‘Well!’ said Mark, getting himself into a sitting posture, after various ineffectual struggles with the rolling of the ship. ‘This is the first time as ever I stood on my head all night.’

‘You shouldn’t go to sleep upon the ground with your head to leeward then,’ growled a man in one of the berths.

‘With my head to WHERE?’ asked Mark.

The man repeated his previous sentiment.

‘No, I won’t another time,’ said Mark, ‘when I know whereabouts on the map that country is. In the meanwhile I can give you a better piece of advice. Don’t you nor any other friend of mine never go to sleep with his head in a ship any more.’

The man gave a grunt of discontented acquiescence, turned over in his berth, and drew his blanket over his head.

‘—For,’ said Mr Tapley, pursuing the theme by way of soliloquy in a low tone of voice; ‘the sea is as nonsensical a thing as any going. It never knows what to do with itself. It hasn’t got no employment for its mind, and is always in a state of vacancy. Like them Polar bears in the wild-beast shows as is constantly a-nodding their heads from side to side, it never CAN be quiet. Which is entirely owing to its uncommon stupidity.’

‘Is that you, Mark?’ asked a faint voice from another berth.

‘It’s as much of me as is left, sir, after a fortnight of this work,’ Mr Tapley replied, ‘What with leading the life of a fly, ever since I’ve been aboard—for I’ve been perpetually holding-on to something or other in a upside-down position—what with that, sir, and putting a very little into myself, and taking a good deal out of myself, there an’t too much of me to swear by. How do you find yourself this morning, sir?’

CAPITOLO QUINDICI

Il fardello di cui si tratta, è l’orgoglio della Colombia!

Una notte buia e desolata; le persone rannicchiate nei loro letti o che si aggirano fino a tardi intorno al fuoco; la Povertà, più fredda della Miseria, tremola negli angoli delle strade; le guglie delle chiese vibrano debolmente con il suono delle loro campane, appena riposate dal lugubre richiamo “Uno!”. La terra è coperta da un manto scuro, come se fosse il sudario di ieri; gli alberi neri, con le loro grandi “piume funebri”, ondeggiano tristemente avanti e indietro. Tutto è silenzioso, immobile, in profondo riposo. Tranne le nuvole rapide che sfiorano la luna, e il vento cauto che, seguendole sul terreno, si ferma ad ascoltare, poi prosegue con un fruscio, si ferma di nuovo, come una bestia che segue le tracce della sua preda.

Dove vanno così frettolosamente le nuvole e il vento? Se, come spiriti colpevoli, si recano a qualche terribile riunione con poteri simili ai loro, in quali selvagge regioni gli elementi tengono consiglio, o dove si scatenano in spaventosi giochi?

Ecco! Liberi da quella angusta prigione chiamata terra, e su queste vaste distese d’acqua. Qui, ruggenti, furiosi, striduli, ululanti, per tutta la durata della notte. Da qui provengono le voci sonore delle caverne situate sulla costa di quell’isola lontana, mille miglia distante. Silenziose, immersa nel mezzo di onde impetuose. E qui, per incontrarle, si precipitano i venti provenienti da luoghi sconosciuti e desolati del mondo. Qui, nella furia della loro libertà incontrollata, si scontrano tra loro con violenza; fino a quando il mare, travolto dall’emozione come loro stessi, si solleva in onde più possenti delle loro. E l’intera scena diventa un’unica follia.

Avanti, avanti. Lungo le innumerevoli miglia di quel spazio furioso si susseguono onde gigantesche. Qui ci sono “montagne” e caverne, ma in realtà non esistono; ciò che ora è una cosa, un attimo dopo diventa qualcos’altro; tutto non è che un ammasso ribollente di acqua impetuosa. Inseguimento, fuga, onde che si susseguono senza sosta in una lotta selvaggia, fino a quando non emerge schiuma bianca che illumina la notte nera. Continui cambiamenti di forma, colore. Niente rimane immutato, solo eterna lotta. Avanti. La notte diventa sempre più scura, il vento ulula più forte, e le voci del mare diventano ancora più fragorose e violente. Quando si leva quel grido selvaggio nella tempesta: “Una nave!”

Avanti procede, combattendo valorosamente contro gli elementi: i suoi alti alberi tremolano sotto la pressione, le sue strutture risuonano per lo sforzo; avanti procede, ora in alto sulle onde tumultuose, ora in basso nelle profondità del mare, come se per un momento si nascondesse dalla loro furia. E ogni voce della tempesta nell’aria e nell’acqua grida ancora più forte: “Una nave!”

Eppure continua ad avanzare coraggiosamente. E davanti alla sua audacia e al grido che si diffonde intorno, le onde furiose si sollevano una sopra l’altra per osservarla; intorno alla nave, fin dove i marinai sul ponte riescono a penetrare nell’oscurità, si schiantano contro di lei, spingendosi a vicenda giù e risalendo in superficie, avanzando verso di lei con una curiosità terribile. Si frantumano sopra di lei; si sollevano intorno a lei con un fragore assordante; poi, lasciando il posto ad altre onde, se ne vanno gemendo, schiantandosi in frammenti nella loro rabbia frustrata. Eppure continua ad andare avanti, coraggiosamente. E anche se la folla avida la assedia densamente per tutta la notte, e l’‘alba rivela ancora quella processione instancabile che continua a muoversi verso la >nave attraverso un mare turbolento, senza fine, lei prosegue comunque, con luci deboli che brillano nel suo scafo, e persone addormentate al suo interno; come se nessun elemento mortale stesse spiando attraverso ogni fessura, e come se nessuna tomba di marinaio sommerso, coperta soltanto da un pezzo di legno, non si aprisse nelle profondità insondabili sottostanti.

Tra questi viaggiatori addormentati c’erano Martin e Mark Tapley, i quali, cullati dal movimento insolito del vascello, erano completamente ignari sia dell’aria viziata in cui si trovavano che del clamore che li circondava. Fu solo a giorno fatto che Mark Tapley si svegliò con la vaga sensazione di aver sognato di essersi addormentato in un letto a quattro colonne il quale, durante la notte, si era capovolto. Anche in questo caso c’era una spiegazione plausibile: i primi oggetti che Tapley riconobbe aprendo gli occhi furono le proprie scarpe, che, come osservò in seguito, gli stavano “guardando” da un’altezza quasi verticale.

“Benissimo!”, disse Mark, riuscendo finalmente a mettersi in posizione seduta dopo vari tentativi falliti per fermare il rollio della nave. “È la prima volta in assoluto che resto con la testa in giù per tutta la notte”.

“Non dovresti andare a dormire per terra con la testa rivolta verso il lato esposto al vento,” ringhiò un uomo da uno dei letti.

“Con la testa, verso DOVE?”, chiese Mark.

L’uomo ripeté il suo precedente sentimento.

“No, non lo farò un’altra volta,” disse Mark, “ora che so dove si trova quel paese sulla mappa. Nel frattempo posso darvi un consiglio migliore: né voi né nessun altro mio amico dovreste mai più addormentarvi con la testa dentro una nave.”

L’uomo emise un grugnito di riluttante accettazione, si girò nel suo letto e si coprì la testa con la coperta.

“–Perché,” disse il signor Tapley, proseguendo il suo monologo a bassa voce; “il mare è una cosa altrettanto assurda di qualsiasi altra. Non sa mai cosa fare di sé stesso. Non ha alcuna attività per la sua mente e è sempre in uno stato di inattività. Proprio come quegli orsi polari nei spettacoli di animali selvatici, che continuano a scuotere la testa da una parte all’altra, non riesce mai a stare fermo. E tutto questo per via della sua stupidità insolita.”

“Sei tu, Mark?”, chiese una voce debole proveniente da un altro lettino.

“È tutto ciò che di me è rimasto, dopo due settimane di questo lavoro,” rispose il signor Tapley. “Vivendo come una mosca da quando sono a bordo – poiché devo sempre tenere qualcosa in posizione capovolta – e dedicando molto poco di me stesso a queste attività, non mi resta davvero molto. Come vi sentite stamattina, signore?”

‘Very miserable,’ said Martin, with a peevish groan. ‘Ugh. This is wretched, indeed!’

‘Creditable,’ muttered Mark, pressing one hand upon his aching head and looking round him with a rueful grin. ‘That’s the great comfort. It IS creditable to keep up one’s spirits here. Virtue’s its own reward. So’s jollity.’

Mark was so far right that unquestionably any man who retained his cheerfulness among the steerage accommodations of that noble and fast-sailing line-of-packet ship, ‘THE SCREW,’ was solely indebted to his own resources, and shipped his good humour, like his provisions, without any contribution or assistance from the owners. A dark, low, stifling cabin, surrounded by berths all filled to overflowing with men, women, and children, in various stages of sickness and misery, is not the liveliest place of assembly at any time; but when it is so crowded (as the steerage cabin of the Screw was, every passage out), that mattresses and beds are heaped upon the floor, to the extinction of everything like comfort, cleanliness, and decency, it is liable to operate not only as a pretty strong banner against amiability of temper, but as a positive encourager of selfish and rough humours. Mark felt this, as he sat looking about him; and his spirits rose proportionately.

There were English people, Irish people, Welsh people, and Scotch people there; all with their little store of coarse food and shabby clothes; and nearly all with their families of children. There were children of all ages; from the baby at the breast, to the slattern-girl who was as much a grown woman as her mother. Every kind of domestic suffering that is bred in poverty, illness, banishment, sorrow, and long travel in bad weather, was crammed into the little space; and yet was there infinitely less of complaint and querulousness, and infinitely more of mutual assistance and general kindness to be found in that unwholesome ark, than in many brilliant ballrooms.

Mark looked about him wistfully, and his face brightened as he looked. Here an old grandmother was crooning over a sick child, and rocking it to and fro, in arms hardly more wasted than its own young limbs; here a poor woman with an infant in her lap, mended another little creature’s clothes, and quieted another who was creeping up about her from their scanty bed upon the floor. Here were old men awkwardly engaged in little household offices, wherein they would have been ridiculous but for their good-will and kind purpose; and here were swarthy fellows—giants in their way—doing such little acts of tenderness for those about them, as might have belonged to gentlest-hearted dwarfs. The very idiot in the corner who sat mowing there, all day, had his faculty of imitation roused by what he saw about him; and snapped his fingers to amuse a crying child.

‘Now, then,’ said Mark, nodding to a woman who was dressing her three children at no great distance from him—and the grin upon his face had by this time spread from ear to ear—‘Hand over one of them young ‘uns according to custom.’

‘I wish you’d get breakfast, Mark, instead of worrying with people who don’t belong to you,’ observed Martin, petulantly.

‘All right,’ said Mark. ‘SHE’ll do that. It’s a fair division of labour, sir. I wash her boys, and she makes our tea. I never COULD make tea, but any one can wash a boy.’

The woman, who was delicate and ill, felt and understood his kindness, as well she might, for she had been covered every night with his greatcoat, while he had for his own bed the bare boards and a rug. But Martin, who seldom got up or looked about him, was quite incensed by the folly of this speech, and expressed his dissatisfaction by an impatient groan.

‘So it is, certainly,’ said Mark, brushing the child’s hair as coolly as if he had been born and bred a barber.

‘What are you talking about, now?’ asked Martin.

‘What you said,’ replied Mark; ‘or what you meant, when you gave that there dismal vent to your feelings. I quite go along with it, sir. It IS very hard upon her.’

‘What is?’

‘Making the voyage by herself along with these young impediments here, and going such a way at such a time of the year to join her husband. If you don’t want to be driven mad with yellow soap in your eye, young man,’ said Mr Tapley to the second urchin, who was by this time under his hands at the basin, ‘you’d better shut it.’

‘Where does she join her husband?’ asked Martin, yawning.

‘Why, I’m very much afraid,’ said Mr Tapley, in a low voice, ‘that she don’t know. I hope she mayn’t miss him. But she sent her last letter by hand, and it don’t seem to have been very clearly understood between ‘em without it, and if she don’t see him a-waving his pocket-handkerchief on the shore, like a pictur out of a song-book, my opinion is, she’ll break her heart.’

‘Why, how, in Folly’s name, does the woman come to be on board ship on such a wild-goose venture!’ cried Martin.

Mr Tapley glanced at him for a moment as he lay prostrate in his berth, and then said, very quietly:

‘Ah! How indeed! I can’t think! He’s been away from her for two year; she’s been very poor and lonely in her own country; and has always been a-looking forward to meeting him. It’s very strange she should be here. Quite amazing! A little mad perhaps! There can’t be no other way of accounting for it.’

Martin was too far gone in the lassitude of sea-sickness to make any reply to these words, or even to attend to them as they were spoken. And the subject of their discourse returning at this crisis with some hot tea, effectually put a stop to any resumption of the theme by Mr Tapley; who, when the meal was over and he had adjusted Martin’s bed, went up on deck to wash the breakfast service, which consisted of two half-pint tin mugs, and a shaving-pot of the same metal.

It is due to Mark Tapley to state that he suffered at least as much from sea-sickness as any man, woman, or child, on board; and that he had a peculiar faculty of knocking himself about on the smallest provocation, and losing his legs at every lurch of the ship. But resolved, in his usual phrase, to ‘come out strong’ under disadvantageous circumstances, he was the life and soul of the steerage, and made no more of stopping in the middle of a facetious conversation to go away and be excessively ill by himself, and afterwards come back in the very best and gayest of tempers to resume it, than if such a course of proceeding had been the commonest in the world.

“Davvero molto misero,” disse Martin con un lamento irritato. “Uff. È davvero orribile!”

“Lodevole,” mormorò Mark, premendosi una mano sulla testa dolorante e guardandosi intorno con un sorriso malinconico. “Questo è il grande conforto: è davvero lodevole riuscire a mantenere alto lo spirito in un posto del genere. La virtù ha la sua ricompensa, così come la gioia.”

Mark era così equilibrato e sereno che, senza dubbio, qualsiasi uomo riuscisse a mantenere il proprio buon umore nelle condizioni spartane delle cabine di terza classe di quella nobile e veloce nave a vela, la “The Screw”, doveva farlo interamente grazie alle proprie forze interiori; il suo ottimo spirito, così come i suoi viveri, venivano forniti senza alcun contributo da parte dei proprietari della nave. Una cabina buia, soffocante, piena di letti e cuccette occupati fino al limite da uomini, donne e bambini in vari stadi di malattia e miseria, non è certo il luogo più adatto per trascorrere del tempo in modo piacevole; ma quando quella cabina era così affollata (come accadeva sempre), con i materassi ammucchiati sul pavimento fino a eliminare qualsiasi traccia di comfort, pulizia e decenza, diventava non solo un ostacolo alla gentilezza e all’allegria, ma anche un vero incoraggiamento per comportamenti egoistici e ruvidi. Mark se ne rese conto mentre osservava l’ambiente intorno a sé; e il suo umore, di conseguenza, migliorò notevolmente.

C’erano persone inglesi, irlandesi, gallese e scozzesi; tutti con le loro scarse provviste di cibo grossolano e abiti logori; quasi tutti con le loro famiglie di bambini. C’erano bambini di tutte le età: dal neonato alato al’adolescente che sembrava già una donna adulta come sua madre. Ogni tipo di sofferenza domestica legata alla povertà, alle malattie, all’esilio, al dolore e ai lunghi viaggi in condizioni meteorologiche avverse era concentrato in quell’angusto spazio; eppure, in quel “arca” poco confortevole, si riscontrava molto meno lamentele e petulanza, e molto più aiuto reciproco e gentilezza generale di quanto si possa trovare in molti splendidi saloni da ballo.

Mark guardò intorno a sé con malinconia, ma il suo viso si illuminò quando vide ciò che gli si presentava davanti. Lì c’era una vecchia nonna che cullava un bambino malato, dondolandolo avanti e indietro; lì c’era una povera donna con un neonato in grembo che sistemava i vestiti di un altro bambino e lo calmava mentre questi si muoveva timidamente intorno a loro sul misero letto posizionato per terra. C’erano anche anziani che, sebbene goffi, svolgevano piccoli compiti domestici; senza la loro buona volontà e il loro intento gentile, quelle azioni sarebbero sembrate ridicole. E poi c’erano uomini dal viso scuro, giganti per statura, che dimostravano una tenerezza verso coloro che li circondavano, come se fossero stati dei nani dal cuore più gentile. Persino l’idiota seduto in un angolo, che passava tutto il giorno a fare nulla, aveva la sua capacità di imitazione stimolata da ciò che vedeva intorno a sé; e schioccava le dita per divertire un bambino che piangeva.

“Bene, allora,” disse Mark, annuendo verso una donna che stava vestendo i suoi tre figli a non molta distanza da lui; il sorriso sul suo viso ormai si estendeva da un orecchio all’altro. “Dai via uno di loro, secondo la tradizione.”

“Vorrei che tu mangiassi la colazione, Mark, invece di preoccuparti per persone che non fanno parte della tua vita,” osservò Martin in tono capriccioso.

“Va bene,” disse Mark. “Lei lo farà. È una divisione equa del lavoro, signore. Io lavo i suoi bambini e lei prepara il tè per noi. Io non saprei mai come preparare il tè, ma chiunque può lavare un bambino.”

La donna, che era delicata e malata, percepì e comprese la sua gentilezza, perché, come poteva non farlo, ogni notte veniva coperta dal suo cappotto, mentre lui stesso dormiva su assi nudi e un tappeto. Ma Martin, che raramente si alzava o guardava intorno, fu profondamente offeso dall’assurdità di quelle parole e esprime il proprio dissenso con un grido impaziente.

“Lo so bene,” disse Mark, pettinando i capelli del >bambino con la stessa freddezza di chi fosse nato e cresciuto per fare il barbiere.

“Di cosa stai parlando adesso?”, chiese Martin.

“Quello che hai detto,” rispose Mark; “o quello che intendevi quando hai espresso in quel modo così cupo i tuoi sentimenti. Concordo completamente con te, signore. È davvero molto difficile per lei.”

“Che cos’è?”

“Viaggiare da sola, con questi giovani “impedimenti” al seguito, e andare in un posto del genere proprio a questa ora dell’anno per raggiungere il marito. Se non vuoi impazzire dal dolore agli occhi a causa del sapone giallo, ragazzo,” disse il signor Tapley al secondo monello, che in quel momento si trovava sotto le sue mani vicino al lavandino, “faresti meglio a chiudere quella bocca.”

“Dove si unisce a suo marito?”, chiese Martin, sbadigliando.

“Perché, temo molto,” disse il signor Tapley a bassa voce, “che lei non lo sappia. Spero che non lo perda. Ma l’ultima lettera che ha inviato era scritta a mano, e sembra che le loro intenzioni non siano state del tutto chiare senza di essa. Se non lo vedrà agitare il fazzoletto sulla riva, come in una immagine tratta da un >cantico, secondo me si spezzerà il cuore.”

“Perché, come, per l’amor del cielo, questa donna si trova a bordo di quella nave in un’avventura così folle!” esclamò Martin.

Il signor Tapley lo guardò per un momento mentre giaceva prono nella sua cuccetta, e poi disse, molto dolcemente:

‘Ah! Davvero. Non riesco a crederci! È stato lontano da lei per due anni; lei è stata molto povera e sola nel suo paese, e ha sempre sperato di rivederlo. È davvero strano che si trovi qui. Assolutamente incredibile! Forse è un po’ pazza. Non può esserci altra spiegazione.’

Martin era troppo preso dalla stanchezza causata dal mal di mare per poter rispondere a queste parole, o anche solo prestarvi attenzione mentre venivano dette. E quando l’argomento della loro conversazione fu ripreso in questo momento, con un po’ di tè caldo, il signor Tapley decise effettivamente di non continuare; dopo che la cena fu finita e lui ebbe sistemato il letto di Martin, salì sul ponte per lavare i piatti del breakfast, che consistevano in due tazze di latta da mezzo pinta ciascuna e un barattolo dello stesso metallo usato per radersi.

È merito di Mark Tapley aver affermato che soffriva di mal di mare almeno quanto qualsiasi uomo, donna o bambino a bordo; inoltre, aveva la particolare tendenza a perdere l’equilibrio al minimo stimolo e a sentirsi molto male con ogni movimento improvviso della nave. Tuttavia, deciso, con le sue solite parole, a “superare le avversità con forza”, era la vera anima della zona riservata ai passeggeri di terza classe; non si fermava mai nel bel mezzo di una conversazione per andarsene e stare male da solo, per poi tornare poco dopo nel miglior umore possibile e riprendere la conversazione come se nulla fosse accaduto.

It cannot be said that as his illness wore off, his cheerfulness and good nature increased, because they would hardly admit of augmentation; but his usefulness among the weaker members of the party was much enlarged; and at all times and seasons there he was exerting it. If a gleam of sun shone out of the dark sky, down Mark tumbled into the cabin, and presently up he came again with a woman in his arms, or half-a-dozen children, or a man, or a bed, or a saucepan, or a basket, or something animate or inanimate, that he thought would be the better for the air. If an hour or two of fine weather in the middle of the day tempted those who seldom or never came on deck at other times to crawl into the long-boat, or lie down upon the spare spars, and try to eat, there, in the centre of the group, was Mr Tapley, handing about salt beef and biscuit, or dispensing tastes of grog, or cutting up the children’s provisions with his pocketknife, for their greater ease and comfort, or reading aloud from a venerable newspaper, or singing some roaring old song to a select party, or writing the beginnings of letters to their friends at home for people who couldn’t write, or cracking jokes with the crew, or nearly getting blown over the side, or emerging, half-drowned, from a shower of spray, or lending a hand somewhere or other; but always doing something for the general entertainment. At night, when the cooking-fire was lighted on the deck, and the driving sparks that flew among the rigging, and the clouds of sails, seemed to menace the ship with certain annihilation by fire, in case the elements of air and water failed to compass her destruction; there, again, was Mr Tapley, with his coat off and his shirt-sleeves turned up to his elbows, doing all kinds of culinary offices; compounding the strangest dishes; recognized by every one as an established authority; and helping all parties to achieve something which, left to themselves, they never could have done, and never would have dreamed of. In short, there never was a more popular character than Mark Tapley became, on board that noble and fast-sailing line-of-packet ship, the Screw; and he attained at last to such a pitch of universal admiration, that he began to have grave doubts within himself whether a man might reasonably claim any credit for being jolly under such exciting circumstances.

‘If this was going to last,’ said Tapley, ‘there’d be no great difference as I can perceive, between the Screw and the Dragon. I never am to get credit, I think. I begin to be afraid that the Fates is determined to make the world easy to me.’

‘Well, Mark,’ said Martin, near whose berth he had ruminated to this effect. ‘When will this be over?’

‘Another week, they say, sir,’ returned Mark, ‘will most likely bring us into port. The ship’s a-going along at present, as sensible as a ship can, sir; though I don’t mean to say as that’s any very high praise.’

‘I don’t think it is, indeed,’ groaned Martin.

‘You’d feel all the better for it, sir, if you was to turn out,’ observed Mark.

‘And be seen by the ladies and gentlemen on the after-deck,’ returned Martin, with a scronful emphasis upon the words, ‘mingling with the beggarly crowd that are stowed away in this vile hole. I should be greatly the better for that, no doubt.’

‘I’m thankful that I can’t say from my own experience what the feelings of a gentleman may be,’ said Mark, ‘but I should have thought, sir, as a gentleman would feel a deal more uncomfortable down here than up in the fresh air, especially when the ladies and gentlemen in the after-cabin know just as much about him as he does about them, and are likely to trouble their heads about him in the same proportion. I should have thought that, certainly.’

‘I tell you, then,’ rejoined Martin, ‘you would have thought wrong, and do think wrong.’

‘Very likely, sir,’ said Mark, with imperturbable good temper. ‘I often do.’

‘As to lying here,’ cried Martin, raising himself on his elbow, and looking angrily at his follower. ‘Do you suppose it’s a pleasure to lie here?’

‘All the madhouses in the world,’ said Mr Tapley, ‘couldn’t produce such a maniac as the man must be who could think that.’

‘Then why are you forever goading and urging me to get up?’ asked Martin, ‘I lie here because I don’t wish to be recognized, in the better days to which I aspire, by any purse-proud citizen, as the man who came over with him among the steerage passengers. I lie here because I wish to conceal my circumstances and myself, and not to arrive in a new world badged and ticketed as an utterly poverty-stricken man. If I could have afforded a passage in the after-cabin I should have held up my head with the rest. As I couldn’t I hide it. Do you understand that?’

‘I am very sorry, sir,’ said Mark. ‘I didn’t know you took it so much to heart as this comes to.’

‘Of course you didn’t know,’ returned his master. ‘How should you know, unless I told you? It’s no trial to you, Mark, to make yourself comfortable and to bustle about. It’s as natural for you to do so under the circumstances as it is for me not to do so. Why, you don’t suppose there is a living creature in this ship who can by possibility have half so much to undergo on board of her as I have? Do you?’ he asked, sitting upright in his berth and looking at Mark, with an expression of great earnestness not unmixed with wonder.

Mark twisted his face into a tight knot, and with his head very much on one side, pondered upon this question as if he felt it an extremely difficult one to answer. He was relieved from his embarrassment by Martin himself, who said, as he stretched himself upon his back again and resumed the book he had been reading:

‘But what is the use of my putting such a case to you, when the very essence of what I have been saying is, that you cannot by possibility understand it! Make me a little brandy-and-water—cold and very weak—and give me a biscuit, and tell your friend, who is a nearer neighbour of ours than I could wish, to try and keep her children a little quieter to-night than she did last night; that’s a good fellow.’

Non si può dire che, con il passare del tempo e il miglioramento della sua salute, la sua allegria e la sua buona >natura aumentassero, poiché queste qualità difficilmente potevano essere ulteriormente migliorate; tuttavia, il suo aiuto nei confronti dei membri più deboli del gruppo divenne molto più efficace, e in ogni momento e in qualsiasi stagione era sempre pronto ad offrire il proprio sostegno. Se una luce di sole spuntava tra le nuvole scure, Mark correva subito giù nella cabina e poco dopo tornava su con una donna tra le braccia, o mezza dozzina di bambini, o un uomo, o un letto, o una pentola, o un cesto, insomma, qualsiasi cosa potesse essere utile per rendere l’ambiente più confortevole. Se, a metà giornata, il bel tempo invitava coloro che di solito non uscivano sul ponte ad approfittarne per sdraiarsi sui pennoni o mangiare, lì c’era sempre Mr Tapley: distribuiva carne salata e biscotti, offriva un po’ di grog, tagliava la roba da mangiare per i bambini con il suo coltello da tasca, leggeva ad alta voce giornali antichi, cantava canzoni tradizionali a chi glielo chiedeva, scriveva lettere per coloro che non sapevano scrivere, scherzava con l’equipaggio, insomma, faceva sempre qualcosa per divertire tutti. Di notte, quando sul ponte veniva acceso il fuoco per cucinare e le scintille volavano tra le vele, sembrando minacciare la nave di distruzione; anche allora c’era Mr Tapley: con la giacca tolta e le maniche arrotolate fino ai gomiti, si dedicava alle faccende culinarie, creando piatti strani e deliziosi, tutti lo riconoscevano come un’autorità in materia, e grazie a lui tutti riuscivano a fare cose che da soli non avrebbero mai potuto realizzare. In breve, non c’era persona più popolare a bordo di quella nobile e veloce nave mercantile: Mr Mark Tapley ottenne infine un tale grado di ammirazione universale che iniziò addirittura a dubitare se fosse davvero giusto attribuirsi il merito di essere sempre allegro in circostanze così avventurose.

“Se questa situazione dovesse continuare,” disse Tapley, “non ci sarebbe, a mio parere, alcuna grande differenza tra il ‘Vite’ e il ‘Drago’. Non riceverò mai alcun merito per questo. Comincio ad avere paura che il Fato abbia deciso di rendere la vita troppo facile per me.”

“Beh, Mark,” disse Martin, vicino al cui letto aveva riflettuto a lungo su questa questione. “Quando finirà tutto questo?”

“Un’altra settimana, dicono, signore,” rispose Mark, “probabilmente ci porterà in porto. La nave sta procedendo al meglio, per quanto una nave possa farlo, signore; anche se non intendo dire che questo sia un grande complimento.”

“Non credo proprio che lo sia,” gemette Martin.

“Vi sentireste molto meglio se vi presentaste, signore,” osservò Mark.

“E essere visto dalle signore e dai signori sul ponte posteriore,” rispose Martin, mettendo un’enfasi particolare su quelle parole, “mescolarsi con quella misera folla che è stipata in questo orribile buco. Certo, così starei molto meglio, senza >dubbio alcuno.”

“Sono grato di non poter dire, sulla base della mia esperienza personale, quali siano i sentimenti di un gentiluomo,” disse Mark, “ma avrei dovuto pensare che, signore, come gentiluomo si sarebbe sentito molto più a disagio qui sotto piuttosto che all’aria fresca. Soprattutto quando le signore e i signori presenti nella cabina posteriore sanno esattamente lo stesso di lui su di loro, e sono probabili che si preoccupino per lui nello stesso modo. Avrei dovuto pensarci, sicuramente.”

“Ve lo dico io,” ribatté Martin, “avreste pensato male, e in effetti state pensando male.”

“Molto probabilmente, signore,” disse Mark, con un’indole estremamente serena. “Spesso lo faccio.”

“Riguardo a stare sdraiato qui,” gridò Martin, alzandosi sul gomito e guardando con rabbia il suo seguace. “Pensi davvero che sia piacevole stare sdraiato qui?”

“Tutti i manicomi del mondo,” disse il signor Tapley, “non riuscirebbero a produrre un pazzo del genere; l’uomo che potrebbe pensare una cosa del genere deve essere davvero un folle.”

“Allora perché continui a spingermi e incoraggiarmi a alzarmi?” chiese Martin. “Rimango qui sdraiato perché non voglio che, nei giorni migliori che desidero raggiungere, qualche cittadino presuntuoso mi riconosca come l’uomo che è arrivato insieme agli altri passeggeri di terza classe. Rimango qui perché voglio nascondere le mie condizioni e me stesso, per non presentarmi in un nuovo mondo etichettato come un uomo completamente povero. Se avessi potuto permettermi un posto nella cabina posteriore, avrei tenuto alta la testa come tutti gli altri. Ma poiché non potevo, ho dovuto nascondermi. Capisci?”

“Mi dispiace molto, signore,” disse Mark. “Non sapevo che vi prendesse così a cuore questa questione.”

“Certo che non lo sapevi,” rispose il suo padrone. “Come avresti potuto saperlo, se non te l’avevo detto io? Non è affatto una prova per te, Mark, metterti a tuo agio e occuparti delle tue cose. È altrettanto naturale per te farlo in queste circostanze quanto lo è per me non farlo. Dopotutto, non penserai mica che ci sia qualcuna su questa nave che debba affrontare anche solo la metà di ciò che ho dovuto affrontare io, vero?” chiese, sedendosi dritto nella sua cuccetta e guardando Mark con un’espressione di grande serietà, mista a stupore.

Mark contorse il viso in una smorfia di concentrazione; con la testa inclinata da un lato, rifletté su questa domanda come se ritenesse che fosse estremamente difficile da rispondere. La sua imbarazzo fu alleviato proprio da Martin, il quale, sdraiandosi di nuovo e riprendendo a leggere il libro che stava leggendo, disse:

“Ma a che serve che vi spieghi tutto questo, se l’essenza stessa di ciò che sto dicendo è proprio che non potete assolutamente comprenderlo! Datemi un po’ di brandy mescolato con acqua, freddo e molto diluito. E anche un biscotto. Dite pure alla vostra amica, che è una vicina molto più stretta della nostra di quanto mi piacerebbe, di cercare di tenere i suoi bambini un po’ più in silenzio di stanotte, rispetto a come hanno fatto la scorsa notte. È davvero una brava persona.”

Mr Tapley set himself to obey these orders with great alacrity, and pending their execution, it may be presumed his flagging spirits revived; inasmuch as he several times observed, below his breath, that in respect of its power of imparting a credit to jollity, the Screw unquestionably had some decided advantages over the Dragon. He also remarked that it was a high gratification to him to reflect that he would carry its main excellence ashore with him, and have it constantly beside him wherever he went; but what he meant by these consolatory thoughts he did not explain.

And now a general excitement began to prevail on board; and various predictions relative to the precise day, and even the precise hour at which they would reach New York, were freely broached. There was infinitely more crowding on deck and looking over the ship’s side than there had been before; and an epidemic broke out for packing up things every morning, which required unpacking again every night. Those who had any letters to deliver, or any friends to meet, or any settled plans of going anywhere or doing anything, discussed their prospects a hundred times a day; and as this class of passengers was very small, and the number of those who had no prospects whatever was very large, there were plenty of listeners and few talkers. Those who had been ill all along, got well now, and those who had been well, got better. An American gentleman in the after-cabin, who had been wrapped up in fur and oilskin the whole passage, unexpectedly appeared in a very shiny, tall, black hat, and constantly overhauled a very little valise of pale leather, which contained his clothes, linen, brushes, shaving apparatus, books, trinkets, and other baggage. He likewise stuck his hands deep into his pockets, and walked the deck with his nostrils dilated, as already inhaling the air of Freedom which carries death to all tyrants, and can never (under any circumstances worth mentioning) be breathed by slaves. An English gentleman who was strongly suspected of having run away from a bank, with something in his possession belonging to its strong box besides the key, grew eloquent upon the subject of the rights of man, and hummed the Marseillaise Hymn constantly. In a word, one great sensation pervaded the whole ship, and the soil of America lay close before them; so close at last, that, upon a certain starlight night they took a pilot on board, and within a few hours afterwards lay to until the morning, awaiting the arrival of a steamboat in which the passengers were to be conveyed ashore.

Off she came, soon after it was light next morning, and lying alongside an hour or more—during which period her very firemen were objects of hardly less interest and curiosity than if they had been so many angels, good or bad—took all her living freight aboard. Among them Mark, who still had his friend and her three children under his close protection; and Martin, who had once more dressed himself in his usual attire, but wore a soiled, old cloak above his ordinary clothes, until such time as he should separate for ever from his late companions.

The steamer—which, with its machinery on deck, looked, as it worked its long slim legs, like some enormously magnified insect or antediluvian monster—dashed at great speed up a beautiful bay; and presently they saw some heights, and islands, and a long, flat, straggling city.

‘And this,’ said Mr Tapley, looking far ahead, ‘is the Land of Liberty, is it? Very well. I’m agreeable. Any land will do for me, after so much water!’

Il signor Tapley si mise all’opera per obbedire a queste istruzioni con grande sollecitudine, e fino al loro completamento, si può presumere che il suo spirito abbattuto si fosse rianimato; infatti, più volte mormorò tra sé che, per quanto riguarda la capacità di contribuire all’allegria, lo “Screw” aveva senza dubbio alcuni notevoli vantaggi rispetto al “Dragon”. Aggiunse anche che gli procurava grande soddisfazione il pensiero di poter portare con sé questa sua principale qualità “a terra”, e di averla sempre accanto a sé ovunque andasse; ma non spiegò mai esattamente cosa intendesse con questi pensieri consolatori.

E ora un’atmosfera di grande eccitazione iniziò a diffondersi a bordo; venivano fatte varie previsioni riguardo al giorno esatto, e persino all’ora precisa in cui avrebbero raggiunto New York. C’era molta più gente sul ponte e tutti guardavano verso il lato della nave di quanto fosse accaduto prima; inoltre, ogni mattina scoppiava una sorta di “epidemia” di preparativi per imballare le cose, che poi richiedevano di essere disimballate di nuovo ogni notte. Coloro che avevano lettere da consegnare, amici da incontrare, o piani precisi per andare da qualche parte o fare qualcosa, ne discutevano centinaia di volte al giorno; poiché questo tipo di passeggeri era molto raro, mentre quelli che non avevano alcun piano specifico erano moltissimi, c’erano molti ascoltatori e pochi parlanti. Coloro che erano stati malati per tutto il viaggio ora si erano riscossi, e quelli che erano stati in salute miglioravano ancora di più. Un gentiluomo americano, che durante tutto il viaggio era stato avvolto in pelliccia e impermeabile, apparve improvvisamente con un cappello nero lucido e alto, e si occupava continuamente di una piccola valigia di pelle chiara contenente i suoi vestiti, biancheria, spazzole, attrezzatura da barba, libri, oggetti personali e altro bagaglio. Metteva anche le mani nelle tasche e camminava sul ponte con il naso dilatato, come se già stesse respirando l’aria della Libertà, quell’aria che porta la morte a tutti i tiranni e che mai (in nessuna circostanza degna di essere menzionata) può essere respirata dai schiavi. Un gentiluomo inglese, sospettato di aver rubato qualcosa da una banca – insieme alla chiave del caveau – iniziò a parlare con grande eloquenza dei diritti dell’uomo e cantava continuamente l’inno della Marseillaise. In breve, un’atmosfera di grande eccitazione pervadeva l’intera nave; la terra d’America era ormai vicinissima, così vicina che, in una certa notte stellata, presero a bordo un pilota e, poche ore dopo, si fermarono in attesa dell’arrivo di una barca a vapore che li avrebbe portati a riva.

Uscì presto, poco dopo l’alba del giorno seguente, e rimase sdraiata accanto a loro per un’ora o più; in quel lasso di tempo, anche i suoi vigili del fuoco furono oggetto di uno interesse e di una curiosità non meno grandi di quelli che avrebbero suscitato se fossero stati angeli, buoni o cattivi. Tra loro c’erano Mark, che continuava a proteggere attentamente il suo amico e i tre bambini di lei; e Martin, che si era nuovamente vestito con i suoi abiti soliti, ma indossava un vecchio mantello sporco sopra i propri vestiti normali, fino al momento in cui avrebbe dovuto separarsi per sempre dai suoi compagni defunti.

La nave a vapore – che, con le sue macchine sul ponte, mentre muoveva le sue lunghe e sottili “gambe”, sembrava un insetto o un mostro preistorico ingrandito enormemente – si precipitò ad alta velocità all’interno di una bellissima baia; poco dopo, apparvero delle alture, alcune isole e una lunga, piatta e disordinata >città.

“E questa,” disse il signor Tapley, guardando lontano davanti a sé, “è la Terra della Libertà, vero? Molto bene. Sono d’accordo. Qualsiasi terra andrà bene per me, dopo aver visto così tanta acqua!”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

MARTIN DISEMBARKS FROM THAT NOBLE AND FAST-SAILING LINE-OF-PACKET SHIP, ‘THE SCREW’, AT THE PORT OF NEW YORK, IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. HE MAKES SOME ACQUAINTANCES, AND DINES AT A BOARDING-HOUSE. THE PARTICULARS OF THOSE TRANSACTIONS

Some trifling excitement prevailed upon the very brink and margin of the land of liberty; for an alderman had been elected the day before; and Party Feeling naturally running rather high on such an exciting occasion, the friends of the disappointed candidate had found it necessary to assert the great principles of Purity of Election and Freedom of opinion by breaking a few legs and arms, and furthermore pursuing one obnoxious gentleman through the streets with the design of hitting his nose. These good-humoured little outbursts of the popular fancy were not in themselves sufficiently remarkable to create any great stir, after the lapse of a whole night; but they found fresh life and notoriety in the breath of the newsboys, who not only proclaimed them with shrill yells in all the highways and byways of the town, upon the wharves and among the shipping, but on the deck and down in the cabins of the steamboat; which, before she touched the shore, was boarded and overrun by a legion of those young citizens.

‘Here’s this morning’s New York Sewer!’ cried one. ‘Here’s this morning’s New York Stabber! Here’s the New York Family Spy! Here’s the New York Private Listener! Here’s the New York Peeper! Here’s the New York Plunderer! Here’s the New York Keyhole Reporter! Here’s the New York Rowdy Journal! Here’s all the New York papers! Here’s full particulars of the patriotic locofoco movement yesterday, in which the whigs was so chawed up; and the last Alabama gouging case; and the interesting Arkansas dooel with Bowie knives; and all the Political, Commercial, and Fashionable News. Here they are! Here they are! Here’s the papers, here’s the papers!’

‘Here’s the Sewer!’ cried another. ‘Here’s the New York Sewer! Here’s some of the twelfth thousand of to-day’s Sewer, with the best accounts of the markets, and all the shipping news, and four whole columns of country correspondence, and a full account of the Ball at Mrs White’s last night, where all the beauty and fashion of New York was assembled; with the Sewer’s own particulars of the private lives of all the ladies that was there! Here’s the Sewer! Here’s some of the twelfth thousand of the New York Sewer! Here’s the Sewer’s exposure of the Wall Street Gang, and the Sewer’s exposure of the Washington Gang, and the Sewer’s exclusive account of a flagrant act of dishonesty committed by the Secretary of State when he was eight years old; now communicated, at a great expense, by his own nurse. Here’s the Sewer! Here’s the New York Sewer, in its twelfth thousand, with a whole column of New Yorkers to be shown up, and all their names printed! Here’s the Sewer’s article upon the Judge that tried him, day afore yesterday, for libel, and the Sewer’s tribute to the independent Jury that didn’t convict him, and the Sewer’s account of what they might have expected if they had! Here’s the Sewer, here’s the Sewer! Here’s the wide-awake Sewer; always on the lookout; the leading Journal of the United States, now in its twelfth thousand, and still a-printing off:—Here’s the New York Sewer!’

‘It is in such enlightened means,’ said a voice almost in Martin’s ear, ‘that the bubbling passions of my country find a vent.’

Martin turned involuntarily, and saw, standing close at his side, a sallow gentleman, with sunken cheeks, black hair, small twinkling eyes, and a singular expression hovering about that region of his face, which was not a frown, nor a leer, and yet might have been mistaken at the first glance for either. Indeed it would have been difficult, on a much closer acquaintance, to describe it in any more satisfactory terms than as a mixed expression of vulgar cunning and conceit. This gentleman wore a rather broad-brimmed hat for the greater wisdom of his appearance; and had his arms folded for the greater impressiveness of his attitude. He was somewhat shabbily dressed in a blue surtout reaching nearly to his ankles, short loose trousers of the same colour, and a faded buff waistcoat, through which a discoloured shirt-frill struggled to force itself into notice, as asserting an equality of civil rights with the other portions of his dress, and maintaining a declaration of Independence on its own account. His feet, which were of unusually large proportions, were leisurely crossed before him as he half leaned against, half sat upon, the steamboat’s bulwark; and his thick cane, shod with a mighty ferule at one end and armed with a great metal knob at the other, depended from a line-and-tassel on his wrist. Thus attired, and thus composed into an aspect of great profundity, the gentleman twitched up the right-hand corner of his mouth and his right eye simultaneously, and said, once more:

‘It is in such enlightened means that the bubbling passions of my country find a vent.’

As he looked at Martin, and nobody else was by, Martin inclined his head, and said:

‘You allude to—?’

‘To the Palladium of rational Liberty at home, sir, and the dread of Foreign oppression abroad,’ returned the gentleman, as he pointed with his cane to an uncommonly dirty newsboy with one eye. ‘To the Envy of the world, sir, and the leaders of Human Civilization. Let me ask you sir,’ he added, bringing the ferule of his stick heavily upon the deck with the air of a man who must not be equivocated with, ‘how do you like my Country?’

‘I am hardly prepared to answer that question yet,’ said Martin ‘seeing that I have not been ashore.’

‘Well, I should expect you were not prepared, sir,’ said the gentleman, ‘to behold such signs of National Prosperity as those?’

He pointed to the vessels lying at the wharves; and then gave a vague flourish with his stick, as if he would include the air and water, generally, in this remark.

Capitolo Sedicesimo

Martin sbarca da quella nobile e veloce nave a vela rapida, la “The Screw”, nel porto di New York, negli Stati Uniti d’America. Fa alcune conoscenze e cena in una locanda per viaggiatori. I dettagli di quelle esperienze.

Un po’ di eccitazione si diffuse ai confini della terra della libertà: il giorno prima era stato eletto un assessore, e, data l’atmosfera tesa in una simile occasione, gli sostenitori del candidato sconfitto ritennero necessario affermare i principi fondamentali di purezza nelle elezioni e di libertà di opinione, anche se questo significava rompere alcune gambe e braccia, e persino inseguire un certo signore per le strade con l’intenzione di colpirgli il naso. Queste piccole manifestazioni, piene di buon umore, da sole non avrebbero causato grande scalpore, ma trovarono nuova vita e notorietà grazie ai giornalisti, che le diffusero ad alta voce in tutte le strade della città, nei porti, tra le navi. E prima ancora che la nave toccasse riva, i suoi ponti e le sue cabine furono invasi da una legione di quei giovani cittadini.

“Ecco i giornali di questa mattina da New York!” gridò uno. “Ecco il ‘New York Stabber’ di questa mattina! Ecco lo ‘Family Spy’ di New York! Ecco l‘Private Listener’ di New York! Ecco il ‘Peeper’ di New York! Ecco il ‘Plunderer’ di New York! Ecco il ‘Keyhole Reporter’ di New York! Ecco il giornale chiassoso di New York! Ecco tutti i giornali di New York! Qui ci sono tutti i dettagli sul movimento patriottico di ieri, durante il quale i whigs furono duramente attaccati; c’è anche l’ultimo caso riguardante gli abusi in Alabama; e l’interessante episodio avvenuto in Arkansas con i coltelli Bowie. E poi tutte le notizie politiche, commerciali e di moda. Ecco qui! Ecco i giornali!”

“Ecco il ‘Sewer’! Ecco il ‘New York Sewer’! Qui ci sono alcune delle dodicimila copie di oggi del ‘Sewer’, con i migliori resoconti dei mercati, tutte le notizie navali, quattro intere colonne di corrispondenza locale, e un resoconto dettagliato della festa alla casa della signora White la scorsa sera, dove si riunì tutta la bellezza e la moda di New York; inoltre, informazioni private su tutte le dame presenti! Ecco il ‘Sewer’. Qui ci sono alcune delle dodicimila copie del ‘New York Sewer’ di oggi! Qui vengono smascherate le fazioni di Wall Street e Washington, e viene rivelato un atto flagrante di disonestà commesso dal Segretario di Stato quando aveva otto anni. Queste informazioni sono state reperite a grande spesa dalla sua stessa nutrice! Ecco il ‘New York Sewer’, nella sua dodicesima edizione, con un’intera colonna dedicata ai newyorkesi che vengono smascherati, e i loro nomi stampati chiaramente! Qui c’è anche un articolo sul giudice che l’altro ieri lo ha processato per diffamazione, il ringraziamento del ‘Sewer’ al giurì indipendente che non lo ha condannato. E ancora informazioni su ciò che avrebbero potuto aspettarsi se lo avessero fatto! Ecco il ‘Sewer’. Il principale giornale degli Stati Uniti, ora nella sua dodicesima edizione e ancora in stampa. Ecco il ‘New York Sewer’!”

“È attraverso mezzi così illuminati,” disse una voce quasi all’orecchio di Martin, “che le passioni fervide del mio paese trovano uno sfogo.”

Martin si girò involontariamente e vide, in piedi accanto a lui, un signore dal viso pallido, con guance incavate, capelli neri, occhi piccoli e scintillanti, e un’espressione strana sul volto che non era né un cipiglio né uno sguardo malizioso, ma che a prima vista avrebbe potuto essere scambiata per uno dei due. Infatti, conoscendolo meglio, sarebbe stato difficile descriverla in termini più appropriati se non come un’espressione mista di astuzia volgare e presunzione. Il signore indossava un cappello a tesa larga, che contribuiva alla sua aria di saggezza; aveva le braccia incrociate per dare maggiore imponenza al suo atteggiamento. Era vestito in modo piuttosto trasandato: un soprabito blu che gli arrivava quasi alle caviglie, pantaloni corti dello stesso colore e una giacca giallo sbiadito; dalla giacca spuntava il bordo di una camicia ingrigita, come a voler rivendicare uguali diritti civili rispetto alle altre parti del suo abbigliamento. E così, con quel suo aspetto apparentemente profondo e solenne, il signore tirò su contemporaneamente l’angolo destro della bocca e l’occhio destro, e disse di nuovo:

“È attraverso mezzi così illuminati che le passioni fervide del mio paese trovano uno sfogo.”

“Mentre lo guardava, e non c’era nessun altro intorno, Martin annuì e disse, ”

“Vi riferite a,?”

“Al Palladio della Libertà Razionale nel nostro paese, signore, e alla difesa contro l’oppressione straniera all’estero,” rispose il gentiluomo, indicando con il suo bastone un venditore di giornali particolarmente sporco e monocolo. “All’invidia del mondo intero, signore, e ai leader della Civiltà Umana. Permettetemi di chiedervi, signore,” aggiunse, battendo con forza il bastone sul pavimento, con l’aria di chi non tollera equivoci, “che ne pensate del mio Paese?”

“Non sono ancora del tutto pronto a rispondere a quella domanda,” disse Martin, “visto che non sono ancora sbarcato.”

“Beh, avrei dovuto immaginare che non foste preparato, signore,” disse il gentiluomo, “a vedere segni di prosperità nazionale del genere.”

Indicò le imbarcazioni ormeggiate ai moli; poi fece un gesto vago con il suo bastone, come se volesse includere nell’osservazione l’aria e l’acqua in generale.

‘Really,’ said Martin, ‘I don’t know. Yes. I think I was.’

The gentleman glanced at him with a knowing look, and said he liked his policy. It was natural, he said, and it pleased him as a philosopher to observe the prejudices of human nature.

‘You have brought, I see, sir,’ he said, turning round towards Martin, and resting his chin on the top of his stick, ‘the usual amount of misery and poverty and ignorance and crime, to be located in the bosom of the great Republic. Well, sir! let ‘em come on in shiploads from the old country. When vessels are about to founder, the rats are said to leave ‘em. There is considerable of truth, I find, in that remark.’

‘The old ship will keep afloat a year or two longer yet, perhaps,’ said Martin with a smile, partly occasioned by what the gentleman said, and partly by his manner of saying it, which was odd enough for he emphasised all the small words and syllables in his discourse, and left the others to take care of themselves; as if he thought the larger parts of speech could be trusted alone, but the little ones required to be constantly looked after.

‘Hope is said by the poet, sir,’ observed the gentleman, ‘to be the nurse of young Desire.’

Martin signified that he had heard of the cardinal virtue in question serving occasionally in that domestic capacity.

‘She will not rear her infant in the present instance, sir, you’ll find,’ observed the gentleman.

‘Time will show,’ said Martin.

The gentleman nodded his head gravely; and said, ‘What is your name, sir?’

Martin told him.

‘How old are you, sir?’

Martin told him.

‘What is your profession, sir?’

Martin told him that also.

‘What is your destination, sir?’ inquired the gentleman.

‘Really,’ said Martin laughing, ‘I can’t satisfy you in that particular, for I don’t know it myself.’

‘Yes?’ said the gentleman.

‘No,’ said Martin.

The gentleman adjusted his cane under his left arm, and took a more deliberate and complete survey of Martin than he had yet had leisure to make. When he had completed his inspection, he put out his right hand, shook Martin’s hand, and said:

‘My name is Colonel Diver, sir. I am the Editor of the New York Rowdy Journal.’

Martin received the communication with that degree of respect which an announcement so distinguished appeared to demand.

‘The New York Rowdy Journal, sir,’ resumed the colonel, ‘is, as I expect you know, the organ of our aristocracy in this city.’

‘Oh! there IS an aristocracy here, then?’ said Martin. ‘Of what is it composed?’

‘Of intelligence, sir,’ replied the colonel; ‘of intelligence and virtue. And of their necessary consequence in this republic—dollars, sir.’

Martin was very glad to hear this, feeling well assured that if intelligence and virtue led, as a matter of course, to the acquisition of dollars, he would speedily become a great capitalist. He was about to express the gratification such news afforded him, when he was interrupted by the captain of the ship, who came up at the moment to shake hands with the colonel; and who, seeing a well-dressed stranger on the deck (for Martin had thrown aside his cloak), shook hands with him also. This was an unspeakable relief to Martin, who, in spite of the acknowledged supremacy of Intelligence and virtue in that happy country, would have been deeply mortified to appear before Colonel Diver in the poor character of a steerage passenger.

‘Well cap’en!’ said the colonel.

‘Well colonel,’ cried the captain. ‘You’re looking most uncommon bright, sir. I can hardly realise its being you, and that’s a fact.’

‘A good passage, cap’en?’ inquired the colonel, taking him aside,

‘Well now! It was a pretty spanking run, sir,’ said, or rather sung, the captain, who was a genuine New Englander; ‘considerin’ the weather.’

‘Yes?’ said the colonel.

‘Well! It was, sir,’ said the captain. ‘I’ve just now sent a boy up to your office with the passenger-list, colonel.’

‘You haven’t got another boy to spare, p’raps, cap’en?’ said the colonel, in a tone almost amounting to severity.

‘I guess there air a dozen if you want ‘em, colonel,’ said the captain.

‘One moderate big ‘un could convey a dozen champagne, perhaps,’ observed the colonel, musing, ‘to my office. You said a spanking run, I think?’

‘Well, so I did,’ was the reply.

‘It’s very nigh, you know,’ observed the colonel. ‘I’m glad it was a spanking run, cap’en. Don’t mind about quarts if you’re short of ‘em. The boy can as well bring four-and-twenty pints, and travel twice as once.—A first-rate spanker, cap’en, was it? Yes?’

‘A most e—tarnal spanker,’ said the skipper.

‘I admire at your good fortun, cap’en. You might loan me a corkscrew at the same time, and half-a-dozen glasses if you liked. However bad the elements combine against my country’s noble packet-ship, the Screw, sir,’ said the colonel, turning to Martin, and drawing a flourish on the surface of the deck with his cane, ‘her passage either way is almost certain to eventuate a spanker!’

The captain, who had the Sewer below at that moment, lunching expensively in one cabin, while the amiable Stabber was drinking himself into a state of blind madness in another, took a cordial leave of his friend the colonel, and hurried away to dispatch the champagne; well knowing (as it afterwards appeared) that if he failed to conciliate the editor of the Rowdy Journal, that potentate would denounce him and his ship in large capitals before he was a day older; and would probably assault the memory of his mother also, who had not been dead more than twenty years. The colonel being again left alone with Martin, checked him as he was moving away, and offered in consideration of his being an Englishman, to show him the town and to introduce him, if such were his desire, to a genteel boarding-house. But before they entered on these proceedings (he said), he would beseech the honour of his company at the office of the Rowdy Journal, to partake of a bottle of champagne of his own importation.

“Davvero,” disse Martin, “non lo so. Sì, credo di sì.”

Il gentiluomo lo guardò con un’occhiata comprensiva e disse che gli piaceva la sua politica. Era naturale, aggiunse, e come filosofo gli faceva piacere osservare i pregiudizi della >natura umana.

“Vedo che avete portato con voi, signore,” disse, voltandosi verso Martin e appoggiando il mento sulla punta del suo bastone, “la solita quantità di miseria, povertà, ignoranza e crimine che si trovano nel cuore di questa grande Repubblica. Beh, signore, lasciate che vengano a frotte da quel vecchio paese. Si dice che quando le navi stanno per affondare, i ratti le abbandonino. Credo che in queste parole ci sia una notevole dose di verità.”

“Quel vecchio navio potrà ancora galleggiare per un anno o due, forse,” disse Martin sorridendo; in parte a causa di ciò che il gentiluomo aveva detto, e in parte per il modo in cui lo aveva espresso. Il suo modo di parlare era davvero insolito: enfatizzava tutte le parole e le sillabe più brevi del discorso, lasciando che quelle più lunghe si arrangiassero da sole. Come se ritenesse che queste ultime potessero essere affidate a se stesse, mentre le parti più semplici richiedessero un’attenzione costante.

“Si dice, signore, che ‘>Speranza’ sia la nutrice di giovane >Desiderio”, osservò il gentiluomo.

Martin fece capire di aver sentito parlare di quella virtù cardinale, svolgendo occasionalmente quel ruolo domestico.

“Non crescerà il suo bambino in questo momento, signore, potete esserne certo,” osservò il gentiluomo.

“Lo scoprirà il tempo,” disse Martin.

Il gentiluomo annuì seriamente e chiese: “Come si chiama, signore?”

Glielo disse Martin.

“Quanti anni ha, signore?”

Glielo disse Martin.

“Qual è la sua professione, signore?”

Anche Martin glielo disse.

“Qual è la sua destinazione, signore?” chiese il gentiluomo.

“Davvero,” disse Martin ridendo, “non posso accontentarti su questo punto, perché nemmeno io lo so.”

“Sì?”, disse il gentiluomo.

“No,” disse Martin.

Il gentiluomo sistemò il suo bastone sotto il braccio sinistro e osservò Martin con maggiore attenzione e cura di quanto avesse avuto finora il tempo di fare. Una volta terminata l’ispezione, tese la mano destra, strinse quella di Martin e disse:

“Il mio nome è Colonnello Diver, signore. Sono il redattore del New York Rowdy Journal.”

Martin ricevette la comunicazione con quel grado di rispetto che sembrava richiedere un annuncio così importante.

“Il ‘New York Rowdy Journal’, signore”, proseguì il colonnello, “è, come immagino sappiate, l’organo di stampa della nostra aristocrazia in questa >città.”

“Ah, quindi esiste davvero un’aristocrazia qui. Di cosa è composta?” disse Martin.

“Di intelligenza, signore,” rispose il colonnello; “di intelligenza e virtù. E delle loro conseguenze inevitabili in questa repubblica, dollari, signore.”

Martin fu molto felice di sentire queste parole; si sentiva assolutamente certo che, se intelligenza e virtù portavano naturalmente all’acquisizione di denaro, sarebbe diventato rapidamente un grande capitalista. Stava per esprimere la sua soddisfazione per questa notizia quando fu interrotto dal capitano della nave, che in quel momento era venuto a stringergli la mano; vedendo sul ponte uno sconosciuto ben vestito (poiché Martin aveva gettato via il suo mantello), anche lui gli strinse la mano. Questo fu un vero sollievo per Martin: nonostante riconoscesse la supremazia dell’intelligenza e della virtù in quel paese felice, sarebbe stato profondamente imbarazzato se si fosse presentato davanti al colonnello Diver nella misera condizione di un passeggero di terza classe.

“Beh, capitano!” disse il colonnello.

“Beh, colonnello,” esclamò il capitano. “Siete davvero insolitamente brillante stasera. Non riesco quasi a credere che siate voi, è davvero incredibile.”

“Un bel passaggio, vero, capitano?”, chiese il colonnello, portandolo da parte.

“Beh, davvero! È stata una corsa notevole, signore,” disse, o meglio cantò, il capitano, che era un vero new englese; “tenendo conto del tempo.”

“Sì?” disse il colonnello.

“Beh! Sì, signore,” disse il capitano. “Ho appena mandato un ragazzo nel vostro ufficio con l’elenco dei passeggeri, colonnello.”

“Non avete forse un altro ragazzo da sacrificare, capitano?”, disse il colonnello con un tono quasi severo.

“Credo che ci siano una dozzina, se ne desidera, colonnello,” disse il capitano.

“Un grosso contenitore moderato potrebbe trasportare una dozzina di bottiglie di champagne, forse,” osservò il colonnello, pensieroso. “Hai detto che si trattava di una corsa veloce, giusto?”

“Beh, sì, l’ho fatto,” fu la risposta.

“È quasi arrivato, sa,” osservò il colonnello. “Sono contento che sia stata una corsa breve. Non si preoccupi se le quartiere non sono abbastanza: il ragazzo può comunque portare ventiquattro pinte, e viaggiare il doppio più velocemente. Una vera corsa eccezionale, vero? Sì?”

“Un vero e proprio frustatore eterno,” disse il capitano.

“Ammiro davvero la vostra buona fortuna, capitano. Potreste anche prestarmi un cavatappi, e se volete anche mezza dozzina di bicchieri. Per quanto terribili possano essere le condizioni meteorologiche contro quella nobile nave mercantile del mio paese, il ‘Screw’, signore,” disse il colonnello, rivolgendosi a Martin e tracciando con il suo bastone un movimento elegante sulla superficie del ponte, “la sua traversata, in ogni caso, è quasi certamente destinata al successo!”

Il capitano, che in quel momento si trovava nella cabina sottostante, pranzava costosamente in un’altra cabina, mentre il gentile Stabber si ubriacava fino allo stato di una cieca folia in un’altra. Si congedò cordialmente dal suo amico, il colonnello, e si affrettò ad andare a servirsi lo champagne; sapeva bene (come poi emerse) che se non fosse riuscito a placare l’editore del “Rowdy Journal”, quel potente avrebbe denunciato lui e la sua nave in termini molto duri, prima ancora che trascorresse una giornata; probabilmente avrebbe anche attaccato la memoria di sua madre, morta soltanto vent’anni prima. Il colonnello, rimasto di nuovo solo con Martin, lo trattenne mentre stava per andarsene e gli propose, considerando che era inglese, di fargli visitare la città e, se lo desiderasse, di presentarlo in una rispettabile casa di pensione. Ma prima di procedere con queste proposte, disse di voler chiedere l’onore della loro compagnia nell’ufficio del “Rowdy Journal”, per condividere con loro una bottiglia di champagne importata personalmente da lui.

All this was so extremely kind and hospitable, that Martin, though it was quite early in the morning, readily acquiesced. So, instructing Mark, who was deeply engaged with his friend and her three children, that when he had done assisting them, and had cleared the baggage, he was to wait for further orders at the Rowdy Journal Office, Martin accompanied his new friend on shore.

They made their way as they best could through the melancholy crowd of emigrants upon the wharf, who, grouped about their beds and boxes, with the bare ground below them and the bare sky above, might have fallen from another planet, for anything they knew of the country; and walked for some short distance along a busy street, bounded on one side by the quays and shipping; and on the other by a long row of staring red-brick storehouses and offices, ornamented with more black boards and white letters, and more white boards and black letters, than Martin had ever seen before, in fifty times the space. Presently they turned up a narrow street, and presently into other narrow streets, until at last they stopped before a house whereon was painted in great characters, ‘ROWDY JOURNAL.’

The colonel, who had walked the whole way with one hand in his breast, his head occasionally wagging from side to side, and his hat thrown back upon his ears, like a man who was oppressed to inconvenience by a sense of his own greatness, led the way up a dark and dirty flight of stairs into a room of similar character, all littered and bestrewn with odds and ends of newspapers and other crumpled fragments, both in proof and manuscript. Behind a mangy old writing-table in this apartment sat a figure with a stump of a pen in its mouth and a great pair of scissors in its right hand, clipping and slicing at a file of Rowdy Journals; and it was such a laughable figure that Martin had some difficulty in preserving his gravity, though conscious of the close observation of Colonel Diver.

The individual who sat clipping and slicing as aforesaid at the Rowdy Journals, was a small young gentleman of very juvenile appearance, and unwholesomely pale in the face; partly, perhaps, from intense thought, but partly, there is no doubt, from the excessive use of tobacco, which he was at that moment chewing vigorously. He wore his shirt-collar turned down over a black ribbon; and his lank hair, a fragile crop, was not only smoothed and parted back from his brow, that none of the Poetry of his aspect might be lost, but had, here and there, been grubbed up by the roots; which accounted for his loftiest developments being somewhat pimply. He had that order of nose on which the envy of mankind has bestowed the appellation ‘snub,’ and it was very much turned up at the end, as with a lofty scorn. Upon the upper lip of this young gentleman were tokens of a sandy down; so very, very smooth and scant, that, though encouraged to the utmost, it looked more like a recent trace of gingerbread than the fair promise of a moustache; and this conjecture, his apparently tender age went far to strengthen. He was intent upon his work. Every time he snapped the great pair of scissors, he made a corresponding motion with his jaws, which gave him a very terrible appearance.

Martin was not long in determining within himself that this must be Colonel Diver’s son; the hope of the family, and future mainspring of the Rowdy Journal. Indeed he had begun to say that he presumed this was the colonel’s little boy, and that it was very pleasant to see him playing at Editor in all the guilelessness of childhood, when the colonel proudly interposed and said:

‘My War Correspondent, sir—Mr Jefferson Brick!’

Martin could not help starting at this unexpected announcement, and the consciousness of the irretrievable mistake he had nearly made.

Mr Brick seemed pleased with the sensation he produced upon the stranger, and shook hands with him, with an air of patronage designed to reassure him, and to let him blow that there was no occasion to be frightened, for he (Brick) wouldn’t hurt him.

‘You have heard of Jefferson Brick, I see, sir,’ quoth the colonel, with a smile. ‘England has heard of Jefferson Brick. Europe has heard of Jefferson Brick. Let me see. When did you leave England, sir?’

‘Five weeks ago,’ said Martin.

‘Five weeks ago,’ repeated the colonel, thoughtfully; as he took his seat upon the table, and swung his legs. ‘Now let me ask you, sir which of Mr Brick’s articles had become at that time the most obnoxious to the British Parliament and the Court of Saint James’s?’

‘Upon my word,’ said Martin, ‘I—’

‘I have reason to know, sir,’ interrupted the colonel, ‘that the aristocratic circles of your country quail before the name of Jefferson Brick. I should like to be informed, sir, from your lips, which of his sentiments has struck the deadliest blow—’

‘At the hundred heads of the Hydra of Corruption now grovelling in the dust beneath the lance of Reason, and spouting up to the universal arch above us, its sanguinary gore,’ said Mr Brick, putting on a little blue cloth cap with a glazed front, and quoting his last article.

‘The libation of freedom, Brick’—hinted the colonel.

‘—Must sometimes be quaffed in blood, colonel,’ cried Brick. And when he said ‘blood,’ he gave the great pair of scissors a sharp snap, as if THEY said blood too, and were quite of his opinion.

This done, they both looked at Martin, pausing for a reply.

‘Upon my life,’ said Martin, who had by this time quite recovered his usual coolness, ‘I can’t give you any satisfactory information about it; for the truth is that I—’

‘Stop!’ cried the colonel, glancing sternly at his war correspondent and giving his head one shake after every sentence. ‘That you never heard of Jefferson Brick, sir. That you never read Jefferson Brick, sir. That you never saw the Rowdy Journal, sir. That you never knew, sir, of its mighty influence upon the cabinets of Europe. Yes?’

Tutto ciò era così estremamente gentile e ospitale che Martin, anche se era ancora molto presto al mattino, acconsentì senza esitazione. Così, dopo aver detto a Mark – che era profondamente impegnato ad aiutare la sua amica e i suoi tre figli – di aspettare ulteriori ordini presso l’ufficio del “Rowdy Journal” una volta terminati i suoi compiti e sistemata la bagaglia, Martin accompagnò il suo nuovo amico sulla riva.

Si fecero strada nel modo migliore possibile tra la folla melanconica di emigranti sul molo; questi, raggruppati intorno ai propri letti e bauli, con il terreno nudo sotto di loro e il cielo vuoto sopra, sembravano provenire da un altro pianeta, data la loro totale ignoranza riguardo a quel paese. Proseguirono per un breve tratto lungo una strada trafficata: da un lato c’erano i moli e le navi; dall’altro, una lunga fila di magazzini e uffici in mattoni rossi, decorati con cartelli neri e lettere bianche, più di quanti Martin avesse mai visto in cinquanta volte lo stesso spazio. Poco dopo svoltarono in una strada stretta, e poi in altre ancora più anguste, fino a quando non si fermarono davanti a una casa su cui era scritto, in caratteri grandi: “ROWDY JOURNAL”.

Il colonnello, che aveva percorso tutto il cammino tenendosi una mano sul petto, scuotendo di tanto in tanto la testa da un lato all’altro e con il cappello gettato all’indietro sulle orecchie, come se fosse oppresso dal senso della propria grandezza, guidò il cammino su una scala buia e sporca fino a una stanza altrettanto disordinata, piena di giornali strappati e altri frammenti accartocciati, sia in forma di prove che di manoscritti. Dietro un vecchio tavolo da scrivere logoro, in quella stanza, c’era una figura con la punta di una penna in bocca e un paio di grandi forbici nella mano destra; stava tagliando e ritagliando delle pagine dei “Rowdy Journals”. Era una scena così ridicola che Martin faticò a mantenere la propria serietà, nonostante fosse consapevole dell’attenta osservazione del colonnello Diver.

L’individuo che, come descritto in precedenza, si dedicava al taglio e alla modifica dei documenti presso i “Rowdy Journals” era un giovane gentiluomo di aspetto molto infantile, con il viso estremamente pallido; forse in parte a causa di profonde riflessioni, ma senza dubbio anche a causa dell’uso eccessivo di tabacco, che in quel momento stava masticando con vigore. Indossava il colletto della camicia abbassato su una fascia nera; i suoi capelli sottili e lisci erano non solo pettinati all’indietro per esaltare ogni dettaglio del suo aspetto, ma in alcuni punti erano stati addirittura strappati alla radice, il che spiegava perché le sue parti più “elevate” del viso apparissero leggermente irregolari. Aveva un naso dal profilo così marcato da essere definito “a becco d’anatra”, e questo naso era sollevato all’estremità, come a esprimere un profondo disprezzo. Sulla sua labbra superiore si notava una leggera peluria; così fine e scarsa che, nonostante fosse presente, sembrava più un residuo di zucchero d’orzo che il segno precoce dell’insorgere di un baffo. E questa caratteristica, unita alla sua apparente giovane età, rafforzava ulteriormente questa impressione. Era completamente assorto nel suo lavoro: ogni volta che apriva quelle grandi forbici, faceva anche lo stesso movimento con le mascelle, il che gli dava un aspetto davvero spaventoso.

Martin non impiegò molto a capire che quel bambino doveva essere il figlio del Colonnello Diver: l’speranza della famiglia e, in futuro, la forza motrice del “Rowdy Journal”. Infatti, aveva già iniziato a dire di ritenere che si trattasse del piccolo del colonnello, e che fosse molto piacevole vederlo giocare al ruolo di redattore con tutta l’ingenuità tipica dell’infanzia. Quando il colonnello intervenne orgogliosamente.

“Il mio corrispondente di guerra, signore, il signor Jefferson Brick!”

Martin non poté fare a meno di sorridere di fronte a questa inaspettata notizia, e si rese conto dell’errore irreparabile che aveva quasi commesso.

Il signor Brick sembrava soddisfatto dell’effetto che aveva prodotto su quel estraneo; gli strinse la mano con un tono protettivo, volto a rassicurarlo e a fargli capire che non c’era motivo di avere paura, perché lui (Brick) non gli avrebbe fatto del male.

“Vedo che ha sentito parlare di Jefferson Brick, signore,” disse il colonnello sorridendo. “Anche l’Inghilterra ha sentito parlare di Jefferson Brick. E anche l’Europa. Lasci che ci pensi. Quando ha lasciato l’Inghilterra, signore?”

“Cinque settimane fa,” disse Martin.

“Cinque settimane fa,” ripeté il colonnello, pensieroso; mentre si sedeva al tavolo e dondolava le gambe. “Ora lasciate che vi chieda, signore: quale degli articoli di Mr Brick era diventato, a quel tempo, il più offensivo per il Parlamento britannico e la Corte di San Giacomo?”

“Per la mia parola,” disse Martin, “io–”

“Ho motivi per saperlo, signore,” interruppe il colonnello, “che i circoli aristocratici del vostro paese tremano al solo nome di Jefferson Brick. Vorrei conoscere, dalle vostre stesse parole, quale dei suoi ideali abbia inflitto il colpo più mortale, ”

“Alle cento teste dell’Idra della Corruzione che ora giacciono nella polvere sotto la lancia della Ragione, e che spuntano verso l’arco universale sopra di noi, spruzzando sangue ovunque, ”, disse il signor Brick, indossando un piccolo cappello di stoffa blu con fronte lucido, e citando il proprio ultimo articolo.

“La libazione della libertà, Brick” – suggerì il colonnello.

“–A volte deve essere bevuto nel %sangue, colonnello,” gridò Brick. E quando disse “sangue”, fece schioccare forte le grandi forbici, come se anch’esse concordassero con lui e pensassero lo stesso.

Dopo aver fatto ciò, entrambi guardarono Martin in attesa di una risposta.

“Per la mia vita,” disse Martin, che ormai aveva completamente ripreso il suo solito sangue freddo, “non posso fornirvi alcuna informazione soddisfacente al riguardo; perché la verità è che io, ”

“Basta!” gridò il colonnello, guardando severamente il suo corrispondente di guerra e scuotendo la testa dopo ogni frase. “Che lei non abbia mai sentito parlare di Jefferson Brick, signore. Che non abbia mai letto nulla di lui, signore. Che non abbia mai visto il ‘Rowdy Journal’, signore. Che non sappia nulla, signore, dell’enorme influenza che ha avuto sui gabinetti europei. Giusto?”

‘That’s what I was about to observe, certainly,’ said Martin.

‘Keep cool, Jefferson,’ said the colonel gravely. ‘Don’t bust! oh you Europeans! After that, let’s have a glass of wine!’ So saying, he got down from the table, and produced, from a basket outside the door, a bottle of champagne, and three glasses.

‘Mr Jefferson Brick, sir,’ said the colonel, filling Martin’s glass and his own, and pushing the bottle to that gentleman, ‘will give us a sentiment.’

‘Well, sir!’ cried the war correspondent, ‘Since you have concluded to call upon me, I will respond. I will give you, sir, The Rowdy Journal and its brethren; the well of Truth, whose waters are black from being composed of printers’ ink, but are quite clear enough for my country to behold the shadow of her Destiny reflected in.’

‘Hear, hear!’ cried the colonel, with great complacency. ‘There are flowery components, sir, in the language of my friend?’

‘Very much so, indeed,’ said Martin.

‘There is to-day’s Rowdy, sir,’ observed the colonel, handing him a paper. ‘You’ll find Jefferson Brick at his usual post in the van of human civilization and moral purity.’

The colonel was by this time seated on the table again. Mr Brick also took up a position on that same piece of furniture; and they fell to drinking pretty hard. They often looked at Martin as he read the paper, and then at each other. When he laid it down, which was not until they had finished a second bottle, the colonel asked him what he thought of it.

‘Why, it’s horribly personal,’ said Martin.

The colonel seemed much flattered by this remark; and said he hoped it was.

‘We are independent here, sir,’ said Mr Jefferson Brick. ‘We do as we like.’

‘If I may judge from this specimen,’ returned Martin, ‘there must be a few thousands here, rather the reverse of independent, who do as they don’t like.’

‘Well! They yield to the popular mind of the Popular Instructor, sir,’ said the colonel. ‘They rile up, sometimes; but in general we have a hold upon our citizens, both in public and in private life, which is as much one of the ennobling institutions of our happy country as—’

‘As nigger slavery itself,’ suggested Mr Brick.

‘En—tirely so,’ remarked the colonel.

‘Pray,’ said Martin, after some hesitation, ‘may I venture to ask, with reference to a case I observe in this paper of yours, whether the Popular Instructor often deals in—I am at a loss to express it without giving you offence—in forgery? In forged letters, for instance,’ he pursued, for the colonel was perfectly calm and quite at his ease, ‘solemnly purporting to have been written at recent periods by living men?’

‘Well, sir!’ replied the colonel. ‘It does, now and then.’

‘And the popular instructed—what do they do?’ asked Martin.

‘Buy ‘em:’ said the colonel.

Mr Jefferson Brick expectorated and laughed; the former copiously, the latter approvingly.

‘Buy ‘em by hundreds of thousands,’ resumed the colonel. ‘We are a smart people here, and can appreciate smartness.’

‘Is smartness American for forgery?’ asked Martin.

‘Well!’ said the colonel, ‘I expect it’s American for a good many things that you call by other names. But you can’t help yourself in Europe. We can.’

‘And do, sometimes,’ thought Martin. ‘You help yourselves with very little ceremony, too!’

‘At all events, whatever name we choose to employ,’ said the colonel, stooping down to roll the third empty bottle into a corner after the other two, ‘I suppose the art of forgery was not invented here sir?’

‘I suppose not,’ replied Martin.

‘Nor any other kind of smartness I reckon?’

‘Invented! No, I presume not.’

‘Well!’ said the colonel; ‘then we got it all from the old country, and the old country’s to blame for it, and not the new ‘un. There’s an end of THAT. Now, if Mr Jefferson Brick and you will be so good as to clear, I’ll come out last, and lock the door.’

Rightly interpreting this as the signal for their departure, Martin walked downstairs after the war correspondent, who preceded him with great majesty. The colonel following, they left the Rowdy Journal Office and walked forth into the streets; Martin feeling doubtful whether he ought to kick the colonel for having presumed to speak to him, or whether it came within the bounds of possibility that he and his establishment could be among the boasted usages of that regenerated land.

It was clear that Colonel Diver, in the security of his strong position, and in his perfect understanding of the public sentiment, cared very little what Martin or anybody else thought about him. His high-spiced wares were made to sell, and they sold; and his thousands of readers could as rationally charge their delight in filth upon him, as a glutton can shift upon his cook the responsibility of his beastly excess. Nothing would have delighted the colonel more than to be told that no such man as he could walk in high success the streets of any other country in the world; for that would only have been a logical assurance to him of the correct adaptation of his labours to the prevailing taste, and of his being strictly and peculiarly a national feature of America.

They walked a mile or more along a handsome street which the colonel said was called Broadway, and which Mr Jefferson Brick said ‘whipped the universe.’ Turning, at length, into one of the numerous streets which branched from this main thoroughfare, they stopped before a rather mean-looking house with jalousie blinds to every window; a flight of steps before the green street-door; a shining white ornament on the rails on either side like a petrified pineapple, polished; a little oblong plate of the same material over the knocker whereon the name of ‘Pawkins’ was engraved; and four accidental pigs looking down the area.

The colonel knocked at this house with the air of a man who lived there; and an Irish girl popped her head out of one of the top windows to see who it was. Pending her journey downstairs, the pigs were joined by two or three friends from the next street, in company with whom they lay down sociably in the gutter.

“È proprio quello che stavo per osservare, senza dubbio,” disse Martin.

“Rimani calmo, Jefferson,” disse il colonnello con gravità. “Non perdere la testa, oh, voi europei! Dopo, beviamo un bicchiere di vino!” Così dicendo, si alzò dal tavolo e prese da un cesto fuori dalla porta una bottiglia di champagne e tre bicchieri.

“Signor Jefferson Brick,” disse il colonnello, riempiendo il bicchiere di Martin e il proprio, poi spingendo la bottiglia verso quel gentiluomo, “ci farà ascoltare una sua riflessione.”

“Beh, signore!”, esclamò il corrispondente di guerra. “Poiché avete deciso di rivolgervi a me, risponderò. Vi darò, signore, ‘The Rowdy Journal’ e i suoi simili: la fonte della Verità, le cui acque sono nere per via dell’inchiostro dei tipografi, ma abbastanza chiare affinché il mio paese possa contemplarvi riflessa l’ombra del proprio Destino.”

“Sentite, sentite!”, esclamò il colonnello con grande compiacimento. “Nella lingua del mio amico ci sono elementi poetici, vero?”

“Assolutamente sì,” disse Martin.

“Ecco il rapporto di oggi, signore,” osservò il colonnello porgendogli un foglio di carta. “Troverete Jefferson Brick al solito posto, all’avanguardia della civiltà umana e della purezza morale.”

A quell’ora, il colonnello era di nuovo seduto al tavolo. Anche il signor Brick si sistemò su quella stessa sedia; iniziarono quindi a bere con grande abbondanza. Spesso guardavano Martin mentre leggeva il giornale, e poi si guardavano l’un l’altro. Quando lui lo posò, solo dopo aver finito una seconda bottiglia, il colonnello gli chiese cosa ne pensasse.

“Perché è qualcosa di estremamente personale,” disse Martin.

Il colonnello sembrava molto lusingato da questo commento; e disse di sperare che lo fosse davvero.

“Qui siamo indipendenti, signore”, disse il signor Jefferson Brick. “Facciamo ciò che vogliamo”.

“Se posso giudicare da questo esemplare,” rispose Martin, “deve esserci qualche migliaio di persone qui; anzi, la maggior parte di loro non è affatto indipendente, ma fa ciò che non desidera.”

‘Beh! Si sottomettono alla volontà popolare dell’Insegnante Popolare, signore,’ disse il colonnello. ‘A volte si scatenano delle proteste; ma in generale abbiamo un ascendente sui nostri cittadini, sia nella vita pubblica che in quella privata. Il che rappresenta senz’altro una delle istituzioni più nobili della nostra felice nazione.’

“Proprio come la schiavitù stessa,” suggerì il signor Brick.

“Del tutto,” osservò il colonnello.

“Pregate,” disse Martin, dopo un po’ di esitazione, “posso osare chiedervi, riguardo a un caso che noto in questo vostro scritto, se il ‘Popolare Insegnante’ tratti spesso, non so come esprimermi senza offendervi, di falsificazioni? Ad esempio, di lettere false, che pretendono seriamente di essere state scritte di recente da persone viventi?” proseguì, poiché il colonnello era completamente calmo e a suo agio.

“Beh, signore!”, rispose il colonnello. “A volte sì.”

“E la gente comune dava istruzioni, cosa facevano?” chiese Martin.

“Comprateli,” disse il colonnello.

Il signor Jefferson Brick sputò e rise; il primo in modo abbondante, il secondo con approvazione.

“Comprateli in centinaia di migliaia,” continuò il colonnello. “Noi siamo persone intelligenti, e sappiamo apprezzare l’intelligenza.”

“La intelligenza è davvero tipica degli americani quando si tratta di falsificare?” chiese Martin.

“Beh!”, disse il colonnello, “immagino che in America molte cose siano chiamate con altri nomi. Ma in Europa non si può fare altrimenti; noi invece possiamo.”

“E a volte sì,” pensò Martin. “Vi servite anche senza troppi cerimoniali, ”

“In ogni caso, qualunque nome scegliamo di usare,” disse il colonnello, chinandosi per spingere la terza bottiglia vuota in un angolo insieme alle altre due, “suppongo che l’arte della falsificazione non sia stata inventata qui, vero signore?”

“Immagino di no,” rispose Martin.

“Nessun altro tipo di intelligenza, immagino, ”

“Inventato. No, probabilmente no.”

“Bene!”, disse il colonnello; “quindi abbiamo ottenuto tutto dal vecchio paese, e è il vecchio paese che ne è responsabile, non il nuovo. Questo è finito. Ora, se il signor Jefferson Brick e voi avrete la gentilezza di andarvene, io uscirò per ultimo e chiuderò la porta.”

Interpretando correttamente questo come il segnale del loro congedo, Martin scese le scale dietro al giornalista di guerra, che lo precedeva con grande maestosità. Il colonnello seguì loro; lasciarono l’ufficio del “Rowdy Journal” e uscirono in strada. Martin si chiedeva se dovesse prendere a calci il colonnello per aver osato parlargli, o se fosse possibile che lui e la sua organizzazione potessero far parte di quelle pratiche vantate da quella terra rigenerata.

Era evidente che il colonnello Diver, avendo una posizione vantaggiosa e comprendendo perfettamente l’opinione pubblica, non si curava affatto di ciò che Martin o chiunque altro pensasse di lui. I suoi prodotti, dal sapore forte e provocante, erano fatti apposta per essere venduti, ed effettivamente lo erano; i suoi migliaia di lettori potevano tranquillamente attribuire il piacere che provavano nel leggere quelle cose a lui, proprio come un goloso può incolpare il proprio cuoco delle proprie eccessive abitudini alimentari. Niente avrebbe fatto più felice il colonnello di sentire dire che nessuno come lui avrebbe potuto avere successo nelle strade di qualsiasi altro paese al mondo; perché questo avrebbe significato, per lui, che i suoi sforzi corrispondevano perfettamente ai gusti del pubblico e che rappresentavano davvero una caratteristica distintiva della cultura America.

Camminarono per un miglio o più lungo una bella strada che il colonnello disse chiamarsi Broadway, e che il signor Jefferson Brick definì “straordinaria”. Alla fine, svoltando in una delle numerose strade che si diramavano da questa via principale, si fermarono davanti a una casa dall’aspetto piuttosto modesto, con tende di garza alle finestre; un gradino davanti alla porta verde; ornamenti bianchi lucidi sui corrimani, simili a ananas fossilizzati e lucidati; una piccola targa rettangolare dello stesso materiale sopra il campanello, su cui era inciso il nome “Pawkins”; e, quattro maiali che osservavano la zona dall’alto.

Il colonnello bussò a questa casa con l’aria di chi vi abitasse; una ragazza irlandese sporse la testa da una delle finestre superiori per vedere chi fosse. Mentre lei scendeva le scale, i maiali furono raggiunti da due o tre amici del vicino quartiere; insieme si sdraiarono comodamente nel canale di scolo.

‘Is the major indoors?’ inquired the colonel, as he entered.

‘Is it the master, sir?’ returned the girl, with a hesitation which seemed to imply that they were rather flush of majors in that establishment.

‘The master!’ said Colonel Diver, stopping short and looking round at his war correspondent.

‘Oh! The depressing institutions of that British empire, colonel!’ said Jefferson Brick. ‘Master!’

‘What’s the matter with the word?’ asked Martin.

‘I should hope it was never heard in our country, sir; that’s all,’ said Jefferson Brick; ‘except when it is used by some degraded Help, as new to the blessings of our form of government, as this Help is. There are no masters here.’

‘All “owners,” are they?’ said Martin.

Mr Jefferson Brick followed in the Rowdy Journal’s footsteps without returning any answer. Martin took the same course, thinking as he went, that perhaps the free and independent citizens, who in their moral elevation, owned the colonel for their master, might render better homage to the goddess, Liberty, in nightly dreams upon the oven of a Russian Serf.

The colonel led the way into a room at the back of the house upon the ground-floor, light, and of fair dimensions, but exquisitely uncomfortable; having nothing in it but the four cold white walls and ceiling, a mean carpet, a dreary waste of dining-table reaching from end to end, and a bewildering collection of cane-bottomed chairs. In the further region of this banqueting-hall was a stove, garnished on either side with a great brass spittoon, and shaped in itself like three little iron barrels set up on end in a fender, and joined together on the principle of the Siamese Twins. Before it, swinging himself in a rocking-chair, lounged a large gentleman with his hat on, who amused himself by spitting alternately into the spittoon on the right hand of the stove, and the spittoon on the left, and then working his way back again in the same order. A negro lad in a soiled white jacket was busily engaged in placing on the table two long rows of knives and forks, relieved at intervals by jugs of water; and as he travelled down one side of this festive board, he straightened with his dirty hands the dirtier cloth, which was all askew, and had not been removed since breakfast. The atmosphere of this room was rendered intensely hot and stifling by the stove; but being further flavoured by a sickly gush of soup from the kitchen, and by such remote suggestions of tobacco as lingered within the brazen receptacles already mentioned, it became, to a stranger’s senses, almost insupportable.

The gentleman in the rocking-chair having his back towards them, and being much engaged in his intellectual pastime, was not aware of their approach until the colonel, walking up to the stove, contributed his mite towards the support of the left-hand spittoon, just as the major—for it was the major—bore down upon it. Major Pawkins then reserved his fire, and looking upward, said, with a peculiar air of quiet weariness, like a man who had been up all night—an air which Martin had already observed both in the colonel and Mr Jefferson Brick—

‘Well, colonel!’

‘Here is a gentleman from England, major,’ the colonel replied, ‘who has concluded to locate himself here if the amount of compensation suits him.’

‘I am glad to see you, sir,’ observed the major, shaking hands with Martin, and not moving a muscle of his face. ‘You are pretty bright, I hope?’

‘Never better,’ said Martin.

‘You are never likely to be,’ returned the major. ‘You will see the sun shine HERE.’

‘I think I remember to have seen it shine at home sometimes,’ said Martin, smiling.

‘I think not,’ replied the major. He said so with a stoical indifference certainly, but still in a tone of firmness which admitted of no further dispute on that point. When he had thus settled the question, he put his hat a little on one side for the greater convenience of scratching his head, and saluted Mr Jefferson Brick with a lazy nod.

Major Pawkins (a gentleman of Pennsylvanian origin) was distinguished by a very large skull, and a great mass of yellow forehead; in deference to which commodities it was currently held in bar-rooms and other such places of resort that the major was a man of huge sagacity. He was further to be known by a heavy eye and a dull slow manner; and for being a man of that kind who—mentally speaking—requires a deal of room to turn himself in. But, in trading on his stock of wisdom, he invariably proceeded on the principle of putting all the goods he had (and more) into his window; and that went a great way with his constituency of admirers. It went a great way, perhaps, with Mr Jefferson Brick, who took occasion to whisper in Martin’s ear:

‘One of the most remarkable men in our country, sir!’

It must not be supposed, however, that the perpetual exhibition in the market-place of all his stock-in-trade for sale or hire, was the major’s sole claim to a very large share of sympathy and support. He was a great politician; and the one article of his creed, in reference to all public obligations involving the good faith and integrity of his country, was, ‘run a moist pen slick through everything, and start fresh.’ This made him a patriot. In commercial affairs he was a bold speculator. In plainer words he had a most distinguished genius for swindling, and could start a bank, or negotiate a loan, or form a land-jobbing company (entailing ruin, pestilence, and death, on hundreds of families), with any gifted creature in the Union. This made him an admirable man of business. He could hang about a bar-room, discussing the affairs of the nation, for twelve hours together; and in that time could hold forth with more intolerable dulness, chew more tobacco, smoke more tobacco, drink more rum-toddy, mint-julep, gin-sling, and cocktail, than any private gentleman of his acquaintance. This made him an orator and a man of the people. In a word, the major was a rising character, and a popular character, and was in a fair way to be sent by the popular party to the State House of New York, if not in the end to Washington itself. But as a man’s private prosperity does not always keep pace with his patriotic devotion to public affairs; and as fraudulent transactions have their downs as well as ups, the major was occasionally under a cloud. Hence, just now Mrs Pawkins kept a boarding-house, and Major Pawkins rather ‘loafed’ his time away than otherwise.

“Il maggiore è dentro?” chiese il colonnello entrando.

“È il signore padrone?”, rispose la ragazza con esitazione, come se in quell’istituto ci fossero pochi “signori padroni”.

“Il maestro!” disse il Colonnello Diver, fermandosi di colpo e guardandosi intorno verso il suo corrispondente di guerra.

“Ah! Quegli istituti deprimenti dell’impero britannico, colonnello!” disse Jefferson Brick. “Maestro!”

“Cosa c’è che non va con questa parola?” chiese Martin.

“Dovrei sperare che questa cosa non sia mai stata sentita nel nostro paese, signore; è tutto,” disse Jefferson Brick; “tranne quando viene usata da alcuni individui degradati, che non conoscono ancora i benefici della nostra forma di governo, come questo individuo. Qui non ci sono padroni.”

“Tutti questi ‘proprietari’, giusto?” disse Martin.

Il signor Jefferson Brick seguì le orme del “Rowdy Journal” senza mai rispondere alle domande poste. Anche Martin adottò lo stesso approccio, pensando che forse quei cittadini liberi e indipendenti, i quali, per la loro elevata moralità, consideravano il colonnello come il proprio padrone, avrebbero potuto rendere un omaggio ancora più degno alla dea Libertà nei loro sogni notturni, su un forno appartenente a un servo russo.

Il colonnello guidò il gruppo in una stanza situata nella parte posteriore della >casa al piano terra: era luminosa e di dimensioni decenti, ma estremamente scomoda. L’interno era composto soltanto da quattro pareti e un soffitto bianchi e freddi, un tappeto scadente, un lungo tavolo da pranzo che si estendeva da un’estremità all’altra della stanza, e una collezione disordinata di sedie con fondo in canna. Nella parte più interna di questa sala da banchetto c’era un camino, ornato su entrambi i lati da grandi spiedini di bronzo; il camino stesso aveva la forma di tre piccoli barili di ferro posti uno sopra l’altro e uniti tra loro. Davanti al camino, seduto in una sedia a dondolo e con il cappello ancora indossato, un uomo robusto si divertiva a sputare alternativamente negli spiedini situati a destra e a sinistra del camino, per poi ripetere l’operazione nello stesso ordine. Un ragazzo negro, in una giacca bianca sporca, era impegnato ad apparecchiare il tavolo con file di coltelli e forchette; di tanto in tanto veniva aiutato da brocche d’acqua. Mentre sistemava gli oggetti sul tavolo, con le sue mani sporche sistemava anche la tovaglia, completamente storta e non cambiata dal momento della colazione. L’atmosfera nella stanza era estremamente calda e soffocante a causa del camino; inoltre, l’odore nauseabondo della zuppa che proveniva dalla cucina, insieme alle tracce di tabacco presenti negli spiedini di bronzo, rendevano quell’ambiente quasi insopportabile per un estraneo.

Il gentiluomo nella sedia a dondolo, con le spalle rivolte verso di loro e completamente immerso nel suo passatempo intellettuale, non si accorse dell’avvicinamento di loro fino a quando il colonnello, avvicinandosi al camino, non contribuì al mantenimento del posacenere situato sul lato sinistro, proprio nel momento in cui anche il maggiore lo colpì con forza. Il maggiore Pawkins allora si ritirò dal suo posto accanto al fuoco e, alzando lo sguardo, disse con un tono di tranquilla stanchezza, come se avesse trascorso tutta la notte in piedi. Un atteggiamento che Martin aveva già notato sia nel colonnello che in Mr Jefferson Brick.

“Beh, colonnello!”

“Ecco un gentiluomo dall’Inghilterra, maggiore,” rispose il colonnello, “che ha deciso di stabilirsi qui se l’importo dell’indennizzo gli sembra adeguato.”

“Sono felice di vedervi, signore,” osservò il maggiore stringendo la mano a Martin, senza muovere un muscolo del viso. “Spero che siate abbastanza intelligente, ”

“Mai stato meglio,” disse Martin.

“È molto improbabile che tu possa farlo”, rispose il maggiore. “Qui vedrai il sole splendere.”

“Credo di ricordare di averlo visto brillare a casa qualche volta,” disse Martin sorridendo.

“Non credo proprio,” rispose il maggiore. Lo disse con un’indifferenza stoica, ma comunque con un tono deciso che non lasciava spazio a ulteriori discussioni su quel punto. Una volta chiarito la questione, si sistemò il cappello di lato per potersi grattare la testa più agevolmente, e salutò Mr Jefferson Brick con un cenno pigro del capo.

Il maggiore Pawkins, un gentiluomo di origine pennsylvaniana, si distingueva per un cranio molto grande e una fronte particolarmente spessa e gialla; proprio per queste caratteristiche veniva considerato, nei bar e in altri luoghi simili, un uomo di enorme saggezza. Era anche noto per avere uno sguardo torvo e un modo di comportarsi lento e monotono; inoltre, era il tipo di persona che, mentalmente parlando, aveva bisogno di molto spazio per esprimersi appieno. Tuttavia, nel “vendere” la sua saggezza, seguiva sempre il principio di esporre tutti i suoi “merci” (e anche di più, ) davanti a tutti; questo approccio gli guadagnò molti ammiratori. Forse anche il signor Jefferson Brick ne fu colpito, tanto da sussurrargli all’orecchio:

“Uno degli uomini più straordinari del nostro paese, signore!”

Tuttavia, non si deve pensare che la costante esposizione, nel mercato, di tutte le sue merci in vendita o a noleggio fosse l’unica ragione per cui il maggiore riusciva ad ottenere una così grande quantità di simpatie e sostegno. Era un grande politico; e l’unico principio guida nella sua azione, riguardo a tutte le responsabilità pubbliche legate alla buona fede e all’integrità del suo paese, era: “Passare tutto con una penna morbida e ricominciare da capo”. Questo lo rendeva un patriota. Nei affari commerciali, invece, era un audace speculatore; in parole povere, possedeva un talento eccezionale per truffare: avrebbe potuto fondare una banca, negoziare un prestito o creare una società immobiliare che avrebbe portato alla rovina centinaia di famiglie, con qualsiasi persona dotata nell’Unione. Questo lo rendeva un uomo d’affari eccezionale. Poteva passare dodici ore consecutive in una taverna a discutere degli affari del paese, e nel frattempo masticare, fumare e bere più alcol di qualsiasi altro gentiluomo che conoscesse. Questo lo rendeva un oratore e una figura popolare. In breve, il maggiore era una figura in ascesa, molto amata dal pubblico; probabilmente sarebbe stato inviato dal partito popolare alla Camera Statale di New York, o forse addirittura a Washington stesso. Ma poiché la prosperità personale non sempre segue le orme del devoto impegno verso gli affari pubblici, e poiché le transazioni fraudolente comportano tanto successi quanto insuccessi, il maggiore a volte si trovava in difficoltà. Proprio per questo, in quel momento la signora Pawkins gestiva una casa di pensione, e il maggiore Pawkins passava molto del suo tempo senza fare nulla di concreto.

‘You have come to visit our country, sir, at a season of great commercial depression,’ said the major.

‘At an alarming crisis,’ said the colonel.

‘At a period of unprecedented stagnation,’ said Mr Jefferson Brick.

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ returned Martin. ‘It’s not likely to last, I hope?’

Martin knew nothing about America, or he would have known perfectly well that if its individual citizens, to a man, are to be believed, it always IS depressed, and always IS stagnated, and always IS at an alarming crisis, and never was otherwise; though as a body they are ready to make oath upon the Evangelists at any hour of the day or night, that it is the most thriving and prosperous of all countries on the habitable globe.

‘It’s not likely to last, I hope?’ said Martin.

‘Well!’ returned the major, ‘I expect we shall get along somehow, and come right in the end.’

‘We are an elastic country,’ said the Rowdy Journal.

‘We are a young lion,’ said Mr Jefferson Brick.

‘We have revivifying and vigorous principles within ourselves,’ observed the major. ‘Shall we drink a bitter afore dinner, colonel?’

The colonel assenting to this proposal with great alacrity, Major Pawkins proposed an adjournment to a neighbouring bar-room, which, as he observed, was ‘only in the next block.’ He then referred Martin to Mrs Pawkins for all particulars connected with the rate of board and lodging, and informed him that he would have the pleasure of seeing that lady at dinner, which would soon be ready, as the dinner hour was two o’clock, and it only wanted a quarter now. This reminded him that if the bitter were to be taken at all, there was no time to lose; so he walked off without more ado, and left them to follow if they thought proper.

When the major rose from his rocking-chair before the stove, and so disturbed the hot air and balmy whiff of soup which fanned their brows, the odour of stale tobacco became so decidedly prevalent as to leave no doubt of its proceeding mainly from that gentleman’s attire. Indeed, as Martin walked behind him to the bar-room, he could not help thinking that the great square major, in his listlessness and langour, looked very much like a stale weed himself; such as might be hoed out of the public garden, with great advantage to the decent growth of that preserve, and tossed on some congenial dunghill.

They encountered more weeds in the bar-room, some of whom (being thirsty souls as well as dirty) were pretty stale in one sense, and pretty fresh in another. Among them was a gentleman who, as Martin gathered from the conversation that took place over the bitter, started that afternoon for the Far West on a six months’ business tour, and who, as his outfit and equipment for this journey, had just such another shiny hat and just such another little pale valise as had composed the luggage of the gentleman who came from England in the Screw.

They were walking back very leisurely; Martin arm-in-arm with Mr Jefferson Brick, and the major and the colonel side-by-side before them; when, as they came within a house or two of the major’s residence, they heard a bell ringing violently. The instant this sound struck upon their ears, the colonel and the major darted off, dashed up the steps and in at the street-door (which stood ajar) like lunatics; while Mr Jefferson Brick, detaching his arm from Martin’s, made a precipitate dive in the same direction, and vanished also.

‘Good Heaven!’ thought Martin. ‘The premises are on fire! It was an alarm bell!’

But there was no smoke to be seen, nor any flame, nor was there any smell of fire. As Martin faltered on the pavement, three more gentlemen, with horror and agitation depicted in their faces, came plunging wildly round the street corner; jostled each other on the steps; struggled for an instant; and rushed into the house, a confused heap of arms and legs. Unable to bear it any longer, Martin followed. Even in his rapid progress he was run down, thrust aside, and passed, by two more gentlemen, stark mad, as it appeared, with fierce excitement.

‘Where is it?’ cried Martin, breathlessly, to a negro whom he encountered in the passage.

‘In a eatin room, sa. Kernell, sa, him kep a seat ‘side himself, sa.’

‘A seat!’ cried Martin.

‘For a dinnar, sa.’

Martin started at him for a moment, and burst into a hearty laugh; to which the negro, out of his natural good humour and desire to please, so heartily responded, that his teeth shone like a gleam of light. ‘You’re the pleasantest fellow I have seen yet,’ said Martin clapping him on the back, ‘and give me a better appetite than bitters.’

With this sentiment he walked into the dining-room and slipped into a chair next the colonel, which that gentleman (by this time nearly through his dinner) had turned down in reserve for him, with its back against the table.

It was a numerous company—eighteen or twenty perhaps. Of these some five or six were ladies, who sat wedged together in a little phalanx by themselves. All the knives and forks were working away at a rate that was quite alarming; very few words were spoken; and everybody seemed to eat his utmost in self-defence, as if a famine were expected to set in before breakfast time to-morrow morning, and it had become high time to assert the first law of nature. The poultry, which may perhaps be considered to have formed the staple of the entertainment—for there was a turkey at the top, a pair of ducks at the bottom, and two fowls in the middle—disappeared as rapidly as if every bird had had the use of its wings, and had flown in desperation down a human throat. The oysters, stewed and pickled, leaped from their capacious reservoirs, and slid by scores into the mouths of the assembly. The sharpest pickles vanished, whole cucumbers at once, like sugar-plums, and no man winked his eye. Great heaps of indigestible matter melted away as ice before the sun. It was a solemn and an awful thing to see. Dyspeptic individuals bolted their food in wedges; feeding, not themselves, but broods of nightmares, who were continually standing at livery within them. Spare men, with lank and rigid cheeks, came out unsatisfied from the destruction of heavy dishes, and glared with watchful eyes upon the pastry. What Mrs Pawkins felt each day at dinner-time is hidden from all human knowledge. But she had one comfort. It was very soon over.

“Siete venuto a visitare il nostro paese in un periodo di grave depressione commerciale, signore,” disse il maggiore.

“In una crisi allarmante”, disse il colonnello.

“In un periodo di stagnazione senza precedenti,” disse il signor Jefferson Brick.

“Mi dispiace molto sentirlo,” rispose Martin. “Spero che non duri a lungo, ”

Martin non sapeva nulla riguardo ad America; altrimenti avrebbe saputo perfettamente che, se si crede a quanto dicono i suoi cittadini, quel paese è sempre in declino, sempre in stallo e sempre alle prese con crisi gravi; eppure, come entità collettiva, sono pronti a giurare sugli Evangelisti, in qualsiasi momento della giornata o della notte, che si tratta del paese più prospero e fiorente di tutto il globo abitabile.

“Non è probabile che duri a lungo, spero”, disse Martin.

“Beh!”, rispose il maggiore, “penso che riusciremo ad andare d’accordo e che alla fine tutto si risolverà per il meglio.”

“Siamo un paese flessibile,” disse il “Rowdy Journal”.

“Siamo un giovane leone”, disse il signor Jefferson Brick.

“Possediamo principi vitali e vigorosi dentro di noi,” osservò il maggiore. “Dovremmo bere qualcosa di amaro prima di cena, colonnello?”

Il colonnello, acconsentendo con grande sollecitudine a questa proposta, propose che l’incontro si trasferisse in un bar adiacente, che, come osservò, “si trovava proprio nel blocco successivo”. Poi affidò a Mrs Pawkins tutte le informazioni relative al costo del vitto e dell’alloggio, e comunicò a Martin che avrebbe avuto il piacere di incontrare quella signora a cena, che sarebbe stata pronta presto: l’orario del pasto era infatti alle due in punto, e mancavano soltanto quindici minuti. Questo gli ricordò che, se volevano assaggiare quel liquore amaro, non c’era tempo da perdere; quindi se ne andò senza ulteriori indugi, lasciandoli liberi di seguirlo se lo ritenevano opportuno.

Quando il maggiore si alzò dalla sua sedia a dondolo davanti al camino, disturbando così l’aria calda e il profumo del brodo che li rinfrescava, l’odore di tabacco stantio divenne così evidente da non lasciare alcun dubbio sul fatto che provenisse principalmente dall’abbigliamento di quel signore. Infatti, mentre Martin lo seguiva nella sala bar, non poté fare a meno di pensare che il maggiore, con la sua apatia e languidezza, assomigliasse molto a un cespo di tabacco stantio; uno di quei cespi che si potrebbero raccogliere dal “giardino pubblico” per poi gettarlo su qualche mucchio di letame adatto, con grande beneficio per la crescita sana di quel giardino stesso.

Nel bar incontrarono altre persone; alcune di loro, essendo sia assetate che sporche, erano in un certo senso piuttosto “vecchie”, mentre in altri sensi erano ancora abbastanza “fresche”. Tra queste c’era un signore il quale, come Martin poté dedurre dalle conversazioni avvenute quella sera, aveva appena iniziato quel pomeriggio un viaggio di sei mesi verso l’Ovest per lavoro. Il suo abbigliamento e le sue attrezzature per questo Viaggio consistevano proprio in un cappello lucido e in una piccola valigia pallida, esattamente gli stessi oggetti che aveva il signore arrivato dall’Inghilterra sul “Screw”.

Camminavano indietro molto lentamente: Martin a braccio con il signor Jefferson Brick, e il maggiore con il colonnello uno accanto all’altro davanti a loro; quando si avvicinarono a una o due case dalla residenza del maggiore, sentirono un campanello suonare violentemente. Non appena quel suono raggiunse le loro orecchie, il colonnello e il maggiore corsero via come pazzi, salirono di corsa i gradini ed entrarono nella porta d’ingresso (che era semiaperta); mentre il signor Jefferson Brick, staccandosi dal braccio di Martin, si precipitò nella stessa direzione e scomparve anch’egli.

“Mio Dio!” pensò Martin. “L’edificio sta andando in fiamme. Era una campana d’allarme!”

Ma non si vedeva alcun fumo, né alcuna fiamma, e nemmeno c’era l’odore di fuoco. Mentre Martin barcollava sul marciapiede, altri tre signori, con espressioni di orrore e agitazione sui volti, apparvero all’improvviso all’angolo della strada; si urtarono sulle scale, lottarono per un istante e poi corsero dentro la casa, diventando un groviglio confuso di braccia e gambe. Non riuscendo più a sopportare quella scena, Martin li seguì. Anche nel suo rapido avanzamento fu urtato, spinto da parte e superato da altri due signori, chiaramente impazziti per l’eccitazione intensa.

“Dov’è?” gridò Martin, senza fiato, a un nero che incontrò nel corridoio.

“In una sala da pranzo, sai. Kernell, sai, gli fu offerto un posto accanto a lui, sai.”

“Un posto a sedere!”, gridò Martin.

“Per una moneta di un penny, sai, ”

Martin lo fissò per un momento, poi scoppiò in una risata fragorosa; il nero, per natura dotato di buon umorismo e desideroso di compiacerlo, rispose con altrettanta allegria, tanto che i suoi denti brillarono come luci scintillanti. “Sei davvero l’uomo più piacevole che abbia mai incontrato,” disse Martin dandogli una pacca sulla schiena, “e mi fai venire più appetito di qualsiasi altra cosa.”

Con questo sentimento entrò nel salone da pranzo e si sedette su una sedia accanto al colonnello; quella signorina (a quel momento ormai quasi alla fine del suo pasto) l’aveva riservata apposta per lui, posizionandola con lo schienale rivolto verso il tavolo.

Era un gruppo numeroso: forse diciotto o venti persone. Di queste, cinque o sei erano donne, sedute insieme in un piccolo gruppo separato dagli altri. Tutti i coltelli e le forchette venivano usati con una velocità davvero allarmante; si dicevano poche parole, e tutti sembravano mangiare il più possibile, come se si aspettasse una carestia entro l’ora di colazione del giorno dopo. E quindi era arrivato il momento di applicare la prima legge della natura. La carne di pollame – che forse rappresentava il piatto principale di quella cena: c’era un tacchino in cima, una coppia di anatre in fondo e due polli nel mezzo – scompariva rapidamente, come se ogni uccello avesse usato le ali per volare disperatamente giù nella gola degli ospiti. Le ostriche, cotte e sottaceto, saltavano fuori dai loro contenitori e finivano a decine nelle bocche di tutti. Anche i sottaceti più aspri sparivano in un attimo, così come interi cetrioli. E nessuno batteva ciglio. Grandi quantità di cibo indigestibile si scioglievano davanti ai nostri occhi, come il ghiaccio al sole. Era una scena solenne e terribile da vedere. Le persone con problemi digestivi ingoiavano il cibo a grandi bocconi; in realtà non stavano mangiando loro stessi, ma “branco di incubi” che continuavano ad agitarsi dentro di loro. Gli uomini magri e rigidi uscivano da quella cena insoddisfatti, dopo aver distrutto piatti pesanti. E fissavano con occhi attenti i dolci. Quello che la signora Pawkins provava ogni sera a cena rimane un segreto per tutti. Ma aveva almeno un conforto: quella cena finiva molto presto.

When the colonel had finished his dinner, which event took place while Martin, who had sent his plate for some turkey, was waiting to begin, he asked him what he thought of the boarders, who were from all parts of the Union, and whether he would like to know any particulars concerning them.

‘Pray,’ said Martin, ‘who is that sickly little girl opposite, with the tight round eyes? I don’t see anybody here, who looks like her mother, or who seems to have charge of her.’

‘Do you mean the matron in blue, sir?’ asked the colonel, with emphasis. ‘That is Mrs Jefferson Brick, sir.’

‘No, no,’ said Martin, ‘I mean the little girl, like a doll; directly opposite.’

‘Well, sir!’ cried the colonel. ‘THAT is Mrs Jefferson Brick.’

Martin glanced at the colonel’s face, but he was quite serious.

‘Bless my soul! I suppose there will be a young Brick then, one of these days?’ said Martin.

‘There are two young Bricks already, sir,’ returned the colonel.

The matron looked so uncommonly like a child herself, that Martin could not help saying as much. ‘Yes, sir,’ returned the colonel, ‘but some institutions develop human natur; others re—tard it.’

‘Jefferson Brick,’ he observed after a short silence, in commendation of his correspondent, ‘is one of the most remarkable men in our country, sir!’

This had passed almost in a whisper, for the distinguished gentleman alluded to sat on Martin’s other hand.

‘Pray, Mr Brick,’ said Martin, turning to him, and asking a question more for conversation’s sake than from any feeling of interest in its subject, ‘who is that;’ he was going to say ‘young’ but thought it prudent to eschew the word—‘that very short gentleman yonder, with the red nose?’

‘That is Pro—fessor Mullit, sir,’ replied Jefferson.

‘May I ask what he is professor of?’ asked Martin.

‘Of education, sir,’ said Jefferson Brick.

‘A sort of schoolmaster, possibly?’ Martin ventured to observe.

‘He is a man of fine moral elements, sir, and not commonly endowed,’ said the war correspondent. ‘He felt it necessary, at the last election for President, to repudiate and denounce his father, who voted on the wrong interest. He has since written some powerful pamphlets, under the signature of “Suturb,” or Brutus reversed. He is one of the most remarkable men in our country, sir.’

‘There seem to be plenty of ‘em,’ thought Martin, ‘at any rate.’

Pursuing his inquiries Martin found that there were no fewer than four majors present, two colonels, one general, and a captain, so that he could not help thinking how strongly officered the American militia must be; and wondering very much whether the officers commanded each other; or if they did not, where on earth the privates came from. There seemed to be no man there without a title; for those who had not attained to military honours were either doctors, professors, or reverends. Three very hard and disagreeable gentlemen were on missions from neighbouring States; one on monetary affairs, one on political, one on sectarian. Among the ladies, there were Mrs Pawkins, who was very straight, bony, and silent; and a wiry-faced old damsel, who held strong sentiments touching the rights of women, and had diffused the same in lectures; but the rest were strangely devoid of individual traits of character, insomuch that any one of them might have changed minds with the other, and nobody would have found it out. These, by the way, were the only members of the party who did not appear to be among the most remarkable people in the country.

Several of the gentlemen got up, one by one, and walked off as they swallowed their last morsel; pausing generally by the stove for a minute or so to refresh themselves at the brass spittoons. A few sedentary characters, however, remained at table full a quarter of an hour, and did not rise until the ladies rose, when all stood up.

‘Where are they going?’ asked Martin, in the ear of Mr Jefferson Brick.

‘To their bedrooms, sir.’

‘Is there no dessert, or other interval of conversation?’ asked Martin, who was disposed to enjoy himself after his long voyage.

‘We are a busy people here, sir, and have no time for that,’ was the reply.

So the ladies passed out in single file; Mr Jefferson Brick and such other married gentlemen as were left, acknowledging the departure of their other halves by a nod; and there was an end of THEM. Martin thought this an uncomfortable custom, but he kept his opinion to himself for the present, being anxious to hear, and inform himself by, the conversation of the busy gentlemen, who now lounged about the stove as if a great weight had been taken off their minds by the withdrawal of the other sex; and who made a plentiful use of the spittoons and their toothpicks.

It was rather barren of interest, to say the truth; and the greater part of it may be summed up in one word. Dollars. All their cares, hopes, joys, affections, virtues, and associations, seemed to be melted down into dollars. Whatever the chance contributions that fell into the slow cauldron of their talk, they made the gruel thick and slab with dollars. Men were weighed by their dollars, measures gauged by their dollars; life was auctioneered, appraised, put up, and knocked down for its dollars. The next respectable thing to dollars was any venture having their attainment for its end. The more of that worthless ballast, honour and fair-dealing, which any man cast overboard from the ship of his Good Name and Good Intent, the more ample stowage-room he had for dollars. Make commerce one huge lie and mighty theft. Deface the banner of the nation for an idle rag; pollute it star by star; and cut out stripe by stripe as from the arm of a degraded soldier. Do anything for dollars! What is a flag to THEM!

One who rides at all hazards of limb and life in the chase of a fox, will prefer to ride recklessly at most times. So it was with these gentlemen. He was the greatest patriot, in their eyes, who brawled the loudest, and who cared the least for decency. He was their champion who, in the brutal fury of his own pursuit, could cast no stigma upon them for the hot knavery of theirs. Thus, Martin learned in the five minutes’ straggling talk about the stove, that to carry pistols into legislative assemblies, and swords in sticks, and other such peaceful toys; to seize opponents by the throat, as dogs or rats might do; to bluster, bully, and overbear by personal assailment; were glowing deeds. Not thrusts and stabs at Freedom, striking far deeper into her House of Life than any sultan’s scimitar could reach; but rare incense on her altars, having a grateful scent in patriotic nostrils, and curling upward to the seventh heaven of Fame.

Quando il colonnello ebbe finito di cenare – un evento che avvenne mentre Martin, che aveva fatto portare via il proprio piatto per chiedere del tacchino, aspettava di iniziare a mangiare – gli chiese cosa ne pensasse dei pensionanti, provenienti da tutte le parti dell’Unione, e se volesse conoscere qualche dettaglio su di loro.

“Prega,” disse Martin, “chi è quella bambina malaticcia laggiù, con quegli occhi piccoli e stretti? Non vedo nessuno qui che assomigli a sua madre, o che sembri prendersi cura di lei.”

“Intende la suora in blu, signore?”, chiese il colonnello con enfasi.
“Si tratta di Mrs Jefferson Brick, signore.”

“No, no,” disse Martin, “intendo la bambina piccola, come una bambola, esattamente di fronte.”

“Beh, signore!”, esclamò il colonnello. “Quella è la signora Jefferson Brick.”

Martin guardò il viso del colonnello: era davvero molto serio.

“Che la mia ‘anima sia benedetta! Immagino che un giorno nascerà un giovane Brick, ” disse Martin.

“Ci sono già due giovani Bricks, signore,” rispose il colonnello.

La matrona assomigliava in modo così insolito a una bambina che Martin non poté fare a meno di dirlo. “Sì, signore,” rispose il colonnello, “ma alcune istituzioni sviluppano la natura umana; altre, invece, la ritardano.”

“Jefferson Brick,” osservò dopo un breve silenzio,] in lode del suo corrispondente, “è uno degli uomini più straordinari del nostro paese, signore!”

Questo fu detto quasi sussurrando, poiché il distinto gentiluomo di cui si parlava sedeva dall’altra parte rispetto a Martin.

“Preghi, signor Brick,” disse Martin, rivolgendosi a lui e ponendo quella domanda più per mantenere la conversazione che per un reale interesse sull’argomento. Stava per dire “quel giovane”, ma pensò fosse prudente evitarlo, “Quel gentiluomo molto basso laggiù, con il naso rosso?”

“Quello è il Professor Mullit, signore,” rispose Jefferson.

“Posso chiedere in cosa è professore?” domandò Martin.

“Riguardo all’istruzione, signore,” disse Jefferson Brick.

“Una sorta di maestro, forse?” osò osservare Martin.

“È un uomo dotato di nobili principi morali, signore, e non è certo comune trovare qualcuno del genere”, disse il corrispondente di guerra. “Durante le ultime elezioni presidenziali, ritenne necessario denunciare pubblicamente suo padre, che aveva votato in contrasto con i suoi principi. Da allora ha scritto alcuni pamphlet molto efficaci, firmati con lo pseudonimo di ‘Suturb’, ovvero ‘Brutus’ al contrario. È senz’altro una delle figure più straordinarie del nostro paese, signore.”

“Sembrano essercene molti, almeno,” pensò Martin.

Continuando le sue indagini, Martin scoprì che c’erano almeno quattro ufficiali presenti: due colonnelli, un generale e un capitano. Non poté fare a meno di pensare quanto fosse ben organizzata la milizia americana in termini di comando; si chiese anche se quegli ufficiali si comandassero a vicenda, o, in caso contrario, da dove provenissero i soldati semplici. Sembrava che non ci fosse nessuno lì senza un titolo militare: coloro che non avevano raggiunto onori militari erano o medici, o professori, o religiosi. Tra le signore c’erano la signora Pawkins, molto dritta, magra e silenziosa, e una vecchia donna dal viso ossuto che nutriva forti convinzioni sui diritti delle donne e le diffondeva attraverso i suoi discorsi; ma le altre sembravano prive di caratteristiche individuali distintive, al punto che chiunque di loro avrebbe potuto cambiare opinione rispetto alle altre senza che nessuno se ne accorgesse. Del resto, queste erano le uniche componenti del gruppo che non sembravano appartenere alle persone più note o importanti del paese.

Diversi signori si alzarono uno dopo l’altro e se ne andarono dopo aver ingoiato l’ultimo boccone; di solito si fermavano vicino al camino per un minuto o due, per rinfrescarsi utilizzando i bicchieri di rame. Tuttavia, alcuni individui più sedentari rimasero a tavola per ben quindici minuti e non si alzarono fino a quando anche le signore non si furono alzate, allora tutti si misero in piedi.

“Dove stanno andando?” chiese Martin all’orecchio di Mr Jefferson Brick.

“Alle loro camere da letto, signore.”

“Non c’è nessun dolce, o qualche altro momento per chiacchierare?” chiese Martin, desideroso di divertirsi dopo il lungo viaggio.

“Siamo persone molto impegnate qui, signore, e non abbiamo tempo per queste cose,” fu la risposta.

Le signore svennero una dopo l’altra; il signor Jefferson Brick e gli altri gentiluomini sposati rimasti annuirono in segno di riconoscimento per la partenza delle loro compagne, e così finì tutto per loro. Martin trovò questa usanza sgradevole, ma decise per il momento di tenersi per sé il proprio parere, desideroso di ascoltare e informarsi attraverso le conversazioni dei gentiluomini impegnati, che ora si aggiravano intorno al camino come se un grande peso fosse stato sollevato dalle loro spalle con la partenza del sesso opposto; inoltre, facevano ampio uso di scovolini e stuzzicadenti.

Era piuttosto privo di interesse, per dire la verità; e la maggior parte di esso poteva essere riassunta in una parola: dollari. Tutte le loro preoccupazioni, speranze, gioie, affetti, virtù e relazioni sembravano essere state fuse in dollari. Qualunque contributo casuale finisse nel lento “calderone” delle loro conversazioni, veniva trasformato in dollari. Gli uomini venivano valutati in base ai loro dollari; le misure venivano calcolate in termini di dollari; la vita stessa veniva messa all’asta, valutata e comprata o venduta in base al suo valore in dollari. La cosa più apprezzata, dopo i dollari, era qualsiasi impresa il cui scopo fosse ottenere denaro. Più un uomo gettava via quei “inutili pesi” come l’onore e la lealtà, più spazio aveva a disposizione per accumulare dollari. Trasformate il commercio in una enorme menzogna e un furto su larga scala; deturpate la bandiera della nazione riducendola a un semplice pezzo di stoffa inutile; contaminatela, strappandone i colori uno per uno come si fa con l’armatura di un soldato disonorato. Fatemi fare qualsiasi cosa per i dollari! Che cos’è una bandiera per loro?

Chi, a rischio di vita e di integrità fisica, insegue una volpe preferisce agire sempre con imprudenza. Così era anche per questi gentiluomini. Ai loro occhi, il più grande patriota era colui che litigava più rumorosamente e che meno si curava della decenza. Era il loro campione: nella sua furia selvaggia, non gettava alcun disonore su di loro per le loro azioni spregevoli. Così, in quei cinque minuti di conversazione casuale intorno al camino, Martin scoprì che portare pistole nelle assemblee legislative, spade nascoste sotto i vestiti, e altre simili “cose pacifiche”; afferrare gli avversari per la gola, come farebbero cani o ratti; minacciare, intimidire e sopraffare con attacchi personali, erano considerate azioni eroiche. Non erano colpi diretti contro la Libertà, che penetravano più profondamente nella sua “Casa della Vita” di quanto qualsiasi scimitarra di sultano potesse raggiungere. Ma erano come incensi rari offerti ai suoi altari: avevano un profumo gradito per i nasi patriottici, e salivano fino al settimo cielo della Fama.

Once or twice, when there was a pause, Martin asked such questions as naturally occurred to him, being a stranger, about the national poets, the theatre, literature, and the arts. But the information which these gentlemen were in a condition to give him on such topics, did not extend beyond the effusions of such master-spirits of the time as Colonel Diver, Mr Jefferson Brick, and others; renowned, as it appeared, for excellence in the achievement of a peculiar style of broadside essay called ‘a screamer.’

‘We are a busy people, sir,’ said one of the captains, who was from the West, ‘and have no time for reading mere notions. We don’t mind ‘em if they come to us in newspapers along with almighty strong stuff of another sort, but darn your books.’

Here the general, who appeared to grow quite faint at the bare thought of reading anything which was neither mercantile nor political, and was not in a newspaper, inquired ‘if any gentleman would drink some?’ Most of the company, considering this a very choice and seasonable idea, lounged out, one by one, to the bar-room in the next block. Thence they probably went to their stores and counting-houses; thence to the bar-room again, to talk once more of dollars, and enlarge their minds with the perusal and discussion of screamers; and thence each man to snore in the bosom of his own family.

‘Which would seem,’ said Martin, pursuing the current of his own thoughts, ‘to be the principal recreation they enjoy in common.’ With that, he fell a-musing again on dollars, demagogues, and bar-rooms; debating within himself whether busy people of this class were really as busy as they claimed to be, or only had an inaptitude for social and domestic pleasure.

It was a difficult question to solve; and the mere fact of its being strongly presented to his mind by all that he had seen and heard, was not encouraging. He sat down at the deserted board, and becoming more and more despondent, as he thought of all the uncertainties and difficulties of his precarious situation, sighed heavily.

Now, there had been at the dinner-table a middle-aged man with a dark eye and a sunburnt face, who had attracted Martin’s attention by having something very engaging and honest in the expression of his features; but of whom he could learn nothing from either of his neighbours, who seemed to consider him quite beneath their notice. He had taken no part in the conversation round the stove, nor had he gone forth with the rest; and now, when he heard Martin sigh for the third or fourth time, he interposed with some casual remark, as if he desired, without obtruding himself upon a stranger’s notice, to engage him in cheerful conversation if he could. His motive was so obvious, and yet so delicately expressed, that Martin felt really grateful to him, and showed him so in the manner of his reply.

‘I will not ask you,’ said this gentleman with a smile, as he rose and moved towards him, ‘how you like my country, for I can quite anticipate your feeling on that point. But, as I am an American, and consequently bound to begin with a question, I’ll ask you how you like the colonel?’

‘You are so very frank,’ returned Martin, ‘that I have no hesitation in saying I don’t like him at all. Though I must add that I am beholden to him for his civility in bringing me here—and arranging for my stay, on pretty reasonable terms, by the way,’ he added, remembering that the colonel had whispered him to that effect, before going out.

‘Not much beholden,’ said the stranger drily. ‘The colonel occasionally boards packet-ships, I have heard, to glean the latest information for his journal; and he occasionally brings strangers to board here, I believe, with a view to the little percentage which attaches to those good offices; and which the hostess deducts from his weekly bill. I don’t offend you, I hope?’ he added, seeing that Martin reddened.

‘My dear sir,’ returned Martin, as they shook hands, ‘how is that possible! to tell you the truth, I—am—’

‘Yes?’ said the gentleman, sitting down beside him.

‘I am rather at a loss, since I must speak plainly,’ said Martin, getting the better of his hesitation, ‘to know how this colonel escapes being beaten.’

‘Well! He has been beaten once or twice,’ remarked the gentleman quietly. ‘He is one of a class of men, in whom our own Franklin, so long ago as ten years before the close of the last century, foresaw our danger and disgrace. Perhaps you don’t know that Franklin, in very severe terms, published his opinion that those who were slandered by such fellows as this colonel, having no sufficient remedy in the administration of this country’s laws or in the decent and right-minded feeling of its people, were justified in retorting on such public nuisances by means of a stout cudgel?’

‘I was not aware of that,’ said Martin, ‘but I am very glad to know it, and I think it worthy of his memory; especially’—here he hesitated again.

‘Go on,’ said the other, smiling as if he knew what stuck in Martin’s throat.

‘Especially,’ pursued Martin, ‘as I can already understand that it may have required great courage, even in his time, to write freely on any question which was not a party one in this very free country.’

‘Some courage, no doubt,’ returned his new friend. ‘Do you think it would require any to do so, now?’

‘Indeed I think it would; and not a little,’ said Martin.

‘You are right. So very right, that I believe no satirist could breathe this air. If another Juvenal or Swift could rise up among us to-morrow, he would be hunted down. If you have any knowledge of our literature, and can give me the name of any man, American born and bred, who has anatomized our follies as a people, and not as this or that party; and who has escaped the foulest and most brutal slander, the most inveterate hatred and intolerant pursuit; it will be a strange name in my ears, believe me. In some cases I could name to you, where a native writer has ventured on the most harmless and good-humoured illustrations of our vices or defects, it has been found necessary to announce, that in a second edition the passage has been expunged, or altered, or explained away, or patched into praise.’

‘And how has this been brought about?’ asked Martin, in dismay.

‘Think of what you have seen and heard to-day, beginning with the colonel,’ said his friend, ‘and ask yourself. How THEY came about, is another question. Heaven forbid that they should be samples of the intelligence and virtue of America, but they come uppermost, and in great numbers, and too often represent it. Will you walk?’

There was a cordial candour in his manner, and an engaging confidence that it would not be abused; a manly bearing on his own part, and a simple reliance on the manly faith of a stranger; which Martin had never seen before. He linked his arm readily in that of the American gentleman, and they walked out together.

It was perhaps to men like this, his new companion, that a traveller of honoured name, who trod those shores now nearly forty years ago, and woke upon that soil, as many have done since, to blots and stains upon its high pretensions, which in the brightness of his distant dreams were lost to view, appealed in these words—

‘Oh, but for such, Columbia’s days were done; Rank without ripeness, quickened without sun, Crude at the surface, rotten at the core, Her fruits would fall before her spring were o’er!’

Una o due volte, quando c’era una pausa, Martin pose domande che, essendo uno straniero, gli venivano naturalmente in mente riguardo ai poeti nazionali, al teatro, alla letteratura e alle arti. Tuttavia, le informazioni che questi signori erano in grado di fornirgli su tali argomenti non andavano oltre i discorsi di quegli spiriti maestri dell’epoca come il Colonnello Diver, il signor Jefferson Brick e altri; personaggi noti, a quanto pare, per la loro eccellenza nella stesura di quel particolare tipo di saggio intitolato “screamer”.

“Siamo persone molto impegnate, signore,” disse uno dei capitani, che proveniva dall’Ovest, “e non abbiamo tempo per leggere sciocchezze del genere. Non ci dispiacciono se appaiono sui giornali insieme a notizie davvero importanti, ma quei libri, beh, li detestiamo.”

Ecco il generale: al solo pensiero di dover leggere qualcosa che non fosse né commerciale né politico, e che non apparisse su un giornale, sembrava perdere i sensi. Chiese quindi: “C’è qualche signore che desidera bere qualcosa?” La maggior parte dei presenti, ritenendo questa una proposta molto elegante e opportuna, si diresse uno dopo l’altro verso il bar situato nel blocco successivo. Da lì probabilmente andarono nei loro negozi o uffici contabili; poi tornarono al bar per parlare ancora di dollari e arricchire la propria cultura leggendo e discutendo giornali sensazionalistici; infine, ognuno di loro tornò a casa per addormentarsi tra le braccia della propria famiglia.

“Sembra proprio,” disse Martin, seguendo il filo dei propri pensieri, “che questa sia la principale attività ricreativa che condividono tutti insieme.” Detto questo, riprese a riflettere su dollari, demagoghi e bar; si chiedeva se le persone impegnate di questa categoria fossero davvero così occupate come sostenevano, o semplicemente non avessero alcuna predisposizione per i piaceri sociali e domestici.

Era una domanda difficile da risolvere; e il solo fatto che continuasse a riaffiorare nella sua mente, a causa di tutto ciò che aveva visto e sentito, non era certo incoraggiante. Si sedette al tavolo deserto, e man mano che rifletteva su tutte le incertezze e le difficoltà della sua precaria situazione, sospirava sempre più profondamente.

Alla tavola da pranzo c’era un uomo di mezza età con un occhio scuro e un viso abbronzato; aveva attirato l’attenzione di Martin per via dell’espressione dei suoi tratti, che sembrava sincera e affascinante. Tuttavia, Martin non riuscì a scoprire nulla su di lui dai suoi vicini, i quali parevano considerarlo del tutto insignificante. Quell’uomo non aveva partecipato alla conversazione intorno al camino, né era uscito con gli altri; quando sentì Martin sospirare per la terza o quarta volta, intervenne con un commento casuale, come se volesse, senza invadere l’intimità di uno sconosciuto, avviare una conversazione piacevole con lui. Il suo intento era così evidente e al contempo così delicatamente espresso che Martin ne fu davvero grato e lo dimostrò chiaramente nella sua risposta.

“Non vi chiederò nulla,” disse questo signore sorridendo, mentre si alzava e si avvicinava a lui, “di come vi piaccia il mio paese, perché posso facilmente immaginare quale sia la vostra opinione in merito. Ma poiché sono americano, e quindi inevitabilmente devo porre una domanda per prima cosa, vi chiederò: che ne pensate del colonnello?”

“Sei davvero molto franco,” rispose Martin, “quindi non esito a dire che non mi piace affatto. Devo però aggiungere che gli sono grato per la sua cortesia nel portarmi qui e nell’organizzare il mio soggiorno, tra l’altro in condizioni abbastanza ragionevoli,” aggiunse, ricordando che il colonnello gli aveva detto lo stesso prima di andarsene.

“Non c’è molto da ringraziare,” disse lo sconosciuto in tono secco. “Ho sentito dire che il colonnello a volte sale su navi mercantili per raccogliere le ultime informazioni da inserire nel suo giornale; e credo che di tanto in tanto porti qui degli sconosciuti, nella speranza di ottenere quella piccola percentuale di commissione che deriva da questi servizi, e che la padrona di casa detrarrà dalla sua fattura settimanale. Non vi sto offendendo, spero?” aggiunse, notando che Martin arrossiva.

“Mio caro signore,” rispose Martin mentre si stringevano la mano, “come è possibile! Per dirle la verità, io, sono, ”

“Sì?”, disse il gentiluomo, sedendosi accanto a lui.

“Sono davvero perplesso, poiché devo parlare chiaramente,” disse Martin, superando le proprie esitazioni, “per capire come questo colonnello riesca a non essere battuto.”

‘Beh! È stato battuto una o due volte,’ osservò il gentiluomo in tono tranquillo. ‘Appartiene a quella categoria di persone riguardo alle quali il nostro stesso Franklin, già dieci anni prima della fine del secolo scorso, aveva previsto i nostri pericoli e la nostra disonore. Forse non sapete che Franklin, in termini molto severi, espresse l’opinione che coloro che venivano diffamati da individui come questo colonnello, non avendo a disposizione rimedi efficaci attraverso le leggi di questo paese o attraverso i sentimenti onesti e retti della sua gente, avevano tutto il diritto di reagire contro tali fastidi pubblici utilizzando un bastone robusto?’

“Non ne ero a conoscenza,” disse Martin, “ma sono molto felice di saperlo, e penso che sia degno della sua memoria; soprattutto, ” – qui esitò di nuovo.

“Vai avanti,” disse l’altro, sorridendo come se sapesse cosa gli fosse rimasto bloccato in gola a Martin.

“Soprattutto,” continuò Martin, “poiché posso già capire che potesse essere necessario un grande coraggio, anche ai suoi tempi, per scrivere liberamente su qualsiasi argomento che non fosse di interesse dei partiti in questo paese così libero.”

“Un po’ di coraggio, nessun dubbio”, rispose il suo nuovo amico. “Pensi davvero che ne sia necessario, ora?”

“Certo che lo penso; anzi, molto,” disse Martin.

‘Hai ragione. Davvero ragione, tanto che credo nessun satirico potrebbe respirare quest’aria. Se domani dovesse emergere tra di noi un altro Giovenale o Swift, verrebbe inseguito e perseguitato. Se conosci la nostra letteratura, e puoi indicarmi il nome di un uomo nato e cresciuto negli Stati Uniti che abbia analizzato le nostre follie come popolo intero, e non come questo o quel partito; se è riuscito a sfuggire alle calunnie più vili e brutali, all’odio più ostinato e alle persecuzioni intolleranti, beh, quel nome mi suonerà strano, credimi. In alcuni casi, ho potuto citare autori locali che hanno osato descrivere i nostri vizi o difetti in modo del tutto innocuo e umoristico; tuttavia è stato necessario annunciare che, nella seconda edizione, quei passaggi erano stati cancellati, modificati, spiegati o addirittura trasformati in lodi.’

“E come è stato possibile realizzare tutto ciò?” chiese Martin, preoccupato.

“Pensa a ciò che hai visto e sentito oggi, partendo dal colonnello,” disse il suo amico, “e chiediti: come sono venuti fuori questi individui? È un’altra questione. Che il cielo non permetta che siano esempi dell’intelligenza e della virtù dell’America. Ma spesso emergono in numero considerevole, e rappresentano proprio questi valori. Andiamo a fare una passeggiata?”

C’era una schiettezza cordiale nel suo modo di comportarsi, e una fiducia incantevole che rendeva impossibile abusarne; un atteggiamento nobile da parte sua, e una semplice fiducia nella fedeltà maschile di uno sconosciuto. Qualcosa che Martin non aveva mai visto prima. Accettò volentieri di mettere il braccio intorno a quello del gentiluomo americano e insieme uscirono.

Forse erano proprio a uomini come questi, al suo nuovo compagno, che un viaggiatore di onorevole nome, che calpestò quelle rive quasi quarant’anni fa e si risvegliò su quel suolo, come molti altri dopo di lui, si rivolgeva per denunciare le macchie e i segni che offuscavano le alte pretese di quel luogo; pretese che, nella luce dei suoi lontani sogni, erano state fino ad allora nascoste alla vista.

“Oh, se non fosse stato per questo, i giorni della Columbia sarebbero finiti;
Classificata senza maturazione, accelerata senza il sole,
Cruda in superficie, marcia nel profondo. I suoi frutti sarebbero caduti prima ancora che la sua primavera arrivasse!”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

MARTIN ENLARGES HIS CIRCLE OF AQUAINTANCE; INCREASES HIS STOCK OF WISDOM; AND HAS AN EXCELLENT OPPORTUNITY OF COMPARING HIS OWN EXPERIENCES WITH THOSE OF LUMMY NED OF THE LIGHT SALISBURY, AS RELATED BY HIS FRIEND MR WILLIAM SIMMONS

It was characteristic of Martin, that all this while he had either forgotten Mark Tapley as completely as if there had been no such person in existence, or, if for a moment the figure of that gentleman rose before his mental vision, had dismissed it as something by no means of a pressing nature, which might be attended to by-and-bye, and could wait his perfect leisure. But, being now in the streets again, it occurred to him as just coming within the bare limits of possibility that Mr Tapley might, in course of time, grow tired of waiting on the threshold of the Rowdy Journal Office, so he intimated to his new friend, that if they could conveniently walk in that direction, he would be glad to get this piece of business off his mind.

‘And speaking of business,’ said Martin, ‘may I ask, in order that I may not be behind-hand with questions either, whether your occupation holds you to this city, or like myself, you are a visitor here?’

‘A visitor,’ replied his friend. ‘I was “raised” in the State of Massachusetts, and reside there still. My home is in a quiet country town. I am not often in these busy places; and my inclination to visit them does not increase with our better acquaintance, I assure you.’

‘You have been abroad?’ asked Martin.

‘Oh yes.’

‘And, like most people who travel, have become more than ever attached to your home and native country,’ said Martin, eyeing him curiously.

‘To my home—yes,’ rejoined his friend. ‘To my native country AS my home—yes, also.’

‘You imply some reservation,’ said Martin.

‘Well,’ returned his new friend, ‘if you ask me whether I came back here with a greater relish for my country’s faults; with a greater fondness for those who claim (at the rate of so many dollars a day) to be her friends; with a cooler indifference to the growth of principles among us in respect of public matters and of private dealings between man and man, the advocacy of which, beyond the foul atmosphere of a criminal trial, would disgrace your own old Bailey lawyers; why, then I answer plainly, No.’

‘Oh!’ said Martin; in so exactly the same key as his friend’s No, that it sounded like an echo.

‘If you ask me,’ his companion pursued, ‘whether I came back here better satisfied with a state of things which broadly divides society into two classes—whereof one, the great mass, asserts a spurious independence, most miserably dependent for its mean existence on the disregard of humanizing conventionalities of manner and social custom, so that the coarser a man is, the more distinctly it shall appeal to his taste; while the other, disgusted with the low standard thus set up and made adaptable to everything, takes refuge among the graces and refinements it can bring to bear on private life, and leaves the public weal to such fortune as may betide it in the press and uproar of a general scramble—then again I answer, No.’

And again Martin said ‘Oh!’ in the same odd way as before, being anxious and disconcerted; not so much, to say the truth, on public grounds, as with reference to the fading prospects of domestic architecture.

‘In a word,’ resumed the other, ‘I do not find and cannot believe and therefore will not allow, that we are a model of wisdom, and an example to the world, and the perfection of human reason, and a great deal more to the same purpose, which you may hear any hour in the day; simply because we began our political life with two inestimable advantages.’

‘What were they?’ asked Martin.

‘One, that our history commenced at so late a period as to escape the ages of bloodshed and cruelty through which other nations have passed; and so had all the light of their probation, and none of its darkness. The other, that we have a vast territory, and not—as yet—too many people on it. These facts considered, we have done little enough, I think.’

‘Education?’ suggested Martin, faintly.

‘Pretty well on that head,’ said the other, shrugging his shoulders, ‘still no mighty matter to boast of; for old countries, and despotic countries too, have done as much, if not more, and made less noise about it. We shine out brightly in comparison with England, certainly; but hers is a very extreme case. You complimented me on my frankness, you know,’ he added, laughing.

‘Oh! I am not at all astonished at your speaking thus openly when my country is in question,’ returned Martin. ‘It is your plain-speaking in reference to your own that surprises me.’

‘You will not find it a scarce quality here, I assure you, saving among the Colonel Divers, and Jefferson Bricks, and Major Pawkinses; though the best of us are something like the man in Goldsmith’s comedy, who wouldn’t suffer anybody but himself to abuse his master. Come!’ he added. ‘Let us talk of something else. You have come here on some design of improving your fortune, I dare say; and I should grieve to put you out of heart. I am some years older than you, besides; and may, on a few trivial points, advise you, perhaps.’

There was not the least curiosity or impertinence in the manner of this offer, which was open-hearted, unaffected, and good-natured. As it was next to impossible that he should not have his confidence awakened by a deportment so prepossessing and kind, Martin plainly stated what had brought him into those parts, and even made the very difficult avowal that he was poor. He did not say how poor, it must be admitted, rather throwing off the declaration with an air which might have implied that he had money enough for six months, instead of as many weeks; but poor he said he was, and grateful he said he would be, for any counsel that his friend would give him.

CAPITOLO DICISETTE

Martin allarga il suo cerchio di conoscenze; aumenta la propria riserva di saggezza; e ha un’ottima opportunità per confrontare le proprie esperienze con quelle di Lummy Ned di Light Salisbury, così come descritte dal suo amico Mr William Simmons.

Era tipico di Martin il fatto che, per tutto quel tempo, o avesse completamente dimenticato Mark Tapley, come se tale persona non fosse mai esistita, oppure, se per un momento l’immagine di quell’uomo gli fosse balenata nella mente, la scartasse subito come qualcosa di assolutamente non urgente, su cui poter riflettere in un secondo momento, quando avesse tutto il tempo necessario. Ma ora, trovandosi di nuovo per strada, gli venne in mente che, forse, col passare del tempo, a Mr Tapley sarebbe venuta voglia di smettere di aspettare davanti all’ufficio del “Rowdy Journal”. Così, suggerì al suo nuovo amico che, se fossero potuti dirigersi in quella direzione, gli sarebbe stato molto piacevole risolvere questa questione una volta per tutte.

“Parlando di affari,” disse Martin, “posso chiedervi, così da non rimanere indietro con le domande, se il vostro lavoro vi obbliga a rimanere in questa città, oppure, come me, siete solo un visitatore?”

“Un visitatore,” rispose il suo amico. “Sono stato ‘cresciuto’ nello Stato del Massachusetts e ci vivo ancora oggi. La mia >casa si trova in una tranquilla cittadina di campagna. Non vengo spesso in questi luoghi affollati; e vi assicuro che la mia propensione a visitarli non aumenta nemmeno con una maggiore conoscenza reciproca.”

“Sei stato all’estero?” chiese Martin.

“Ah sì, davvero.”

“E, come la maggior parte delle persone che viaggiano, sei diventato ancora più legato alla tua >casa e al tuo paese natale,” disse Martin, guardandolo con curiosità.

“Verso la mia casa, sì,” rispose il suo amico. “Verso la mia patria natale, anch’essa, sì.”

“Stai insinuando che ci siano delle riserve,” disse Martin.

“Beh,” rispose il suo nuovo amico, “se mi chiedi se sono tornato qui con un maggiore apprezzamento per i difetti del mio paese; con un maggiore affetto per coloro che si proclamano suoi amici (a un prezzo di tanti dollari al giorno); con una maggiore indifferenza verso lo sviluppo di principi tra di noi riguardo alle questioni pubbliche e ai rapporti personali tra le persone, se mi chiedi se, promuovere tali principi, al di fuori dell’atmosfera corrotta di un processo criminale, non metterebbe in imbarazzo anche voi, avvocati del tribunale di Londra, allora la risposta è chiara: No.”

“Oh!”, disse Martin; esattamente con lo stesso tono del “No” di suo amico, tanto che sembrava un eco.

“Se mi chiedi,” proseguì il suo compagno, “se sia tornato qui più soddisfatto di una situazione che divida la società in due classi, nella quale una classe, la grande maggioranza delle persone, pretende un’indipendenza illusoria, essendo in realtà estremamente dipendente, per la propria sopravvivenza, dal disprezzo per le convenzioni umanistiche nel comportamento e nelle usanze sociali; tanto più che un uomo è rozzo, più questa situazione gli piace, mentre l’altra classe, disgustata da questo standard basso e adattato a tutto, si rifugia nelle grazie e nei raffinamenti che può introdurre nella vita privata, lasciando il benessere pubblico al destino incerto di una lotta generale e caotica, allora rispondo ancora una volta: No.”

E di nuovo Martin esclamò “Oh!”, nello stesso modo strano di prima, ansioso e confuso; non tanto, per dire la verità, in pubblico, quanto riguardo alle sempre più scarse prospettive dell’architettura domestica.

“In breve,” riprese l’altro, “non ritengo né posso credere che siamo un modello di saggezza, un esempio per il mondo, la perfezione della ragione umana, o qualcosa del genere; e pertanto non lo ammetterò mai. Si potrebbe dire tutto questo in qualsiasi momento della giornata. Ma semplicemente perché abbiamo iniziato la nostra vita politica con due vantaggi inestimabili.”

“Che cos’erano?” chiese Martin.

“Primo, il fatto che la nostra storia abbia iniziato in un periodo così tardivo da evitare gli anni di spargimento di sangue e crudeltà attraverso cui sono passate altre nazioni; e quindi anche tutta la luce dei loro periodi iniziali, senza alcuna delle loro tenebre. Secondo, il fatto che disponiamo di un vasto territorio, e che – per ora – non ci siano troppe persone su di esso. Considerando questi fatti, penso che abbiamo fatto davvero poco.”

“‘Educazione’?” suggerì Martin, in tono sommesso.

“Abbastanza carino, in effetti,” disse l’altro, scrollando le spalle, “ma comunque niente di così eccezionale da vantarsene; anche i vecchi paesi, e quelli dispotici per giunta, hanno fatto lo stesso, se non di più, senza fare tanto rumore. Rispetto all’Inghilterra, certamente siamo più evidenti, ma il suo caso è davvero estremo.” “Mi hai elogiato per la mia franchezza, sai,” aggiunse, ridendo.

“Oh! Non sono affatto sorpreso dal fatto che parliate così apertamente quando è in gioco il mio paese,” rispose Martin. “Quello che mi sorprende è la vostra schiettezza riguardo a voi stessi.”

“Vi assicuro che qui non si tratta di una qualità rara, tranne che tra il Colonnello Divers, Jefferson Bricks e il Maggiore Pawkinses; anche se i migliori tra noi assomigliano un po’ all’uomo della commedia di Goldsmith, che non permetterebbe a nessuno, tranne sé stesso, di maltrattare il proprio padrone. Andiamo!” aggiunse. “Parliamo di qualcos’altro. Siete certo venuto qui con l’intenzione di migliorare la vostra fortuna; mi dispiacerebbe deludervi. Inoltre, sono qualche anno più vecchio di voi e forse posso darvi alcuni consigli su questioni di poco conto.”

Nella maniera in cui fu fatta questa proposta non c’era la minima traccia di curiosità o impertinenza: era sincera, spontanea e gentile. Essendo quasi impossibile che un comportamento così affabile e premuroso non suscitasse in lui fiducia, Martin spiegò chiaramente quale fosse lo scopo della sua visita in quei luoghi e addirittura fece l’umiliante ammissione di essere povero. Non specificò però quanto fosse povero; anzi, pronunciò quella dichiarazione con un tono che sembrava suggerire di avere abbastanza denaro per sei mesi, piuttosto che per poche settimane. Ma ammise comunque di essere povero e ringraziò il suo amico per qualsiasi consiglio fosse disposto a dargli.

It would not have been very difficult for any one to see; but it was particularly easy for Martin, whose perceptions were sharpened by his circumstances, to discern; that the stranger’s face grew infinitely longer as the domestic-architecture project was developed. Nor, although he made a great effort to be as encouraging as possible, could he prevent his head from shaking once involuntarily, as if it said in the vulgar tongue, upon its own account, ‘No go!’ But he spoke in a cheerful tone, and said, that although there was no such opening as Martin wished, in that city, he would make it matter of immediate consideration and inquiry where one was most likely to exist; and then he made Martin acquainted with his name, which was Bevan; and with his profession, which was physic, though he seldom or never practiced; and with other circumstances connected with himself and family, which fully occupied the time, until they reached the Rowdy Journal Office.

Mr Tapley appeared to be taking his ease on the landing of the first floor; for sounds as of some gentleman established in that region whistling ‘Rule Britannia’ with all his might and main, greeted their ears before they reached the house. On ascending to the spot from whence this music proceeded, they found him recumbent in the midst of a fortification of luggage, apparently performing his national anthem for the gratification of a grey-haired black man, who sat on one of the outworks (a portmanteau), staring intently at Mark, while Mark, with his head reclining on his hand, returned the compliment in a thoughtful manner, and whistled all the time. He seemed to have recently dined, for his knife, a casebottle, and certain broken meats in a handkerchief, lay near at hand. He had employed a portion of his leisure in the decoration of the Rowdy Journal door, whereon his own initials now appeared in letters nearly half a foot long, together with the day of the month in smaller type; the whole surrounded by an ornamental border, and looking very fresh and bold.

‘I was a’most afraid you was lost, sir!’ cried Mark, rising, and stopping the tune at that point where Britons generally are supposed to declare (when it is whistled) that they never, never, never—

‘Nothing gone wrong, I hope, sir?’

‘No, Mark. Where’s your friend?’

‘The mad woman, sir?’ said Mr Tapley. ‘Oh! she’s all right, sir.’

‘Did she find her husband?’

‘Yes, sir. Leastways she’s found his remains,’ said Mark, correcting himself.

‘The man’s not dead, I hope?’

‘Not altogether dead, sir,’ returned Mark; ‘but he’s had more fevers and agues than is quite reconcilable with being alive. When she didn’t see him a-waiting for her, I thought she’d have died herself, I did!’

‘Was he not here, then?’

‘HE wasn’t here. There was a feeble old shadow come a-creeping down at last, as much like his substance when she know’d him, as your shadow when it’s drawn out to its very finest and longest by the sun, is like you. But it was his remains, there’s no doubt about that. She took on with joy, poor thing, as much as if it had been all of him!’

‘Had he bought land?’ asked Mr Bevan.

‘Ah! He’d bought land,’ said Mark, shaking his head, ‘and paid for it too. Every sort of nateral advantage was connected with it, the agents said; and there certainly was ONE, quite unlimited. No end to the water!’

‘It’s a thing he couldn’t have done without, I suppose,’ observed Martin, peevishly.

‘Certainly not, sir. There it was, any way; always turned on, and no water-rate. Independent of three or four slimy old rivers close by, it varied on the farm from four to six foot deep in the dry season. He couldn’t say how deep it was in the rainy time, for he never had anything long enough to sound it with.’

‘Is this true?’ asked Martin of his companion.

‘Extremely probable,’ he answered. ‘Some Mississippi or Missouri lot, I dare say.’

‘However,’ pursued Mark, ‘he came from I-don’t-know-where-and-all, down to New York here, to meet his wife and children; and they started off again in a steamboat this blessed afternoon, as happy to be along with each other as if they were going to Heaven. I should think they was, pretty straight, if I may judge from the poor man’s looks.’

‘And may I ask,’ said Martin, glancing, but not with any displeasure, from Mark to the negro, ‘who this gentleman is? Another friend of yours?’

‘Why sir,’ returned Mark, taking him aside, and speaking confidentially in his ear, ‘he’s a man of colour, sir!’

‘Do you take me for a blind man,’ asked Martin, somewhat impatiently, ‘that you think it necessary to tell me that, when his face is the blackest that ever was seen?’

‘No, no; when I say a man of colour,’ returned Mark, ‘I mean that he’s been one of them as there’s picters of in the shops. A man and a brother, you know, sir,’ said Mr Tapley, favouring his master with a significant indication of the figure so often represented in tracts and cheap prints.

‘A slave!’ cried Martin, in a whisper.

‘Ah!’ said Mark in the same tone. ‘Nothing else. A slave. Why, when that there man was young—don’t look at him while I’m a-telling it—he was shot in the leg; gashed in the arm; scored in his live limbs, like crimped fish; beaten out of shape; had his neck galled with an iron collar, and wore iron rings upon his wrists and ankles. The marks are on him to this day. When I was having my dinner just now, he stripped off his coat, and took away my appetite.’

‘Is THIS true?’ asked Martin of his friend, who stood beside them.

‘I have no reason to doubt it,’ he answered, shaking his head ‘It very often is.’

‘Bless you,’ said Mark, ‘I know it is, from hearing his whole story. That master died; so did his second master from having his head cut open with a hatchet by another slave, who, when he’d done it, went and drowned himself; then he got a better one; in years and years he saved up a little money, and bought his freedom, which he got pretty cheap at last, on account of his strength being nearly gone, and he being ill. Then he come here. And now he’s a-saving up to treat himself, afore he dies, to one small purchase—it’s nothing to speak of. Only his own daughter; that’s all!’ cried Mr Tapley, becoming excited. ‘Liberty for ever! Hurrah! Hail, Columbia!’

Non sarebbe stato affatto difficile per chiunque notarlo; ma per Martin, le cui percezioni erano state acuite dalle circostanze in cui si trovava, era particolarmente facile rendersene conto: il volto dello sconosciuto diventava sempre più lungo man mano che il progetto di architettura domestica procedeva. E anche se Martin faceva del suo meglio per essere il più incoraggiante possibile, non riusciva a impedire che la sua testa tremasse involontariamente, come se volesse dire, con parole volgari e senza che lui stesso lo desiderasse: “Non è possibile!”. Tuttavia parlava in tono allegro e disse che, anche se in quella città non esisteva l’opportunità che Martin desiderava, avrebbe immediatamente iniziato a cercare in tutti i luoghi dove fosse più probabile trovarla; poi presentò a Martin il proprio nome, Bevan, e la propria professione: medico, anche se raramente o mai praticava; gli raccontò anche altre cose riguardanti sé stesso e la sua famiglia, e così passarono tutto il tempo fino a quando non arrivarono all’ufficio del “Rowdy Journal”.

Il signor Tapley sembrava rilassarsi sul pianerottolo del primo piano; infatti, prima ancora di raggiungere la casa, i loro orecchi furono accolti dai suoni di un gentiluomo che, in quella zona, stava fischiando con tutte le sue forze l’inno nazionale britannico. Salendo nel luogo da cui proveniva questa musica, lo trovarono sdraiato in mezzo a una montagna di bagagli, apparentemente impegnato a cantare l’inno nazionale per il divertimento di un uomo anziano di pelle nera, che sedeva su uno dei bauli e fissava intensamente Mark. Mark, con la testa appoggiata alla mano, rispondeva al suo sguardo in modo pensieroso, continuando a fischiare tutto il tempo. Sembrava aver appena cenato: il suo coltello, una bottiglia di vino e alcuni pezzi di carne spezzati, posizionati vicino a lui, ne erano la prova. Aveva anche impiegato parte del proprio tempo libero per decorare la porta del “Rowdy Journal”: le sue iniziali ora apparivano su lettere lunghe quasi mezzo piede, insieme al giorno del mese in caratteri più piccoli; l’intera composizione era circondata da un bordo ornamentale e risultava davvero fresca e vistosa.

“Ero davvero spaventato che vi foste perso, signore!” esclamò Mark, alzandosi e interrompendo la canzone proprio in quel punto in cui i britannici di solito dichiarano (quando la cantano) che non lo faranno mai, mai, mai.

“Niente è andato storto, spero, signore?”

“No, Mark. Dove è tuo amico?”

“La donna pazza, signore?”, disse il signor Tapley. “Oh! Sta bene, signore.”

“Ha trovato suo marito?”

“Sì, signore. Almeno ha trovato i suoi resti,” disse Mark, correggendosi.

“Quell’uomo non è morto, spero, ”

“Non del tutto morto, signore,” rispose Mark; “ma ha avuto così tante febbri e convulsioni che è difficile credere possa essere ancora vivo. Quando non lo ha visto ad aspettarla, ho pensato che sarebbe morta anche lei, ”

“Quindi non era qui?”

‘Non era qui. C’era solo un debole vecchio ombra che si muoveva lentamente verso di lei. Assomigliava molto alla sua vera essenza quando lei lo conosceva; proprio come la tua ombra quando viene allungata al massimo dal sole, assomiglia a te. Ma erano i suoi resti. Non c’è alcun dubbio su questo. Lei li accolse con gioia, povera creatura. Come se fossero stati tutta la sua essenza!’

“Ha comprato della terra?” chiese il signor Bevan.

“Ah! Aveva comprato della terra,” disse Mark scuotendo la testa, “e l’aveva anche pagata. Gli agenti dicevano che ci fossero ogni sorta di vantaggi legati a quella proprietà; e c’era davvero uno svantaggio, ma assolutamente illimitato: l’acqua era inesauribile!”

“È qualcosa di cui non avrebbe potuto fare a meno, suppongo,” osservò Martin, in tono irritato.

“Certamente no, signore. Comunque, era sempre acceso e non c’era alcun indicatore relativo al consumo d’acqua. Indipendente da tre o quattro vecchi fiumi vicini, durante la stagione secca il livello dell’acqua nel pozzo variava tra i quattro e i sei piedi. Non poteva dire quanto fosse profondo durante la stagione delle piogge, perché non aveva mai avuto nulla abbastanza lungo per misurarlo.”

“È vero?” chiese Martin al suo compagno.

“Estremamente probabile,” rispose. “Probabilmente un terreno nel Mississippi o nel Missouri, oserei dire.”

“Tuttavia,” continuò Mark, “è venuto da chissà dove, fino a New York per incontrare sua moglie e i suoi figli; e questo pomeriggio sono partiti di nuovo su una nave a vapore, felici di stare insieme come se stessero andando in Paradiso. Direi proprio che stiano andando in Paradiso. A giudicare dall’aspetto di quel poveruomo.”

“E posso chiedere,” disse Martin, guardando alternativamente Mark e il nero, ma senza alcun dispiacere, “chi sia questo signore? Un altro vostro amico?”

“Perché, signore,” rispose Mark, portandolo da parte e parlando sottovoce nel suo orecchio, “è un uomo di colore, signore!”

“Mi prendete forse per un cieco?”, chiese Martin, con una certa impazienza, “perché ritenete necessario dirmelo, quando il suo viso è il più nero che si sia mai visto?”

“No, no; quando dico ‘un uomo di colore’, intendo che sia effettivamente uno di loro, come quelli raffigurati nelle librerie. Un uomo e un fratello, capisce, signore,” disse il signor Tapley, indicando con un gesto significativo la figura spesso rappresentata in opuscoli e stampe economiche.

“Un schiavo!” gridò Martin, sussurrando.

“Ah!”, disse Mark con lo stesso tono. “Nient’altro. Un schiavo. Sai, quando quell’uomo era giovane – non guardarlo mentre te lo racconto – gli spararono alla gamba, gli ferirono il braccio; i suoi arti erano segnati da profonde ferite, come se fossero stati strappati via; venne picchiato fino a perdere la forma umana; il collo gli fu legato con un collare di ferro, e ai polsi e alle caviglie portava anelli di ferro. Queste cicatrici sono ancora visibili su di lui oggi. Proprio adesso, mentre mangiavo, si è tolto il cappotto. E mi ha fatto perdere l’appetito.”

“È davvero vero?” chiese Martin al suo amico, che stava accanto a loro.

“Non ho motivo di Doubt dubitarne,” rispose scuotendo la testa, “spesso è così.”

“Che Dio ti benedica,” disse Mark, “lo so per certo, dopo aver ascoltato tutta la sua storia. Quel padrone è morto; lo stesso è successo anche al suo secondo padrone, che fu decapitato da un altro schiavo con un’ascia. L’assassino, dopo aver compiuto il delitto, andò a suicidarsi. Poi quel schiavo ne trovò un altro migliore; negli anni accumulò un po’ di denaro e comprò la propria libertà, pagandola molto poco, visto che ormai era quasi privo di forze e malato. Poi è venuto qui. Ora sta risparmiando per potersi concedere qualcosa, prima di morire. Niente di che parlare. Solo sua figlia. È tutto ciò che gli resta!” esclamò il signor Tapley, commosso. “Libertà per sempre! Evviva! Eia, Columbia!”

‘Hush!’ cried Martin, clapping his hand upon his mouth; ‘and don’t be an idiot. What is he doing here?’

‘Waiting to take our luggage off upon a truck,’ said Mark. ‘He’d have come for it by-and-bye, but I engaged him for a very reasonable charge (out of my own pocket) to sit along with me and make me jolly; and I am jolly; and if I was rich enough to contract with him to wait upon me once a day, to be looked at, I’d never be anything else.’

The fact may cause a solemn impeachment of Mark’s veracity, but it must be admitted nevertheless, that there was that in his face and manner at the moment, which militated strongly against this emphatic declaration of his state of mind.

‘Lord love you, sir,’ he added, ‘they’re so fond of Liberty in this part of the globe, that they buy her and sell her and carry her to market with ‘em. They’ve such a passion for Liberty, that they can’t help taking liberties with her. That’s what it’s owing to.’

‘Very well,’ said Martin, wishing to change the theme. ‘Having come to that conclusion, Mark, perhaps you’ll attend to me. The place to which the luggage is to go is printed on this card. Mrs Pawkins’s Boarding House.’

‘Mrs Pawkins’s boarding-house,’ repeated Mark. ‘Now, Cicero.’

‘Is that his name?’ asked Martin

‘That’s his name, sir,’ rejoined Mark. And the negro grinning assent from under a leathern portmanteau, than which his own face was many shades deeper, hobbled downstairs with his portion of their worldly goods; Mark Tapley having already gone before with his share.

Martin and his friend followed them to the door below, and were about to pursue their walk, when the latter stopped, and asked, with some hesitation, whether that young man was to be trusted?

‘Mark! oh certainly! with anything.’

‘You don’t understand me—I think he had better go with us. He is an honest fellow, and speaks his mind so very plainly.’

‘Why, the fact is,’ said Martin, smiling, ‘that being unaccustomed to a free republic, he is used to do so.’

‘I think he had better go with us,’ returned the other. ‘He may get into some trouble otherwise. This is not a slave State; but I am ashamed to say that a spirit of Tolerance is not so common anywhere in these latitudes as the form. We are not remarkable for behaving very temperately to each other when we differ; but to strangers! no, I really think he had better go with us.’

Martin called to him immediately to be of their party; so Cicero and the truck went one way, and they three went another.

They walked about the city for two or three hours; seeing it from the best points of view, and pausing in the principal streets, and before such public buildings as Mr Bevan pointed out. Night then coming on apace, Martin proposed that they should adjourn to Mrs Pawkins’s establishment for coffee; but in this he was overruled by his new acquaintance, who seemed to have set his heart on carrying him, though it were only for an hour, to the house of a friend of his who lived hard by. Feeling (however disinclined he was, being weary) that it would be in bad taste, and not very gracious, to object that he was unintroduced, when this open-hearted gentleman was so ready to be his sponsor, Martin—for once in his life, at all events—sacrificed his own will and pleasure to the wishes of another, and consented with a fair grace. So travelling had done him that much good, already.

Mr Bevan knocked at the door of a very neat house of moderate size, from the parlour windows of which, lights were shining brightly into the now dark street. It was quickly opened by a man with such a thoroughly Irish face, that it seemed as if he ought, as a matter of right and principle, to be in rags, and could have no sort of business to be looking cheerfully at anybody out of a whole suit of clothes.

Commending Mark to the care of this phenomenon—for such he may be said to have been in Martin’s eyes—Mr Bevan led the way into the room which had shed its cheerfulness upon the street, to whose occupants he introduced Mr Chuzzlewit as a gentleman from England, whose acquaintance he had recently had the pleasure to make. They gave him welcome in all courtesy and politeness; and in less than five minutes’ time he found himself sitting very much at his ease by the fireside, and becoming vastly well acquainted with the whole family.

There were two young ladies—one eighteen; the other twenty—both very slender, but very pretty; their mother, who looked, as Martin thought much older and more faded than she ought to have looked; and their grandmother, a little sharp-eyed, quick old woman, who seemed to have got past that stage, and to have come all right again. Besides these, there were the young ladies’ father, and the young ladies’ brother; the first engaged in mercantile affairs; the second, a student at college; both, in a certain cordiality of manner, like his own friend, and not unlike him in face. Which was no great wonder, for it soon appeared that he was their near relation. Martin could not help tracing the family pedigree from the two young ladies, because they were foremost in his thoughts; not only from being, as aforesaid, very pretty, but by reason of their wearing miraculously small shoes, and the thinnest possible silk stockings; the which their rocking-chairs developed to a distracting extent.

There is no doubt that it was a monstrous comfortable circumstance to be sitting in a snug, well-furnished room, warmed by a cheerful fire, and full of various pleasant decorations, including four small shoes, and the like amount of silk stockings, and—yes, why not?—the feet and legs therein enshrined. And there is no doubt that Martin was monstrous well-disposed to regard his position in that light, after his recent experience of the Screw, and of Mrs Pawkins’s boarding-house. The consequence was that he made himself very agreeable indeed; and by the time the tea and coffee arrived (with sweet preserves, and cunning tea-cakes in its train), was in a highly genial state, and much esteemed by the whole family.

“Zitta!” gridò Martin, coprendosi la bocca con la mano; “e non essere sciocca. Cosa sta facendo qui?”

“Aspettiamo solo di caricare i nostri bagagli su un camion,” disse Mark. “Avrebbe potuto venire a prenderli in seguito, ma l’ho assunto a un costo molto ragionevole (a mie spese) affinché mi facesse compagnia e mi tenesse allegro; ed effettivamente sono felice. Se solo fossi abbastanza ricco da poterlo assumere anche una volta al giorno, solo per avere qualcuno che si prenda cura di me, non vorrei più nient’altro.”

Questo fatto potrebbe mettere seriamente in dubbio l’affidabilità di Mark, ma bisogna ammettere comunque che, in quel momento, c’era qualcosa nel suo viso e nel suo comportamento che contraddiceva decisamente quella dichiarazione categorica sul suo stato d’animo.

“Lord amore vi ama, signore,” aggiunse, “in questa parte del mondo la gente tiene tantissimo alla Libertà che la compra, la vende e la porta persino al mercato con sé. Hanno una tale passione per la Libertà che non riescono a fare a meno di, prendersi delle libertà con essa. Ed è proprio per questo.”

“Molto bene,” disse Martin, desideroso di cambiare argomento. “Ora che abbiamo raggiunto questa conclusione, Mark, forse potresti prestarmi attenzione. Il luogo dove deve essere portato il bagaglio è indicato su questa carta: la casa di riposo della signora Pawkins.”

“La casa di riposo della signora Pawkins,” ripeté Mark. “Ora, Cicero.”

“È davvero quel suo nome?”, chiese Martin.

“Quello è il suo nome, signore,” rispose Mark. Il negro, sorridendo, annuì sotto un borsone di cuoio il cui colore era molto più scuro del suo viso; zoppicando, scese le scale con la sua parte dei loro beni terreni; Mark Tapley era già andato avanti con la sua quota.

Martin e il suo amico li seguirono fino alla porta sottostante, e stavano per continuare la loro passeggiata quando quest’ultimo si fermò e chiese, con un po’ di esitazione, se si potesse fidare di quel giovane.

“Mark! Certo, con qualsiasi cosa.”

“Non mi capisci. Penso che sia meglio che venga con noi. È un uomo onesto e dice sempre ciò che pensa in modo molto chiaro.”

“Beh, in realtà,” disse Martin sorridendo, “essendo abituato a una repubblica libera, è solito comportarsi così.”

“Penso che sia meglio che venga con noi,” rispose l’altro. “Altrimenti potrebbe finire nei guai. Questo non è uno Stato schiavista. Ma mi vergogno ad ammetterlo: lo spirito di tolleranza, in queste latitudini, non è affatto così comune quanto la sua forma esteriore. Non siamo noti per comportarci con moderazione gli uni verso gli altri quando abbiamo opinioni diverse. Ma verso gli estranei! No, davvero penso che sia meglio che venga con noi.”

Martin lo chiamò immediatamente per unirsi a loro; così Cicero e il camion andarono in una direzione, mentre loro tre ne presero un’altra.

Visitarono la >città per due o tre ore; ammirandola dai punti di vista migliori, fermandosi nelle strade principali e davanti a edifici pubblici che il signor Bevan indicò loro. Quando la >notte iniziò ad avvicinarsi rapidamente, Martin propose di recarsi da Mrs Pawkins per un caffè; ma fu contrariato dalla sua nuova conoscenza, che sembrava decisa a portarlo, anche solo per un’ora, a casa di un amico che abitava nelle vicinanze. Sentendo, nonostante la stanchezza, che sarebbe stato scortese rifiutare l’invito di un uomo così generoso, Martin – per una volta nella sua vita – sacrificò i propri desideri a quelli dell’altro e accettò con gentilezza. Evidentemente, viaggiare gli aveva già fatto molto bene.

Il signor Bevan bussò alla porta di una casa molto ordinata, di dimensioni moderate; dalle finestre del salotto, le luci brillavano intensamente nella strada ormai buia. La porta fu aperta rapidamente da un uomo dal viso tipicamente irlandese, al punto che sembrava proprio che, per principio e diritto, dovesse vestire di stracci e non avesse alcun motivo di apparire felice mentre guardava qualcuno con addosso abiti interi.

Consegnando Mark alle cure di questo “fenomeno” – poiché tale era senz’altro considerato da Martin – il signor Bevan lo guidò nella stanza che diffondeva la sua allegria per tutta la strada; presentò poi il signor Chuzzlewit come un gentiluomo inglese di cui aveva avuto recentemente l’onore di fare conoscenza. Gli ospiti lo accolsero con grande cortesia e gentilezza; in meno di cinque minuti, si trovava già a suo agio accanto al camino, diventando molto amico di tutta la famiglia.

C’erano due giovani signore: una diciottenne e l’altra ventenne; entrambe molto snelle, ma molto belle. C’era anche loro madre, che, secondo Martin, sembrava molto più anziana e più invecchiata di quanto avrebbe dovuto essere; e poi c’era la loro nonna, una vecchia donna dallo sguardo acuto e vivace, che pareva essersi ripresa completamente dopo un periodo difficile. Oltre a queste, c’erano anche il padre e il fratello delle due giovani signore: il primo si dedicava agli affari commerciali; il secondo era uno studente all’università. Entrambi si comportavano in modo molto cordiale con Martin, come se fossero suoi amici, e anche il loro aspetto gli ricordava un po’ il suo. Il che non sorprendeva affatto, perché presto si scoprì che erano suoi parenti stretti. Martin non poté fare a meno di ricostruire la genealogia della famiglia partendo dalle due giovani signore: non solo perché erano molto belle, ma anche perché indossavano scarpe incredibilmente piccole e calze di seta estremamente sottili; il che, quando si sedevano nelle loro poltrone a dondolo, diventava davvero un aspetto particolarmente attirante.

Non c’è alcun >dubbio che fosse una situazione estremamente confortevole trovarsi in una stanza accogliente e ben arredata, riscaldata da un allegro >focolare, e decorata con vari oggetti piacevoli, tra cui quattro scarpe piccole e lo stesso numero di calze di seta. E non c’è alcun >dubbio che Martin fosse estremamente soddisfatto della sua posizione, considerando le sue recenti esperienze con la “Screw” e con la casa pensione della signora Pawkins. Di conseguenza, si comportava davvero in modo molto piacevole; quando arrivò il tè e il caffè (insieme a dolci e deliziosi pasticcini), era in uno stato d’animo estremamente sereno ed era molto apprezzato da tutta la famiglia.

Another delightful circumstance turned up before the first cup of tea was drunk. The whole family had been in England. There was a pleasant thing! But Martin was not quite so glad of this, when he found that they knew all the great dukes, lords, viscounts, marquesses, duchesses, knights, and baronets, quite affectionately, and were beyond everything interested in the least particular concerning them. However, when they asked, after the wearer of this or that coronet, and said, ‘Was he quite well?’ Martin answered, ‘Yes, oh yes. Never better;’ and when they said, ‘his lordship’s mother, the duchess, was she much changed?’ Martin said, ‘Oh dear no, they would know her anywhere, if they saw her to-morrow;’ and so got on pretty well. In like manner when the young ladies questioned him touching the Gold Fish in that Grecian fountain in such and such a nobleman’s conservatory, and whether there were as many as there used to be, he gravely reported, after mature consideration, that there must be at least twice as many; and as to the exotics, ‘Oh! well! it was of no use talking about THEM; they must be seen to be believed;’ which improved state of circumstances reminded the family of the splendour of that brilliant festival (comprehending the whole British Peerage and Court Calendar) to which they were specially invited, and which indeed had been partly given in their honour; and recollections of what Mr Norris the father had said to the marquess, and of what Mrs Norris the mother had said to the marchioness, and of what the marquess and marchioness had both said, when they said that upon their words and honours they wished Mr Norris the father and Mrs Norris the mother, and the Misses Norris the daughters, and Mr Norris Junior, the son, would only take up their permanent residence in England, and give them the pleasure of their everlasting friendship, occupied a very considerable time.

Martin thought it rather stange, and in some sort inconsistent, that during the whole of these narrations, and in the very meridian of their enjoyment thereof, both Mr Norris the father, and Mr Norris Junior, the son (who corresponded, every post, with four members of the English Peerage), enlarged upon the inestimable advantage of having no such arbitrary distinctions in that enlightened land, where there were no noblemen but nature’s noblemen, and where all society was based on one broad level of brotherly love and natural equality. Indeed, Mr Norris the father gradually expanding into an oration on this swelling theme, was becoming tedious, when Mr Bevan diverted his thoughts by happening to make some causal inquiry relative to the occupier of the next house; in reply to which, this same Mr Norris the father observed, that ‘that person entertained religious opinions of which he couldn’t approve; and therefore he hadn’t the honour of knowing the gentleman.’ Mrs Norris the mother added another reason of her own, the same in effect, but varying in words; to wit, that she believed the people were well enough in their way, but they were not genteel.

Another little trait came out, which impressed itself on Martin forcibly. Mr Bevan told them about Mark and the negro, and then it appeared that all the Norrises were abolitionists. It was a great relief to hear this, and Martin was so much encouraged on finding himself in such company, that he expressed his sympathy with the oppressed and wretched blacks. Now, one of the young ladies—the prettiest and most delicate—was mightily amused at the earnestness with which he spoke; and on his craving leave to ask her why, was quite unable for a time to speak for laughing. As soon however as she could, she told him that the negroes were such a funny people, so excessively ludicrous in their manners and appearance, that it was wholly impossible for those who knew them well, to associate any serious ideas with such a very absurd part of the creation. Mr Norris the father, and Mrs Norris the mother, and Miss Norris the sister, and Mr Norris Junior the brother, and even Mrs Norris Senior the grandmother, were all of this opinion, and laid it down as an absolute matter of fact—as if there were nothing in suffering and slavery, grim enough to cast a solemn air on any human animal; though it were as ridiculous, physically, as the most grotesque of apes, or morally, as the mildest Nimrod among tuft-hunting republicans!

‘In short,’ said Mr Norris the father, settling the question comfortably, ‘there is a natural antipathy between the races.’

‘Extending,’ said Martin’s friend, in a low voice, ‘to the cruellest of tortures, and the bargain and sale of unborn generations.’

Mr Norris the son said nothing, but he made a wry face, and dusted his fingers as Hamlet might after getting rid of Yorick’s skull; just as though he had that moment touched a negro, and some of the black had come off upon his hands.

In order that their talk might fall again into its former pleasant channel, Martin dropped the subject, with a shrewd suspicion that it would be a dangerous theme to revive under the best of circumstances; and again addressed himself to the young ladies, who were very gorgeously attired in very beautiful colours, and had every article of dress on the same extensive scale as the little shoes and the thin silk stockings. This suggested to him that they were great proficients in the French fashions, which soon turned out to be the case, for though their information appeared to be none of the newest, it was very extensive; and the eldest sister in particular, who was distinguished by a talent for metaphysics, the laws of hydraulic pressure, and the rights of human kind, had a novel way of combining these acquirements and bringing them to bear on any subject from Millinery to the Millennium, both inclusive, which was at once improving and remarkable; so much so, in short, that it was usually observed to reduce foreigners to a state of temporary insanity in five minutes.

Un’altra circostanza deliziosa emerse prima ancora che si potesse bere la prima tazza di tè. Tutta la famiglia si trovava in Inghilterra. C’era qualcosa di davvero piacevole! Ma Martin non ne fu affatto felice quando scoprì che conoscevano tutti quei grandi duchi, lord, visconti, marchesi, duchesse, cavalieri e baronetti, e che erano particolarmente interessati a ogni loro dettaglio. Tuttavia, quando chiedevano informazioni su questo o quell’individuo e domandavano: “Stava bene?”, Martin rispondeva sempre: “Sì, assolutamente; mai meglio di così”. E quando chiedevano della madre del lord in questione, la duchessa, dicevano: “È molto cambiata?”, Martin rispondeva: “Oh no, la riconoscerebbero ovunque, anche domani”. In questo modo le cose andavano abbastanza bene. Allo stesso modo, quando le giovani signore gli facevano domande riguardo al pesce d’oro nella fontana greca del giardino di quel nobile, o se ce ne fossero ancora tanti quanti prima, lui rispondeva seriamente che sicuramente ne erano almeno il doppio. E per quanto riguardava gli oggetti esotici, “Oh! Non c’è modo di parlarne; bisogna vederli con i propri occhi per crederci”. Questi ricordi fecero riflettere tutta la famiglia sulla magnificenza di quella splendida festa a cui erano stati invitati appositamente. Una festa che, in realtà, era stata organizzata anche in loro onore. E i ricordi di ciò che il signor Norris aveva detto al marchese, e della signora Norris alla marchesa, e di quanto il marchese e la marchessa avessero insistito affinché il signor Norris e la signora Norris, insieme alle loro figlie, si stabilissero definitivamente in Inghilterra per condividere con loro un’amicizia eterna, occuparono molto tempo.

A Martin sembrava piuttosto strano, e in qualche modo contraddittorio, che, durante tutta questa narrazione, e proprio nel momento più appassionante della lettura, sia il signor Norris padre che il signor Norris figlio (che ogni settimana scriveva a quattro membri dell’aristocrazia inglese) insistessero sull’inestimabile vantaggio di non esistere distinzioni arbitrarie in quella terra illuminata, dove non c’erano nobili se non quelli creati dalla natura, e dove tutta la società si basava su un livello universale di amore fraterno e uguaglianza naturale. Infatti, il signor Norris padre, proseguendo nella sua lunga dissertazione su questo argomento, stava diventando noioso, quando il signor Bevan distolse la sua attenzione facendogli una domanda riguardante l’inquilino della casa accanto; in risposta, lo stesso signor Norris padre osservò che “quella persona condivideva opinioni religiose che lui non poteva approvare; perciò non aveva l’onore di conoscere quel gentiluomo”. La signora Norris aggiunse un’altra ragione, più o meno simile, ma espressa in termini diversi: secondo lei, quelle persone erano “abbastanza buone a modo loro”, ma non erano perbene.

Un altro piccolo tratto del suo carattere emerse, e colpì profondamente Martin. Il signor Bevan raccontò loro di Mark e del negro, e allora si scoprì che tutti i Norris erano abolizionisti. Fu un grande sollievo sentirlo dire; Martin si sentì molto incoraggiato trovandosi in mezzo a persone del genere, tanto da esprimere la propria solidarietà con quei neri oppressi e sfortunati. Una delle giovani signore – la più bella e delicata di tutte – fu molto divertita dall’entusiasmo con cui parlava; quando lui le chiese il motivo, lei non riuscì per un po’ a smettere di ridere. Tuttavia, non appena poté rispondere, gli spiegò che i neri erano persone davvero buffe, con modi e aspetto così assurdi che chi li conosceva bene non poteva affatto associare loro idee serie. Anche il signor Norris padre, la signora Norris madre, la signorina Norris sorella, il signor Norris Junior fratello, persino la signora Norris Senior nonna, erano tutti d’accordo su questo punto; lo consideravano un fatto assolutamente certo, come se non esistesse nulla di più terribile della sofferenza e della schiavitù in grado di conferire gravità a una situazione umana, anche se, dal punto di vista fisico, quegli esseri erano tanto ridicoli quanto gli scimmioni più grotteschi, o, dal punto di vista morale, quanto i repubblicani più moderati!

“In breve,” disse il signor Norris, padre di famiglia, risolvendo la questione in modo soddisfacente, “esiste un’antipatia naturale tra le razze.”

“Si estende,” disse l’amico di Martin a bassa voce, “fino alle torture più crudeli, e anche al commercio e alla vendita di generazioni non ancora nate.”

Il figlio di Mr Norris non disse nulla, ma fece una smorfia e si pulì le dita, proprio come avrebbe fatto Amleto dopo essersi sbarazzato del cranio di Yorick; era come se in quel momento avesse toccato un negro e parte della sua pelle nera fosse rimasta sulle sue mani.

Affinché la loro conversazione potesse tornare su argomenti piacevoli, Martin cambiò argomento, con la sospetta che rievocarlo potesse rivelarsi pericoloso anche nelle migliori circostanze; poi si rivolse di nuovo alle giovani signore, le quali erano vestite in modo molto elegante, con colori splendidi, e ogni singolo capo d’abbigliamento era realizzato su scala altrettanto imponente quanto i loro piccoli scarponcini e le sottili calze di seta. Questo gli fece pensare che fossero molto esperte nelle mode francesi, e infatti così era: anche se le loro conoscenze non sembravano essere delle più aggiornate, erano comunque molto ampie. In particolare, la sorella maggiore, dotata di un talento per la metafisica, le leggi della pressione idraulica e i diritti dell’umanità, aveva un modo originale di combinare queste conoscenze e applicarle a qualsiasi argomento, dal settore dell’abbigliamento fino al concetto stesso del Millennio. Un metodo davvero notevole e sorprendente; tanto che, in genere, bastavano soltanto cinque minuti perché gli stranieri ascoltandola finissero per cadere in uno stato di temporanea follia.

Martin felt his reason going; and as a means of saving himself, besought the other sister (seeing a piano in the room) to sing. With this request she willingly complied; and a bravura concert, solely sustained by the Misses Noriss, presently began. They sang in all languages—except their own. German, French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, Swiss; but nothing native; nothing so low as native. For, in this respect, languages are like many other travellers—ordinary and commonplace enough at home, but ‘specially genteel abroad.

There is little doubt that in course of time the Misses Norris would have come to Hebrew, if they had not been interrupted by an announcement from the Irishman, who, flinging open the door, cried in a loud voice—

‘Jiniral Fladdock!’

‘My!’ cried the sisters, desisting suddenly. ‘The general come back!’

As they made the exclamation, the general, attired in full uniform for a ball, came darting in with such precipitancy that, hitching his boot in the carpet, and getting his sword between his legs, he came down headlong, and presented a curious little bald place on the crown of his head to the eyes of the astonished company. Nor was this the worst of it; for being rather corpulent and very tight, the general being down, could not get up again, but lay there writhing and doing such things with his boots, as there is no other instance of in military history.

Of course there was an immediate rush to his assistance; and the general was promptly raised. But his uniform was so fearfully and wonderfully made, that he came up stiff and without a bend in him like a dead Clown, and had no command whatever of himself until he was put quite flat upon the soles of his feet, when he became animated as by a miracle, and moving edgewise that he might go in a narrower compass and be in less danger of fraying the gold lace on his epaulettes by brushing them against anything, advanced with a smiling visage to salute the lady of the house.

To be sure, it would have been impossible for the family to testify purer delight and joy than at this unlooked-for appearance of General Fladdock! The general was as warmly received as if New York had been in a state of siege and no other general was to be got for love or money. He shook hands with the Norrises three times all round, and then reviewed them from a little distance as a brave commander might, with his ample cloak drawn forward over the right shoulder and thrown back upon the left side to reveal his manly breast.

‘And do I then,’ cried the general, ‘once again behold the choicest spirits of my country!’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Norris the father. ‘Here we are, general.’

Then all the Norrises pressed round the general, inquiring how and where he had been since the date of his letter, and how he had enjoyed himself in foreign parts, and particularly and above all, to what extent he had become acquainted with the great dukes, lords, viscounts, marquesses, duchesses, knights, and baronets, in whom the people of those benighted countries had delight.

‘Well, then, don’t ask me,’ said the general, holding up his hand. ‘I was among ‘em all the time, and have got public journals in my trunk with my name printed’—he lowered his voice and was very impressive here—‘among the fashionable news. But, oh, the conventionalities of that a-mazing Europe!’

‘Ah!’ cried Mr Norris the father, giving his head a melancholy shake, and looking towards Martin as though he would say, ‘I can’t deny it, sir. I would if I could.’

‘The limited diffusion of a moral sense in that country!’ exclaimed the general. ‘The absence of a moral dignity in man!’

‘Ah!’ sighed all the Norrises, quite overwhelmed with despondency.

‘I couldn’t have realised it,’ pursued the general, ‘without being located on the spot. Norris, your imagination is the imagination of a strong man, but YOU couldn’t have realised it, without being located on the spot!’

‘Never,’ said Mr Norris.

‘The ex-clusiveness, the pride, the form, the ceremony,’ exclaimed the general, emphasizing the article more vigorously at every repetition. ‘The artificial barriers set up between man and man; the division of the human race into court cards and plain cards, of every denomination—into clubs, diamonds, spades—anything but heart!’

‘Ah!’ cried the whole family. ‘Too true, general!’

‘But stay!’ cried Mr Norris the father, taking him by the arm. ‘Surely you crossed in the Screw, general?’

‘Well! so I did,’ was the reply.

‘Possible!’ cried the young ladies. ‘Only think!’

The general seemed at a loss to understand why his having come home in the Screw should occasion such a sensation, nor did he seem at all clearer on the subject when Mr Norris, introducing him to Martin, said:

‘A fellow-passenger of yours, I think?’

‘Of mine?’ exclaimed the general; ‘No!’

He had never seen Martin, but Martin had seen him, and recognized him, now that they stood face to face, as the gentleman who had stuck his hands in his pockets towards the end of the voyage, and walked the deck with his nostrils dilated.

Everybody looked at Martin. There was no help for it. The truth must out.

‘I came over in the same ship as the general,’ said Martin, ‘but not in the same cabin. It being necessary for me to observe strict economy, I took my passage in the steerage.’

If the general had been carried up bodily to a loaded cannon, and required to let it off that moment, he could not have been in a state of greater consternation than when he heard these words. He, Fladdock—Fladdock in full militia uniform, Fladdock the General, Fladdock, the caressed of foreign noblemen—expected to know a fellow who had come over in the steerage of line-of-packet ship, at the cost of four pound ten! And meeting that fellow in the very sanctuary of New York fashion, and nestling in the bosom of the New York aristocracy! He almost laid his hand upon his sword.

Martin sentiva che la sua ragione stava per abbandonarlo; e come mezzo per salvarsi, chiese alla sorella maggiore (vedendo un pianoforte nella stanza) di cantare. Lei acconsentì volentieri; e presto iniziò un concerto straordinario, sostenuto esclusivamente dalle signorine Noriss. Cantarono in tutte le lingue, tranne la loro madrelingua. Tedesco, francese, italiano, spagnolo, portoghese, svizzero, ma nulla di autentico; nulla che avesse anche solo il minimo legame con la loro cultura originale. Perché, in questo senso, le lingue sono come molti altri aspetti della vita umana: abbastanza comuni e ordinarie a casa propria, ma “specialmente raffinate all’estero”.

È quasi certo che, con il passare del tempo, le signorine Norris sarebbero arrivate alla lingua ebraica, se non fossero state interrotte da un annuncio dell’irlandese, che, aprendo la porta di scatto, gridò ad alta voce.

“Jiniral Fladdock!”

“Mio!” esclamarono le sorelle, fermandosi all’improvviso. “Il generale è tornato!”

Mentre pronunciavano quell’esclamazione, il generale, vestito con tutta la sua uniforme per un ballo, entrò di corsa con tale precipitazione che si impigliò lo stivale nel tappeto e si incastrò la _spada tra le gambe; cadde a faccia in giù, mostrando così una curiosa zona calva sulla sua testa davanti agli occhi di tutti i presenti, stupiti da quella scena. E non era nemmeno la cosa peggiore: essendo piuttosto corpulento e con l’uniforme molto stretta, il generale, una volta a terra, non riuscì più a rialzarsi e rimase lì a contorcersi, facendo cose con i suoi stivali che non si trovano in nessun altro esempio della storia militare.

Naturalmente ci fu un immediato slancio verso di lui per prestargli aiuto; il generale fu prontamente sollevato. Ma la sua uniforme era così straordinariamente confezionata che rimase rigido e immobile, come un clown morto. Non riusciva affatto a controllarsi finché non venne messo completamente sdraiato; solo allora, come per miracolo, riprese vita, muovendosi con cautela per evitare di strappare i lacci d’oro delle sue spalline contro qualsiasi cosa. Avanzò poi con un sorriso sul viso per salutare la signora di quella casa.

Senza dubbio, per la famiglia sarebbe stato impossibile provare una gioia e un piacere più sinceri di fronte a questa inaspettata apparizione del generale Fladdock! Il generale fu accolto con tale calore come se New York fosse stata sotto assedio e non ci fosse stato nessun altro generale disponibile, né per amore né per denaro. Strinse la mano a tutta la famiglia Norris tre volte, poi li esaminò da una certa distanza, come avrebbe fatto un bravo comandante: il suo ampio mantello era tirato in avanti sul fianco destro e poi gettato indietro sul lato sinistro, rivelando così il suo petto virile.

“E allora, forse,” esclamò il generale, “rivedrò ancora una volta gli spiriti più nobili della mia patria!”

“Sì,” disse il signor Norris, il padre. “Eccoci qui, generale.”

Allora tutti i Norris si raccolsero intorno al generale, chiedendogli come e dove fosse stato da quando aveva scritto quella lettera, come si fosse divertito nei paesi stranieri, e soprattutto in che misura avesse avuto l’opportunità di conoscere i grandi duchi, i lord, i visconti, i marchesi, le duchesse, i cavalieri e i baronetti, persone che rappresentavano il vertice della società in quei paesi poco fortunati.

“Beh, allora non chiedermelo,” disse il generale alzando la mano. “Ero con loro tutto il tempo, e ho dei giornali pubblici nel mio baule con il mio nome stampato sopra, ” Abbassò la voce e sembrava davvero molto impressionante mentre parlava, “Tra le notizie di moda di quell’Europa meravigliosa. Ma, oh, le convenzioni di quel continente incredibile!”

“Ah!” esclamò il signor Norris, scuotendo la testa in modo malinconico, e guardando verso Martin come se volesse dire: “Non posso negarlo, signore. Lo farei, se potessi.”

“La scarsa diffusione del senso morale in quel paese!”, esclamò il generale. “L’assenza di una dignità morale nell’uomo!”

“Ah!” sospirarono tutti i Norris, completamente sopraffatti dalla disperazione.

“Non avrei mai potuto capirlo,” continuò il generale, “se non fossi stato sul posto. Norris, la tua immaginazione è davvero notevole, ma nemmeno tu avresti potuto comprenderlo, se non fossi stato lì!”

“Mai,” disse il signor Norris.

“Quell’ex esclusività, quel orgoglio, quella forma, quella cerimonia, ”, esclamò il generale, sottolineando l’articolo con sempre maggiore enfasi ad ogni ripetizione. “Quei barriere artificiali create tra gli uomini; quella divisione della razza umana in ‘carte da gioco’ di vario valore – in cuori, diamanti, spade, tutto tranne i cuori!”

“Ah!”, esclamò tutta la famiglia. “È vero davvero, generale!”

“Ma aspetta!” gridò il signor Norris, padre del ragazzo, afferrandolo per il braccio. “Di certo sei arrivato con la nave ‘Screw’, vero?”

“Beh! Proprio così ho fatto,” fu la risposta.

“Possibile!”, esclamarono le giovani signore. “Pensateci solo!”

Il generale sembrava non capire affatto perché il suo ritorno a casa avesse suscitato una tale sensazione; né sembrò comprendere di più quando il signor Norris, presentandolo a Martin, disse.

“Un vostro compagno di viaggio, giusto?”

“Mio?” esclamò il generale; “No!”

Non aveva mai visto Martin, ma Martin lo aveva visto e lo aveva riconosciuto; ora che erano faccia a faccia, lo riconobbe come il gentiluomo che, verso la fine del viaggio, si era infilato le mani in tasca e camminava sul ponte con le narici dilatate.

Tutti guardarono Martin. Non c’era altra scelta: la verità doveva essere rivelata.

“Sono arrivato con lo stesso navicello del generale,” disse Martin, “ma non nella stessa cabina. Poiché era necessario che rispettassi rigorose misure di economia, ho preso il mio posto nel ponte inferiore.”

Se il generale fosse stato letteralmente trascinato davanti a un cannone carico e costretto a farlo sparare immediatamente, non sarebbe potuto trovarsi in uno stato di maggiore costernazione di quando udì queste parole. Lui, Fladdock. Fladdock in uniforme da miliziano, il generale Fladdock, l’uomo coccolato dalle nobili straniere. Si aspettava di incontrare un individuo che era arrivato a New York a bordo di una nave passeggeri, spendendo soltanto quattro sterline e dieci penny! E invece lo trovò nel cuore stesso della società newyorkese, immerso nell’aristocrazia locale. Quasi prese la spada in mano.

A death-like stillness fell upon the Norisses. If this story should get wind, their country relation had, by his imprudence, for ever disgraced them. They were the bright particular stars of an exalted New York sphere. There were other fashionable spheres above them, and other fashionable spheres below, and none of the stars in any one of these spheres had anything to say to the stars in any other of these spheres. But, through all the spheres it would go forth that the Norrises, deceived by gentlemanly manners and appearances, had, falling from their high estate, ‘received’ a dollarless and unknown man. O guardian eagle of the pure Republic, had they lived for this!

‘You will allow me,’ said Martin, after a terrible silence, ‘to take my leave. I feel that I am the cause of at least as much embarrassment here, as I have brought upon myself. But I am bound, before I go, to exonerate this gentleman, who, in introducing me to such society, was quite ignorant of my unworthiness, I assure you.’

With that he made his bow to the Norrises, and walked out like a man of snow; very cool externally, but pretty hot within.

‘Come, come,’ said Mr Norris the father, looking with a pale face on the assembled circle as Martin closed the door, ‘the young man has this night beheld a refinement of social manner, and an easy magnificence of social decoration, to which he is a stranger in his own country. Let us hope it may awake a moral sense within him.’

If that peculiarly transatlantic article, a moral sense—for, if native statesmen, orators, and pamphleteers, are to be believed, America quite monopolises the commodity—if that peculiarly transatlantic article be supposed to include a benevolent love of all mankind, certainly Martin’s would have borne, just then, a deal of waking. As he strode along the street, with Mark at his heels, his immoral sense was in active operation; prompting him to the utterance of some rather sanguinary remarks, which it was well for his own credit that nobody overheard. He had so far cooled down, however, that he had begun to laugh at the recollection of these incidents, when he heard another step behind him, and turning round encountered his friend Bevan, quite out of breath.

He drew his arm through Martin’s, and entreating him to walk slowly, was silent for some minutes. At length he said:

‘I hope you exonerate me in another sense?’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Martin.

‘I hope you acquit me of intending or foreseeing the termination of our visit. But I scarcely need ask you that.’

‘Scarcely indeed,’ said Martin. ‘I am the more beholden to you for your kindness, when I find what kind of stuff the good citizens here are made of.’

‘I reckon,’ his friend returned, ‘that they are made of pretty much the same stuff as other folks, if they would but own it, and not set up on false pretences.’

‘In good faith, that’s true,’ said Martin.

‘I dare say,’ resumed his friend, ‘you might have such a scene as that in an English comedy, and not detect any gross improbability or anomaly in the matter of it?’

‘Yes, indeed!’

‘Doubtless it is more ridiculous here than anywhere else,’ said his companion; ‘but our professions are to blame for that. So far as I myself am concerned, I may add that I was perfectly aware from the first that you came over in the steerage, for I had seen the list of passengers, and knew it did not comprise your name.’

‘I feel more obliged to you than before,’ said Martin.

‘Norris is a very good fellow in his way,’ observed Mr Bevan.

‘Is he?’ said Martin drily.

‘Oh yes! there are a hundred good points about him. If you or anybody else addressed him as another order of being, and sued to him IN FORMA PAUPERIS, he would be all kindness and consideration.’

‘I needn’t have travelled three thousand miles from home to find such a character as THAT,’ said Martin. Neither he nor his friend said anything more on the way back; each appearing to find sufficient occupation in his own thoughts.

The tea, or the supper, or whatever else they called the evening meal, was over when they reached the Major’s; but the cloth, ornamented with a few additional smears and stains, was still upon the table. At one end of the board Mrs Jefferson Brick and two other ladies were drinking tea; out of the ordinary course, evidently, for they were bonneted and shawled, and seemed to have just come home. By the light of three flaring candles of different lengths, in as many candlesticks of different patterns, the room showed to almost as little advantage as in broad day.

These ladies were all three talking together in a very loud tone when Martin and his friend entered; but seeing those gentlemen, they stopped directly, and became excessively genteel, not to say frosty. As they went on to exchange some few remarks in whispers, the very water in the teapot might have fallen twenty degrees in temperature beneath their chilling coldness.

‘Have you been to meeting, Mrs Brick?’ asked Martin’s friend, with something of a roguish twinkle in his eye.

‘To lecture, sir.’

‘I beg your pardon. I forgot. You don’t go to meeting, I think?’

Here the lady on the right of Mrs Brick gave a pious cough as much as to say ‘I do!’—as, indeed, she did nearly every night in the week.

‘A good discourse, ma’am?’ asked Mr Bevan, addressing this lady.

The lady raised her eyes in a pious manner, and answered ‘Yes.’ She had been much comforted by some good, strong, peppery doctrine, which satisfactorily disposed of all her friends and acquaintances, and quite settled their business. Her bonnet, too, had far outshone every bonnet in the congregation; so she was tranquil on all accounts.

‘What course of lectures are you attending now, ma’am?’ said Martin’s friend, turning again to Mrs Brick.

‘The Philosophy of the Soul, on Wednesdays.’

Un silenzio simile alla morte calò sui Norrise. Se questa storia dovesse diventare di dominio pubblico, il loro rapporto con la società sarebbe stato per sempre disonorato a causa della sua imprudenza. Essi erano le luminose stelle di un’alta posizione nella cerchia raffinata di New York. C’erano altre sfere socialmente più importanti sopra di loro e altre più umili sotto di loro; nessuna delle stelle presenti in queste sfere aveva nulla a che fare con quelle presenti nelle altre. Ma, attraverso tutte queste sfere, si sarebbe diffusa la notizia che i Norrise, ingannati dalle apparenze e dai modi da gentiluomini, erano caduti dal loro alto rango per accogliere un uomo senza un soldo e sconosciuto. Oh, aquila custode della pura Repubblica. Perché hanno vissuto così?

“Mi permetterete,” disse Martin, dopo un terribile silenzio, “di congedarmi. Sento di essere la causa di almeno altrettanto imbarazzo qui, quanto ne ho causato io stesso. Ma prima di andare, devo scagionare questo signore, il quale, presentandomi in una società del genere, era completamente all’ignaro della mia indegnità. Ve lo assicuro.”

Con questo fece un inchino ai Norris e se ne andò come un uomo di neve: molto freddo all’esterno, ma piuttosto caldo dentro.

“Come, come,” disse il signor Norris, padre di Martin, guardando con un viso pallido il gruppo riunito mentre Martin chiudeva la porta; “questo giovane, questa notte, ha assistito a esempi di raffinatezza nei modi sociali e di eleganza nelle decorazioni, cose a cui è estraneo nella sua stessa patria. Speriamo che questo possa risvegliare in lui un senso morale.”

Se quel particolare atteggiamento tipicamente transatlantico dovesse rappresentare un senso morale – poiché, a giudicare da quanto affermano gli statisti, gli oratori e i pamphlettisti autoctoni, l’America sembra monopolizzare questa qualità – se si dovesse considerare che tale atteggiamento includa un sincero amore per tutta l’umanità, allora certamente il comportamento di Martin avrebbe dovuto suscitare molta attenzione. Mentre camminava per la strada, con Mark al suo seguito, il suo senso immorale era in pieno funzionamento; lo spingeva a pronunciare commenti piuttosto crudeli, fortunatamente nessuno li sentì. Tuttavia, ormai si era un po’ calmato e aveva iniziato a ridere al ricordo di quegli episodi, quando udì altri passi alle sue spalle; voltandosi, incontrò il suo amico Bevan, che era completamente senza fiato.

Infilò il braccio sotto quello di Martin e, pregandolo di camminare lentamente, rimase in silenzio per alcuni minuti. Alla fine disse:

“Spero che mi assolviate in un altro senso, ”

“Cosa intendi dire?”, chiese Martin.

‘Spero che mi assolviate dall’accusa di aver intenzionato o previsto la fine della nostra visita. Ma probabilmente non ho nemmeno bisogno di chiedervelo.’

“Proprio per niente,” disse Martin. “Sono ancora più grato per la tua gentilezza, quando vedo di che pasta sono fatti questi bravi cittadini.”

“Credo,” rispose il suo amico, “che siano fatti più o meno dello stesso materiale delle altre persone, se solo lo riconoscessero e non si basassero su false pretese.”

“Con la massima >fiducia, è vero,” disse Martin.

“Oserei dire,” continuò il suo amico, “che una scena del genere potrebbe comparire in una commedia inglese, senza che si noti alcuna stranezza o improbabilità evidente.”

“Sì, davvero!”

“Senza dubbio, qui è ancora più ridicolo che altrove,” disse il suo compagno; “ma la colpa è delle nostre professioni. Per quanto mi riguarda, posso aggiungere che ero perfettamente a conoscenza fin dall’inizio del fatto che tu fossi arrivato nella classe turistica, perché avevo visto l’elenco dei passeggeri e sapevo che il tuo nome non vi era incluso.”

“Mi sento più in debito con te di prima,” disse Martin.

“Norris è un uomo molto buono a suo modo,” osservò il signor Bevan.

“Davvero?” disse Martin in tono secco.

“Oh sì! Ci sono cento buoni motivi per apprezzarlo. Se tu o qualcun altro lo trattaste come se appartenesse a un’altra categoria di esseri umani e vi rivolgeste a lui con rispetto e umiltà, lui sarebbe pieno di gentilezza e considerazione.”

“Non avrei dovuto viaggiare tremila miglia lontano da >casa per incontrare una persona del genere,” disse Martin. Né lui né il suo amico dissero più nulla durante il ritorno; ognuno sembrava trovare abbastanza distrazione nei propri pensieri.

Il tè, o la cena, o comunque si chiamasse quel pasto serale, era già finito quando arrivarono a casa del Maggiore; ma il tavolo, ornato da alcune macchie e sporco aggiuntivi, era ancora lì. All’estremità del tavolo, la signora Jefferson Brick e altre due signore stavano bevendo tè; evidentemente non seguivano la routine abituale, poiché indossavano cappelli e sciarpe e sembrava che fossero appena arrivate a casa. Alla luce di tre candele luminose, di lunghezze diverse e posizionate in candelabri di stili vari, la stanza appariva quasi altrettanto poco accogliente quanto di giorno.

Queste tre signore stavano parlando tutte insieme a voce molto alta quando Martin e il suo amico entrarono; ma non appena videro quei gentiluomini, smisero immediatamente di parlare e divennero estremamente formali, per non dire gelide. Mentre continuavano a scambiarsi alcune parole sottovoce, persino l’acqua nella teiera avrebbe potuto raffreddarsi di venti gradi a causa del loro freddo glaciale.

“È stata alla riunione, signora Brick?”, chiese l’amico di Martin, con uno scintillio birichino negli occhi.

“Per tenere una lezione, signore.”

“Mi scusi. Me ne sono dimenticato. Non partecipa alle riunioni, giusto?”

Qui, la signora a destra della signora Brick tossì in modo “pio”, come per dire “Sì!”, e infatti lo faceva quasi ogni notte della settimana.

“Un bel discorso, signora?” chiese il signor Bevan rivolgendosi a quella donna.

La signora alzò lo sguardo in modo devoto e rispose “Sì”. Era stata molto consolata da alcune dottrine buone, forti e decise, che sistemavano in modo soddisfacente tutte le questioni relative ai suoi amici e conoscenti. Anche il suo cappello superava di gran lunga tutti gli altri presenti nella congregazione; quindi, sotto ogni aspetto, era tranquilla.

“Quali corsi di lezioni sta frequentando adesso, signora?” chiese l’amico di Martin, rivolgendosi nuovamente a Mrs Brick.

“La filosofia dell’‘anima, ogni mercoledì.”

‘On Mondays?’

‘The Philosophy of Crime.’

‘On Fridays?’

‘The Philosophy of Vegetables.’

‘You have forgotten Thursdays; the Philosophy of Government, my dear,’ observed the third lady.

‘No,’ said Mrs Brick. ‘That’s Tuesdays.’

‘So it is!’ cried the lady. ‘The Philosophy of Matter on Thursdays, of course.’

‘You see, Mr Chuzzlewit, our ladies are fully employed,’ said Bevan.

‘Indeed you have reason to say so,’ answered Martin. ‘Between these very grave pursuits abroad, and family duties at home, their time must be pretty well engrossed.’

Martin stopped here, for he saw that the ladies regarded him with no very great favour, though what he had done to deserve the disdainful expression which appeared in their faces he was at a loss to divine. But on their going upstairs to their bedrooms—which they very soon did—Mr Bevan informed him that domestic drudgery was far beneath the exalted range of these Philosophers, and that the chances were a hundred to one that not one of the three could perform the easiest woman’s work for herself, or make the simplest article of dress for any of her children.

‘Though whether they might not be better employed with such blunt instruments as knitting-needles than with these edge-tools,’ he said, ‘is another question; but I can answer for one thing—they don’t often cut themselves. Devotions and lectures are our balls and concerts. They go to these places of resort, as an escape from monotony; look at each other’s clothes; and come home again.’

‘When you say “home,” do you mean a house like this?’

‘Very often. But I see you are tired to death, and will wish you good night. We will discuss your projects in the morning. You cannot but feel already that it is useless staying here, with any hope of advancing them. You will have to go further.’

‘And to fare worse?’ said Martin, pursuing the old adage.

‘Well, I hope not. But sufficient for the day, you know—good night’

They shook hands heartily and separated. As soon as Martin was left alone, the excitement of novelty and change which had sustained him through all the fatigues of the day, departed; and he felt so thoroughly dejected and worn out, that he even lacked the energy to crawl upstairs to bed.

In twelve or fifteen hours, how great a change had fallen on his hopes and sanguine plans! New and strange as he was to the ground on which he stood, and to the air he breathed, he could not—recalling all that he had crowded into that one day—but entertain a strong misgiving that his enterprise was doomed. Rash and ill-considered as it had often looked on shipboard, but had never seemed on shore, it wore a dismal aspect, now, that frightened him. Whatever thoughts he called up to his aid, they came upon him in depressing and discouraging shapes, and gave him no relief. Even the diamonds on his finger sparkled with the brightness of tears, and had no ray of hope in all their brilliant lustre.

He continued to sit in gloomy rumination by the stove, unmindful of the boarders who dropped in one by one from their stores and counting-houses, or the neighbouring bar-rooms, and, after taking long pulls from a great white waterjug upon the sideboard, and lingering with a kind of hideous fascination near the brass spittoons, lounged heavily to bed; until at length Mark Tapley came and shook him by the arm, supposing him asleep.

‘Mark!’ he cried, starting.

‘All right, sir,’ said that cheerful follower, snuffing with his fingers the candle he bore. ‘It ain’t a very large bed, your’n, sir; and a man as wasn’t thirsty might drink, afore breakfast, all the water you’ve got to wash in, and afterwards eat the towel. But you’ll sleep without rocking to-night, sir.’

‘I feel as if the house were on the sea’ said Martin, staggering when he rose; ‘and am utterly wretched.’

‘I’m as jolly as a sandboy, myself, sir,’ said Mark. ‘But, Lord, I have reason to be! I ought to have been born here; that’s my opinion. Take care how you go’—for they were now ascending the stairs. ‘You recollect the gentleman aboard the Screw as had the very small trunk, sir?’

‘The valise? Yes.’

‘Well, sir, there’s been a delivery of clean clothes from the wash to-night, and they’re put outside the bedroom doors here. If you take notice as we go up, what a very few shirts there are, and what a many fronts, you’ll penetrate the mystery of his packing.’

But Martin was too weary and despondent to take heed of anything, so had no interest in this discovery. Mr Tapley, nothing dashed by his indifference, conducted him to the top of the house, and into the bed-chamber prepared for his reception; which was a very little narrow room, with half a window in it; a bedstead like a chest without a lid; two chairs; a piece of carpet, such as shoes are commonly tried upon at a ready-made establishment in England; a little looking-glass nailed against the wall; and a washing-table, with a jug and ewer, that might have been mistaken for a milk-pot and slop-basin.

‘I suppose they polish themselves with a dry cloth in this country,’ said Mark. ‘They’ve certainly got a touch of the ‘phoby, sir.’

‘I wish you would pull off my boots for me,’ said Martin, dropping into one of the chairs ‘I am quite knocked up—dead beat, Mark.’

‘You won’t say that to-morrow morning, sir,’ returned Mr Tapley; ‘nor even to-night, sir, when you’ve made a trial of this.’ With which he produced a very large tumbler, piled up to the brim with little blocks of clear transparent ice, through which one or two thin slices of lemon, and a golden liquid of delicious appearance, appealed from the still depths below, to the loving eye of the spectator.

‘What do you call this?’ said Martin.

But Mr Tapley made no answer; merely plunging a reed into the mixture—which caused a pleasant commotion among the pieces of ice—and signifying by an expressive gesture that it was to be pumped up through that agency by the enraptured drinker.

“Lunedì?”

“La filosofia del crimine.”

“Venerdì?”

“La ‘filosofia’ dei vegetali.”

“Avete dimenticato i giovedì. La Filosofia della Governanza, caro mio,” osservò la terza signora.

“No,” disse la signora Brick. “Quelli sono i martedì.”

“Lo so!” esclamò la signora. “La Filosofia della Materia, ovviamente, il giovedì.”

“Vede, signor Chuzzlewit, le nostre signore sono completamente impegnate,” disse Bevan.

“Infatti hai ragione,” rispose Martin. “Tra queste impegnative attività all’estero e i doveri familiari a casa, il loro tempo deve essere davvero molto occupato.”

Martin si fermò lì, perché vide che le signore non lo guardavano con grande favore; tuttavia non riusciva a capire cosa avesse fatto per meritare quell’espressione di disprezzo sulle loro facce. Ma quando loro andarono di sopra nelle loro camere da letto – il che fecero molto presto – il signor Bevan gli spiegò che i lavori domestici erano ben al di sotto del rango elevato di queste “Filosofe”, e che c’erano cento probabilità su una che nessuna delle tre fosse in grado di svolgere nemmeno il lavoro più semplice per sé stessa, o di confezionare l’indumento più basico per uno dei suoi figli.

“Anche se si possa chiedere se non sarebbero meglio impiegati con strumenti così rudimentali come gli aghi da maglia piuttosto che con queste lame affilate,” disse, “questo è un altro discorso; ma di una cosa posso essere certo: di rado si tagliano. Le preghiere e i sermoni rappresentano per noi le feste e i concerti. Andiamo in questi luoghi di ritrovo come forma di evasione dalla monotonia; ci guardiamo i vestiti a vicenda, e poi torniamo a casa.”

“Quando dici ‘casa’, intendi una casa come questa?”

‘Molto spesso. Ma vedo che sei stanco fino alla morte, quindi ti auguro una buona :notte. Ne parleremo dei tuoi progetti domani mattina. Non puoi non sentire già che è inutile restare qui, con qualsiasi speranza di portarli avanti. Dovrai andartene.’

“E per peggiorare le cose?” disse Martin, continuando con quel vecchio detto.

‘Beh’, spero di no. Ma per oggi basta, sai. Buona notte.’

Si strinsero la mano con calore e si separarono. Non appena Martin rimase solo, l’entusiasmo per la novità e il cambiamento che lo avevano sostenuto durante tutte le fatiche della giornata svanì; si sentì così completamente depresso e stanco che non gli rimase nemmeno la forza di salire le scale per andare a letto.

In dodici o quindici ore, quali grandi cambiamenti erano avvenuti nelle sue speranze e nei suoi progetti ambiziosi! Per quanto fosse nuovo e sconosciuto nel luogo in cui si trovava e nell’ambiente che lo circondava, non poteva fare a meno di nutrire forti dubbi sul successo della sua impresa. Anche se spesso sembrava avventata e imprudente quando si trovava a bordo della nave, sulla terraferma mai aveva destato preoccupazioni; ora, invece, presentava un aspetto cupo e inquietante che lo spaventava. Qualunque pensiero cercasse di invocare per farsi coraggio, gli appariva sotto una luce deprimente e scoraggiante, senza offrirgli alcun conforto. Anche i diamanti al suo dito brillavano con la luce delle lacrime, ma nel loro splendore non c’era traccia di speranza.

Continuò a sedersi lì, immerso in tristi pensieri accanto al camino, senza prestare attenzione ai pensionanti che arrivavano uno dopo l’altro dai loro negozi e uffici contabili, né ai bar vicini. Dopo aver bevuto lunghi sorsi da una grande brocca bianca posata sul comodino, rimase a lungo attratto in modo quasi morboso dai bicchieri di rame. Poi si alzò pesantemente e andò a letto; fino a quando finalmente Mark Tapley arrivò e lo scosse per il braccio, pensando che fosse addormentato.

“Mark!” gridò, mettendosi in movimento.

“Va bene, signore,” disse quel seguace allegro, soffiando con le dita sulla candela che teneva in mano. “Non è un letto molto grande, il vostro, signore; e un uomo che non avesse sete potrebbe bere, prima di colazione, tutta l’acqua che avete per lavarvi, e poi mangiarsi anche l’asciugamano. Ma dormirete senza svegliarvi nemmeno una volta durante la notte, signore.”

“Mi sembra che questa casa sia sul mare,” disse Martin, barcollando mentre si alzava; “e mi sento davvero terribilmente male.”

“Sono altrettanto felice di quanto possa esserlo un bambino, signore,” disse Mark. “Ma, per Dio, ho tutte le ragioni per esserlo! Avrei dovuto nascere qui; è quello che penso. Stia attento quando sale le scale, ” – perché in quel momento stavano salendo i gradini. “Si ricorda di quel signore a bordo della nave con quella valigetta minuscola, signore?”

“La valigia? Sì.”

‘Beh, signore, stasera è stata consegnata della biancheria pulita dalla lavanderia; sono state messe fuori dalle porte delle camere da letto. Se se ne accorge mentre saliamo, noterà che ci sono poche camicie e molte maniche, allora comprenderà il mistero del suo modo di fare le valigie.’

Ma Martin era troppo stanco e scoraggiato per prestare attenzione a nulla, quindi non mostrò alcun interesse per questa scoperta. Il signor Tapley, del tutto indifferente, lo accompagnò in cima alla casa e nella camera da letto preparata per il suo arrivo; si trattava di una stanza molto piccola e stretta, con solo mezza finestra; un letto simile a un baule senza coperchio; due sedie; un pezzo di tappeto, del tipo che in Inghilterra si usa per provare le scarpe nei negozi pronti all’uso; uno specchietto appeso al muro; e un lavandino, con una giara e un recipiente, che avrebbero potuto essere scambiati per una brocca da latte e un bacino per i rifiuti.

“Suppongo che in questo paese si puliscano usando un panno asciutto,” disse Mark. “Di certo hanno una certa, fobia, signore.”

“Vorrei che mi aiutassi a togliere gli stivali,” disse Martin, sedendosi su una delle sedie. “Sono davvero completamente esausto, sfinito, Mark.”

“Non lo direte più domani mattina, signore,” rispose il signor Tapley; “né nemmeno stasera, quando avrete provato questa bevanda.” E così estrasse un enorme bicchiere, riempito fino all’orlo di piccoli blocchi di ghiaccio trasparente; al suo interno, uno o due sottili fette di limone e un liquido dorato dall’aspetto delizioso attiravano lo sguardo del pubblico.

“Come si chiama questa cosa?” chiese Martin.

Ma il signor Tapley non rispose; si limitò ad immergere una canna nel miscuglio, il che causò un piacevole trambusto tra i pezzi di ghiaccio, e con un gesto eloquente fece capire che l’ bevitore avrebbe potuto aspirare il liquido attraverso quella canna.

Martin took the glass with an astonished look; applied his lips to the reed; and cast up his eyes once in ecstasy. He paused no more until the goblet was drained to the last drop.

‘There, sir!’ said Mark, taking it from him with a triumphant face; ‘if ever you should happen to be dead beat again, when I ain’t in the way, all you’ve got to do is to ask the nearest man to go and fetch a cobbler.’

‘To go and fetch a cobbler?’ repeated Martin.

‘This wonderful invention, sir,’ said Mark, tenderly patting the empty glass, ‘is called a cobbler. Sherry cobbler when you name it long; cobbler, when you name it short. Now you’re equal to having your boots took off, and are, in every particular worth mentioning, another man.’

Having delivered himself of this solemn preface, he brought the bootjack.

‘Mind! I am not going to relapse, Mark,’ said Martin; ‘but, good Heaven, if we should be left in some wild part of this country without goods or money!’

‘Well, sir!’ replied the imperturbable Tapley; ‘from what we’ve seen already, I don’t know whether, under those circumstances, we shouldn’t do better in the wild parts than in the tame ones.’

‘Oh, Tom Pinch, Tom Pinch!’ said Martin, in a thoughtful tone; ‘what would I give to be again beside you, and able to hear your voice, though it were even in the old bedroom at Pecksniff’s!’

‘Oh, Dragon, Dragon!’ echoed Mark, cheerfully, ‘if there warn’t any water between you and me, and nothing faint-hearted-like in going back, I don’t know that I mightn’t say the same. But here am I, Dragon, in New York, America; and there are you in Wiltshire, Europe; and there’s a fortune to make, Dragon, and a beautiful young lady to make it for; and whenever you go to see the Monument, Dragon, you mustn’t give in on the doorsteps, or you’ll never get up to the top!’

‘Wisely said, Mark,’ cried Martin. ‘We must look forward.’

‘In all the story-books as ever I read, sir, the people as looked backward was turned into stones,’ replied Mark; ‘and my opinion always was, that they brought it on themselves, and it served ‘em right. I wish you good night, sir, and pleasant dreams!’

‘They must be of home, then,’ said Martin, as he lay down in bed.

‘So I say, too,’ whispered Mark Tapley, when he was out of hearing and in his own room; ‘for if there don’t come a time afore we’re well out of this, when there’ll be a little more credit in keeping up one’s jollity, I’m a United Statesman!’

Leaving them to blend and mingle in their sleep the shadows of objects afar off, as they take fantastic shapes upon the wall in the dim light of thought without control, be it the part of this slight chronicle—a dream within a dream—as rapidly to change the scene, and cross the ocean to the English shore.

Martin prese il bicchiere con uno sguardo sorpreso; posò le labbra sulla cannuccia e, in un attimo di estasi, alzò lo sguardo. Non esitò più fino a quando il bicchiere non fu vuoto fino all’ultima goccia.

“Ecco qua, signore!” disse Mark, prendendolo con un viso trionfante; “se mai doveste ritrovarvi nei guai di nuovo, e io non fossi nei paraggi, basterà chiedere alla prima persona che incontrate di andare a chiamare un calzolaio.”

“Andare a prendere un calzolaio?” ripeté Martin.

“Quest’invenzione meravigliosa, signore,” disse Mark, accarezzando dolcemente il bicchiere vuoto, “si chiama ‘cobbler’. ‘Sherry cobbler’ se lo si chiama a lungo; ‘cobbler’, se lo si chiama in breve. Ora è come se le vostre scarpe fossero state tolte. E, sotto ogni aspetto degno di nota, siete diventato un’altra persona.”

Dopo aver pronunciato questo solenne prefazione, portò fuori il laccio per le scarpe.

“Attenzione! Non ricadrò nei vecchi vizi, Mark,” disse Martin; “ma, per l’amor del cielo, se dovessimo ritrovarci in qualche parte remota di questo paese senza merci né denaro, ”

“Beh, signore!”, rispose l’imperturbabile Tapley; “da quello che abbiamo già visto, non so se, in quelle circostanze, non sarebbe meglio agire nelle zone selvagge piuttosto che in quelle domesticate.”

“Oh, Tom Pinch, Tom Pinch!” disse Martin, con tono pensieroso; “quanto darei per essere di nuovo al tuo fianco e poter ascoltare la tua voce, anche solo nella vecchia camera da letto di Pecksniff, ”

“Oh, Drago, Drago!” esclamò Mark, allegramente. “Se non ci fosse alcuna acqua tra te e me, e se non ci fossero motivi di paura nel tornare indietro, chissà, forse direi la stessa cosa. Ma eccomi qui, Drago, a New York, in America; mentre tu sei a Wiltshire, in Europa. C’è una fortuna da guadagnare, Drago, e anche una bellissima giovane donna con cui farlo! E ogni volta che andrai a vedere il Monumento, Drago, non fermarti sulle scale d’ingresso, altrimenti non riuscirai mai ad arrivare in cima!”

“Ben detto, Mark,” esclamò Martin. “Dobbiamo guardare avanti.”

“In tutti i libri di storie che ho letto, signore, le persone che guardavano indietro si trasformavano in pietre,” rispose Mark; “e io ho sempre pensato che se lo meritassero. Vi auguro una buona notte, signore, e sogni piacevoli!”

“Allora devono essere di >casa,” disse Martin mentre si sdraiava a letto.

“Lo dico anch’io,” sussurrò Mark Tapley quando fu lontano da orecchie indiscrete e nella sua stanza; “perché, se non arriverà mai un momento in cui ne usciremo davvero, allora mantenere un po’ di allegria potrebbe rivelarsi davvero utile. Sono pur sempre un americano!”

Lasciandoli fondersi e mescolarsi nel loro sonno, le ombre degli oggetti, lontano da lì, assumono forme fantastiche sul muro, nella debole luce del pensiero incontrollato. Come se questa breve cronaca fosse un sogno all’interno di un altro sogno. Tutto cambia rapidamente; attraversano l’oceano per raggiungere la riva inglese.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

DOES BUSINESS WITH THE HOUSE OF ANTHONY CHUZZLEWIT AND SON, FROM WHICH ONE OF THE PARTNERS RETIRES UNEXPECTEDLY

Change begets change. Nothing propagates so fast. If a man habituated to a narrow circle of cares and pleasures, out of which he seldom travels, step beyond it, though for never so brief a space, his departure from the monotonous scene on which he has been an actor of importance, would seem to be the signal for instant confusion. As if, in the gap he had left, the wedge of change were driven to the head, rending what was a solid mass to fragments, things cemented and held together by the usages of years, burst asunder in as many weeks. The mine which Time has slowly dug beneath familiar objects is sprung in an instant; and what was rock before, becomes but sand and dust.

Most men, at one time or other, have proved this in some degree. The extent to which the natural laws of change asserted their supremacy in that limited sphere of action which Martin had deserted, shall be faithfully set down in these pages.

‘What a cold spring it is!’ whimpered old Anthony, drawing near the evening fire, ‘It was a warmer season, sure, when I was young!’

‘You needn’t go scorching your clothes into holes, whether it was or not,’ observed the amiable Jonas, raising his eyes from yesterday’s newspaper, ‘Broadcloth ain’t so cheap as that comes to.’

‘A good lad!’ cried the father, breathing on his cold hands, and feebly chafing them against each other. ‘A prudent lad! He never delivered himself up to the vanities of dress. No, no!’

‘I don’t know but I would, though, mind you, if I could do it for nothing,’ said his son, as he resumed the paper.

‘Ah!’ chuckled the old man. ‘IF, indeed!—But it’s very cold.’

‘Let the fire be!’ cried Mr Jonas, stopping his honoured parent’s hand in the use of the poker. ‘Do you mean to come to want in your old age, that you take to wasting now?’

‘There’s not time for that, Jonas,’ said the old man.

‘Not time for what?’ bawled his heir.

‘For me to come to want. I wish there was!’

‘You always were as selfish an old blade as need be,’ said Jonas in a voice too low for him to hear, and looking at him with an angry frown. ‘You act up to your character. You wouldn’t mind coming to want, wouldn’t you! I dare say you wouldn’t. And your own flesh and blood might come to want too, might they, for anything you cared? Oh you precious old flint!’

After this dutiful address he took his tea-cup in his hand—for that meal was in progress, and the father and son and Chuffey were partakers of it. Then, looking steadfastly at his father, and stopping now and then to carry a spoonful of tea to his lips, he proceeded in the same tone, thus:

‘Want, indeed! You’re a nice old man to be talking of want at this time of day. Beginning to talk of want, are you? Well, I declare! There isn’t time? No, I should hope not. But you’d live to be a couple of hundred if you could; and after all be discontented. I know you!’

The old man sighed, and still sat cowering before the fire. Mr Jonas shook his Britannia-metal teaspoon at him, and taking a loftier position, went on to argue the point on high moral grounds.

‘If you’re in such a state of mind as that,’ he grumbled, but in the same subdued key, ‘why don’t you make over your property? Buy an annuity cheap, and make your life interesting to yourself and everybody else that watches the speculation. But no, that wouldn’t suit YOU. That would be natural conduct to your own son, and you like to be unnatural, and to keep him out of his rights. Why, I should be ashamed of myself if I was you, and glad to hide my head in the what you may call it.’

Possibly this general phrase supplied the place of grave, or tomb, or sepulchre, or cemetery, or mausoleum, or other such word which the filial tenderness of Mr Jonas made him delicate of pronouncing. He pursued the theme no further; for Chuffey, somehow discovering, from his old corner by the fireside, that Anthony was in the attitude of a listener, and that Jonas appeared to be speaking, suddenly cried out, like one inspired:

‘He is your own son, Mr Chuzzlewit. Your own son, sir!’

Old Chuffey little suspected what depth of application these words had, or that, in the bitter satire which they bore, they might have sunk into the old man’s very soul, could he have known what words here hanging on his own son’s lips, or what was passing in his thoughts. But the voice diverted the current of Anthony’s reflections, and roused him.

‘Yes, yes, Chuffey, Jonas is a chip of the old block. It is a very old block, now, Chuffey,’ said the old man, with a strange look of discomposure.

‘Precious old,’ assented Jonas

‘No, no, no,’ said Chuffey. ‘No, Mr Chuzzlewit. Not old at all, sir.’

‘Oh! He’s worse than ever, you know!’ cried Jonas, quite disgusted. ‘Upon my soul, father, he’s getting too bad. Hold your tongue, will you?’

‘He says you’re wrong!’ cried Anthony to the old clerk.

‘Tut, tut!’ was Chuffey’s answer. ‘I know better. I say HE’S wrong. I say HE’S wrong. He’s a boy. That’s what he is. So are you, Mr Chuzzlewit—a kind of boy. Ha! ha! ha! You’re quite a boy to many I have known; you’re a boy to me; you’re a boy to hundreds of us. Don’t mind him!’

With which extraordinary speech—for in the case of Chuffey this was a burst of eloquence without a parallel—the poor old shadow drew through his palsied arm his master’s hand, and held it there, with his own folded upon it, as if he would defend him.

‘I grow deafer every day, Chuff,’ said Anthony, with as much softness of manner, or, to describe it more correctly, with as little hardness as he was capable of expressing.

‘No, no,’ cried Chuffey. ‘No, you don’t. What if you did? I’ve been deaf this twenty year.’

‘I grow blinder, too,’ said the old man, shaking his head.

CAPITOLO DICIOTTO

Conduce affari con la azienda di Anthony Chuzzlewit e Figlio; uno dei soci se ne ritira inaspettatamente.

Il cambiamento genera altro cambiamento. Niente si diffonde con tale rapidità. Se un uomo abituato a un ristretto cerchio di preoccupazioni e piaceri, dal quale raramente esce, vi fa un passo al di fuori, anche solo per un brevissimo istante, la sua uscita da quella scena monotona in cui ha sempre svolto un ruolo importante sembra essere il segnale di un immediato disordine. Come se, nel vuoto che ha creato, il “cuneo del cambiamento” venisse spinto avanti, frantumando ciò che prima era una massa solida in frammenti; cose che per anni erano state tenute insieme dalle abitudini quotidiane vengono distrutte in poche settimane. La mina che Il Tempo ha lentamente scavato sotto gli oggetti familiari esplode all’istante; ciò che prima era roccia diventa solo sabbia e polvere.

La maggior parte degli uomini, in un momento o nell’altro, ha dimostrato questo fino a un certo punto. In che misura le leggi naturali del cambiamento abbiano affermato la loro supremazia in quella sfera d’azione limitata che Martin aveva abbandonato, verrà descritto fedelmente in queste pagine.

“Che freddo primavera, ”, si lamentò il vecchio Anthony avvicinandosi al fuoco del sera. “Quando ero giovane, le stagioni erano più calde, sicuramente!”

“Non c’è bisogno di bruciarsi i vestiti fino a farli buchi, che sia vero o no,” osservò l’amabile Jonas, alzando lo sguardo dal giornale di ieri. “I tessuti pesanti non sono così economici come si potrebbe pensare.”

“Un bravo ragazzo!” esclamò il padre, soffiando sulle sue mani fredde e strofinandole debolmente l’una contro l’altra. “Un ragazzo saggio. Non si è mai lasciato trascinare dalle vanità dell’abbigliamento. No, davvero!”

“Non lo so, ma lo farei. Anzi, a patto che non mi costasse nulla,” disse suo figlio, riprendendo a leggere il giornale.

“Ah!”, ridacchiò l’uomo anziano. “Se davvero fosse così. Ma fa molto freddo.”

“Lasciate che il fuoco bruci!” gridò il signor Jonas, impedendo alla sua rispettata madre di usare l’attizzatoio. “Volete davvero finire nella povertà in vecchiaia, cominciando ora a sprecare tutto?”

“Non c’è tempo per quello, Jonas,” disse l’uomo anziano.

“Non è il momento giusto per cosa?” gridò il suo erede.

“Perché io possa desiderarlo. Vorrei che esistesse!”

“Sei sempre stato un vecchio egoista, quando necessario,” disse Jonas con una voce troppo bassa perché lui potesse sentirla, guardandolo con un’espressione arrabbiata. “Agisci in linea con il tuo carattere. Non ti dispiacerebbe mai essere costretto a chiedere aiuto, vero? Oserei dire di no. E anche la tua stessa carne e il tuo sangue potrebbero finire per averne bisogno, se fosse necessario. Per qualcosa che ti importasse davvero. Oh, tu prezioso vecchio testardo!”

Dopo questo discorso rispettoso, prese la sua tazza di tè in mano – poiché quella cena era già in corso e padre e figlio, insieme a Chuffey, ne stavano partecipando. Poi, guardando fisso suo padre e interrompendosi di tanto in tanto per portarsi una cucchiaiata di tè alle labbra, continuò nel medesimo tono, dicendo:

“Vorere, davvero! Sei un bravo vecchio uomo. Ma parlare di bisogno a quest’ora della giornata. Cominci proprio ora a parlarne, vero? Beh, dichiaro io: non c’è più tempo, giusto? No, spero proprio di no. Ma vivresti fino a duecento anni se potessi. E poi saresti comunque insoddisfatto. Ti conosco bene!”

L’uomo anziano sospirò e continuò a sedersi rannicchiato davanti al fuoco. Il signor Jonas gli agitò contro la sua cucchiaino di metallo Britannia, poi, assumendo una posizione più eretta, proseguì nel discutere il problema su basi morali elevate.

“Se sei in uno stato d’animo del genere,” borbottò lui, ma sempre con lo stesso tono sommesso, “perché non sistemi le tue proprietà? Compra un’annuità a buon mercato e rendi la tua vita interessante per te stesso e per tutti quelli che seguono queste speculazioni. Ma no. Questo non sarebbe adatto A TE. Sarebbe un comportamento naturale da parte di tuo figlio, invece tu preferisci comportarti in modo innaturale e privarlo dei suoi diritti. Accidenti. Se fossi al tuo posto, mi vergognerei di me stesso e sarei felice di nascondermi, ”

Probabilmente questa frase generica sostituiva termini come tomba, sepolcro, cimitero, mausoleo o simili; la delicatezza filiale del signor Jonas gli impediva di pronunciarli. Non approfondì l’argomento; perché Chuffey, avendo notato da qualche parte vicino al camino che Anthony stava ascoltando e che Jonas sembrava parlare, improvvisamente esclamò, come ispirato:

“È vostro figlio, signor Chuzzlewit. Vostro stesso figlio, signore!”

Il vecchio Chuffey non sospettava affatto fino a che punto queste parole fossero sincere, né che, nella amara satira che contenevano, potessero aver penetrato nel profondo della sua stessa ‘anima. Come avrebbe potuto immaginare quali parole venissero pronunciate dal proprio figlio, o cosa passasse realmente nei suoi pensieri? Ma quella voce interruppe il corso dei suoi ragionamenti e lo risvegliò.

“Sì, sì, Chuffey. Jonas è proprio come quei vecchi tempi. Tempi molto lontani, ormai, Chuffey,” disse l’uomo anziano, con uno strano sguardo di turbamento.

“Un oggetto prezioso e antico,” concordò Jonas.

“No, no, no,” disse Chuffey. “No, signor Chuzzlewit. Affatto non vecchio, signore.”

“Oh! È peggio che mai, lo sai!” gridò Jonas, visibilmente disgustato.
“Per la mia ‘anima, padre, sta diventando davvero troppo grave. Taci, per favore.”

“Dice che hai torto!”, gridò Anthony al vecchio impiegato.

“Tut, tut!” fu la risposta di Chuffey. “Lo so meglio io. Dico che LUI ha torto. È un ragazzo, nient’altro che un ragazzo. Lo stesso vale per voi, signor Chuzzlewit: in un certo senso, anche voi siete un ragazzo. Ha! ha! ha! Per molti che conosco, voi siete davvero un ragazzo; lo siete anche per me, e lo siete per centinaia di noi. Non badate a lui!”

Con quel discorso straordinario – poiché nel caso di Chuffey si trattava di un’esplosione di eloquenza senza eguali – il povero vecchio ombra, con il braccio paralizzato, afferrò la mano del suo padrone e la tenne lì, ripiegando la propria mano sopra di essa, come se volesse proteggerlo.

“Divento sempre più sordo ogni giorno, Chuff,” disse Anthony con la massima dolcezza possibile, o, per descriverlo meglio, con il minor grado di durezza che riuscisse a esprimere.

“No, no,” gridò Chuffey. “No, non lo fareste. E anche se lo faceste, che importanza avrebbe? Sono sordo da vent’anni.”

“Anch’io divento sempre più cieco,” disse l’uomo anziano scuotendo la testa.

‘That’s a good sign!’ cried Chuffey. ‘Ha! ha! The best sign in the world! You saw too well before.’

He patted Anthony upon the hand as one might comfort a child, and drawing the old man’s arm still further through his own, shook his trembling fingers towards the spot where Jonas sat, as though he would wave him off. But, Anthony remaining quite still and silent, he relaxed his hold by slow degrees and lapsed into his usual niche in the corner; merely putting forth his hand at intervals and touching his old employer gently on the coat, as with the design of assuring himself that he was yet beside him.

Mr Jonas was so very much amazed by these proceedings that he could do nothing but stare at the two old men, until Chuffey had fallen into his usual state, and Anthony had sunk into a doze; when he gave some vent to his emotions by going close up to the former personage, and making as though he would, in vulgar parlance, ‘punch his head.’

‘They’ve been carrying on this game,’ thought Jonas in a brown study, ‘for the last two or three weeks. I never saw my father take so much notice of him as he has in that time. What! You’re legacy hunting, are you, Mister Chuff? Eh?’

But Chuffey was as little conscious of the thought as of the bodily advance of Mr Jonas’s clenched fist, which hovered fondly about his ear. When he had scowled at him to his heart’s content, Jonas took the candle from the table, and walking into the glass office, produced a bunch of keys from his pocket. With one of these he opened a secret drawer in the desk; peeping stealthily out, as he did so, to be certain that the two old men were still before the fire.

‘All as right as ever,’ said Jonas, propping the lid of the desk open with his forehead, and unfolding a paper. ‘Here’s the will, Mister Chuff. Thirty pound a year for your maintenance, old boy, and all the rest to his only son, Jonas. You needn’t trouble yourself to be too affectionate. You won’t get anything by it. What’s that?’

It WAS startling, certainly. A face on the other side of the glass partition looking curiously in; and not at him but at the paper in his hand. For the eyes were attentively cast down upon the writing, and were swiftly raised when he cried out. Then they met his own, and were as the eyes of Mr Pecksniff.

Suffering the lid of the desk to fall with a loud noise, but not forgetting even then to lock it, Jonas, pale and breathless, gazed upon this phantom. It moved, opened the door, and walked in.

‘What’s the matter?’ cried Jonas, falling back. ‘Who is it? Where do you come from? What do you want?’

‘Matter!’ cried the voice of Mr Pecksniff, as Pecksniff in the flesh smiled amiably upon him. ‘The matter, Mr Jonas!’

‘What are you prying and peering about here for?’ said Jonas, angrily. ‘What do you mean by coming up to town in this way, and taking one unawares? It’s precious odd a man can’t read the—the newspaper—in his own office without being startled out of his wits by people coming in without notice. Why didn’t you knock at the door?’

‘So I did, Mr Jonas,’ answered Pecksniff, ‘but no one heard me. I was curious,’ he added in his gentle way as he laid his hand upon the young man’s shoulder, ‘to find out what part of the newspaper interested you so much; but the glass was too dim and dirty.’

Jonas glanced in haste at the partition. Well. It wasn’t very clean. So far he spoke the truth.

‘Was it poetry now?’ said Mr Pecksniff, shaking the forefinger of his right hand with an air of cheerful banter. ‘Or was it politics? Or was it the price of stock? The main chance, Mr Jonas, the main chance, I suspect.’

‘You ain’t far from the truth,’ answered Jonas, recovering himself and snuffing the candle; ‘but how the deuce do you come to be in London again? Ecod! it’s enough to make a man stare, to see a fellow looking at him all of a sudden, who he thought was sixty or seventy mile away.’

‘So it is,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘No doubt of it, my dear Mr Jonas. For while the human mind is constituted as it is—’

‘Oh, bother the human mind,’ interrupted Jonas with impatience ‘what have you come up for?’

‘A little matter of business,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘which has arisen quite unexpectedly.’

‘Oh!’ cried Jonas, ‘is that all? Well. Here’s father in the next room. Hallo father, here’s Pecksniff! He gets more addle-pated every day he lives, I do believe,’ muttered Jonas, shaking his honoured parent roundly. ‘Don’t I tell you Pecksniff’s here, stupid-head?’

The combined effects of the shaking and this loving remonstrance soon awoke the old man, who gave Mr Pecksniff a chuckling welcome which was attributable in part to his being glad to see that gentleman, and in part to his unfading delight in the recollection of having called him a hypocrite. As Mr Pecksniff had not yet taken tea (indeed he had, but an hour before, arrived in London) the remains of the late collation, with a rasher of bacon, were served up for his entertainment; and as Mr Jonas had a business appointment in the next street, he stepped out to keep it; promising to return before Mr Pecksniff could finish his repast.

‘And now, my good sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff to Anthony; ‘now that we are alone, pray tell me what I can do for you. I say alone, because I believe that our dear friend Mr Chuffey is, metaphysically speaking, a—shall I say a dummy?’ asked Mr Pecksniff with his sweetest smile, and his head very much on one side.

‘He neither hears us,’ replied Anthony, ‘nor sees us.’

‘Why, then,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘I will be bold to say, with the utmost sympathy for his afflictions, and the greatest admiration of those excellent qualities which do equal honour to his head and to his heart, that he is what is playfully termed a dummy. You were going to observe, my dear sir—?’

‘I was not going to make any observation that I know of,’ replied the old man.

‘I was,’ said Mr Pecksniff, mildly.

“È un buon segno!” esclamò Chuffey. “Ahah! Il miglior segno del mondo! L’hai visto anche tu molto chiaramente prima.”

Gli diede una pacca sulla mano, come si farebbe per consolare un bambino, e, facendo passare il braccio dell’uomo anziano attraverso il proprio, scosse le sue dita tremanti in direzione del punto dove sedeva Jonas, come se volesse allontanarlo. Ma poiché Anthony rimase immobile e silenzioso, allentò gradualmente la presa e tornò nella sua solita posizione nell’angolo; di tanto in tanto tendeva la mano e toccava delicatamente il cappotto del suo vecchio datore di lavoro, come per assicurarsi che fosse ancora lì.

Il signor Jonas era così sbalordito da queste scene che non riusciva a fare altro che fissare quei due anziani, fino a quando Chuffey non tornò nel suo solito stato di torpore e Anthony non iniziò a sonnecchiare. Allora, per esprimere le proprie emozioni, si avvicinò al primo dei due uomini e fece finta, per usare un linguaggio volgare, di “colpirgli la testa”.

“Stanno continuando questo gioco,” pensò Jonas, “da due o tre settimane ormai. Non ho mai visto mio padre prestare così tanta attenzione a lui in tutto questo tempo. Che cosa! State cercando il suo ‘ereditario’, vero, signor Chuff? Eh?”

Ma Chuffey era altrettanto inconsapevole di quel pensiero quanto dello avvicinarsi del pugno chiuso di Mr Jonas, che fluttuava vicino al suo orecchio. Dopo averlo fissato con un’espressione furiosa, Jonas prese la candela dal tavolo e, entrando nell’ufficio in vetro, tirò fuori un mazzo di chiavi dalla tasca. Con una di esse aprì un cassetto segreto sulla scrivania; mentre lo faceva, sbirciò furtivamente per assicurarsi che i due anziani fossero ancora davanti al focolare.

“Tutto come al solito,” disse Jonas, spingendo con la fronte il coperchio della scrivania e aprendo un foglio di carta. “Ecco l’testamento, signor Chuff: trenta sterline all’anno per le vostre spese, vecchio mio. Il resto va al suo unico figlio, Jonas. Non vi sforzate troppo di essere affettuosi. Non ne otterrete alcun vantaggio. Che cos’è quello?”

Certo, fu sorprendente. Un volto dall’altra parte della parete di vetro che lo fissava con curiosità, ma non lui, bensì il foglio di carta che teneva in mano. Gli occhi erano concentrati sulla scrittura; si alzarono rapidamente quando gridò. Poi incrociarono i suoi stessi occhi, e erano proprio come quelli del signor Pecksniff.

La copertura del tavolo cadde con un forte rumore, ma anche allora Jonas non dimenticò di chiuderlo a chiave. Pallido e senza fiato, fissava questo fantasma. Questo si mosse, aprì la porta ed entrò.

“Che c’è?” gridò Jonas, indietreggiando. “Chi sei? Da dove vieni? Cosa vuoi?”

“La questione!”, esclamò la voce del signor Pecksniff, mentre quest’ultimo gli sorrideva amichevolmente. “La questione principale, signor Jonas!”

“Cosa stai cercando di spiare e curiosare qui intorno?” disse Jonas, arrabbiato.
“A cosa ti riferisci venendo in città in questo modo, cogliendo tutti di sorpresa? È davvero strano che una persona non possa leggere il giornale nel proprio ufficio senza essere spaventata a morte da persone che entrano senza preavviso. Perché non hai bussato alla porta?”

“Sì, lo so, signor Jonas,” rispose Pecksniff, “ma nessuno mi ha sentito. Ero curioso,” aggiunse con il suo tono gentile, posando una mano sulla spalla del giovane, “di scoprire quale parte del giornale vi interessasse così tanto; ma la finestra era troppo oscura e sporca.”

Jonas gettò un’occhiata frettolosa alla parete divisoria. Beh. Non era molto pulita. Fino ad ora aveva detto la verità.

“Adesso si trattava di poesia?” disse il signor Pecksniff, scuotendo l’indice della mano destra con un tono scherzoso e allegro. “O forse di politica? O magari del prezzo delle azioni. La possibilità principale, signor Jonas. La possibilità principale, sospetto.”

“Non sei lontano dalla verità”, rispose Jonas, riprendendosi e spegnendo la candela; “ma come diavolo hai fatto ad arrivare di nuovo a Londra? Ehi! Basta che uno si trovi davanti a qualcuno che pensava fosse a sessanta o settanta miglia di distanza, ”

“Lo so,” disse il signor Pecksniff. “Nessun dubbio al riguardo, mio caro signor Jonas. Perché finché la mente umana è fatta così com’è, ”

“Ah, lasciate in pace la mente umana, ”, interruppe Jonas con impazienza. “Di cosa volete parlare?”

“Una piccola questione di affari,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “che è sorta in modo del tutto inaspettato.”

“Oh!” esclamò Jonas, “È tutto qui? Beh. Ecco papà nella stanza accanto. Ciao papà, ecco Pecksniff! Credo che diventi sempre più confuso ogni giorno che passa, ” mormorò Jonas, scuotendo energicamente il suo rispettato genitore. “Non ti avevo detto che Pecksniff è qui, stupido?”

Gli effetti combinati di quel tremore e di queste affettuose rimproveri risvegliarono presto l’anziano, il quale accolse con una risata il signor Pecksniff; questa risata era dovuta in parte al piacere di rivedere quel gentiluomo, e in parte alla gioia che provava nel ricordare di averlo definito ipocrita. Poiché il signor Pecksniff non aveva ancora bevuto il tè (infatti lo aveva fatto un’ora prima, arrivando a Londra), gli furono serviti i resti del pasto precedente, insieme a una fetta di pancetta; e poiché il signor Jonas aveva un appuntamento d’affari nella strada accanto, uscì per andarci, promettendo di tornare prima che il signor Pecksniff finisse di mangiare.

“E ora, mio caro signore,” disse il signor Pecksniff ad Anthony, “adesso che siamo soli, per favore ditemi cosa posso fare per voi. Dico ‘soli’, perché credo che il nostro caro amico il signor Chuffey, in senso metafisico, sia, come dovrei dire, una marionetta?” chiese il signor Pecksniff con il suo sorriso più dolce, inclinando molto la testa da un lato.

“Né ci sente, né ci vede”, rispose Anthony.

“Dunque,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “oserei dire, con la massima simpatia per le sue sofferenze e con grande ammirazione per quelle eccellenti qualità che conferiscono onore sia alla sua mente che al suo cuore, che lui è, quello che si potrebbe chiamare, in modo scherzoso, un ‘finto’. Volevate aggiungere qualcosa, mio caro signore?”

“Non intendevo fare alcuna osservazione, per quanto ne so,” rispose l’uomo anziano.

“Lo ero,” disse gentilmente il signor Pecksniff.

‘Oh! YOU were? What was it?’

‘That I never,’ said Mr Pecksniff, previously rising to see that the door was shut, and arranging his chair when he came back, so that it could not be opened in the least without his immediately becoming aware of the circumstance; ‘that I never in my life was so astonished as by the receipt of your letter yesterday. That you should do me the honour to wish to take counsel with me on any matter, amazed me; but that you should desire to do so, to the exclusion even of Mr Jonas, showed an amount of confidence in one to whom you had done a verbal injury—merely a verbal injury, you were anxious to repair—which gratified, which moved, which overcame me.’

He was always a glib speaker, but he delivered this short address very glibly; having been at some pains to compose it outside the coach.

Although he paused for a reply, and truly said that he was there at Anthony’s request, the old man sat gazing at him in profound silence and with a perfectly blank face. Nor did he seem to have the least desire or impulse to pursue the conversation, though Mr Pecksniff looked towards the door, and pulled out his watch, and gave him many other hints that their time was short, and Jonas, if he kept his word, would soon return. But the strangest incident in all this strange behaviour was, that of a sudden, in a moment, so swiftly that it was impossible to trace how, or to observe any process of change, his features fell into their old expression, and he cried, striking his hand passionately upon the table as if no interval at all had taken place:

‘Will you hold your tongue, sir, and let me speak?’

Mr Pecksniff deferred to him with a submissive bow; and said within himself, ‘I knew his hand was changed, and that his writing staggered. I said so yesterday. Ahem! Dear me!’

‘Jonas is sweet upon your daughter, Pecksniff,’ said the old man, in his usual tone.

‘We spoke of that, if you remember, sir, at Mrs Todgers’s,’ replied the courteous architect.

‘You needn’t speak so loud,’ retorted Anthony. ‘I’m not so deaf as that.’

Mr Pecksniff had certainly raised his voice pretty high; not so much because he thought Anthony was deaf, as because he felt convinced that his perceptive faculties were waxing dim; but this quick resentment of his considerate behaviour greatly disconcerted him, and, not knowing what tack to shape his course upon, he made another inclination of the head, yet more submissive that the last.

‘I have said,’ repeated the old man, ‘that Jonas is sweet upon your daughter.’

‘A charming girl, sir,’ murmured Mr Pecksniff, seeing that he waited for an answer. ‘A dear girl, Mr Chuzzlewit, though I say it, who should not.’

‘You know better,’ cried the old man, advancing his weazen face at least a yard, and starting forward in his chair to do it. ‘You lie! What, you WILL be a hypocrite, will you?’

‘My good sir,’ Mr Pecksniff began.

‘Don’t call me a good sir,’ retorted Anthony, ‘and don’t claim to be one yourself. If your daughter was what you would have me believe, she wouldn’t do for Jonas. Being what she is, I think she will. He might be deceived in a wife. She might run riot, contract debts, and waste his substance. Now when I am dead—’

His face altered so horribly as he said the word, that Mr Pecksniff really was fain to look another way.

‘—It will be worse for me to know of such doings, than if I was alive; for to be tormented for getting that together, which even while I suffer for its acquisition, is flung into the very kennels of the streets, would be insupportable torture. No,’ said the old man, hoarsely, ‘let that be saved at least; let there be something gained, and kept fast hold of, when so much is lost.’

‘My dear Mr Chuzzlewit,’ said Pecksniff, ‘these are unwholesome fancies; quite unnecessary, sir, quite uncalled for, I am sure. The truth is, my dear sir, that you are not well!’

‘Not dying though!’ cried Anthony, with something like the snarl of a wild animal. ‘Not yet! There are years of life in me. Why, look at him,’ pointing to his feeble clerk. ‘Death has no right to leave him standing, and to mow me down!’

Mr Pecksniff was so much afraid of the old man, and so completely taken aback by the state in which he found him, that he had not even presence of mind enough to call up a scrap of morality from the great storehouse within his own breast. Therefore he stammered out that no doubt it was, in fairness and decency, Mr Chuffey’s turn to expire; and that from all he had heard of Mr Chuffey, and the little he had the pleasure of knowing of that gentleman, personally, he felt convinced in his own mind that he would see the propriety of expiring with as little delay as possible.

‘Come here!’ said the old man, beckoning him to draw nearer. ‘Jonas will be my heir, Jonas will be rich, and a great catch for you. You know that. Jonas is sweet upon your daughter.’

‘I know that too,’ thought Mr Pecksniff, ‘for you have said it often enough.’

‘He might get more money than with her,’ said the old man, ‘but she will help him to take care of what they have. She is not too young or heedless, and comes of a good hard griping stock. But don’t you play too fine a game. She only holds him by a thread; and if you draw it too tight (I know his temper) it’ll snap. Bind him when he’s in the mood, Pecksniff; bind him. You’re too deep. In your way of leading him on, you’ll leave him miles behind. Bah, you man of oil, have I no eyes to see how you have angled with him from the first?’

‘Now I wonder,’ thought Mr Pecksniff, looking at him with a wistful face, ‘whether this is all he has to say?’

Old Anthony rubbed his hands and muttered to himself; complained again that he was cold; drew his chair before the fire; and, sitting with his back to Mr Pecksniff, and his chin sunk down upon his breast, was, in another minute, quite regardless or forgetful of his presence.

“Ah! Tu eri tu? Di cosa si trattava?”

“Mai nella mia vita,” disse il signor Pecksniff, alzandosi prima per assicurarsi che la porta fosse chiusa e sistemando poi la sua sedia in modo che non potesse essere aperta senza che lui se ne accorgesse immediatamente; “mai sono stato così sorpreso come quando ho ricevuto la vostra lettera ieri. Il fatto che abbiate voluto onorarmi chiedendomi consiglio su qualche questione mi ha stupito; ma il fatto che desideraste farlo, addirittura escludendo il signor Jonas, dimostrava un tale grado di fiducia in una persona verso la quale avevate commesso un torto verbale, solo un torto verbale, che volevate rimediare. Il che mi ha reso felice, commosso, e addirittura sopraffatto.”

Era sempre un oratore eloquente, ma tenne questo breve discorso in modo davvero fluido e sciolto; aveva infatti fatto molta fatica a prepararlo mentre si trovava fuori dal carro.

Anche se fece una pausa in attesa di una risposta, e ammise sinceramente di essere lì su esortazione di Anthony, l’uomo anziano rimase seduto a fissarlo in un profondo silenzio, con il viso completamente privo di espressione. Non sembrava nemmeno avere alcun desiderio o impulso di continuare la conversazione; tuttavia, il signor Pecksniff guardò verso la porta, tirò fuori l’orologio e diede molti altri segnali che indicavano quanto tempo fosse rimasto loro. E che Jonas, se avesse mantenuto la sua promessa, sarebbe tornato presto. Ma l’episodio più strano di tutto questo comportamento bizzarro fu il seguente: in un istante, così rapidamente da essere impossibile seguire i passaggi attraverso cui ciò accadde o osservare alcun cambiamento nei suoi tratti facciali, l’uomo ritornò alla sua espressione abituale e gridò, battendo con forza la mano sul tavolo, come se nulla fosse mai successo.

“Potrebbe tenere la bocca chiusa, signore, e lasciarmi parlare?”

Il signor Pecksniff si inchinò docilmente davanti a lui e pensò tra sé: “Sapevo che le sue mani erano cambiate, che la sua calligrafia era incerta. L’ho detto ieri stesso. Ahem! Mio Dio, ”

“Jonas è interessato a tua figlia, Pecksniff,” disse l’uomo anziano, con il suo solito tono.

“Ne abbiamo parlato, se ricorda, signore, a casa della signora Todgers,” rispose l’architetto cortese.

“Non c’è bisogno di parlare così ad alta voce,” ribatté Anthony. “Non sono mica così sordo.”

Il signor Pecksniff aveva certamente alzato la voce piuttosto tanto; non tanto perché pensasse che Anthony fosse sordo, quanto perché era convinto che le sue facoltà percettive stessero indebolendosi; ma questo rapido risentimento per il suo comportamento premuroso lo mise molto a disagio, e, non sapendo quale direzione prendere, fece un altro cenno del capo, ancora più sottomesso di prima.

“Ho detto,” ripeté l’uomo anziano, “che Jonas è interessato a tua figlia.”

“Una ragazza incantevole, signore,” mormorò il signor Pecksniff, vedendo che l’altro aspettava una risposta. “Una ragazza davvero adorabile, signor Chuzzlewit, anche se lo dico io, chi non lo penserebbe?”

“Lo sai meglio,” gridò l’uomo anziano, avvicinando il suo viso rugoso di almeno un metro e spingendo la sedia in avanti per farlo. “Menti! Vuoi forse diventare un ipocrita?”

“Mio buon signore,” iniziò il signor Pecksniff.

“Non chiamatemi ‘gentiluomo’,” ribatté Anthony, “e nemmeno voi dichiariate di esserlo. Se vostra figlia fosse davvero quella che vorreste farmi credere, non sarebbe adatta a Jonas. Ma essendo ciò che è, penso che lo sarà. Lui potrebbe essere ingannato in una moglie; lei potrebbe comportarsi in modo disordinato, contrarre debiti e dissipare le sue risorse. E quando io sarò morto, ”

Il suo viso cambiò in modo così orribile mentre pronunciava quella parola, che il signor Pecksniff preferì davvero distogliere lo sguardo.

“–Per me sarebbe ancora peggio conoscere simili cose, piuttosto che essere vivo; perché soffrire per aver raccolto qualcosa che, anche mentre ne provo il dolore per ottenerlo, viene poi gettato nelle strade, nei luoghi più disprezzati. Sarebbe una tortura insopportabile. No“, disse l’uomo anziano, con voce rauca, “lasciate che almeno questo venga salvato; lasciate che ci sia qualcosa da guadagnare e da tenere saldamente, quando così tanto è andato perduto.“

“Mio caro signor Chuzzlewit,” disse Pecksniff, “queste sono fantasie nocive; del tutto inutili, signore, assolutamente non necessarie. La verità è che lei non sta bene, mio caro signore!”

“Ma non morirò!” gridò Anthony, con un ringhio simile a quello di un animale selvaggio. “Non ancora! Ho ancora molti anni davanti a me. Guardatelo,” aggiunse, indicando il suo debole impiegato. “La Morte non ha il diritto di portarselo via, lasciandomi io qui!”

Il signor Pecksniff aveva così tanta paura di quell’uomo anziano e fu così completamente colto alla sprovvista dallo stato in cui lo trovò, che non ebbe nemmeno la presenza di spirito necessaria per ricorrere a un briciolo di moralità dal vasto “magazzino” che aveva nel proprio cuore. Pertanto balbettò che, senza alcun >dubbio, era giusto e decoroso che fosse il turno del signor Chuffey di morire; e che, da tutto ciò che aveva sentito parlare di lui, e dal poco che aveva avuto la fortuna di conoscere personalmente di quel gentiluomo, era convinto che sarebbe stato opportuno che morisse il prima possibile.

“Vieni qui!” disse l’uomo anziano, facendogli segno di avvicinarsi. “Jonas sarà il mio erede, diventerà ricco, e sarà una ottima scelta per te. Lo sai bene: Jonas è innamorato di tua figlia.”

“Lo so anch’io,” pensò il signor Pecksniff, “perché l’avete detto abbastanza spesso.”

“Potrebbe guadagnare più soldi con lei,” disse l’uomo anziano, “ma lei lo aiuterà a prendersi cura di ciò che hanno. Non è troppo giovane né sciocca, e proviene da una buona famiglia. Ma non giocare troppo questa partita: lei lo tiene solo per un filo; se tiri troppo forte (conosco il suo carattere), quel filo si romperà. Legalo quando è di buon umore, Pecksniff. Legalo. Sei troppo coinvolto in questa faccenda; con il tuo modo di guidarlo, lo lascerai indietro di molto. Bah, uomo d’affari. Non ho forse occhi per vedere come hai manovrato lui fin dall’inizio?”

“Ora mi chiedo,” pensò il signor Pecksniff, guardandolo con un’espressione malinconica, “se questo sia tutto ciò che ha da dire, ”

Il vecchio Anthony si strofinò le mani e mormorò tra sé; si lamentò di nuovo del freddo, avvicinò la sedia davanti al focolare; poi, seduto con la schiena rivolta verso il signor Pecksniff e il mento appoggiato sul petto, in un attimo dimenticò completamente la sua presenza.

Uncouth and unsatisfactory as this short interview had been, it had furnished Mr Pecksniff with a hint which, supposing nothing further were imparted to him, repaid the journey up and home again. For the good gentleman had never (for want of an opportunity) dived into the depths of Mr Jonas’s nature; and any recipe for catching such a son-in-law (much more one written on a leaf out of his own father’s book) was worth the having. In order that he might lose no chance of improving so fair an opportunity by allowing Anthony to fall asleep before he had finished all he had to say, Mr Pecksniff, in the disposal of the refreshments on the table, a work to which he now applied himself in earnest, resorted to many ingenious contrivances for attracting his attention; such as coughing, sneezing, clattering the teacups, sharpening the knives, dropping the loaf, and so forth. But all in vain, for Mr Jonas returned, and Anthony had said no more.

‘What! My father asleep again?’ he cried, as he hung up his hat, and cast a look at him. ‘Ah! and snoring. Only hear!’

‘He snores very deep,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘Snores deep?’ repeated Jonas. ‘Yes; let him alone for that. He’ll snore for six, at any time.’

‘Do you know, Mr Jonas,’ said Pecksniff, ‘that I think your father is—don’t let me alarm you—breaking?’

‘Oh, is he though?’ replied Jonas, with a shake of the head which expressed the closeness of his dutiful observation. ‘Ecod, you don’t know how tough he is. He ain’t upon the move yet.’

‘It struck me that he was changed, both in his appearance and manner,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘That’s all you know about it,’ returned Jonas, seating himself with a melancholy air. ‘He never was better than he is now. How are they all at home? How’s Charity?’

‘Blooming, Mr Jonas, blooming.’

‘And the other one; how’s she?’

‘Volatile trifler!’ said Mr Pecksniff, fondly musing. ‘She is well, she is well. Roving from parlour to bedroom, Mr Jonas, like a bee, skimming from post to pillar, like the butterfly; dipping her young beak into our currant wine, like the humming-bird! Ah! were she a little less giddy than she is; and had she but the sterling qualities of Cherry, my young friend!’

‘Is she so very giddy, then?’ asked Jonas.

‘Well, well!’ said Mr Pecksniff, with great feeling; ‘let me not be hard upon my child. Beside her sister Cherry she appears so. A strange noise that, Mr Jonas!’

‘Something wrong in the clock, I suppose,’ said Jonas, glancing towards it. ‘So the other one ain’t your favourite, ain’t she?’

The fond father was about to reply, and had already summoned into his face a look of most intense sensibility, when the sound he had already noticed was repeated.

‘Upon my word, Mr Jonas, that is a very extraordinary clock,’ said Pecksniff.

It would have been, if it had made the noise which startled them; but another kind of time-piece was fast running down, and from that the sound proceeded. A scream from Chuffey, rendered a hundred times more loud and formidable by his silent habits, made the house ring from roof to cellar; and, looking round, they saw Anthony Chuzzlewit extended on the floor, with the old clerk upon his knees beside him.

He had fallen from his chair in a fit, and lay there, battling for each gasp of breath, with every shrivelled vein and sinew starting in its place, as if it were bent on bearing witness to his age, and sternly pleading with Nature against his recovery. It was frightful to see how the principle of life, shut up within his withered frame, fought like a strong devil, mad to be released, and rent its ancient prison-house. A young man in the fullness of his vigour, struggling with so much strength of desperation, would have been a dismal sight; but an old, old, shrunken body, endowed with preternatural might, and giving the lie in every motion of its every limb and joint to its enfeebled aspect, was a hideous spectacle indeed.

They raised him up, and fetched a surgeon with all haste, who bled the patient and applied some remedies; but the fits held him so long that it was past midnight when they got him—quiet now, but quite unconscious and exhausted—into bed.

‘Don’t go,’ said Jonas, putting his ashy lips to Mr Pecksniff’s ear and whispered across the bed. ‘It was a mercy you were present when he was taken ill. Some one might have said it was my doing.’

‘YOUR doing!’ cried Mr Pecksniff.

‘I don’t know but they might,’ he replied, wiping the moisture from his white face. ‘People say such things. How does he look now?’

Mr Pecksniff shook his head.

‘I used to joke, you know,’ said. Jonas: ‘but I—I never wished him dead. Do you think he’s very bad?’

‘The doctor said he was. You heard,’ was Mr Pecksniff’s answer.

‘Ah! but he might say that to charge us more, in case of his getting well’ said Jonas. ‘You mustn’t go away, Pecksniff. Now it’s come to this, I wouldn’t be without a witness for a thousand pound.’

Chuffey said not a word, and heard not a word. He had sat himself down in a chair at the bedside, and there he remained, motionless; except that he sometimes bent his head over the pillow, and seemed to listen. He never changed in this. Though once in the dreary night Mr Pecksniff, having dozed, awoke with a confused impression that he had heard him praying, and strangely mingling figures—not of speech, but arithmetic—with his broken prayers.

Jonas sat there, too, all night; not where his father could have seen him, had his consciousness returned, but hiding, as it were, behind him, and only reading how he looked, in Mr Pecksniff’s eyes. HE, the coarse upstart, who had ruled the house so long—that craven cur, who was afraid to move, and shook so, that his very shadow fluttered on the wall!

It was broad, bright, stirring day when, leaving the old clerk to watch him, they went down to breakfast. People hurried up and down the street; windows and doors were opened; thieves and beggars took their usual posts; workmen bestirred themselves; tradesmen set forth their shops; bailiffs and constables were on the watch; all kinds of human creatures strove, in their several ways, as hard to live, as the one sick old man who combated for every grain of sand in his fast-emptying glass, as eagerly as if it were an empire.

‘If anything happens Pecksniff,’ said Jonas, ‘you must promise me to stop here till it’s all over. You shall see that I do what’s right.’

‘I know that you will do what’s right, Mr Jonas,’ said Pecksniff.

‘Yes, yes, but I won’t be doubted. No one shall have it in his power to say a syllable against me,’ he returned. ‘I know how people will talk. Just as if he wasn’t old, or I had the secret of keeping him alive!’

Mr Pecksniff promised that he would remain, if circumstances should render it, in his esteemed friend’s opinion, desirable; they were finishing their meal in silence, when suddenly an apparition stood before them, so ghastly to the view that Jonas shrieked aloud, and both recoiled in horror.

Old Anthony, dressed in his usual clothes, was in the room—beside the table. He leaned upon the shoulder of his solitary friend; and on his livid face, and on his horny hands, and in his glassy eyes, and traced by an eternal finger in the very drops of sweat upon his brow, was one word—Death.

He spoke to them—in something of his own voice too, but sharpened and made hollow, like a dead man’s face. What he would have said, God knows. He seemed to utter words, but they were such as man had never heard. And this was the most fearful circumstance of all, to see him standing there, gabbling in an unearthly tongue.

‘He’s better now,’ said Chuffey. ‘Better now. Let him sit in his old chair, and he’ll be well again. I told him not to mind. I said so, yesterday.’

They put him in his easy-chair, and wheeled it near the window; then, swinging open the door, exposed him to the free current of morning air. But not all the air that is, nor all the winds that ever blew ‘twixt Heaven and Earth, could have brought new life to him.

Plunge him to the throat in golden pieces now, and his heavy fingers shall not close on one!

Per quanto breve e insoddisfacente fosse stato quell’intervista, aveva fornito a Mr Pecksniff un indizio che, anche senza ulteriori informazioni, giustificava pienamente il viaggio fino a casa. Il buon gentiluomo, infatti, non aveva mai avuto l’opportunità di approfondire la vera natura di Mr Jonas; quindi qualsiasi consiglio per conquistare un genero del genere – soprattutto uno scritto su una pagina tratta dal libro di suo padre – era senz’altro prezioso. Per non perdere l’occasione di sfruttare al meglio quella situazione, Mr Pecksniff, mentre si occupava dei rinfreschi sul tavolo con grande impegno, provò vari metodi ingegnosi per attirare l’attenzione di Anthony: tossire, starnutire, fare rumore con le tazze di tè, affilare i coltelli, lasciare cadere il pane, e così via. Ma tutto fu inutile: Mr Jonas tornò, e Anthony non aggiunse più nulla.

“Che cosa! Mio padre dorme di nuovo?” esclamò, appendendo il cappello e gettandogli un’occhiata. “Ah, e russa pure. Sentite solo!”

“Ronfa molto forte,” disse il signor Pecksniff.

“Ronfa profondamente?” ripeté Jonas. “Sì; lasciatelo stare da solo in quel momento. Ronferà per sei ore, in qualsiasi momento.”

“Sa, signor Jonas,” disse Pecksniff, “che penso che suo padre stia, non voglio allarmarla, commettendo qualche errore?”

“Ah, davvero?” rispose Jonas scuotendo la testa, un gesto che esprimeva la profondità della sua attenta osservazione. “Ehi, non sai quanto sia forte. Non ha ancora iniziato a muoversi.”

“Mi è sembrato che fosse cambiato, sia nell’aspetto che nel comportamento,” disse il signor Pecksniff.

“Questo è tutto quello che sai al riguardo,” rispose Jonas, sedendosi con un’aria melancolica. “Non è mai stato meglio di adesso. Come stanno tutti a casa? E Charity?”

“Maledizione, signor Jonas, maledizione.”

“E l’altra, come sta?”

“Un frivolo e capriccioso essere!” mormorò con tenerezza il signor Pecksniff. “È davvero, è davvero una brava ragazza. Va avanti e indietro tra salotto e camera da letto, come una ape che si posa su questo e quell’oggetto; vola da un angolo all’altro della casa, come una farfalla. Immerge il suo “piccolo becco” nel nostro vino di ribes, proprio come un colibrì! Ah, se solo fosse un po’ meno frivola; e se possedesse almeno le qualità genuine di Cherry, la mia giovane amica, ”

“Allora è davvero così stordita?” chiese Jonas.

“Beh, beh!”, disse il signor Pecksniff con grande emozione, “non voglio essere troppo duro con la mia figlia. Accanto a sua sorella Cherry, sembra davvero così. Che strano rumore, signor Jonas!”

“C’è qualcosa che non va nell’orologio, immagino,” disse Jonas, guardandolo. “Quindi l’altro non è il tuo preferito, vero?”

Il tenero padre stava per rispondere; aveva già assunto un’espressione di profonda emozione quando quel suono, che aveva già notato in precedenza, si ripeté.

“Per la mia parola, signor Jonas, quell’orologio è davvero straordinario,” disse Pecksniff.

Avrebbe potuto essere così, se avesse prodotto quel rumore che li aveva spaventati; ma un altro tipo di “orologio del tempo” stava correndo velocemente verso il basso, ed era da lì che proveniva quel suono. Un grido di Chuffey, reso cento volte più forte e minaccioso dalle sue abitudini silenziose, fece tremare tutta la casa dal tetto al seminterrato; guardandosi intorno, videro Anthony Chuzzlewit disteso a terra, con l’anziano impiegato in ginocchio accanto a lui.

Era caduto dalla sedia in un attacco di convulsioni e giaceva lì, lottando per ogni respiro; ogni vena e ogni muscolo contratto sembrava voler testimoniare la sua età avanzata, implorando con forza la Natura di impedirgli di riprendersi. Era spaventoso vedere come il principio della vita, imprigionato nel suo corpo avvizzito, lottasse con disperazione per liberarsi, strappandosi via da quella prigione antica e degradata. Un giovane nella piena delle sue forze che si dibattesse in un simile stato di disperazione sarebbe stato uno spettacolo tragico; ma un vecchio corpo raggrinzito, dotato di una forza soprannaturale, il cui ogni movimento contraddiceva l’aspetto debole e fragile del suo posseditore, rappresentava davvero uno spettacolo orribile.

Lo sollevarono e chiamarono subito un chirurgo, il quale fece sanguinare il paziente e gli applicò alcuni rimedi; tuttavia le convulsioni continuarono per molto tempo, tanto che fu già oltre mezzanotte quando riuscirono a metterlo a letto. Ora era tranquillo, ma completamente privo di sensi ed esausto.

“Non andare,” disse Jonas, avvicinando le sue labbra ceneree all’orecchio del signor Pecksniff e sussurrandogli attraverso il letto. “È stato un atto di misericordia che tu fossi presente quando si è ammalato. Altrimenti, qualcuno avrebbe potuto dire che fosse colpa mia.”

“È tutta colpa tua!”, gridò il signor Pecksniff.

“Non lo so, ma forse sì,” rispose, asciugandosi la umidità dal viso pallido. “La gente dice queste cose. Com’è adesso?”

Il signor Pecksniff scosse la testa.

“Prima scherzavo sempre su di lui,” disse Jonas, “ma, non ho mai desiderato che morisse. Pensi che sia davvero così cattivo?”

“Il dottore ha detto che lo era. L’avete sentito,” fu la risposta del signor Pecksniff.

“Ah! Ma potrebbe dire così solo per chiederci di più in caso si rimetta, ” disse Jonas. “Non devi andartene, Pecksniff. Ora che le cose sono arrivate a questo punto, non mi fiderei affatto senza un testimone, nemmeno per mille sterline.”

Chuffey non disse una parola e non ne udì nessuna. Si era seduto su una sedia accanto al letto e lì rimase immobile; a volte solo chinava la testa sul cuscino, come se stesse ascoltando. Non cambiò mai comportamento. Una volta, però, nella triste notte, il signor Pecksniff, dopo essersi assopito, si svegliò con l’impressione confusa di averlo sentito pregare; inoltre, gli sembrava che figure strane – non parole, ma numeri matematici – si mescolassero alle sue preghiere.

Jonas sedeva lì anche lui, per tutta la notte; non nel posto dove suo padre avrebbe potuto vederlo, se solo avesse ripreso conoscenza, ma nascosto, in un certo senso, dietro di lui, e osservando soltanto come appariva agli occhi del signor Pecksniff. LUI, quel volgare arrivista che aveva dominato quella casa per tanto tempo. Quel codardo, che aveva paura anche solo di muoversi, tremando così tanto da far tremolare persino la sua ombra sulla parete!

Era una giornata calda, luminosa e piena di vita; dopo aver lasciato il vecchio impiegato a sorvegliarlo, scesero a fare colazione. La gente si affrettava avanti e indietro per la strada; finestre e porte venivano aperte; ladri e mendicanti occupavano i loro soliti posti; i lavoratori si mettevano all’opera; i commercianti aprivano le loro botteghe; ufficiali di giustizia e poliziotti erano in allerta; ogni tipo di persona lottava, a modo suo, per sopravvivere, con lo stesso impegno con cui quell’anziano malato si sforzava di raccogliere ogni granello di sabbia nel suo bicchiere ormai quasi vuoto, come se quei granelli rappresentassero un intero impero.

“Se dovesse succedere qualcosa, Pecksniff,” disse Jonas, “devi promettermi di fermarti qui finché tutto non sarà finito. Vedrai che farò ciò che è giusto.”

“So che farà la cosa giusta, signor Jonas,” disse Pecksniff.

“Sì, sì, ma non permetterò che si dubiti di me. Nessuno avrà il potere di dire una parola contro di me,” rispose. “So come parleranno la gente. Come se lui non fosse vecchio, o come se io possedessi il segreto per mantenerlo in vita!”

Il signor Pecksniff promise che, se le circostanze lo rendessero opportuno secondo l’opinione del suo stimato amico, sarebbe rimasto; stavano finendo di mangiare in silenzio, quando all’improvviso una apparizione si materializzò davanti a loro, così orribile da far gridare Jonas e far indietreggiare entrambi per terrore.

Il vecchio Anthony, vestito con i suoi soliti abiti, si trovava nella stanza, accanto al tavolo. Si appoggiava alla spalla del suo unico amico; sul suo viso pallido, sulle sue mani callose, nei suoi occhi vitrei, e anche nelle gocce di sudore sulla sua fronte, c’era una sola parola: Morte.

Loro parlò, con una voce che sembrava la sua, ma affilata e vuota, come il volto di un morto. Cosa avesse detto, solo Dio lo sa. Sembrava pronunciare parole, ma erano cose che nessuno aveva mai sentito prima. E questa fu senz’altro la circostanza più spaventosa di tutte: vederlo lì in piedi, balbettare in una lingua innaturale.

“Ora sta meglio,” disse Chuffey. “Molto meglio. Lasciatelo sedere sulla sua vecchia sedia e starà di nuovo bene. Gli ho detto di non preoccuparsi. Proprio ieri gliel’ho detto.”

Lo misero nella sua poltrona e la spinsero vicino alla finestra; poi, aprendo la porta, lo esposero al fresco vento del mattino. Ma nemmeno tutta l’aria che esiste, né tutti i venti che siano mai soffiati tra Cielo e Terra, avrebbero potuto ridargli la vita.

Gettategli addosso ora pezzi d’oro, che nemmeno le sue dita pesanti riescano a afferrarne uno!

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE READER IS BROUGHT INTO COMMUNICATION WITH SOME PROFESSIONAL PERSONS, AND SHEDS A TEAR OVER THE FILIAL PIETY OF GOOD MR JONAS

Mr Pecksniff was in a hackney cabriolet, for Jonas Chuzzlewit had said ‘Spare no expense.’ Mankind is evil in its thoughts and in its base constructions, and Jonas was resolved it should not have an inch to stretch into an ell against him. It never should be charged upon his father’s son that he had grudged the money for his father’s funeral. Hence, until the obsequies should be concluded, Jonas had taken for his motto ‘Spend, and spare not!’

Mr Pecksniff had been to the undertaker, and was now upon his way to another officer in the train of mourning—a female functionary, a nurse, and watcher, and performer of nameless offices about the persons of the dead—whom he had recommended. Her name, as Mr Pecksniff gathered from a scrap of writing in his hand, was Gamp; her residence in Kingsgate Street, High Holborn. So Mr Pecksniff, in a hackney cab, was rattling over Holborn stones, in quest of Mrs Gamp.

This lady lodged at a bird-fancier’s, next door but one to the celebrated mutton-pie shop, and directly opposite to the original cat’s-meat warehouse; the renown of which establishments was duly heralded on their respective fronts. It was a little house, and this was the more convenient; for Mrs Gamp being, in her highest walk of art, a monthly nurse, or, as her sign-board boldly had it, ‘Midwife,’ and lodging in the first-floor front, was easily assailable at night by pebbles, walking-sticks, and fragments of tobacco-pipe; all much more efficacious than the street-door knocker, which was so constructed as to wake the street with ease, and even spread alarms of fire in Holborn, without making the smallest impression on the premises to which it was addressed.

It chanced on this particular occasion, that Mrs Gamp had been up all the previous night, in attendance upon a ceremony to which the usage of gossips has given that name which expresses, in two syllables, the curse pronounced on Adam. It chanced that Mrs Gamp had not been regularly engaged, but had been called in at a crisis, in consequence of her great repute, to assist another professional lady with her advice; and thus it happened that, all points of interest in the case being over, Mrs Gamp had come home again to the bird-fancier’s and gone to bed. So when Mr Pecksniff drove up in the hackney cab, Mrs Gamp’s curtains were drawn close, and Mrs Gamp was fast asleep behind them.

If the bird-fancier had been at home, as he ought to have been, there would have been no great harm in this; but he was out, and his shop was closed. The shutters were down certainly; and in every pane of glass there was at least one tiny bird in a tiny bird-cage, twittering and hopping his little ballet of despair, and knocking his head against the roof; while one unhappy goldfinch who lived outside a red villa with his name on the door, drew the water for his own drinking, and mutely appealed to some good man to drop a farthing’s-worth of poison in it. Still, the door was shut. Mr Pecksniff tried the latch, and shook it, causing a cracked bell inside to ring most mournfully; but no one came. The bird-fancier was an easy shaver also, and a fashionable hair-dresser also, and perhaps he had been sent for, express, from the court end of the town, to trim a lord, or cut and curl a lady; but however that might be, there, upon his own ground, he was not; nor was there any more distinct trace of him to assist the imagination of an inquirer, than a professional print or emblem of his calling (much favoured in the trade), representing a hair-dresser of easy manners curling a lady of distinguished fashion, in the presence of a patent upright grand pianoforte.

Noting these circumstances, Mr Pecksniff, in the innocence of his heart, applied himself to the knocker; but at the first double knock every window in the street became alive with female heads; and before he could repeat the performance whole troops of married ladies (some about to trouble Mrs Gamp themselves very shortly) came flocking round the steps, all crying out with one accord, and with uncommon interest, ‘Knock at the winder, sir, knock at the winder. Lord bless you, don’t lose no more time than you can help—knock at the winder!’

Acting upon this suggestion, and borrowing the driver’s whip for the purpose, Mr Pecksniff soon made a commotion among the first floor flower-pots, and roused Mrs Gamp, whose voice—to the great satisfaction of the matrons—was heard to say, ‘I’m coming.’

‘He’s as pale as a muffin,’ said one lady, in allusion to Mr Pecksniff.

‘So he ought to be, if he’s the feelings of a man,’ observed another.

A third lady (with her arms folded) said she wished he had chosen any other time for fetching Mrs Gamp, but it always happened so with HER.

It gave Mr Pecksniff much uneasiness to find, from these remarks, that he was supposed to have come to Mrs Gamp upon an errand touching—not the close of life, but the other end. Mrs Gamp herself was under the same impression, for, throwing open the window, she cried behind the curtains, as she hastily attired herself—

‘Is it Mrs Perkins?’

‘No!’ returned Mr Pecksniff, sharply. ‘Nothing of the sort.’

‘What, Mr Whilks!’ cried Mrs Gamp. ‘Don’t say it’s you, Mr Whilks, and that poor creetur Mrs Whilks with not even a pincushion ready. Don’t say it’s you, Mr Whilks!’

‘It isn’t Mr Whilks,’ said Pecksniff. ‘I don’t know the man. Nothing of the kind. A gentleman is dead; and some person being wanted in the house, you have been recommended by Mr Mould the undertaker.’

As she was by this time in a condition to appear, Mrs Gamp, who had a face for all occasions, looked out of the window with her mourning countenance, and said she would be down directly. But the matrons took it very ill that Mr Pecksniff’s mission was of so unimportant a kind; and the lady with her arms folded rated him in good round terms, signifying that she would be glad to know what he meant by terrifying delicate females ‘with his corpses;’ and giving it as her opinion that he was quite ugly enough to know better. The other ladies were not at all behind-hand in expressing similar sentiments; and the children, of whom some scores had now collected, hooted and defied Mr Pecksniff quite savagely. So when Mrs Gamp appeared, the unoffending gentleman was glad to hustle her with very little ceremony into the cabriolet, and drive off, overwhelmed with popular execration.

CAPITOLO DICIANNOVE

Il lettore entra in contatto con alcune persone professioniste e versa una lacrima di commozione per la pietà filiale del buon signor Jonas.

Il signor Pecksniff si trovava in una cabriolet a noleggio, perché Jonas Chuzzlewit aveva detto: “Non risparmiare su nulla”. L’umanità è malvagia nei suoi pensieri e nelle sue azioni più basse, e Jonas era deciso che non gli fosse concesso nemmeno il minimo vantaggio. Non doveva mai essere accusato di aver risparmiato i soldi necessari per i funerali di suo padre. Pertanto, fino alla conclusione delle cerimonie funebri, Jonas aveva adottato come motto: “Spendi, e non risparmiare su nulla!”

Il signor Pecksniff era stato dall’impresario di pompe funebri e ora si dirigeva verso un’altra persona incaricata delle cerimonie funebri: una donna, un’infermiera, che assisteva i defunti e svolgeva compiti poco noti legati alle loro esequie; era stata proprio lui a raccomandarla. Il signor Pecksniff, da un pezzo di carta che aveva in mano, apprese che il suo nome era Gamp e che abitava in Kingsgate Street, High Holborn. Così, su una vettura a noleggio, il signor Pecksniff si dirigeva verso la casa della signora Gamp, sobbalzando sulle pietre di Holborn.

Questa signora soggiornava presso un appassionato di uccelli, situato proprio accanto al famoso negozio di torte di carne d’agnello e direttamente di fronte all’originale magazzino di carne di gatto; la notorietà di questi luoghi era chiaramente indicata sui loro rispettivi cartelli. Si trattava di una piccola casa, il che rendeva le cose ancora più convenienti: poiché la signora Gamp, nel suo ruolo di infermiera a contratto mensile – o, come recitava audacemente il suo cartello, “ostetrica” – abitava al piano terra, era facile per lei ricevere, di notte, attacchi con pietre, bastoni da passeggio e frammenti di pipa da tabacco; metodi molto più efficaci del campanello d’ingresso, che, essendo costruito in modo tale da svegliare facilmente l’intera strada, avrebbe persino potuto causare allarmi per un incendio a Holborn, senza lasciare alcun segno sul luogo a cui era indirizzato.

Per puro caso, in quell’occasione specifica, la signora Gamp era stata sveglia tutta la precedente notte, partecipando a una cerimonia alla quale le chiacchiere hanno dato quel nome che, in due sillabe, esprime la maledizione pronunciata su Adamo. Per puro caso, la signora Gamp non era stata impegnata regolarmente in quell’evento, ma era stata chiamata all’ultimo momento, a causa della sua grande reputazione, per fornire consigli a un’altra donna professionista; e così, una volta terminati tutti gli aspetti interessanti di quella situazione, la signora Gamp tornò a casa del collezionista di uccelli e andò a dormire. Quando quindi il signor Pecksniff arrivò in calescia, le tende della signora Gamp erano ben chiuse e lei dormiva profondamente dietro di esse.

Se l’amante degli uccelli fosse stato a casa, come avrebbe dovuto essere, non ci sarebbe stato alcun danno; ma lui era fuori, e il suo negozio era chiuso. Le persiane erano sicuramente abbassate; e in ogni vetro c’era almeno un piccolo uccello in una gabbietta, che cinguettava e si muoveva avanti e indietro, come se eseguisse un piccolo balletto di -disperazione, sbattendo la testa contro il soffitto; mentre un infelice canarino che viveva fuori da una villa rossa con il suo nome sulla porta attingeva l’acqua per bere, e chiamava in silenzio qualche buon uomo perché vi versasse dentro un po’ di veleno. Tuttavia, la porta era chiusa. Il signor Pecksniff provò ad aprire con la serratura, la scosse, facendo suonare all’interno una campanella rotta in modo molto triste; ma nessuno venne. L’amante degli uccelli era anche un barbiere abile e un parrucchiere alla moda; forse era stato chiamato d’urgenza dall’altra estremità della città, per tagliare i capelli a un lord o acconciare una signora; ma comunque fosse, in quel luogo non c’era traccia di lui; e non esisteva alcun indizio che potesse aiutare l’immaginazione di chi volesse informarsi su di lui, se non un simbolo professionale del suo mestiere (molto diffuso nel settore), raffigurante un parrucchiere gentile che acconciava una signora di grande eleganza, davanti a un pianoforte grandioso e dritto.

Notando queste circostanze, il signor Pecksniff, con l’innocenza del suo cuore, si mise all’opera per bussare alla porta; ma al primo colpo doppio, tutte le finestre della strada si riempirono di teste femminili; e prima che potesse ripetere il tentativo, intere schiere di signore sposate (alcune delle quali stavano per causare dei problemi alla stessa signora Gamp) si radunarono intorno ai gradini, gridando tutte all’unisono e con grande interesse: “Bussate al campanello, signore, bussate al campanello! Per l’amor del cielo, non perdete più tempo, bussate al campanello!”

Attenendosi a questo suggerimento e prendendo in prestito la frusta del conducente a tale scopo, il signor Pecksniff presto causò un certo trambusto tra i vasi di fiori al primo piano e svegliò la signora Gamp; la cui voce – con grande soddisfazione delle altre donne di servizio – si udì dire: “Vengo subito.”

“È pallido come un muffin,” disse una signora, alludendo al signor Pecksniff.

“So che dovrebbe esserlo, se prova i sentimenti di un uomo,” osservò un altro.

Una terza signora (con le braccia incrociate) disse che avrebbe voluto che lui scegliesse un altro momento per andare a prendere la signora Gamp, ma con lei succedeva sempre così.

Rivolse al signor Pecksniff grande imbarazzo scoprire, da queste osservazioni, che si riteneva fosse andato dalla signora Gamp per un affare riguardante, non la fine della vita, ma l’altro estremo. Anche la signora Gamp aveva lo stesso convincimento; infatti, aprendo la finestra, gridò dietro le tende mentre si vestiva in fretta.

“È la signora Perkins?”

“No!” rispose prontamente il signor Pecksniff. “Assolutamente no.”

“Che cosa? Signor Whilks!” gridò la signora Gamp. “Non dica che è lei, signor Whilks. E quella povera donna, la signora Whilks, che non ha nemmeno un cuscino da cucito pronto. Non dica che è lei, signor Whilks!”

“Non è il signor Whilks,” disse Pecksniff. “Non conosco quell’uomo. Assolutamente no. Un gentiluomo è morto; e poiché qualcuno era necessario in quella casa, siete stato raccomandato dal signor Mould, l’impresario funebre.”

A quell’ora, la signora Gamp, che aveva sempre un aspetto adatto a ogni occasione, guardò fuori dalla finestra con un’espressione di lutto e disse che sarebbe scesa subito. Ma le altre signore trovarono molto offensivo che la missione del signor Pecksniff fosse di così scarso rilievo; inoltre, una di loro lo criticò aspramente, definendolo un individuo spregevole e aggiungendo che avrebbe voluto sapere cosa intendesse con le sue azioni, che terrorizzavano donne delicate con “i suoi cadaveri”. Anche le altre signore espressero sentimenti simili; i bambini, ormai numerosi, lo insultarono in modo selvaggio. Quando finalmente la signora Gamp apparve, quel gentiluomo innocente fu felice di farla salire rapidamente nel calessino e partire, sommerso dall’ostilità generale.

Mrs Gamp had a large bundle with her, a pair of pattens, and a species of gig umbrella; the latter article in colour like a faded leaf, except where a circular patch of a lively blue had been dexterously let in at the top. She was much flurried by the haste she had made, and laboured under the most erroneous views of cabriolets, which she appeared to confound with mail-coaches or stage-wagons, inasmuch as she was constantly endeavouring for the first half mile to force her luggage through the little front window, and clamouring to the driver to ‘put it in the boot.’ When she was disabused of this idea, her whole being resolved itself into an absorbing anxiety about her pattens, with which she played innumerable games at quoits on Mr Pecksniff’s legs. It was not until they were close upon the house of mourning that she had enough composure to observe—

‘And so the gentleman’s dead, sir! Ah! The more’s the pity.’ She didn’t even know his name. ‘But it’s what we must all come to. It’s as certain as being born, except that we can’t make our calculations as exact. Ah! Poor dear!’

She was a fat old woman, this Mrs Gamp, with a husky voice and a moist eye, which she had a remarkable power of turning up, and only showing the white of it. Having very little neck, it cost her some trouble to look over herself, if one may say so, at those to whom she talked. She wore a very rusty black gown, rather the worse for snuff, and a shawl and bonnet to correspond. In these dilapidated articles of dress she had, on principle, arrayed herself, time out of mind, on such occasions as the present; for this at once expressed a decent amount of veneration for the deceased, and invited the next of kin to present her with a fresher suit of weeds; an appeal so frequently successful, that the very fetch and ghost of Mrs Gamp, bonnet and all, might be seen hanging up, any hour in the day, in at least a dozen of the second-hand clothes shops about Holborn. The face of Mrs Gamp—the nose in particular—was somewhat red and swollen, and it was difficult to enjoy her society without becoming conscious of a smell of spirits. Like most persons who have attained to great eminence in their profession, she took to hers very kindly; insomuch that, setting aside her natural predilections as a woman, she went to a lying-in or a laying-out with equal zest and relish.

‘Ah!’ repeated Mrs Gamp; for it was always a safe sentiment in cases of mourning. ‘Ah dear! When Gamp was summoned to his long home, and I see him a-lying in Guy’s Hospital with a penny-piece on each eye, and his wooden leg under his left arm, I thought I should have fainted away. But I bore up.’

If certain whispers current in the Kingsgate Street circles had any truth in them, she had indeed borne up surprisingly; and had exerted such uncommon fortitude as to dispose of Mr Gamp’s remains for the benefit of science. But it should be added, in fairness, that this had happened twenty years before; and that Mr and Mrs Gamp had long been separated on the ground of incompatibility of temper in their drink.

‘You have become indifferent since then, I suppose?’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Use is second nature, Mrs Gamp.’

‘You may well say second nater, sir,’ returned that lady. ‘One’s first ways is to find sich things a trial to the feelings, and so is one’s lasting custom. If it wasn’t for the nerve a little sip of liquor gives me (I never was able to do more than taste it), I never could go through with what I sometimes has to do. “Mrs Harris,” I says, at the very last case as ever I acted in, which it was but a young person, “Mrs Harris,” I says, “leave the bottle on the chimley-piece, and don’t ask me to take none, but let me put my lips to it when I am so dispoged, and then I will do what I’m engaged to do, according to the best of my ability.” “Mrs Gamp,” she says, in answer, “if ever there was a sober creetur to be got at eighteen pence a day for working people, and three and six for gentlefolks—night watching,”’ said Mrs Gamp with emphasis, ‘“being a extra charge—you are that inwallable person.” “Mrs Harris,” I says to her, “don’t name the charge, for if I could afford to lay all my feller creeturs out for nothink, I would gladly do it, sich is the love I bears ‘em. But what I always says to them as has the management of matters, Mrs Harris”’—here she kept her eye on Mr Pecksniff—‘“be they gents or be they ladies, is, don’t ask me whether I won’t take none, or whether I will, but leave the bottle on the chimley-piece, and let me put my lips to it when I am so dispoged.”’

The conclusion of this affecting narrative brought them to the house. In the passage they encountered Mr Mould the undertaker; a little elderly gentleman, bald, and in a suit of black; with a notebook in his hand, a massive gold watch-chain dangling from his fob, and a face in which a queer attempt at melancholy was at odds with a smirk of satisfaction; so that he looked as a man might, who, in the very act of smacking his lips over choice old wine, tried to make believe it was physic.

‘Well, Mrs Gamp, and how are YOU, Mrs Gamp?’ said this gentleman, in a voice as soft as his step.

‘Pretty well, I thank you, sir,’ dropping a curtsey.

‘You’ll be very particular here, Mrs Gamp. This is not a common case, Mrs Gamp. Let everything be very nice and comfortable, Mrs Gamp, if you please,’ said the undertaker, shaking his head with a solemn air.

‘It shall be, sir,’ she replied, curtseying again. ‘You knows me of old, sir, I hope.’

‘I hope so, too, Mrs Gamp,’ said the undertaker, ‘and I think so also.’ Mrs Gamp curtseyed again. ‘This is one of the most impressive cases, sir,’ he continued, addressing Mr Pecksniff, ‘that I have seen in the whole course of my professional experience.’

‘Indeed, Mr Mould!’ cried that gentleman.

‘Such affectionate regret, sir, I never saw. There is no limitation, there is positively NO limitation’—opening his eyes wide, and standing on tiptoe—‘in point of expense! I have orders, sir, to put on my whole establishment of mutes; and mutes come very dear, Mr Pecksniff; not to mention their drink. To provide silver-plated handles of the very best description, ornamented with angels’ heads from the most expensive dies. To be perfectly profuse in feathers. In short, sir, to turn out something absolutely gorgeous.’

La signora Gamp aveva con sé un grosso fagotto, un paio di pattini e un ombrello a forma di gigante; quest’ultimo era di colore simile a una foglia appassita, tranne per una macchia circolare di blu vivace applicata abilmente sulla parte superiore. Era molto agitata a causa della fretta con cui si muoveva e aveva delle idee assolutamente errate riguardo ai “cabriolets”, che sembrava confondere con le carrozze postali o i carri teatrali; infatti, per i primi duecento metri del viaggio cercava in tutti i modi di far passare il suo bagaglio attraverso la piccola finestra anteriore, chiedendo al conducente di “metterlo nel baule”. Solo quando si rese conto dell’errore, tutta la sua attenzione si concentrò sui suoi pattini, con i quali giocava innumerevoli giochi sulle gambe del signor Pecksniff. Fu solo quando furono vicini alla casa funebre che riuscì finalmente a calmarsi abbastanza da osservare.

“E così il signore è morto. Ah! Che peccato.” Non conosceva nemmeno il suo nome. “Ma è ciò che tutti noi dobbiamo affrontare. È altrettanto certo quanto nascere, solo che non possiamo prevederlo con precisione. Ah! Poverino, ”

Era una donna grassa e anziana, questa signora Gamp: aveva una voce roca e un occhio umido che riusciva a far apparire soltanto la parte bianca, con notevole abilità. Avendo il collo molto corto, le risultava difficile guardare oltre se stessa quando parlava con qualcuno. Indossava un abito nero molto arrugginito, probabilmente peggiorato dall’uso frequente di tabacco, e una sciarpa e un cappello in armonia con esso. In questi vestiti logori, si adornava sistematicamente in occasioni come questa, poiché così dimostrava un certo rispetto per il defunto e invitava i parenti a regalarle abiti più freschi; un’invocazione spesso efficace, tanto che si poteva vedere, in qualsiasi momento della giornata, il cappello e tutto il resto di Mrs Gamp appesi in almeno una dozzina di negozi di vestiti usati nei dintorni di Holborn. Il viso di Mrs Gamp – soprattutto il naso – era piuttosto rosso e gonfio, e era difficile godere della sua compagnia senza percepire un forte odore di alcolici. Come la maggior parte delle persone che hanno raggiunto grande successo nella loro professione, lei ne andava molto fiera; tanto che, mettendo da parte le sue preferenze naturali come donna, partecipava con lo stesso entusiasmo sia alle visite post-partum che ai funerali.

“Ah!” ripeté la signora Gamp; perché in casi di lutto era sempre un sentimento sicuro da esprimere. “Ah, poveretto! Quando chiamarono Gamp nel suo lungo letto di morte e lo vidi disteso nell’ospedale con una moneta da un penny su ciascun occhio, e la gamba di legno sotto il braccio sinistro, pensai che sarei svenuta. Ma ce l’ho fatta.”

Se le voci che circolano nei circoli di Kingsgate Street contenessero un briciolo di verità, allora lei aveva davvero affrontato la situazione in modo sorprendente; e aveva dimostrato una forza d’animo insolita nel disporre dei resti del signor Gamp a beneficio della scienza. Tuttavia, va aggiunto, per essere giusti, che tutto ciò è accaduto vent’anni fa; inoltre, il signor e la signora Gamp erano da tempo separati a causa di incompatibilità di carattere, soprattutto riguardo alle loro abitudini legate all’alcol.

“Da allora sei diventato indifferente, suppongo?” disse il signor Pecksniff.
“L’abitudine è più forte della natura stessa, signora Gamp.”

“Potreste ben dire ‘seconda natura’, signora,” rispose quella donna. “I primi comportamenti di una persona spesso mettono alla prova i propri sentimenti, e così diventa anche la sua abitudine permanente. Se non fosse per il coraggio che mi dà un piccolo sorso di alcol (non sono mai riuscita a berne di più che un assaggio), non sarei mai in grado di fare ciò che a volte devo fare, ‘Signora Harris,’ le dissi l’ultima volta che agii in quel modo, e si trattava solo di una giovane donna, ‘lasciate la bottiglia sul camino, e non chiedetemi di berne; lasciatemi semplicemente avvicinarmi a essa quando ne ho voglia, e allora farò ciò che mi è stato chiesto, nel miglior modo possibile.’”
“Signora Gamp,” rispose lei, “se mai esistesse una persona sobria che potesse essere assunta per diciotto penny al giorno da lavoratori, e tre o sei penny di più la sera per chi fa il turno di guardia tra la gente bene, ” disse Mrs. Gamp con enfasi, “, voi siete proprio quella persona ideale.”
“Signora Harris,” le dissi io, “non menzionate nemmeno quel compenso. Se potessi permettermi di mantenere tutte le mie persone senza che costassero nulla, lo farei volentieri; è tanta l’amore che provo per loro. Ma quello che dico sempre a tutti quelli che si occupano delle faccende, signora Harris, ” – mentre parlavo, tenevo gli occhi fissi su Mr. Pecksniff – “, che siano uomini o donne, è: ‘Non chiedetemi se prenderò qualcosa o no; lasciate semplicemente la bottiglia sul camino, e permettetemi di avvicinarmi a essa quando ne ho voglia.’”

La conclusione di questa commovente storia li portò nella >casa. Nel corso del loro viaggio incontrarono il signor Mould, l’impresario funebre: un anziano gentiluomo calvo, vestito in abiti neri; con un taccuino in mano, una massiccia catena d’oro per orologio che pendeva dal suo taschino, e un volto in cui un tentativo strano di mostrare melanconia si scontrava con un sorriso di soddisfazione; sembrava quindi un uomo che, mentre assaporava del vino pregiato, cercasse di far credere che si trattasse di una medicina.

“Beh, signora Gamp, come state?” disse questo gentiluomo con una voce dolce quanto i suoi passi.

“Molto bene, grazie signore,” disse inchinandosi brevemente.

“Dovrà essere molto attenta in questo caso, signora Gamp. Non si tratta di un caso ordinario. Che tutto sia molto bello e confortevole, la prego, signora Gamp,” disse l’impresario di pompe funebri scuotendo la testa con aria solenne.

“Sì, signore,” rispose lei, inchinandosi di nuovo. “Voi mi conoscete da tempo, signore. Spero.”

“Anch’io lo spero, signora Gamp,” disse l’impresario di pompe funebri, “e credo davvero che sia così.”
La signora Gamp fece di nuovo un inchino. “Questo è uno dei casi più impressionanti che abbia mai visto nel corso della mia esperienza professionale,” continuò, rivolgendosi al signor Pecksniff.

“Certamente, signor Mould!”, esclamò quel gentiluomo.

“Un tale rimpianto affettuoso, signore, non l’avevo mai visto prima. Non ci sono limiti, davvero nessun limite” – disse aprendo bene gli occhi e mettendosi in punta di piedi – “per quanto riguarda le spese! Ho ricevuto ordini, signore, di utilizzare tutta la mia attrezzatura per i muti; e i muti costano molto caro, signor Pecksniff, per non parlare del loro cibo. Bisogna fornire manici d’argento della migliore qualità, decorati con teste di angeli realizzate con le lastre più costose. Insomma, bisogna che il risultato sia assolutamente magnifico.”

‘My friend Mr Jonas is an excellent man,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘I have seen a good deal of what is filial in my time, sir,’ retorted Mould, ‘and what is unfilial too. It is our lot. We come into the knowledge of those secrets. But anything so filial as this; anything so honourable to human nature; so calculated to reconcile all of us to the world we live in; never yet came under my observation. It only proves, sir, what was so forcibly observed by the lamented theatrical poet—buried at Stratford—that there is good in everything.’

‘It is very pleasant to hear you say so, Mr Mould,’ observed Pecksniff.

‘You are very kind, sir. And what a man Mr Chuzzlewit was, sir! Ah! what a man he was. You may talk of your lord mayors,’ said Mould, waving his hand at the public in general, ‘your sheriffs, your common councilmen, your trumpery; but show me a man in this city who is worthy to walk in the shoes of the departed Mr Chuzzlewit. No, no,’ cried Mould, with bitter sarcasm. ‘Hang ‘em up, hang ‘em up; sole ‘em and heel ‘em, and have ‘em ready for his son against he’s old enough to wear ‘em; but don’t try ‘em on yourselves, for they won’t fit you. We knew him,’ said Mould, in the same biting vein, as he pocketed his note-book; ‘we knew him, and are not to be caught with chaff. Mr Pecksniff, sir, good morning.’

Mr Pecksniff returned the compliment; and Mould, sensible of having distinguished himself, was going away with a brisk smile, when he fortunately remembered the occasion. Quickly becoming depressed again, he sighed; looked into the crown of his hat, as if for comfort; put it on without finding any; and slowly departed.

Mrs Gamp and Mr Pecksniff then ascended the staircase; and the former, having been shown to the chamber in which all that remained of Anthony Chuzzlewit lay covered up, with but one loving heart, and that a halting one, to mourn it, left the latter free to enter the darkened room below, and rejoin Mr Jonas, from whom he had now been absent nearly two hours.

He found that example to bereaved sons, and pattern in the eyes of all performers of funerals, musing over a fragment of writing-paper on the desk, and scratching figures on it with a pen. The old man’s chair, and hat, and walking-stick, were removed from their accustomed places, and put out of sight; the window-blinds as yellow as November fogs, were drawn down close; Jonas himself was so subdued, that he could scarcely be heard to speak, and only seen to walk across the room.

‘Pecksniff,’ he said, in a whisper, ‘you shall have the regulation of it all, mind! You shall be able to tell anybody who talks about it that everything was correctly and nicely done. There isn’t any one you’d like to ask to the funeral, is there?’

‘No, Mr Jonas, I think not.’

‘Because if there is, you know,’ said Jonas, ‘ask him. We don’t want to make a secret of it.’

‘No,’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, after a little reflection. ‘I am not the less obliged to you on that account, Mr Jonas, for your liberal hospitality; but there really is no one.’

‘Very well,’ said Jonas; ‘then you, and I, and Chuffey, and the doctor, will be just a coachful. We’ll have the doctor, Pecksniff, because he knows what was the matter with him, and that it couldn’t be helped.’

‘Where is our dear friend, Mr Chuffey?’ asked Pecksniff, looking round the chamber, and winking both his eyes at once—for he was overcome by his feelings.

But here he was interrupted by Mrs Gamp, who, divested of her bonnet and shawl, came sidling and bridling into the room; and with some sharpness demanded a conference outside the door with Mr Pecksniff.

‘You may say whatever you wish to say here, Mrs Gamp,’ said that gentleman, shaking his head with a melancholy expression.

‘It is not much as I have to say when people is a-mourning for the dead and gone,’ said Mrs Gamp; ‘but what I have to say is TO the pint and purpose, and no offence intended, must be so considered. I have been at a many places in my time, gentlemen, and I hope I knows what my duties is, and how the same should be performed; in course, if I did not, it would be very strange, and very wrong in sich a gentleman as Mr Mould, which has undertook the highest families in this land, and given every satisfaction, so to recommend me as he does. I have seen a deal of trouble my own self,’ said Mrs Gamp, laying greater and greater stress upon her words, ‘and I can feel for them as has their feelings tried, but I am not a Rooshan or a Prooshan, and consequently cannot suffer Spies to be set over me.’

Before it was possible that an answer could be returned, Mrs Gamp, growing redder in the face, went on to say:

‘It is not a easy matter, gentlemen, to live when you are left a widder woman; particular when your feelings works upon you to that extent that you often find yourself a-going out on terms which is a certain loss, and never can repay. But in whatever way you earns your bread, you may have rules and regulations of your own which cannot be broke through. Some people,’ said Mrs Gamp, again entrenching herself behind her strong point, as if it were not assailable by human ingenuity, ‘may be Rooshans, and others may be Prooshans; they are born so, and will please themselves. Them which is of other naturs thinks different.’

‘If I understand this good lady,’ said Mr Pecksniff, turning to Jonas, ‘Mr Chuffey is troublesome to her. Shall I fetch him down?’

‘Do,’ said Jonas. ‘I was going to tell you he was up there, when she came in. I’d go myself and bring him down, only—only I’d rather you went, if you don’t mind.’

Mr Pecksniff promptly departed, followed by Mrs Gamp, who, seeing that he took a bottle and glass from the cupboard, and carried it in his hand, was much softened.

‘I am sure,’ she said, ‘that if it wasn’t for his own happiness, I should no more mind him being there, poor dear, than if he was a fly. But them as isn’t used to these things, thinks so much of ‘em afterwards, that it’s a kindness to ‘em not to let ‘em have their wish. And even,’ said Mrs Gamp, probably in reference to some flowers of speech she had already strewn on Mr Chuffey, ‘even if one calls ‘em names, it’s only done to rouse ‘em.’

“Mio amico il signor Jonas è un uomo eccellente,” disse il signor Pecksniff.

“Nel corso della mia vita, signore, ho visto molte cose che possono essere considerate filiali, e anche molte altre che non lo sono. È il nostro destino: veniamo a conoscenza di quei segreti. Ma nulla di così filiale, nulla di così onorevole per la natura umana, nulla che possa riconciliarci con il mondo in cui viviamo, mai ho visto niente del genere. Questo dimostra soltanto, signore, ciò che fu osservato con tanta forza da quel povero poeta teatrale sepolto a Stratford: c’è del buono in tutto.”

“È molto piacevole sentirvi dire questo, signor Mould,” osservò Pecksniff.

“Siete davvero molto gentile, signore. E che uomo era il signor Chuzzlewit, davvero! Ah, che uomo. Potete parlare dei vostri sindaci, dei vostri sceriffi, dei membri del consiglio comunale, ma mostratemi un solo uomo in questa città degno di prendere il posto dell’ormai defunto signor Chuzzlewit. No, no, ” gridò Mould con amaro sarcasmo. “Impiccateli tutti; fate che siano pronti per suo figlio quando sarà abbastanza grande da indossarli. Ma non provate a metterveli voi stessi: non vi starebbero mai bene. Lo conoscevamo,” continuò Mould, riponendo il taccuino in tasca; “lo conoscevamo, e non ci ingannerete con le vostre parole vuote. Buongiorno, signor Pecksniff.”

Il signor Pecksniff ricambiò il complimento; e Mould, rendendosi conto di essersi distinto, stava per andarsene con un sorriso soddisfatto, quando fortunatamente si ricordò dell’occasione. Rapidamente tornò cupo, sospirò, guardò all’interno del cappello come se cercasse conforto, se lo rimise in testa senza trovarvi nulla di rassicurante e poi se ne andò lentamente.

La signora Gamp e il signor Pecksniff salirono quindi le scale; la prima, dopo essere stata accompagnata nella stanza in cui giaceva tutto ciò che rimaneva di Anthony Chuzzlewit, coperto e circondato soltanto da un cuore pieno di amore – ma un cuore incerto e tremante nel piangerlo – lasciò il signor Pecksniff libero di entrare nella stanza buia al piano di sotto e ricongiungersi con il signor Jonas, dal quale era stato separato ormai da quasi due ore.

Scoprì che quel esempio poteva essere di ispirazione per i figli in lutto, e rappresentava un modello da seguire per tutti coloro che partecipano ai riti funebri. Rimuginava su quel frammento di carta scritta sulla scrivania, disegnando figure sopra di esso con una penna. La sedia, il cappello e il bastone del vecchio erano stati spostati dai loro soliti posti e nascosti alla vista; le tende della finestra, gialle come la nebbia di novembre, erano state tirate giù completamente; Jonas stesso era così triste che a malapena si riusciva a sentirlo parlare, e si vedeva solo muoversi lentamente per la stanza.

“Pecksniff,” disse sottovoce, “tu avrai il controllo su tutto, capisci? Potrai dire a chiunque ne parli che tutto è stato fatto nel modo giusto e con cura. Non c’è nessuno che vorresti invitare al funerale, vero?”

“No, signor Jonas, penso di no.”

“Perché se c’è davvero, sai,” disse Jonas, “chiediglielo. Non vogliamo tenerlo nascosto.”

“No,” ripeté il signor Pecksniff, dopo un breve riflessione. “Non per questo sono meno in debito con voi, signor Jonas, per la vostra generosa ospitalità; ma davvero non c’è nessuno.”

“Molto bene,” disse Jonas; “allora tu, io, Chuffey e il dottore faremo insieme un gruppo completo. Avremo anche il dottor Pecksniff, perché lui sa cosa c’era che non andava in lui, e sa che non si poteva fare nulla al riguardo.”

“Dove è il nostro caro amico, il signor Chuffey?” chiese Pecksniff, guardandosi intorno nella stanza e battendo contemporaneamente entrambe le palpebre, perché era sopraffatto dai suoi sentimenti.

Ma in quel momento fu interrotto da Mrs Gamp, che, dopo essersi tolta cappello e scialle, entrò nella stanza con fare deciso e chiese con tono perentorio di parlare con il signor Pecksniff fuori dalla porta.

“Potete dire tutto quello che volete qui, signora Gamp,” disse quel gentiluomo scuotendo la testa con un’espressione malinconica.

“Non ho molto da dire quando le persone piangono i morti che se ne sono andati,” disse la signora Gamp; “ma ciò che ho da dire lo dico chiaramente e senza alcuna intenzione offensiva. Nel corso della mia vita, signori, ho visitato molti posti e spero di sapere quali siano i miei doveri e come debbano essere eseguiti; naturalmente, se non lo sapessi, sarebbe molto strano. E anche molto sbagliato da parte di un gentiluomo come il signor Mould, che si è occupato delle famiglie più importanti di questa terra e mi ha sempre dato grandi apprezzamenti. Ho dovuto affrontare molti problemi nella mia vita,” proseguì la signora Gamp, mettendo sempre maggiore enfasi sulle sue parole, “e posso capire il loro dolore. Ma io non sono una Rooshan né una Prooshan; quindi non permetterò che mi vengano messi addosso degli ‘spie’.”

Prima ancora che fosse possibile fornire una risposta, la signora Gamp, il cui viso diventava sempre più rosso, continuò a dire:

‘Non è affatto facile, signori, vivere quando si rimane vedovi; soprattutto quando i propri sentimenti influenzano le proprie decisioni al punto di farci commettere errori che poi non possiamo mai riparare. Ma in qualunque modo si guadagni da vivere, ci devono essere delle regole e dei principi personali che non si possono infrangere. Alcune persone,’ disse la signora Gamp, rafforzando ancora di più le proprie posizioni, come se queste fossero insuperabili per qualsiasi ingegno umano, ‘potrebbero essere di questo tipo, o di quel tipo; sono nate così e si accontentano di ciò che hanno. Chi invece appartiene a un’altra natura la pensa in modo diverso.’

“Se ho capito bene questa gentile signora,” disse il signor Pecksniff rivolgendosi a Jonas, “il signor Chuffey le causa dei problemi. Devo chiamarlo giù?”

“Va bene,” disse Jonas. “Stavo per dirti che era lì sopra, quando è entrata lei. Avrei potuto andare io stesso a portarlo giù, ma, preferirei che fossi tu a farlo, se non ti dispiace.”

Il signor Pecksniff se ne andò immediatamente, seguito dalla signora Gamp, la quale, vedendolo prendere una bottiglia e un bicchiere dall’armadio e portarli con sé, si addolcì molto.

“Sono sicura,” disse, “che se non fosse per la sua stessa felicità, non mi importerebbe affatto che fosse lì, povero caro, come se fosse una mosca. Ma coloro che non sono abituati a queste cose ci pensano troppo in seguito, quindi è gentile non concedergli il loro desiderio. E anzi,” aggiunse la signora Gamp, probabilmente riferendosi a qualche “fiore di parole” che aveva già detto al signor Chuffey, “anche se si usano certi nomi per chiamarli, lo si fa soltanto per stimolarli.”

Whatever epithets she had bestowed on the old clerk, they had not roused HIM. He sat beside the bed, in the chair he had occupied all the previous night, with his hands folded before him, and his head bowed down; and neither looked up, on their entrance, nor gave any sign of consciousness, until Mr Pecksniff took him by the arm, when he meekly rose.

‘Three score and ten,’ said Chuffey, ‘ought and carry seven. Some men are so strong that they live to four score—four times ought’s an ought, four times two’s an eight—eighty. Oh! why—why—why didn’t he live to four times ought’s an ought, and four times two’s an eight, eighty?’

‘Ah! what a wale of grief!’ cried Mrs Gamp, possessing herself of the bottle and glass.

‘Why did he die before his poor old crazy servant?’ said Chuffey, clasping his hands and looking up in anguish. ‘Take him from me, and what remains?’

‘Mr Jonas,’ returned Pecksniff, ‘Mr Jonas, my good friend.’

‘I loved him,’ cried the old man, weeping. ‘He was good to me. We learnt Tare and Tret together at school. I took him down once, six boys in the arithmetic class. God forgive me! Had I the heart to take him down!’

‘Come, Mr Chuffey,’ said Pecksniff. ‘Come with me. Summon up your fortitude, Mr Chuffey.’

‘Yes, I will,’ returned the old clerk. ‘Yes. I’ll sum up my forty—How many times forty—Oh, Chuzzlewit and Son—Your own son Mr Chuzzlewit; your own son, sir!’

He yielded to the hand that guided him, as he lapsed into this familiar expression, and submitted to be led away. Mrs Gamp, with the bottle on one knee, and the glass on the other, sat upon a stool, shaking her head for a long time, until, in a moment of abstraction, she poured out a dram of spirits, and raised it to her lips. It was succeeded by a second, and by a third, and then her eyes—either in the sadness of her reflections upon life and death, or in her admiration of the liquor—were so turned up, as to be quite invisible. But she shook her head still.

Poor Chuffey was conducted to his accustomed corner, and there he remained, silent and quiet, save at long intervals, when he would rise, and walk about the room, and wring his hands, or raise some strange and sudden cry. For a whole week they all three sat about the hearth and never stirred abroad. Mr Pecksniff would have walked out in the evening time, but Mr Jonas was so averse to his being absent for a minute, that he abandoned the idea, and so, from morning until night, they brooded together in the dark room, without relief or occupation.

The weight of that which was stretched out, stiff and stark, in the awful chamber above-stairs, so crushed and bore down Jonas, that he bent beneath the load. During the whole long seven days and nights, he was always oppressed and haunted by a dreadful sense of its presence in the house. Did the door move, he looked towards it with a livid face and starting eye, as if he fully believed that ghostly fingers clutched the handle. Did the fire flicker in a draught of air, he glanced over his shoulder, as almost dreading to behold some shrouded figure fanning and flapping at it with its fearful dress. The lightest noise disturbed him; and once, in the night, at the sound of a footstep overhead, he cried out that the dead man was walking—tramp, tramp, tramp—about his coffin.

He lay at night upon a mattress on the floor of the sitting-room; his own chamber having been assigned to Mrs Gamp; and Mr Pecksniff was similarly accommodated. The howling of a dog before the house, filled him with a terror he could not disguise. He avoided the reflection in the opposite windows of the light that burned above, as though it had been an angry eye. He often, in every night, rose up from his fitful sleep, and looked and longed for dawn; all directions and arrangements, even to the ordering of their daily meals, he abandoned to Mr Pecksniff. That excellent gentleman, deeming that the mourner wanted comfort, and that high feeding was likely to do him infinite service, availed himself of these opportunities to such good purpose, that they kept quite a dainty table during this melancholy season; with sweetbreads, stewed kidneys, oysters, and other such light viands for supper every night; over which, and sundry jorums of hot punch, Mr Pecksniff delivered such moral reflections and spiritual consolation as might have converted a Heathen—especially if he had had but an imperfect acquaintance with the English tongue.

Nor did Mr Pecksniff alone indulge in the creature comforts during this sad time. Mrs Gamp proved to be very choice in her eating, and repudiated hashed mutton with scorn. In her drinking too, she was very punctual and particular, requiring a pint of mild porter at lunch, a pint at dinner, half-a-pint as a species of stay or holdfast between dinner and tea, and a pint of the celebrated staggering ale, or Real Old Brighton Tipper, at supper; besides the bottle on the chimney-piece, and such casual invitations to refresh herself with wine as the good breeding of her employers might prompt them to offer. In like manner, Mr Mould’s men found it necessary to drown their grief, like a young kitten in the morning of its existence, for which reason they generally fuddled themselves before they began to do anything, lest it should make head and get the better of them. In short, the whole of that strange week was a round of dismal joviality and grim enjoyment; and every one, except poor Chuffey, who came within the shadow of Anthony Chuzzlewit’s grave, feasted like a Ghoul.

At length the day of the funeral, pious and truthful ceremony that it was, arrived. Mr Mould, with a glass of generous port between his eye and the light, leaned against the desk in the little glass office with his gold watch in his unoccupied hand, and conversed with Mrs Gamp; two mutes were at the house-door, looking as mournful as could be reasonably expected of men with such a thriving job in hand; the whole of Mr Mould’s establishment were on duty within the house or without; feathers waved, horses snorted, silk and velvets fluttered; in a word, as Mr Mould emphatically said, ‘Everything that money could do was done.’

Qualunque epiteto lei avesse attribuito a quel vecchio impiegato, essi non lo avevano affatto scosso. Sedeva accanto al letto, nella stessa sedia in cui era rimasto tutta la precedente notte, con le mani incrociate davanti a sé e la testa china; né alzò lo sguardo al loro ingresso, né diede alcun segno di essersi reso conto della loro presenza, fino a quando il signor Pecksniff non lo prese per il braccio; allora si alzò docilmente.

“Trenta anni e dieci,” disse Chuffey, “dovrebbero fare settantasette. Alcuni uomini sono così forti che vivono fino a quaranta anni. Quattro volte ‘dovrebbe’ fa sette. Quattro volte due fa otto. Ottanta. Oh! Perché, perché non è vissuto fino a ottanta anni?”

“Ah! Che ondata di dolore!” esclamò la signora Gamp, prendendo in mano la bottiglia e il bicchiere.

“Perché è morto prima del suo povero e vecchio servitore pazzo?” disse Chuffey, stringendo le mani e alzando lo sguardo con angoscia. “Toglietemelo, e cosa resterà?”

“Signor Jonas,” rispose Pecksniff, “signor Jonas, mio caro amico.”

“Lo amavo,” gridò l’uomo anziano, piangendo. “Era buono con me. Abbiamo studiato insieme a scuola. Una volta lo ho bocciato in un esame di aritmetica. Sei ragazzi insieme. Dio mi perdoni! Avrei avuto il coraggio di farlo davvero?”

“Venga, signor Chuffey,” disse Pecksniff. “Venga con me. Raduni tutto il suo coraggio, signor Chuffey.”

“Sì, lo farò,” rispose l’anziano impiegato. “Sì. Calcolerò i miei quaranta. Quante volte quaranta. Oh, Chuzzlewit e Figlio. Vostro figlio stesso, signor Chuzzlewit; vostro figlio, signore!”

Si arrese alla mano che lo guidava, ripetendo quella frase familiare, e si lasciò portare via. La signora Gamp, con la bottiglia su un ginocchio e il bicchiere sull’altro, sedeva su uno sgabello scuotendo la testa per molto tempo; poi, in un momento di distrazione, versò un bicchierino di liquore e lo portò alle labbra. Ne seguirono altri due. Poi i suoi occhi – forse a causa della tristezza derivante dalle sue riflessioni sulla vita e sulla morte, o forse per l’ammirazione che provava per quel liquore – si alzarono così tanto da diventare quasi invisibili. Ma continuò comunque a scuotere la testa.

Povero Chuffey fu portato nel solito angolo e lì rimase, silenzioso e tranquillo, tranne che di tanto in tanto si alzava, camminava per la stanza, si torceva le mani o emetteva strani e improvvisi gridi. Per tutta una settimana, i tre sedettero intorno al camino senza mai uscire. Il signor Pecksniff avrebbe voluto uscire la sera, ma il signor Jonas era così contrario al suo assentarsi anche per un minuto che abbandonò l’idea; così, dal mattino alla sera, rimasero insieme in quella stanza buia, senza sollievo né distrazione.

Il peso di quella cosa che si estendeva rigida e immobile nella terribile stanza al piano di sopra schiacciava Jonas con tale forza che lui doveva piegarsi sotto quel carico. Per tutti quei sette lunghi giorni e notti, fu costantemente oppresso dal terrore della sua presenza in quella casa. Se la porta si muoveva, la guardava con il viso pallido e gli occhi spalancati, convinto che dita fantasma afferrassero la maniglia. Se il fuoco tremolava a causa di una corrente d’aria, gettava un’occhiata alle sue spalle, quasi temendo di vedere una figura avvolta in un mantello che lo soffiava via con i suoi abiti spaventosi. Anche il minimo rumore lo turbava; e una volta, di notte, sentendo dei passi sopra la sua testa, gridò che l’uomo morto stesse camminando, tacchettando intorno alla sua bara.

Di notte, giaceva su un materasso per terra nel salotto; la sua stanza personale era stata assegnata a Mrs Gamp, e lo stesso valeva per Mr Pecksniff. Il latrato di un cane davanti alla casa lo riempiva di un terrore che non riusciva a nascondere. Evitava il riflesso della luce che ardeva sopra le finestre opposte, come se si trattasse di uno sguardo furioso. Spesso, ogni notte, si svegliava dal suo sonno inquieto e anelava al alba; abbandonò completamente a Mr Pecksniff la gestione di tutte le faccende quotidiane, compresa l’organizzazione dei pasti. Quell’eccellente gentiluomo, ritenendo che il vedovo avesse bisogno di conforto e che una dieta ricca potesse essergli di grande aiuto, sfruttò queste occasioni al meglio: durante quella stagione melancolica, fu allestito un tavolo davvero raffinato, con fegatini, reni stufati, ostriche e altre prelibatezze per la cena ogni notte; accompagnate da vari bicchieri di punch caldo, queste cene offrivano riflessioni morali e consolazioni spirituali tali da poter convertire un pagano, soprattutto se avesse conosciuto solo in modo superficiale la lingua inglese.

Nemmeno il signor Pecksniff, da solo, si concesse i piaceri della vita in quel triste periodo. La signora Gamp era molto raffinata nel suo modo di mangiare e disdegnava decisamente la carne di montone tritata. Anche nell’alcol era molto precisa: a pranzo richiedeva una pinta di birra leggera, a cena un’altra pinta, mezza pinta tra cena e tè, e infine una pinta della famosa birra “Real Old Brighton Tipper” per la cena; inoltre, non dimenticava mai la bottiglia sul camino, né le occasioni occasionali in cui i suoi datori di lavoro le offrivano del vino. Allo stesso modo, gli uomini del signor Mould ritenevano necessario “annegare il loro dolore”, come un gattino appena nato; per questo motivo, di solito si ubriacavano prima di iniziare qualsiasi cosa, per evitare che il dolore prendesse il sopravvento. In breve, tutta quella strana settimana fu caratterizzata da una sorta di triste allegria e cupo divertimento; tutti, tranne povero Chuffey, che si trovava nell’ombra della tomba di Anthony Chuzzlewit, mangiavano come dei vampiri.

Finalmente arrivò il giorno del funerale, una cerimonia pia e sincera. Il signor Mould, con un bicchiere di ottimo porto tra gli occhi e la luce, si appoggiò alla scrivania nell’ufficio in vetro, tenendo l’orologio d’oro nella mano libera, e conversava con la signora Gamp; due silenziosi individui stavano davanti alla porta di casa, con un aspetto così triste da essere del tutto comprensibile per persone che avevano un lavoro così redditizio; tutti i dipendenti del signor Mould erano impegnati all’interno o all’esterno della casa: piume sventolavano, cavalli nitrivano, seta e velluti ondeggiavano. In breve, come il signor Mould stesso affermò con enfasi, “fu fatto tutto ciò che i soldi possono permettere”.

‘And what can do more, Mrs Gamp?’ exclaimed the undertaker as he emptied his glass and smacked his lips.

‘Nothing in the world, sir.’

‘Nothing in the world,’ repeated Mr Mould. ‘You are right, Mrs Gamp. Why do people spend more money’—here he filled his glass again—‘upon a death, Mrs Gamp, than upon a birth? Come, that’s in your way; you ought to know. How do you account for that now?’

‘Perhaps it is because an undertaker’s charges comes dearer than a nurse’s charges, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp, tittering, and smoothing down her new black dress with her hands.

‘Ha, ha!’ laughed Mr Mould. ‘You have been breakfasting at somebody’s expense this morning, Mrs Gamp.’ But seeing, by the aid of a little shaving-glass which hung opposite, that he looked merry, he composed his features and became sorrowful.

‘Many’s the time that I’ve not breakfasted at my own expense along of your recommending, sir; and many’s the time I hope to do the same in time to come,’ said Mrs Gamp, with an apologetic curtsey.

‘So be it,’ replied Mr Mould, ‘please Providence. No, Mrs Gamp; I’ll tell you why it is. It’s because the laying out of money with a well-conducted establishment, where the thing is performed upon the very best scale, binds the broken heart, and sheds balm upon the wounded spirit. Hearts want binding, and spirits want balming when people die; not when people are born. Look at this gentleman to-day; look at him.’

‘An open-handed gentleman?’ cried Mrs Gamp, with enthusiasm.

‘No, no,’ said the undertaker; ‘not an open-handed gentleman in general, by any means. There you mistake him; but an afflicted gentleman, an affectionate gentleman, who knows what it is in the power of money to do, in giving him relief, and in testifying his love and veneration for the departed. It can give him,’ said Mr Mould, waving his watch-chain slowly round and round, so that he described one circle after every item; ‘it can give him four horses to each vehicle; it can give him velvet trappings; it can give him drivers in cloth cloaks and top-boots; it can give him the plumage of the ostrich, dyed black; it can give him any number of walking attendants, dressed in the first style of funeral fashion, and carrying batons tipped with brass; it can give him a handsome tomb; it can give him a place in Westminster Abbey itself, if he choose to invest it in such a purchase. Oh! do not let us say that gold is dross, when it can buy such things as these, Mrs Gamp.’

‘But what a blessing, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘that there are such as you, to sell or let ‘em out on hire!’

‘Aye, Mrs Gamp, you are right,’ rejoined the undertaker. ‘We should be an honoured calling. We do good by stealth, and blush to have it mentioned in our little bills. How much consolation may I—even I,’ cried Mr Mould, ‘have diffused among my fellow-creatures by means of my four long-tailed prancers, never harnessed under ten pund ten!’

Mrs Gamp had begun to make a suitable reply, when she was interrupted by the appearance of one of Mr Mould’s assistants—his chief mourner in fact—an obese person, with his waistcoat in closer connection with his legs than is quite reconcilable with the established ideas of grace; with that cast of feature which is figuratively called a bottle nose; and with a face covered all over with pimples. He had been a tender plant once upon a time, but from constant blowing in the fat atmosphere of funerals, had run to seed.

‘Well, Tacker,’ said Mr Mould, ‘is all ready below?’

‘A beautiful show, sir,’ rejoined Tacker. ‘The horses are prouder and fresher than ever I see ‘em; and toss their heads, they do, as if they knowed how much their plumes cost. One, two, three, four,’ said Mr Tacker, heaping that number of black cloaks upon his left arm.

‘Is Tom there, with the cake and wine?’ asked Mr Mould.

‘Ready to come in at a moment’s notice, sir,’ said Tacker.

‘Then,’ rejoined Mr Mould, putting up his watch, and glancing at himself in the little shaving-glass, that he might be sure his face had the right expression on it; ‘then I think we may proceed to business. Give me the paper of gloves, Tacker. Ah, what a man he was! Ah, Tacker, Tacker, what a man he was!’

Mr Tacker, who from his great experience in the performance of funerals, would have made an excellent pantomime actor, winked at Mrs Gamp without at all disturbing the gravity of his countenance, and followed his master into the next room.

It was a great point with Mr Mould, and a part of his professional tact, not to seem to know the doctor; though in reality they were near neighbours, and very often, as in the present instance, worked together. So he advanced to fit on his black kid gloves as if he had never seen him in all his life; while the doctor, on his part, looked as distant and unconscious as if he had heard and read of undertakers, and had passed their shops, but had never before been brought into communication with one.

‘Gloves, eh?’ said the doctor. ‘Mr Pecksniff after you.’

‘I couldn’t think of it,’ returned Mr Pecksniff.

‘You are very good,’ said the doctor, taking a pair. ‘Well, sir, as I was saying—I was called up to attend that case at about half-past one o’clock. Cake and wine, eh? Which is port? Thank you.’

Mr Pecksniff took some also.

‘At about half-past one o’clock in the morning, sir,’ resumed the doctor, ‘I was called up to attend that case. At the first pull of the night-bell I turned out, threw up the window, and put out my head. Cloak, eh? Don’t tie it too tight. That’ll do.’

Mr Pecksniff having been likewise inducted into a similar garment, the doctor resumed.

‘And put out my head—hat, eh? My good friend, that is not mine. Mr Pecksniff, I beg your pardon, but I think we have unintentionally made an exchange. Thank you. Well, sir, I was going to tell you—’

‘We are quite ready,’ interrupted Mould in a low voice.

“E cosa c’è di più che possa fare, signora Gamp?”, esclamò l’impresario di pompe funebri mentre svuotava il suo bicchiere e si leccava le labbra.

“Niente al mondo, signore.”

“Niente al mondo,” ripeté il signor Mould. “Hai ragione, signora Gamp. Perché le persone spendono più soldi” – qui riempì di nuovo il suo bicchiere – “per una morte, signora Gamp, che per una nascita? Ma insomma, questo dovresti saperlo bene. Come spieghi questa cosa?”

“Forse è perché le spese di un becchino sono più alte di quelle di una infermiera, signore,” disse la signora Gamp, ridacchiando, mentre sistemava con le mani il suo nuovo abito nero.

“Ah ah!” rise il signor Mould. “Stamattina avete fatto colazione a spese di qualcuno, signora Gamp, ” Ma vedendo, grazie a un piccolo specchio da barba appeso lì vicino, che sembrava di buon umore, si compose i tratti del viso e assunse un’espressione triste.

“Molte volte, su vostro consiglio, signore, non ho fatto colazione a mie spese; e spero che in futuro possa farlo ancora,” disse la signora Gamp, facendo un inchino di scusa.

“Che sia così,” rispose il signor Mould, “per favore, Providence. No, signora Gamp; vi spiegherò il motivo. È perché l’uso appropriato del denaro in un’istituzione ben gestita, dove tutto viene fatto su larga scala, può guarire i cuori spezzati e lenire gli spiriti feriti. I cuori hanno bisogno di conforto, gli spiriti di sollievo quando le persone muoiono. Non quando nascono. Guardate questo signore oggi. Guardatelo.”

“Un gentiluomo generoso?” esclamò la signora Gamp con entusiasmo.

“No, no,” disse l’impresario di pompe funebri; “non certo un gentiluomo generoso e disinteressato. Vi sbagliate su di lui: è un gentiluomo colpito dal dolore, un uomo pieno di affetto, che sa quanto il denaro possa essere utile per alleviare le sofferenze altrui e per esprimere il proprio amore e rispetto per i defunti. Il denaro può dargli,” disse il signor Mould, facendo oscillare lentamente la catena dell’orologio attorno a sé, “quattro cavalli per ogni veicolo; abiti di velluto; conducenti vestiti con mantelli di stoffa e stivali alti; piume d’oca nera; numerosi assistenti in abiti da lutto eleganti, muniti di bastoni con punte di rame; una tomba imponente. E persino un posto nella stessa Westminster Abbey, se decidesse di investire così il proprio denaro. Oh! Non diciamo mai che l’oro sia senza valore, quando può permetterci di acquistare cose del genere, signora Gamp.”

“Ma che benedizione, signore,” disse la signora Gamp, “che ci siano persone come voi, disposte a venderle o a noleggiarle!”

“Sì, signora Gamp, ha ragione,” rispose l’impresario funebre. “Dovrebbe essere considerato un mestiere onorevole. Facciamo del bene in segreto, e ci vergogniamo persino che se ne parli nei nostri piccoli biglietti. Quanta consolazione posso aver diffuso io stesso,” esclamò il signor Mould, “tra i miei simili grazie ai miei quattro cavalli a coda lunga, mai domati per meno di dieci sterline e dieci penny!”

La signora Gamp stava appena per rispondere adeguatamente quando fu interrotta dall’arrivo di uno degli assistenti del signor Mould: in realtà, il suo principale addetto ai funerali. Si trattava di una persona obesa, la cui giacca era così attaccata alle gambe da risultare decisamente poco elegante; aveva un naso che, per usare un’espressione figurativa, assomigliava a una bottiglia, e il viso era coperto interamente di brufoli. Un tempo doveva essere stato una persona piuttosto attraente, ma a causa dell’essere costantemente esposto all’atmosfera “grassa” dei funerali, era diventato, be’, poco attraente, in definitiva.

“Beh, Tacker,” disse il signor Mould, “è tutto pronto giù?”

“Un bellissimo spettacolo, signore,” rispose Tacker. “I cavalli sono più orgogliosi e freschi che mai; scuotono la testa, come se sapessero quanto costano le loro piume. Uno, due, tre, quattro,” disse il signor Tacker, ammucchiando quei numeri di mantelli neri sul proprio braccio sinistro.

“Tom è lì, con la torta e il vino?” chiese il signor Mould.

“Pronto ad intervenire in qualsiasi momento, signore,” disse Tacker.

“Allora,” riprese il signor Mould, alzando l’orologio e guardandosi nel piccolo specchio da barba per assicurarsi che il suo viso avesse l’espressione giusta; “allora penso che possiamo procedere con gli affari. Dammi quel foglio con le liste dei guanti, Tacker. Ah, che uomo era! Ah, Tacker, che uomo, ”

Il signor Tacker, grazie alla sua grande esperienza nella conduzione di funerali, sarebbe stato un ottimo attore di pantomima; fece l’occhiolino alla signora Gamp senza minimamente alterare la serietà del suo volto, e seguì il suo padrone nella stanza accanto.

È stato un gesto davvero astuto da parte del signor Mould: far finta di non conoscere il dottore, nonostante in realtà fossero vicini di casa e spesso collaborassero insieme, come in questo caso. Lui si infilò i guanti neri di pelle con aria di chi non lo avesse mai visto in vita sua; mentre il dottore, dal canto suo, manteneva un atteggiamento distaccato e indifferente, come se avesse solo sentito parlare degli impresari funebri senza mai averne incontrato uno di persona.

“Guanti, eh?”, disse il dottore. “Il signor Pecksniff la aspetta.”

“Non riuscivo proprio a pensarci,” rispose il signor Pecksniff.

“Sei molto bravo,” disse il dottore, prendendo un paio. “Beh, signore, come stavo dicendo, sono stato chiamato per occuparmi di quel caso verso le una e mezza. Torte e vino, eh? Quale è il porto? Grazie.”

Anche il signor Pecksniff ne prese alcuni.

‘Intorno alle una e mezza di notte, signore,’ continuò il dottore, ‘fui chiamato per occuparmi di quel caso. Non appena suonò la campana della sera, uscii, aprii la finestra e sporsi la testa fuori. Un mantello, eh? Non legatelo troppo stretto; va bene così.’

Dopo che anche il signor Pecksniff si era rivestito con un abito simile, il dottore continuò la sua spiegazione.

“E toglietemi anche il cappello. Mio caro amico, quello non è mio. Signor Pecksniff, mi scusi, ma credo che abbiamo fatto uno scambio senza volerlo. Grazie. Beh, signore, stavo per dirle, ”

“Siamo quasi pronti,” intervenne Mould a bassa voce.

‘Ready, eh?’ said the doctor. ‘Very good, Mr Pecksniff, I’ll take an opportunity of relating the rest in the coach. It’s rather curious. Ready, eh? No rain, I hope?’

‘Quite fair, sir,’ returned Mould.

‘I was afraid the ground would have been wet,’ said the doctor, ‘for my glass fell yesterday. We may congratulate ourselves upon our good fortune.’ But seeing by this time that Mr Jonas and Chuffey were going out at the door, he put a white pocket-handkerchief to his face as if a violent burst of grief had suddenly come upon him, and walked down side by side with Mr Pecksniff.

Mr Mould and his men had not exaggerated the grandeur of the arrangements. They were splendid. The four hearse-horses, especially, reared and pranced, and showed their highest action, as if they knew a man was dead, and triumphed in it. ‘They break us, drive us, ride us; ill-treat, abuse, and maim us for their pleasure—But they die; Hurrah, they die!’

So through the narrow streets and winding city ways, went Anthony Chuzzlewit’s funeral; Mr Jonas glancing stealthily out of the coach-window now and then, to observe its effect upon the crowd; Mr Mould as he walked along, listening with a sober pride to the exclamations of the bystanders; the doctor whispering his story to Mr Pecksniff, without appearing to come any nearer the end of it; and poor old Chuffey sobbing unregarded in a corner. But he had greatly scandalized Mr Mould at an early stage of the ceremony by carrying his handkerchief in his hat in a perfectly informal manner, and wiping his eyes with his knuckles. And as Mr Mould himself had said already, his behaviour was indecent, and quite unworthy of such an occasion; and he never ought to have been there.

There he was, however; and in the churchyard there he was, also, conducting himself in a no less unbecoming manner, and leaning for support on Tacker, who plainly told him that he was fit for nothing better than a walking funeral. But Chuffey, Heaven help him! heard no sound but the echoes, lingering in his own heart, of a voice for ever silent.

‘I loved him,’ cried the old man, sinking down upon the grave when all was done. ‘He was very good to me. Oh, my dear old friend and master!’

‘Come, come, Mr Chuffey,’ said the doctor, ‘this won’t do; it’s a clayey soil, Mr Chuffey. You mustn’t, really.’

‘If it had been the commonest thing we do, and Mr Chuffey had been a Bearer, gentlemen,’ said Mould, casting an imploring glance upon them, as he helped to raise him, ‘he couldn’t have gone on worse than this.’

‘Be a man, Mr Chuffey,’ said Pecksniff.

‘Be a gentleman, Mr Chuffey,’ said Mould.

‘Upon my word, my good friend,’ murmured the doctor, in a tone of stately reproof, as he stepped up to the old man’s side, ‘this is worse than weakness. This is bad, selfish, very wrong, Mr Chuffey. You should take example from others, my good sir. You forget that you were not connected by ties of blood with our deceased friend; and that he had a very near and very dear relation, Mr Chuffey.’

‘Aye, his own son!’ cried the old man, clasping his hands with remarkable passion. ‘His own, own, only son!’

‘He’s not right in his head, you know,’ said Jonas, turning pale. ‘You’re not to mind anything he says. I shouldn’t wonder if he was to talk some precious nonsense. But don’t you mind him, any of you. I don’t. My father left him to my charge; and whatever he says or does, that’s enough. I’ll take care of him.’

A hum of admiration rose from the mourners (including Mr Mould and his merry men) at this new instance of magnanimity and kind feeling on the part of Jonas. But Chuffey put it to the test no farther. He said not a word more, and being left to himself for a little while, crept back again to the coach.

It has been said that Mr Jonas turned pale when the behaviour of the old clerk attracted general attention; his discomposure, however, was but momentary, and he soon recovered. But these were not the only changes he had exhibited that day. The curious eyes of Mr Pecksniff had observed that as soon as they left the house upon their mournful errand, he began to mend; that as the ceremonies proceeded he gradually, by little and little, recovered his old condition, his old looks, his old bearing, his old agreeable characteristics of speech and manner, and became, in all respects, his old pleasant self. And now that they were seated in the coach on their return home; and more when they got there, and found the windows open, the light and air admitted, and all traces of the late event removed; he felt so well convinced that Jonas was again the Jonas he had known a week ago, and not the Jonas of the intervening time, that he voluntarily gave up his recently-acquired power without one faint attempt to exercise it, and at once fell back into his former position of mild and deferential guest.

Mrs Gamp went home to the bird-fancier’s, and was knocked up again that very night for a birth of twins; Mr Mould dined gayly in the bosom of his family, and passed the evening facetiously at his club; the hearse, after standing for a long time at the door of a roistering public-house, repaired to its stables with the feathers inside and twelve red-nosed undertakers on the roof, each holding on by a dingy peg, to which, in times of state, a waving plume was fitted; the various trappings of sorrow were carefully laid by in presses for the next hirer; the fiery steeds were quenched and quiet in their stalls; the doctor got merry with wine at a wedding-dinner, and forgot the middle of the story which had no end to it; the pageant of a few short hours ago was written nowhere half so legibly as in the undertaker’s books.

Not in the churchyard? Not even there. The gates were closed; the night was dark and wet; the rain fell silently, among the stagnant weeds and nettles. One new mound was there which had not been there last night. Time, burrowing like a mole below the ground, had marked his track by throwing up another heap of earth. And that was all.

“Pronto, vero?” disse il dottore. “Molto bene, signor Pecksniff; ne approfitterò per raccontarvi il resto durante il viaggio in carrozza. È una storia piuttosto curiosa. Pronto, eh? Spero non ci sia pioggia, ”

“Del tutto giusto, signore,” rispose Mould.

“Temevo che il pavimento fosse bagnato,” disse il dottore, “perché ieri mio bicchiere è caduto. Possiamo rallegrarci della nostra buona fortuna.” Ma vedendo che a quell’ora il signor Jonas e Chuffey stavano uscendo dalla porta, si mise un fazzoletto bianco sul viso, come se fosse stato colpito da un improvviso attacco di dolore, e scese le scale fianco a fianco con il signor Pecksniff.

Il signor Mould e i suoi uomini non avevano esagerato sulla grandezza di quegli allestimenti: erano davvero splendidi. In particolare, i quattro cavalli da funerale si impennavano e saltellavano, mostrando tutta la loro forza, come se sapessero che un uomo era morto. E ne trionfavano. “Ci spezzano, ci costringono a fare ciò che vogliono; ci maltrattano, ci insultano, ci feriscono per il loro piacere. Ma loro muoiono. Evviva, muoiono!”

Attraverso le strette strade e i tortuosi vicoli della città, si svolgeva il funerale di Anthony Chuzzlewit; il signor Jonas ogni tanto sbirciava furtivamente fuori dal finestrino del carro per osservare l’effetto che tutto ciò aveva sulla folla; il signor Mould, camminando accanto al corteo, ascoltava con un senso di sobria orgoglio le esclamazioni dei passanti; il dottore sussurrava la sua storia al signor Pecksniff, senza sembrare mai vicino a giungere alla fine. E povero vecchio Chuffey, singhiozzava in un angolo, ignorato da tutti. Tuttavia, già all’inizio della cerimonia, Chuffey aveva scandalizzato profondamente il signor Mould: portava il fazzoletto nel cappello in modo assolutamente informale, asciugandosi gli occhi con le nocche delle dita. E, come aveva già detto il signor Mould stesso, il suo comportamento era indecente e del tutto inadatto a un’occasione del genere; non avrebbe mai dovuto essere lì.

Eccolo lì; e anche nel cimitero eccolo lì, comportandosi in modo altrettanto indecoroso, appoggiandosi a Tacker, il quale gli disse chiaramente che non era adatto a nulla di meglio di essere un “funerale ambulante”. Ma Chuffey. Che Dio lo aiuti! Non sentiva altro che gli echi, ancora risuonanti nel suo cuore, di una voce ormai per sempre silenziosa.

“Lo amavo,” gridò l’uomo anziano, sedendosi sulla tomba quando tutto fu finito. “È stato molto buono con me. Oh, mio caro vecchio amico e maestro!”

“Ma no, ma no, signor Chuffey,” disse il dottore, “non può andare così; è un terreno argilloso, signor Chuffey. Non dovrebbe proprio farlo.”

“Se fosse stata una cosa che facciamo abitualmente, e se il signor Chuffey fosse stato un portatore, ”, disse Mould, lanciando loro uno sguardo supplichevole mentre lo aiutava ad alzarsi, “non avrebbe potuto andare peggio di così.”

“Sii un uomo, signor Chuffey,” disse Pecksniff.

“Si comporti da gentiluomo, signor Chuffey,” disse Mould.

“Per la mia parola, mio buon amico,” mormorò il dottore con tono solenne e di rimprovero, avvicinandosi al vecchio, “questo è peggio che debolezza. È sbagliato, egoistico, molto errato, signor Chuffey. Dovrebbe prendere esempio dagli altri, mio caro signore. Dimentica che non era legato a nostro defunto amico da vincoli di sangue; e che lui aveva una persona molto vicina e molto cara, signor Chuffey.”

“Sì, suo figlio!” gridò l’uomo anziano, stringendo le mani con una passione straordinaria. “Il suo unico figlio, ”

“Non è del tutto sano di mente, lo sai,” disse Jonas, impallidendo.
“Non dovete dare peso a nulla di quello che dice. Non mi sorprenderebbe affatto se pronunciasse qualche assurdità. Ma voi, nessuno di voi, fatelo. Io no. Mio padre me l’ha affidato; quindi, qualunque cosa dica o faccia, va bene così. Me ne occuperò io.”

Un mormorio di ammirazione si levò tra i dolenti (inclusi il signor Mould e i suoi compagni) di fronte a questo nuovo esempio di magnanimità e gentilezza da parte di Jonas. Ma Chuffey non volle metterla alla prova oltre: non disse più una parola, e dopo essere rimasto solo per un po’, tornò furtivamente sul carro.

Si dice che il signor Jonas impallidisse quando il comportamento dell’anziano impiegato attirò l’attenzione generale; tuttavia, il suo turbamento fu solo momentaneo e presto si riprese. Ma queste non furono le uniche cambiamenti che mostrò quel giorno. Gli occhi curiosi del signor Pecksniff notarono che non appena lasciarono la casa per il loro triste compito, lui iniziò a riprendersi; man mano che le cerimonie proseguivano, gradualmente ritrovò il suo vecchio aspetto, il suo comportamento abituale e le sue caratteristiche gradevoli nel parlare e nel comportarsi, diventando, sotto tutti i punti di vista, l’antico e piacevole se stesso. Ora che erano seduti nella carrozza sulla strada del ritorno a casa, e ancora di più quando arrivarono e trovarono le finestre aperte, la luce e l’aria che entravano, e tutti i segni dell’evento appena avvenuto eliminati, il signor Pecksniff fu così convinto che Jonas fosse nuovamente lo stesso di una settimana prima, e non quello del periodo intermedio, che volontariamente rinunciò al potere appena acquisito senza nemmeno tentare di usarlo, tornando immediatamente alla sua precedente posizione di ospite mite e rispettoso.

La signora Gamp tornò a casa del collezionista di uccelli e, proprio quella notte, rimase incinta di nuovo, dando alla luce due gemelli; il signor Mould mangiò felicemente con la sua famiglia e trascorse la serata in modo spensierato al club; la bara, dopo essere rimasta per molto tempo davanti all’ingresso di una casa da gioco, fu riportata negli stalli; le piume vennero riposte al loro posto all’interno della bara, e sul tetto furono posizionati dodici becchini dal naso rosso, ognuno aggrappato a un piccolo gancio; in occasioni speciali, su quei ganci venivano fissate piume sventolanti; tutti gli oggetti utilizzati per le cerimonie funebri furono attentamente riposti in attesa del prossimo cliente; i cavalli impiegati nelle processioni funebri furono calmati e messi negli stalli; il dottore, durante un banchetto nuziale, si divertì con il vino e dimenticò la metà della storia. La scena di poche ore prima non fu mai descritta in modo così chiaro come nei registri dell’impresario funebre.

Né nel cimitero? Nemmeno lì. Le porte erano chiuse; la notte era buia e umida; la pioggia cadeva silenziosamente, tra le erbacce stagnanti e i rovi. C’era un nuovo tumulo là, che non c’era la scorsa notte. Il tempo, scavando come una talpa sotto terra, aveva segnato il suo passaggio accumulando un altro mucchio di terra. E basta.

CHAPTER TWENTY

IS A CHAPTER OF LOVE

‘Pecksniff,’ said Jonas, taking off his hat, to see that the black crape band was all right; and finding that it was, putting it on again, complacently; ‘what do you mean to give your daughters when they marry?’

‘My dear Mr Jonas,’ cried the affectionate parent, with an ingenuous smile, ‘what a very singular inquiry!’

‘Now, don’t you mind whether it’s a singular inquiry or a plural one,’ retorted Jonas, eyeing Mr Pecksniff with no great favour, ‘but answer it, or let it alone. One or the other.’

‘Hum! The question, my dear friend,’ said Mr Pecksniff, laying his hand tenderly upon his kinsman’s knee, ‘is involved with many considerations. What would I give them? Eh?’

‘Ah! what would you give ‘em?’ repeated Jonas.

‘Why, that, ‘said Mr Pecksniff, ‘would naturally depend in a great measure upon the kind of husbands they might choose, my dear young friend.’

Mr Jonas was evidently disconcerted, and at a loss how to proceed. It was a good answer. It seemed a deep one, but such is the wisdom of simplicity!’

‘My standard for the merits I would require in a son-in-law,’ said Mr Pecksniff, after a short silence, ‘is a high one. Forgive me, my dear Mr Jonas,’ he added, greatly moved, ‘if I say that you have spoiled me, and made it a fanciful one; an imaginative one; a prismatically tinged one, if I may be permitted to call it so.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ growled Jonas, looking at him with increased disfavour.

‘Indeed, my dear friend,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘you may well inquire. The heart is not always a royal mint, with patent machinery to work its metal into current coin. Sometimes it throws it out in strange forms, not easily recognized as coin at all. But it is sterling gold. It has at least that merit. It is sterling gold.’

‘Is it?’ grumbled Jonas, with a doubtful shake of the head.

‘Aye!’ said Mr Pecksniff, warming with his subject ‘it is. To be plain with you, Mr Jonas, if I could find two such sons-in-law as you will one day make to some deserving man, capable of appreciating a nature such as yours, I would—forgetful of myself—bestow upon my daughters portions reaching to the very utmost limit of my means.’

This was strong language, and it was earnestly delivered. But who can wonder that such a man as Mr Pecksniff, after all he had seen and heard of Mr Jonas, should be strong and earnest upon such a theme; a theme that touched even the worldly lips of undertakers with the honey of eloquence!

Mr Jonas was silent, and looked thoughtfully at the landscape. For they were seated on the outside of the coach, at the back, and were travelling down into the country. He accompanied Mr Pecksniff home for a few days’ change of air and scene after his recent trials.

‘Well,’ he said, at last, with captivating bluntness, ‘suppose you got one such son-in-law as me, what then?’

Mr Pecksniff regarded him at first with inexpressible surprise; then gradually breaking into a sort of dejected vivacity, said:

‘Then well I know whose husband he would be!’

‘Whose?’ asked Jonas, drily.

‘My eldest girl’s, Mr Jonas,’ replied Pecksniff, with moistening eyes. ‘My dear Cherry’s; my staff, my scrip, my treasure, Mr Jonas. A hard struggle, but it is in the nature of things! I must one day part with her to a husband. I know it, my dear friend. I am prepared for it.’

‘Ecod! you’ve been prepared for that a pretty long time, I should think,’ said Jonas.

‘Many have sought to bear her from me,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘All have failed. “I never will give my hand, papa”—those were her words—“unless my heart is won.” She has not been quite so happy as she used to be, of late. I don’t know why.’

Again Mr Jonas looked at the landscape; then at the coachman; then at the luggage on the roof; finally at Mr Pecksniff.

‘I suppose you’ll have to part with the other one, some of these days?’ he observed, as he caught that gentleman’s eye.

‘Probably,’ said the parent. ‘Years will tame down the wildness of my foolish bird, and then it will be caged. But Cherry, Mr Jonas, Cherry—’

‘Oh, ah!’ interrupted Jonas. ‘Years have made her all right enough. Nobody doubts that. But you haven’t answered what I asked you. Of course, you’re not obliged to do it, you know, if you don’t like. You’re the best judge.’

There was a warning sulkiness in the manner of this speech, which admonished Mr Pecksniff that his dear friend was not to be trifled with or fenced off, and that he must either return a straight-forward reply to his question, or plainly give him to understand that he declined to enlighten him upon the subject to which it referred. Mindful in this dilemma of the caution old Anthony had given him almost with his latest breath, he resolved to speak to the point, and so told Mr Jonas (enlarging upon the communication as a proof of his great attachment and confidence), that in the case he had put; to wit, in the event of such a man as he proposing for his daughter’s hand, he would endow her with a fortune of four thousand pounds.

‘I should sadly pinch and cramp myself to do so,’ was his fatherly remark; ‘but that would be my duty, and my conscience would reward me. For myself, my conscience is my bank. I have a trifle invested there—a mere trifle, Mr Jonas—but I prize it as a store of value, I assure you.’

The good man’s enemies would have divided upon this question into two parties. One would have asserted without scruple that if Mr Pecksniff’s conscience were his bank, and he kept a running account there, he must have overdrawn it beyond all mortal means of computation. The other would have contended that it was a mere fictitious form; a perfectly blank book; or one in which entries were only made with a peculiar kind of invisible ink to become legible at some indefinite time; and that he never troubled it at all.

‘It would sadly pinch and cramp me, my dear friend,’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, ‘but Providence—perhaps I may be permitted to say a special Providence—has blessed my endeavours, and I could guarantee to make the sacrifice.’

CAPITOLO VENTI

È un capitolo d’AMORE.

“Pecksniff,” disse Jonas, togliendosi il cappello per verificare che la fascia nera di lutto fosse a posto; e, constatandone la correttezza, se la rimise indossando con soddisfazione; “a cosa pensi di dare alle tue figlie quando si sposeranno?”

“Mio caro signor Jonas,” esclamò il genitore affettuoso, con un sorriso sincero, “che domanda davvero insolita!”

“Ora, non importa se si tratti di una domanda singolare o plurale,” ribatté Jonas, guardando il signor Pecksniff con scarso favore, “ma rispondi, oppure lascialo in pace. Una cosa o l’altra.”

“Hmm! La questione, mio caro amico,” disse il signor Pecksniff, posando dolcemente la mano sul ginocchio del suo parente, “implica molte considerazioni. Cosa dovrei offrir loro? Eh?”

“Ah! Cosa gli daresti in cambio?” ripeté Jonas.

“Beh, questo,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “dipenderebbe naturalmente in gran parte dal tipo di mariti che sceglierebbero, mia cara giovane amica.”

Il signor Jonas era evidentemente sconcertato e non sapeva come procedere.
Era una buona risposta. Sembrava anche profonda, ma è proprio nella semplicità che si trova la vera saggezza.

“Il mio standard riguardo ai meriti che vorrei trovare in un genero,” disse il signor Pecksniff dopo un breve silenzio, “è molto alto. Perdonatemi, caro signor Jonas,” aggiunse, profondamente commosso, “se dico che siete riusciti a farmi cambiare idea, rendendola più fantasiosa, più immaginativa, se posso permettermi di esprimermi così.”

“Cosa intendi dire con questo?” ringhiò Jonas, guardandolo con ancora maggiore disapprovazione.

“Infatti, mio caro amico,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “puoi ben chiedere. Il cuore non è sempre una zecca reale, dotata di macchinari speciali per trasformare il suo ‘metallo’ in monete valide. A volte produce forme strane, che difficilmente si riconoscono come monete. Ma è pur sempre oro puro. Almeno ha questo merito: è oro puro.”

“Davvero?” borbottò Jonas, scuotendo la testa con esitazione.

“Sì!” disse il signor Pecksniff, entusiasmandosi all’argomento. “Per essere franco con voi, signor Jonas, se potessi trovare due generi come voi, che un giorno possano sposare donne meritevoli e capaci di apprezzare una >natura come la vostra, io, dimenticando me stesso, darei alle mie figlie dote fino al massimo delle mie possibilità.”

Era un linguaggio deciso e veniva espresso con sincera convinzione. Ma chi può meravigliarsi che un uomo come il signor Pecksniff, dopo tutto ciò che aveva visto e sentito riguardo al signor Jonas, potesse essere così appassionato e convinto su un argomento del genere; un argomento che riusciva persino a rendere le parole di un impresario di pompe funebri dolci e persuasive come il miele dell’eloquenza!

Il signor Jonas rimase in silenzio, osservando pensieroso il paesaggio intorno a lui. Erano seduti sul retro della carrozza, mentre viaggiavano verso l’interno della campagna. Aveva accompagnato il signor Pecksniff a casa sua per qualche giorno, al fine di permettergli di cambiare aria e ambiente dopo le recenti difficoltà che aveva affrontato.

“Beh,” disse infine, con una schiettezza affascinante, “immagina di avere un genero come me, cosa faresti?”

All’inizio, il signor Pecksniff lo guardò con uno stupore indescrivibile; poi, gradualmente, assumendo un’aria di malinconica vivacità, disse:

“Allora so bene chi sarebbe il marito di quella donna!”

“Di chi?” chiese Jonas, in tono secco.

“È mia figlia maggiore, signor Jonas,” rispose Pecksniff con gli occhi umidi.
“Mia cara Cherry, il mio braccio destro, la mia ricchezza, il mio tesoro, signor Jonas. È una lotta difficile, ma è proprio nella >natura delle cose. Un giorno dovrò lasciarla in sposa a qualcuno. Lo so, caro amico. Sono preparato ad affrontarlo.”

“Ecod! Penso che tu sia stato preparato per questo da un bel po’ di tempo,” disse Jonas.

“Molti hanno cercato di portarmela via da me,” disse il signor Pecksniff. “Tutti hanno fallito. ‘Non darò mai la mia mano, papà’, queste furono le sue parole, ‘a meno che il mio cuore non venga conquistato.’ Ultimamente non è più stata così felice come prima. Non so perché.”

Di nuovo, il signor Jonas guardò il paesaggio; poi il cocchiere; quindi i bagagli sul tetto; infine il signor Pecksniff.

“Immagino che dovrà separarsi anche dall’altro, prima o poi, ” osservò, incrociando lo sguardo di quel signore.

“Probabilmente,” disse il genitore. “Gli anni placheranno la selvaggia natura del mio stupido uccellino, e allora lo metterò in gabbia. Ma Cherry, signor Jonas, Cherry, ”

“Oh, ah!” interruppe Jonas. “Gli anni l’hanno fatta stare abbastanza bene. Nessuno ne dubita. Ma non hai risposto alla mia domanda. Ovviamente, non sei obbligato a farlo, se non ti piace. Tu sei il miglior giudice.”

C’era un tono di avvertenza e risentimento nel modo in cui fu pronunciato questo discorso; tale tono ricordava a Mr Pecksniff che il suo caro amico non poteva essere preso alla leggera né tenuto a distanza, e che lui doveva o dare una risposta diretta alla sua domanda, oppure fargli capire chiaramente di rifiutarsi di illuminarlo sull’argomento in questione. Ricordando in questo dilemma l’avvertimento che il vecchio Anthony gli aveva dato poco prima di morire, decise di essere chiaro e disse a Mr Jonas (esponendo i dettagli del discorso come prova della sua grande affezione e fiducia), che nel caso in cui un uomo del genere proponesse la mano di sua figlia, lui le avrebbe lasciato in eredità una fortuna di quattromila sterline.

“Purtroppo dovrei sacrificarmi molto per farlo,” disse suo padre; “ma sarebbe il mio dovere, e la mia coscienza me lo ricompenserebbe. Per quanto mi riguarda, la mia coscienza è la mia ‘banca’: ho investito lì qualcosa, solo una piccola somma, signor Jonas, ma la considero un tesoro di valore, ve lo assicuro.”

Gli nemici di quel buon uomo si sarebbero divisi in due fazioni su questa questione. Uno avrebbe affermato senza esitazione che, se la coscienza del signor Pecksniff fosse stata la sua “banca” e vi tenesse un conto continuativo, sicuramente l’avrebbe trovata in rosso, al di là di qualsiasi possibilità di calcolo umano. L’altro avrebbe sostenuto che si trattasse soltanto di una forma fittizia; di un libro completamente vuoto, o di uno in cui le annotazioni venivano fatte utilizzando un tipo particolare di inchiostro invisibile, che diventava leggibile solo in un momento futuro e indefinito; e che il signor Pecksniff non si preoccupasse affatto di quel “conto”.

“Sfortunatamente, questo mi causerebbe dolore e disagio, caro amico,” ripeté il signor Pecksniff, “ma la Provvidenza, forse posso permettermi di dire una particolare Provvidenza, ha benedetto i miei sforzi, e posso garantire che sarò disposto a compiere questo sacrificio.”

A question of philosophy arises here, whether Mr Pecksniff had or had not good reason to say that he was specially patronized and encouraged in his undertakings. All his life long he had been walking up and down the narrow ways and by-places, with a hook in one hand and a crook in the other, scraping all sorts of valuable odds and ends into his pouch. Now, there being a special Providence in the fall of a sparrow, it follows (so Mr Pecksniff, and only such admirable men, would have reasoned), that there must also be a special Providence in the alighting of the stone or stick, or other substance which is aimed at the sparrow. And Mr Pecksniff’s hook, or crook, having invariably knocked the sparrow on the head and brought him down, that gentleman may have been led to consider himself as specially licensed to bag sparrows, and as being specially seized and possessed of all the birds he had got together. That many undertakings, national as well as individual—but especially the former—are held to be specially brought to a glorious and successful issue, which never could be so regarded on any other process of reasoning, must be clear to all men. Therefore the precedents would seem to show that Mr Pecksniff had (as things go) good argument for what he said and might be permitted to say it, and did not say it presumptuously, vainly, or arrogantly, but in a spirit of high faith and great wisdom.

Mr Jonas, not being much accustomed to perplex his mind with theories of this nature, expressed no opinion on the subject. Nor did he receive his companion’s announcement with one solitary syllable, good, bad, or indifferent. He preserved this taciturnity for a quarter of an hour at least, and during the whole of that time appeared to be steadily engaged in subjecting some given amount to the operation of every known rule in figures; adding to it, taking from it, multiplying it, reducing it by long and short division; working it by the rule-of-three direct and inversed; exchange or barter; practice; simple interest; compound interest; and other means of arithmetical calculation. The result of these labours appeared to be satisfactory, for when he did break silence, it was as one who had arrived at some specific result, and freed himself from a state of distressing uncertainty.

‘Come, old Pecksniff!’—Such was his jocose address, as he slapped that gentleman on the back, at the end of the stage—‘let’s have something!’

‘With all my heart,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘Let’s treat the driver,’ cried Jonas.

‘If you think it won’t hurt the man, or render him discontented with his station—certainly,’ faltered Mr Pecksniff.

Jonas only laughed at this, and getting down from the coach-top with great alacrity, cut a cumbersome kind of caper in the road. After which, he went into the public-house, and there ordered spirituous drink to such an extent, that Mr Pecksniff had some doubts of his perfect sanity, until Jonas set them quite at rest by saying, when the coach could wait no longer:

‘I’ve been standing treat for a whole week and more, and letting you have all the delicacies of the season. YOU shall pay for this Pecksniff.’ It was not a joke either, as Mr Pecksniff at first supposed; for he went off to the coach without further ceremony, and left his respected victim to settle the bill.

But Mr Pecksniff was a man of meek endurance, and Mr Jonas was his friend. Moreover, his regard for that gentleman was founded, as we know, on pure esteem, and a knowledge of the excellence of his character. He came out from the tavern with a smiling face, and even went so far as to repeat the performance, on a less expensive scale, at the next ale-house. There was a certain wildness in the spirits of Mr Jonas (not usually a part of his character) which was far from being subdued by these means, and, for the rest of the journey, he was so very buoyant—it may be said, boisterous—that Mr Pecksniff had some difficulty in keeping pace with him.

They were not expected—oh dear, no! Mr Pecksniff had proposed in London to give the girls a surprise, and had said he wouldn’t write a word to prepare them on any account, in order that he and Mr Jonas might take them unawares, and just see what they were doing, when they thought their dear papa was miles and miles away. As a consequence of this playful device, there was nobody to meet them at the finger-post, but that was of small consequence, for they had come down by the day coach, and Mr Pecksniff had only a carpetbag, while Mr Jonas had only a portmanteau. They took the portmanteau between them, put the bag upon it, and walked off up the lane without delay; Mr Pecksniff already going on tiptoe as if, without this precaution, his fond children, being then at a distance of a couple of miles or so, would have some filial sense of his approach.

It was a lovely evening in the spring-time of the year; and in the soft stillness of the twilight, all nature was very calm and beautiful. The day had been fine and warm; but at the coming on of night, the air grew cool, and in the mellowing distance smoke was rising gently from the cottage chimneys. There were a thousand pleasant scents diffused around, from young leaves and fresh buds; the cuckoo had been singing all day long, and was but just now hushed; the smell of earth newly-upturned, first breath of hope to the first labourer after his garden withered, was fragrant in the evening breeze. It was a time when most men cherish good resolves, and sorrow for the wasted past; when most men, looking on the shadows as they gather, think of that evening which must close on all, and that to-morrow which has none beyond.

‘Precious dull,’ said Mr Jonas, looking about. ‘It’s enough to make a man go melancholy mad.’

‘We shall have lights and a fire soon,’ observed Mr Pecksniff.

Qui sorge una questione di filosofia: se il signor Pecksniff avesse o meno buone ragioni per affermare di essere stato particolarmente favorito e incoraggiato nelle sue imprese. Per tutta la sua vita aveva camminato su strade strette e in angoli nascosti, con un gancio in una mano e un uncino nell’altra, raccogliendo ogni sorta di oggetti di valore per metterli nella propria borsa. Ora, poiché esiste una “providenza speciale” nel fatto che uno spillo cada a terra, ne consegue (così ragionava il signor Pecksniff, e solo uomini così ammirevoli avrebbero potuto pensarlo) che debba esistere anche una “providenza speciale” nel fatto che una pietra, un bastone o qualsiasi altra sostanza vengano utilizzati per colpire lo spillo. E poiché il gancio o l’uncino del signor Pecksniff colpivano invariabilmente la testa dello spillo facendolo cadere, quel gentiluomo poteva ritenersi autorizzato, in modo speciale, a catturare gli spilli, e considerarsi il possessore legittimo di tutti gli uccelli che aveva raccolto. È evidente che molte imprese, sia a livello nazionale che individuale – ma soprattutto le prime – vengono ritenute particolarmente fortunate e coronate da successo; questo fenomeno non potrebbe mai essere spiegato con altri metodi di ragionamento. Pertanto, sembrerebbe che i fatti dimostrino che il signor Pecksniff avesse buone ragioni per affermare ciò che diceva, e che quindi fosse lecito per lui farlo; non lo diceva in modo presuntuoso, vano o arrogante, ma con uno spirito di profonda fede e grande saggezza.

Il signor Jonas, non essendo molto abituato ad affaticare la propria mente con teorie di questa >natura, non espresse alcuna opinione sull’argomento. Né accolse l’annuncio del suo compagno con una singola parola, né positiva, né negativa, né indifferente. Mantenne questo silenzio per almeno un quarto d’ora; durante tutto quel tempo sembrava impegnato a sottoporre un certo numero a tutte le operazioni matematiche conosciute: addizione, sottrazione, moltiplicazione, divisione; applicando inoltre regole di scambio, interessi semplici e composti, e altri metodi di calcolo aritmetico. Il risultato di questi calcoli sembrava soddisfacente, perché quando finalmente ruppe il silenzio, lo fece come se avesse raggiunto una conclusione precisa, liberandosi così da uno stato di incertezza angosciosa.

“Ma come, vecchio Pecksniff!” – Questo era il suo modo scherzoso di chiamarlo, mentre gli dava una pacca sulla schiena alla fine della scena – “Dai, facciamo qualcosa!”

“Con tutto il mio cuore,” disse il signor Pecksniff.

“Dobbiamo curare il conducente,” gridò Jonas.

“Se pensate che questo non farà del male all’uomo, o non lo renderà insoddisfatto della sua posizione, certamente,” balbettò il signor Pecksniff.

Jonas si limitò a ridere di questa situazione; poi scese dal tetto della carrozza con grande agilità e iniziò a correre per la strada, facendo gesti un po’ buffi. Dopo, entrò nella locanda pubblica e ordinò bevande alcoliche in quantità tale che il signor Pecksniff iniziò a dubitare della sua perfetta sanità; ma Jonas lo rassicurò subito, dicendo che la carrozza non poteva aspettare oltre.

“Sono stato ad aspettare per tutta una settimana e più, permettendovi di godere di tutte le delizie della stagione. VOI dovrete pagare per questo, Pecksniff.” Non era affatto uno scherzo, come all’inizio aveva pensato il signor Pecksniff; infatti se ne andò senza ulteriori cerimonie, lasciando che la sua “rispettata vittima” si occupasse di pagare il conto.

Ma il signor Pecksniff era un uomo di mite pazienza e il signor Jonas era suo amico. Inoltre, il suo rispetto per quel gentiluomo si basava, come sappiamo, su pura stima e sulla consapevolezza dell’eccellenza del suo carattere. Uscì dalla taverna con un sorriso sul volto e addirittura andò fino a ripetere quell’esperienza, su scala più ridotta, nella prossima osteria. C’era però una certa selvaggiazza nello spirito del signor Jonas (non tipica del suo carattere) che non veniva affatto mitigata da questi metodi; per il resto del viaggio, fu così estremamente vivace – si potrebbe dire addirittura turbolento – che al signor Pecksniff risultò piuttosto difficile tenere il passo con lui.

Non se lo aspettavano affatto, oh no! Il signor Pecksniff aveva proposto a Londra di fare una sorpresa alle ragazze, e aveva detto che non avrebbe scritto nemmeno una parola per prepararle, in modo da coglierle di sorpresa e vedere cosa stavano facendo mentre pensavano che il loro caro papà fosse lontano chilometri. A causa di questo stratagemma, nessuno li aspettava all’incrocio, ma non aveva molta importanza, visto che erano arrivati con la diligenza diurna; inoltre, il signor Pecksniff aveva solo una borsa da viaggio, mentre il signor Jonas ne aveva un’altra. Presero insieme quella borsa e partirono senza indugi lungo il sentiero; il signor Pecksniff camminava in punta di piedi, come se, senza questa precauzione, le sue adorate figlie, trovandosi a qualche chilometro di distanza, potessero percepire l’avvicinarsi del padre.

Era una bella serata in quel periodo di primavera dell’anno; nella dolce quiete del crepuscolo, tutta la >natura appariva molto calma e bellissima. La giornata era stata serena e tiepida; ma con l’avvicinarsi della notte, l’aria si raffreddava, e in lontananza i fumai delle capanne si alzavano dolcemente nel cielo. Intorno aleggiavano mille profumi piacevoli: quelli delle giovani foglie e dei boccioli freschi; il cuculo aveva cantato per tutto il giorno, e solo ora taceva; l’odore della terra appena rivoltata, quel primo segno di >speranza per i primi lavoratori dopo che i loro giardini erano appassiti, era fragrante nella brezza serale. Era un momento in cui la maggior parte delle persone nutre buoni propositi e rimpianti per il passato sprecato; un momento in cui, osservando le ombre che si addensavano intorno a loro, pensano a quella sera che segnerà la fine di tutto, e a quel domani che non ha futuro.

“Davvero noioso,” disse il signor Jonas, guardandosi intorno. “Basta per far impazzire di malinconia un uomo.”

“Tra poco avremo luci e un fuoco”, osservò il signor Pecksniff.

‘We shall need ‘em by the time we get there,’ said Jonas. ‘Why the devil don’t you talk? What are you thinking of?’

‘To tell you the truth, Mr Jonas,’ said Pecksniff with great solemnity, ‘my mind was running at that moment on our late dear friend, your departed father.’

Mr Jonas immediately let his burden fall, and said, threatening him with his hand:

‘Drop that, Pecksniff!’

Mr Pecksniff not exactly knowing whether allusion was made to the subject or the portmanteau, stared at his friend in unaffected surprise.

‘Drop it, I say!’ cried Jonas, fiercely. ‘Do you hear? Drop it, now and for ever. You had better, I give you notice!’

‘It was quite a mistake,’ urged Mr Pecksniff, very much dismayed; ‘though I admit it was foolish. I might have known it was a tender string.’

‘Don’t talk to me about tender strings,’ said Jonas, wiping his forehead with the cuff of his coat. ‘I’m not going to be crowed over by you, because I don’t like dead company.’

Mr Pecksniff had got out the words ‘Crowed over, Mr Jonas!’ when that young man, with a dark expression in his countenance, cut him short once more:

‘Mind!’ he said. ‘I won’t have it. I advise you not to revive the subject, neither to me nor anybody else. You can take a hint, if you choose as well as another man. There’s enough said about it. Come along!’

Taking up his part of the load again, when he had said these words, he hurried on so fast that Mr Pecksniff, at the other end of the portmanteau, found himself dragged forward, in a very inconvenient and ungraceful manner, to the great detriment of what is called by fancy gentlemen ‘the bark’ upon his shins, which were most unmercifully bumped against the hard leather and the iron buckles. In the course of a few minutes, however, Mr Jonas relaxed his speed, and suffered his companion to come up with him, and to bring the portmanteau into a tolerably straight position.

It was pretty clear that he regretted his late outbreak, and that he mistrusted its effect on Mr Pecksniff; for as often as that gentleman glanced towards Mr Jonas, he found Mr Jonas glancing at him, which was a new source of embarrassment. It was but a short-lived one, though, for Mr Jonas soon began to whistle, whereupon Mr Pecksniff, taking his cue from his friend, began to hum a tune melodiously.

‘Pretty nearly there, ain’t we?’ said Jonas, when this had lasted some time.

‘Close, my dear friend,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘What’ll they be doing, do you suppose?’ asked Jonas.

‘Impossible to say,’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘Giddy truants! They may be away from home, perhaps. I was going to—he! he! he!—I was going to propose,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘that we should enter by the back way, and come upon them like a clap of thunder, Mr Jonas.’

It might not have been easy to decide in respect of which of their manifold properties, Jonas, Mr Pecksniff, the carpet-bag, and the portmanteau, could be likened to a clap of thunder. But Mr Jonas giving his assent to this proposal, they stole round into the back yard, and softly advanced towards the kitchen window, through which the mingled light of fire and candle shone upon the darkening night.

Truly Mr Pecksniff is blessed in his children—in one of them, at any rate. The prudent Cherry—staff and scrip, and treasure of her doting father—there she sits, at a little table white as driven snow, before the kitchen fire, making up accounts! See the neat maiden, as with pen in hand, and calculating look addressed towards the ceiling and bunch of keys within a little basket at her side, she checks the housekeeping expenditure! From flat-iron, dish-cover, and warming-pan; from pot and kettle, face of brass footman, and black-leaded stove; bright glances of approbation wink and glow upon her. The very onions dangling from the beam, mantle and shine like cherubs’ cheeks. Something of the influence of those vegetables sinks into Mr Pecksniff’s nature. He weeps.

It is but for a moment, and he hides it from the observation of his friend—very carefully—by a somewhat elaborate use of his pocket-handkerchief, in fact; for he would not have his weakness known.

‘Pleasant,’ he murmured, ‘pleasant to a father’s feelings! My dear girl! Shall we let her know we are here, Mr Jonas?’

‘Why, I suppose you don’t mean to spend the evening in the stable, or the coach-house,’ he returned.

‘That, indeed, is not such hospitality as I would show to YOU, my friend,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, pressing his hand. And then he took a long breath, and tapping at the window, shouted with stentorian blandness:

‘Boh!’

Cherry dropped her pen and screamed. But innocence is ever bold, or should be. As they opened the door, the valiant girl exclaimed in a firm voice, and with a presence of mind which even in that trying moment did not desert her, ‘Who are you? What do you want? Speak! or I will call my Pa.’

Mr Pecksniff held out his arms. She knew him instantly, and rushed into his fond embrace.

‘It was thoughtless of us, Mr Jonas, it was very thoughtless,’ said Pecksniff, smoothing his daugther’s hair. ‘My darling, do you see that I am not alone!’

Not she. She had seen nothing but her father until now. She saw Mr Jonas now, though; and blushed, and hung her head down, as she gave him welcome.

But where was Merry? Mr Pecksniff didn’t ask the question in reproach, but in a vein of mildness touched with a gentle sorrow. She was upstairs, reading on the parlour couch. Ah! Domestic details had no charms for HER. ‘But call her down,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a placid resignation. ‘Call her down, my love.’

She was called and came, all flushed and tumbled from reposing on the sofa; but none the worse for that. No, not at all. Rather the better, if anything.

‘Oh my goodness me!’ cried the arch girl, turning to her cousin when she had kissed her father on both cheeks, and in her frolicsome nature had bestowed a supernumerary salute upon the tip of his nose, ‘YOU here, fright! Well, I’m very thankful that you won’t trouble ME much!’

“Ne avremo bisogno entro il momento in cui arriveremo lì,” disse Jonas. “Perché diavolo non parli? A cosa stai pensando?”

“Per dirvi la verità, signor Jonas,” disse Pecksniff con grande solennità, “in quel momento i miei pensieri erano rivolti al nostro caro amico scomparso, vostro padre.”

“Signor Jonas immediatamente lasciò cadere il proprio fardello e, minacciandolo con la mano, disse, ”

“Lascia perdere, Pecksniff!”

Il signor Pecksniff, non essendo del tutto sicuro che si facesse riferimento al soggetto in questione o al neologismo creato combinando le due parole, fissò il suo amico con un’aria di sincera sorpresa.

“Lascialo andare, ti dico!” gridò Jonas con fermezza. “Hai capito? Lascialo andare subito, per sempre. Faresti meglio, te lo avverto!”

“È stato un grosso errore,” insistette il signor Pecksniff, molto preoccupato; “anche se ammetto che è stata una stupidaggine. Avrei dovuto capire che si trattava di una questione delicata.”

“Non parlarmi di sentimenti delicati,” disse Jonas, asciugandosi la fronte con il polsino del cappotto. “Non ho intenzione di lasciarmi commuovere da te. Non mi piacciono le compagnie inutili.”

Il signor Pecksniff stava appena pronunciando le parole “Affollati intorno a lui, signor Jonas!”, quando quel giovane, con un’espressione cupa sul volto, lo interruppe di nuovo:

“Attenzione!” disse. “Non lo voglio. Vi consiglio di non sollevare più l’argomento, né con me né con nessun altro. Potete capire cosa intendo, se volete. Ci è già stato detto abbastanza al riguardo. Andiamo!”

Riprendendo il proprio carico dopo aver detto queste parole, accelerò così tanto che il signor Pecksniff, dall’altra estremità del baulo, si trovò trascinato avanti in modo molto scomodo e poco elegante, con grave danno per quella parte del corpo chiamata “gambe”, che veniva brutalmente urtata contro la pelle dura e le fibbie di ferro. Tuttavia, dopo pochi minuti, il signor Jonas rallentò il passo, permettendo al proprio compagno di raggiungerlo e di sistemare il baulo in una posizione più ordinata.

Era abbastanza chiaro che si pentisse di quella sua improvvisa reazione, e che nutrisse diffidenza riguardo al suo effetto su Mr Pecksniff; infatti, ogni volta che quel gentiluomo lanciava uno sguardo verso Mr Jonas, questi ricambiava lo sguardo, il che rappresentava una nuova fonte di imbarazzo per lui. Tuttavia, questo imbarazzo durò poco: ben presto Mr Jonas iniziò a fischiare, e allora anche Mr Pecksniff, seguendo l’esempio del suo amico, cominciò a canticchiare una melodia melodiosa.

“Siamo quasi arrivati, vero?” disse Jonas dopo che tutto questo era durato per un po’.

“Chiudi, mio caro amico,” disse il signor Pecksniff.

“Cosa pensi che faranno?”, chiese Jonas.

“Impossibile dirlo,” esclamò il signor Pecksniff. “Quei maledetti discoli! Forse sono lontani da casa. Stavo per, eh! eh! Proporre,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “di entrare dal retro e sorprenderli come un tuono, signor Jonas.”

Forse non era facile decidere quale delle loro molteplici caratteristiche potesse essere paragonata a un tuono. Ma poiché il signor Jonas acconsentì a questa proposta, si diressero furtivamente verso il cortile posteriore e avanzarono silenziosamente verso la finestra della cucina, attraverso la quale la luce mista del fuoco e delle candele illuminava la notte che stava calando.

Davvero, il signor Pecksniff è benedetto dai suoi figli, almeno da uno di loro. La prudente Cherry – con i registri, le ricevute e il tesoro del suo affettuoso padre – eccola lì, seduta davanti a un piccolo tavolo bianco come la neve, accanto al camino della cucina, mentre fa i conti! Guardate quella ragazza ordinata: con la penna in mano e uno sguardo attento rivolto verso il soffitto, verifica le spese domestiche. Gli oggetti che la circondano – dalla griglia per i piatti al fornello riscaldatore, dalle pentole alle facce dei servitori in ottone – sembrano tutti illuminarsi di approvazione nei suoi occhi. Persino le cipolle appese al soffitto brillano come guance di cherubini. Qualcosa dell’influenza di quei vegetali deve essersi insinuato nella natura del signor Pecksniff. Lui piange.

È solo per un momento, e lo nasconde con molta attenzione dall’osservazione del suo amico, utilizzando abilmente il fazzoletto da tasca; infatti, non vuole che la sua debolezza venga scoperta.

“Piacente, ”, mormorò, “davvero piacevole per i sentimenti di un padre! Mia cara ragazza. Dovremmo farle sapere che siamo qui, signor Jonas?”

“Beh, suppongo che non intendiate trascorrere la serata nella stalla o nella casa del cocchiere, vero?” rispose lui.

“Quella, davvero, non è la cortesia che io mostrerei a TE, mio amico,” esclamò il signor Pecksniff stringendogli la mano. Poi prese un lungo respiro, bussò alla finestra e gridò con voce tonante e insincera:

“Boh!”

Cherry lasciò cadere la penna e gridò. Ma l’innocenza è sempre coraggiosa, o almeno dovrebbe esserlo. Quando aprirono la porta, la ragazza coraggiosa esclamò con voce ferma, dimostrando un sangue freddo che nemmeno in quel momento difficile le venne meno: “Chi siete? Cosa volete? Parlate! Altrimenti chiamerò mio padre.”

Il signor Pecksniff tese le braccia. Lei lo riconobbe immediatamente e si gettò tra le sue affettuose braccia.

“È stato molto imprudente da parte nostra, signor Jonas,” disse Pecksniff, accarezzando i capelli di sua figlia. “Mia cara, vedi che non sono solo, ”

No, lei. Fino ad ora non aveva visto altro che suo padre. Ora, però, vide il signor Jonas; arrossì e abbassò lo sguardo mentre lo salutava.

Ma dove era Merry? Il signor Pecksniff non pose quella domanda in tono di rimprovero,
ma con dolcezza, mescolata a un leggero dolore. Lei era di sopra, che leggeva sul divano del salotto. Ah! I dettagli domestici non avevano alcun fascino per lei. “Ma chiamala giù,” disse il signor Pecksniff con una pacifica resignazione. “Chiamala giù, mia cara.”

Fu chiamata e venne subito, tutta arrossita per essere stata sdraiata sul divano; ma per niente peggio per questo. Anzi, se possibile, anche meglio.

“Oh mio Dio!” esclamò la ragazza, rivolgendosi alla sua cugina dopo aver baciato entrambe le guance di suo padre; nella sua natura scherzosa, aveva aggiunto anche un bacio sulla punta del suo naso. “Sei qui, che spavento! Beh, sono molto contenta che non mi darai troppo fastidio!”

‘What! you’re as lively as ever, are you?’ said Jonas. ‘Oh! You’re a wicked one!’

‘There, go along!’ retorted Merry, pushing him away. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what I shall ever do, if I have to see much of you. Go along, for gracious’ sake!’

Mr Pecksniff striking in here, with a request that Mr Jonas would immediately walk upstairs, he so far complied with the young lady’s adjuration as to go at once. But though he had the fair Cherry on his arm, he could not help looking back at her sister, and exchanging some further dialogue of the same bantering description, as they all four ascended to the parlour; where—for the young ladies happened, by good fortune, to be a little later than usual that night—the tea-board was at that moment being set out.

Mr Pinch was not at home, so they had it all to themselves, and were very snug and talkative, Jonas sitting between the two sisters, and displaying his gallantry in that engaging manner which was peculiar to him. It was a hard thing, Mr Pecksniff said, when tea was done, and cleared away, to leave so pleasant a little party, but having some important papers to examine in his own apartment, he must beg them to excuse him for half an hour. With this apology he withdrew, singing a careless strain as he went. He had not been gone five minutes, when Merry, who had been sitting in the window, apart from Jonas and her sister, burst into a half-smothered laugh, and skipped towards the door.

‘Hallo!’ cried Jonas. ‘Don’t go.’

‘Oh, I dare say!’ rejoined Merry, looking back. ‘You’re very anxious I should stay, fright, ain’t you?’

‘Yes, I am,’ said Jonas. ‘Upon my word I am. I want to speak to you.’ But as she left the room notwithstanding, he ran out after her, and brought her back, after a short struggle in the passage which scandalized Miss Cherry very much.

‘Upon my word, Merry,’ urged that young lady, ‘I wonder at you! There are bounds even to absurdity, my dear.’

‘Thank you, my sweet,’ said Merry, pursing up her rosy Lips. ‘Much obliged to it for its advice. Oh! do leave me alone, you monster, do!’ This entreaty was wrung from her by a new proceeding on the part of Mr Jonas, who pulled her down, all breathless as she was, into a seat beside him on the sofa, having at the same time Miss Cherry upon the other side.

‘Now,’ said Jonas, clasping the waist of each; ‘I have got both arms full, haven’t I?’

‘One of them will be black and blue to-morrow, if you don’t let me go,’ cried the playful Merry.

‘Ah! I don’t mind YOUR pinching,’ grinned Jonas, ‘a bit.’

‘Pinch him for me, Cherry, pray,’ said Mercy. ‘I never did hate anybody so much as I hate this creature, I declare!’

‘No, no, don’t say that,’ urged Jonas, ‘and don’t pinch either, because I want to be serious. I say—Cousin Charity—’

‘Well! what?’ she answered sharply.

‘I want to have some sober talk,’ said Jonas; ‘I want to prevent any mistakes, you know, and to put everything upon a pleasant understanding. That’s desirable and proper, ain’t it?’

Neither of the sisters spoke a word. Mr Jonas paused and cleared his throat, which was very dry.

‘She’ll not believe what I am going to say, will she, cousin?’ said Jonas, timidly squeezing Miss Charity.

‘Really, Mr Jonas, I don’t know, until I hear what it is. It’s quite impossible!’

‘Why, you see,’ said Jonas, ‘her way always being to make game of people, I know she’ll laugh, or pretend to—I know that, beforehand. But you can tell her I’m in earnest, cousin; can’t you? You’ll confess you know, won’t you? You’ll be honourable, I’m sure,’ he added persuasively.

No answer. His throat seemed to grow hotter and hotter, and to be more and more difficult of control.

‘You see, Cousin Charity,’ said Jonas, ‘nobody but you can tell her what pains I took to get into her company when you were both at the boarding-house in the city, because nobody’s so well aware of it, you know. Nobody else can tell her how hard I tried to get to know you better, in order that I might get to know her without seeming to wish it; can they? I always asked you about her, and said where had she gone, and when would she come, and how lively she was, and all that; didn’t I, cousin? I know you’ll tell her so, if you haven’t told her so already, and—and—I dare say you have, because I’m sure you’re honourable, ain’t you?’

Still not a word. The right arm of Mr Jonas—the elder sister sat upon his right—may have been sensible of some tumultuous throbbing which was not within itself; but nothing else apprised him that his words had had the least effect.

‘Even if you kept it to yourself, and haven’t told her,’ resumed Jonas, ‘it don’t much matter, because you’ll bear honest witness now; won’t you? We’ve been very good friends from the first; haven’t we? and of course we shall be quite friends in future, and so I don’t mind speaking before you a bit. Cousin Mercy, you’ve heard what I’ve been saying. She’ll confirm it, every word; she must. Will you have me for your husband? Eh?’

As he released his hold of Charity, to put this question with better effect, she started up and hurried away to her own room, marking her progress as she went by such a train of passionate and incoherent sound, as nothing but a slighted woman in her anger could produce.

‘Let me go away. Let me go after her,’ said Merry, pushing him off, and giving him—to tell the truth—more than one sounding slap upon his outstretched face.

‘Not till you say yes. You haven’t told me. Will you have me for your husband?’

‘No, I won’t. I can’t bear the sight of you. I have told you so a hundred times. You are a fright. Besides, I always thought you liked my sister best. We all thought so.’

‘But that wasn’t my fault,’ said Jonas.

‘Yes it was; you know it was.’

‘Any trick is fair in love,’ said Jonas. ‘She may have thought I liked her best, but you didn’t.’

‘I did!’

‘No, you didn’t. You never could have thought I liked her best, when you were by.’

“Ma che, sei ancora così vivace come sempre, vero?” disse Jonas. “Oh, sei davvero birichino!”

“Ecco, vattene!” ribatté Merry, spingendolo via. “Sono sicura che non saprei proprio cosa fare se dovessi vederti troppo spesso. Vattene, per l’amor del cielo!”

Il signor Pecksniff intervenne chiedendo al signor Jonas di salire immediatamente al piano di sopra; fino ad allora aveva rispettato l’insistenza della giovane signorina e si era recato subito. Ma, nonostante avesse la bella Cherry al suo braccio, non poté fare a meno di guardare indietro verso sua sorella e scambiare con lei altri battibecchi scherzosi mentre tutti e quattro salivano nel salotto; dove, per fortuna, quella notte le giovani signorine arrivarono un po’ in ritardo rispetto al solito, e proprio in quel momento il tavolino da tè veniva preparato.

Il signor Pinch non era a casa, quindi erano soli e molto a loro agio; Jonas sedeva tra le due sorelle, dimostrando la sua galanteria in quel modo affascinante che gli era tipico. “È davvero difficile,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “dopo aver servito il tè e riposto tutto, lasciare un gruppo così piacevole. Ma avendo alcuni documenti importanti da esaminare nel mio studio, devo chiedervi scusa se mi assento per mezz’ora.” Con queste parole si allontanò, cantando una canzone distratta mentre camminava. Non era passato nemmeno cinque minuti quando Merry, che fino ad allora aveva seduto vicino alla finestra insieme a Jonas e sua sorella, scoppiò in una risata soffocata e corse verso la porta.

“Salve!”, gridò Jonas. “Non andartene.”

“Ah, sì che lo dici!” rispose Merry, guardandolo indietro. “Sei davvero ansioso che io rimanga, vero?”

“Sì, lo sono,” disse Jonas. “Lo giuro su mia parola, lo sono. Voglio parlarti.”
Ma nonostante ciò, mentre lei usciva dalla stanza, lui la rincorse e la riportò indietro, dopo una breve lotta nel corridoio che scandalizzò molto Miss Cherry.

“Per la mia parola, Merry,” insistette quella giovane signora, “mi meraviglio di te! Anche l’assurdità ha i suoi limiti, cara.”

“Grazie, mio caro,” disse Merry, stringendo le sue labbra rosee. “Sono davvero molto grata per i suoi consigli. Oh! Lasciami in pace, tu mostro. Per favore!” Questa supplica le uscì di bocca a causa di un nuovo comportamento da parte del signor Jonas: la trascinò giù, mentre lei era ancora senza fiato, e la fece sedere accanto a sé sul divano, facendo sì che la signorina Cherry si sedesse dall’altra parte.

“Ora,” disse Jonas, abbracciando entrambi per la vita; “ho le braccia piene, vero?”

“Uno di loro domani avrà il viso tutto blu e nero, se non mi lasciate andare,” gridò la giocosa Merry.

“Ah! Non mi dispiace affatto che tu mi pizzichi un po’,” ridacchiò Jonas.

“Pizzicagli un dito per me, Cherry, ti prego,” disse Mercy. “Non ho mai odiato nessuno quanto odio questa creatura. Lo giuro!”

“No, no, non dire così,” insistette Jonas, “e nemmeno pizzicarmi, perché voglio parlare seriamente. Dico, cugina Charity, ”

“Beh! Cosa?” rispose lei bruscamente.

“Vorrei avere una conversazione seria,” disse Jonas; “vorrei evitare qualsiasi errore, capisci, e chiarire tutto in modo amichevole. È giusto e opportuno, no?”

Nessuna delle due sorelle disse una parola. Il signor Jonas fece una pausa e si schiarì la gola, che era molto secca.

“Non crederà a quello che sto per dire, vero, cugina?” disse Jonas, stringendo timidamente la mano di Miss Charity.

“Davvero, signor Jonas. Non lo so, finché non so di cosa si tratta. È assolutamente impossibile!”

“Vedi,” disse Jonas, “poiché il suo modo abituale è prendere in giro le persone, so che riderà o farà finta di ridere. Lo so già in anticipo. Ma puoi dirle che parlo sul serio, cugino. Non può? Ammetterai sicuramente di saperlo, vero? Sarai onesto, ne sono certo,” aggiunse con insistenza.

Nessuna risposta. La sua gola sembrava diventare sempre più calda e sempre più difficile da controllare.

“Vedi, cugina Charity,” disse Jonas, “solo tu puoi raccontarle quanto mi sia sforzato per entrare in sua compagnia quando entrambe eravate alla pensione nella città, perché nessun altro ne è a conoscenza, capisci? Nessuno può dirle quanto abbia cercato di conoscerti meglio, così da poterla conoscere senza sembrare che lo desiderassi. Non è vero? Ti chiedevo sempre di lei: dove era andata, quando sarebbe tornata, quanto fosse vivace. Non è forse così, cugina? So che glielo dirai, se non l’hai già fatto. E, e credo proprio che l’abbia già fatto, perché sono sicuro che tu sia una persona onesta, vero?”

Ancora nessuna parola. Il braccio destro del signor Jonas – sulla cui spalla sedeva la sorella maggiore – forse percepiva un battito tumultuoso che non proveniva da dentro di lui; ma nulla gli fece capire che le sue parole avessero avuto il minimo effetto.

“Anche se te l’hai tenuto per te e non gliel’hai detto,” continuò Jonas, “non ha molta importanza, perché ora darai un testimonianza onesta, vero? Siamo stati ottimi amici fin dall’inizio, no? E naturalmente continueremo ad essere buoni amici in futuro, quindi non mi dispiace parlare un po’ davanti a te. Cugina Mercy, hai sentito quello che ho detto. Lei confermerà ogni parola; deve farlo. Vuoi che io sia tuo marito? Eh?”

Non appena lui allentò la presa su Charity per porle questa domanda in modo più efficace, lei si alzò di scatto e corse via nella sua stanza, emettendo lungo il cammino una serie di suoni appassionati e incoerenti: suoni che potevano provenire soltanto da una donna offesa e arrabbiata.

“Lasciami andare. Lasciami inseguirla,” disse Merry, spingendolo via e, per dire la verità, dandogli più di uno schiaffo sul viso teso.

“Non fino a quando non mi dirai di sì. Non mi hai ancora detto se vuoi che io sia tuo marito.”

“No, non lo farò. Non riesco a sopportare la tua vista. Te l’ho detto centinaia di volte: sei spaventoso. Inoltre, ho sempre pensato che tu preferissi mia sorella. Lo pensavamo tutti.”

“Ma non è stata colpa mia,” disse Jonas.

“Sì, lo era; lo sai che lo era.”

“Qualsiasi trucco è lecito nell’amore,” disse Jonas. “Forse lei pensava che fossi il più innamorato di lei, ma tu no.”

“L’ho fatto!”

“No, non l’hai mai fatto. Non avresti mai potuto pensare che lei fosse la mia preferita, mentre tu eri presente.”

‘There’s no accounting for tastes,’ said Merry; ‘at least I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t know what I mean. Let me go to her.’

‘Say “Yes,” and then I will.’

‘If I ever brought myself to say so, it should only be that I might hate and tease you all my life.’

‘That’s as good,’ cried Jonas, ‘as saying it right out. It’s a bargain, cousin. We’re a pair, if ever there was one.’

This gallant speech was succeeded by a confused noise of kissing and slapping; and then the fair but much dishevelled Merry broke away, and followed in the footsteps of her sister.

Now whether Mr Pecksniff had been listening—which in one of his character appears impossible; or divined almost by inspiration what the matter was—which, in a man of his sagacity is far more probable; or happened by sheer good fortune to find himself in exactly the right place, at precisely the right time—which, under the special guardianship in which he lived might very reasonably happen; it is quite certain that at the moment when the sisters came together in their own room, he appeared at the chamber door. And a marvellous contrast it was—they so heated, noisy, and vehement; he so calm, so self-possessed, so cool and full of peace, that not a hair upon his head was stirred.

‘Children!’ said Mr Pecksniff, spreading out his hands in wonder, but not before he had shut the door, and set his back against it. ‘Girls! Daughters! What is this?’

‘The wretch; the apostate; the false, mean, odious villain; has before my very face proposed to Mercy!’ was his eldest daughter’s answer.

‘Who has proposed to Mercy!’ asked Mr Pecksniff.

‘HE has. That thing, Jonas, downstairs.’

‘Jonas proposed to Mercy?’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Aye, aye! Indeed!’

‘Have you nothing else to say?’ cried Charity. ‘Am I to be driven mad, papa? He has proposed to Mercy, not to me.’

‘Oh, fie! For shame!’ said Mr Pecksniff, gravely. ‘Oh, for shame! Can the triumph of a sister move you to this terrible display, my child? Oh, really this is very sad! I am sorry; I am surprised and hurt to see you so. Mercy, my girl, bless you! See to her. Ah, envy, envy, what a passion you are!’

Uttering this apostrophe in a tone full of grief and lamentation, Mr Pecksniff left the room (taking care to shut the door behind him), and walked downstairs into the parlour. There he found his intended son-in-law, whom he seized by both hands.

‘Jonas!’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘Jonas! the dearest wish of my heart is now fulfilled!’

‘Very well; I’m glad to hear it,’ said Jonas. ‘That’ll do. I say! As it ain’t the one you’re so fond of, you must come down with another thousand, Pecksniff. You must make it up five. It’s worth that, to keep your treasure to yourself, you know. You get off very cheap that way, and haven’t a sacrifice to make.’

The grin with which he accompanied this, set off his other attractions to such unspeakable advantage, that even Mr Pecksniff lost his presence of mind for a moment, and looked at the young man as if he were quite stupefied with wonder and admiration. But he quickly regained his composure, and was in the very act of changing the subject, when a hasty step was heard without, and Tom Pinch, in a state of great excitement, came darting into the room.

On seeing a stranger there, apparently engaged with Mr Pecksniff in private conversation, Tom was very much abashed, though he still looked as if he had something of great importance to communicate, which would be a sufficient apology for his intrusion.

‘Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff, ‘this is hardly decent. You will excuse my saying that I think your conduct scarcely decent, Mr Pinch.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ replied Tom, ‘for not knocking at the door.’

‘Rather beg this gentleman’s pardon, Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff. ‘I know you; he does not.—My young man, Mr Jonas.’

The son-in-law that was to be gave him a slight nod—not actively disdainful or contemptuous, only passively; for he was in a good humour.

‘Could I speak a word with you, sir, if you please?’ said Tom. ‘It’s rather pressing.’

‘It should be very pressing to justify this strange behaviour, Mr Pinch,’ returned his master. ‘Excuse me for one moment, my dear friend. Now, sir, what is the reason of this rough intrusion?’

‘I am very sorry, sir, I am sure,’ said Tom, standing, cap in hand, before his patron in the passage; ‘and I know it must have a very rude appearance—’

‘It HAS a very rude appearance, Mr Pinch.’

‘Yes, I feel that, sir; but the truth is, I was so surprised to see them, and knew you would be too, that I ran home very fast indeed, and really hadn’t enough command over myself to know what I was doing very well. I was in the church just now, sir, touching the organ for my own amusement, when I happened to look round, and saw a gentleman and lady standing in the aisle listening. They seemed to be strangers, sir, as well as I could make out in the dusk; and I thought I didn’t know them; so presently I left off, and said, would they walk up into the organ-loft, or take a seat? No, they said, they wouldn’t do that; but they thanked me for the music they had heard. In fact,’ observed Tom, blushing, ‘they said, “Delicious music!” at least, SHE did; and I am sure that was a greater pleasure and honour to me than any compliment I could have had. I—I—beg your pardon sir;’ he was all in a tremble, and dropped his hat for the second time ‘but I—I’m rather flurried, and I fear I’ve wandered from the point.’

‘If you will come back to it, Thomas,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with an icy look, ‘I shall feel obliged.’

‘Yes, sir,’ returned Tom, ‘certainly. They had a posting carriage at the porch, sir, and had stopped to hear the organ, they said. And then they said—SHE said, I mean, “I believe you live with Mr Pecksniff, sir?” I said I had that honour, and I took the liberty, sir,’ added Tom, raising his eyes to his benefactor’s face, ‘of saying, as I always will and must, with your permission, that I was under great obligations to you, and never could express my sense of them sufficiently.’

“Non si possono giudicare i gusti altrui,” disse Merry; “almeno non volevo dire questo. Non so nemmeno cosa intenda davvero. Lasciami andare da lei.”

“Di’ “Sì”, e poi lo farò.”

“Se mai dovessi decidere di dirlo, sarebbe solo perché potrei odiarvi e prendervi in giro per tutta la vita.”

“È esattamente lo stesso,” gridò Jonas, “come se l’avessi detto apertamente. È davvero un ottimo affare, cugino. Siamo proprio una coppia, se mai ne sono esistite.”

Dopo questo nobile discorso seguì un caotico rumore di baci e schiaffi; poi la bella ma molto scompigliata Merry si staccò dal gruppo e seguì le orme di sua sorella.

Ora, sia che il signor Pecksniff avesse davvero ascoltato – il che, data la sua natura, sembra impossibile; oppure abbia intuito quasi per ispirazione di cosa si trattasse – il che, considerata la sua saggezza, è molto più probabile; o ancora sia stato semplicemente fortunato ad trovarsi nel posto giusto, al momento giusto – il che, data la particolare situazione in cui viveva, non era affatto improbabile; è certo che, nel preciso istante in cui le sorelle si riunirono nella loro stanza, lui apparve alla porta della camera. E che contrasto straordinario. Loro così agitate, rumorose e appassionate; lui così calmo, padrone di sé, sereno e pieno di pace, al punto che nemmeno un capello sulla sua testa si muoveva.

“Bambini!” esclamò il signor Pecksniff, aprendo le braccia in segno di stupore, ma solo dopo aver chiuso la porta e appoggiatovi la schiena. “Ragazze! Figlie mie. Che cosa sta succedendo?”

“Quel miserabile; quel traditore; quel vile, meschino, odioso malvagio; ha osato proporre il suo matrimonio a Mercy proprio davanti ai miei occhi!” fu la risposta di sua figlia maggiore.

“Chi ha chiesto in matrimonio a Mercy?”, chiese il signor Pecksniff.

“Lui ce l’ha. Quella cosa, Jonas, al piano di sotto.”

“Jonas ha chiesto in sposa Mercy?”, disse il signor Pecksniff. “Sì, sì! Proprio così!”

“Non hai nient’altro da dire?” gridò Charity. “Devo diventare pazza, papà? Lui le ha chiesto di sposarlo a Mercy, non a me.”

“Oh, che vergogna!” disse il signor Pecksniff con gravità. “Oh, che vergogna! Può davvero la vittoria di una sorella spingerti a un comportamento così terribile, mio bambino? Oh, davvero è molto triste. Mi dispiace; sono sorpreso e addolorato nel vederti in questo stato. Mia povera ragazza, abbi pietà di lei. Ah, invidia. Che passione terribile è questa!”

Pronunciando queste parole con un tono pieno di dolore e lamento, il signor Pecksniff lasciò la stanza (prendendosi cura di chiudere la porta dietro di sé) e scese al piano di sotto, nella sala da pranzo. Lì trovò il suo futuro genero e lo afferrò per entrambe le mani.

“Jonas!” gridò il signor Pecksniff. “Jonas. Il desiderio più caro del mio cuore è finalmente realizzato!”

“Molto bene; sono felice di saperlo,” disse Jonas. “Va benissimo! Dopotutto, non è quella che ti piace così tanto, quindi devi trovare un’altra migliaia, Pecksniff. Devi arrivare a cinque in totale. Ne vale la pena, per tenerti il tuo tesoro tutto per te, capisci? In questo modo ne esci molto meglio, senza dover fare alcun sacrificio.”

Il sorriso con cui accompagnò queste parole fece risaltare ancora di più le sue altre qualità, a tal punto che persino il signor Pecksniff per un momento perse la padronanza di sé e guardò il giovane come se fosse davvero sbalordito dalla meraviglia e dall’ammirazione. Ma si riprese rapidamente e stava proprio per cambiare argomento, quando si udì un passo affrettato provenire dall’esterno; Tom Pinch, in uno stato di grande eccitazione, entrò di corsa nella stanza.

Vedendo un estraneo lì, apparentemente impegnato in una conversazione privata con il signor Pecksniff, Tom si sentì molto imbarazzato; tuttavia continuava ad avere l’aria di qualcuno che avesse qualcosa di estremamente importante da comunicare, il che sarebbe stato un motivo sufficiente per giustificare la sua intrusione.

“Signor Pinch,” disse Pecksniff, “questo non è affatto decoroso. Mi scuserà se dico che ritengo il suo comportamento piuttosto indecoroso, signor Pinch.”

“Mi scusi, signore,” rispose Tom, “per non aver bussato alla porta.”

“Meglio chiedere scusa a questo signore, signor Pinch,” disse Pecksniff. “Lo conosco io; lui no. Mio giovane amico, signor Jonas.”

Il genero gli fece un leggero cenno con la testa – non con disprezzo o derisione, ma solo in modo passivo; perché era di buon umore.

“Potrei parlarle un attimo, signore, se le va bene? È una questione abbastanza urgente.”

“Dovrebbe essere molto importante trovare una spiegazione per questo comportamento strano, signor Pinch,” rispose il suo padrone. “Scusate un momento, mio caro amico. Ora, ditemi: qual è la ragione di questa intrusione così brusca?”

“Mi dispiace molto, signore, ne sono sicuro,” disse Tom, in piedi con la testa tra le mani, davanti al suo protettore nel corridoio; “so che deve sembrare molto scortese, ”

“Ha un aspetto davvero molto scortese, signor Pinch.”

“Sì, signore, lo penso anch’io; ma la verità è che sono rimasto così sorpreso nel vederli, e sapevo che anche lei lo sarebbe stato, che sono corso a casa molto velocemente. E onestamente non avevo abbastanza controllo su me stesso per capire bene cosa stessi facendo. Poco fa ero in chiesa, suonavo l’organo per mio divertimento, quando ho guardato intorno e ho visto un signore e una signora in piedi nel corridoio ad ascoltare. Sembravano estranei, almeno così mi è parso nella semioscurità; quindi ho smesso di suonare e ho chiesto se volessero salire sul tetto dell’organo o sedersi da qualche parte. No, hanno detto di no; ma mi hanno ringraziato per la musica che avevano ascoltato. Anzi,” osservò Tom arrossendo, “hanno detto: ‘Musica deliziosa!’ Almeno lei l’ha detto. E sono sicuro che questo sia stato per me un piacere e un onore molto maggiore di qualsiasi complimento potessi aver ricevuto. Io, mi scusi, signore, ” Tremava tutto, e per la seconda volta lasciò cadere il cappello. “Ma sono davvero un po’ sconvolto. E temo di essermi allontanato dal punto principale della mia storia, ”

“Se vorrai riprenderla in considerazione, Thomas,” disse il signor Pecksniff con uno sguardo gelido, “mi sentirò obbligato.”

“Sì, signore,” rispose Tom, “certamente. Avevano una carrozza davanti al portico, signore, e si erano fermati per ascoltare l’organo, dissero. Poi, lei disse, voglio dire, ‘Credo che viva con il signor Pecksniff, vero?’ Risposi che avevo quell’onore, e mi presi la libertà,” aggiunse Tom alzando lo sguardo sul volto del suo benefattore, “di dire, come farò sempre e devo fare, con il suo permesso, che le sono profondamente grato e che non potrò mai esprimere a sufficienza la mia riconoscenza.”

‘That,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘was very, very wrong. Take your time, Mr Pinch.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ cried Tom. ‘On that they asked me—she asked, I mean—“Wasn’t there a bridle road to Mr Pecksniff’s house?”’

Mr Pecksniff suddenly became full of interest.

‘“Without going by the Dragon?” When I said there was, and said how happy I should be to show it ‘em, they sent the carriage on by the road, and came with me across the meadows. I left ‘em at the turnstile to run forward and tell you they were coming, and they’ll be here, sir, in—in less than a minute’s time, I should say,’ added Tom, fetching his breath with difficulty.

‘Now, who,’ said Mr Pecksniff, pondering, ‘who may these people be?’

‘Bless my soul, sir!’ cried Tom, ‘I meant to mention that at first, I thought I had. I knew them—her, I mean—directly. The gentleman who was ill at the Dragon, sir, last winter; and the young lady who attended him.’

Tom’s teeth chattered in his head, and he positively staggered with amazement, at witnessing the extraordinary effect produced on Mr Pecksniff by these simple words. The dread of losing the old man’s favour almost as soon as they were reconciled, through the mere fact of having Jonas in the house; the impossibility of dismissing Jonas, or shutting him up, or tying him hand and foot and putting him in the coal-cellar, without offending him beyond recall; the horrible discordance prevailing in the establishment, and the impossibility of reducing it to decent harmony with Charity in loud hysterics, Mercy in the utmost disorder, Jonas in the parlour, and Martin Chuzzlewit and his young charge upon the very doorsteps; the total hopelessness of being able to disguise or feasibly explain this state of rampant confusion; the sudden accumulation over his devoted head of every complicated perplexity and entanglement for his extrication from which he had trusted to time, good fortune, chance, and his own plotting, so filled the entrapped architect with dismay, that if Tom could have been a Gorgon staring at Mr Pecksniff, and Mr Pecksniff could have been a Gorgon staring at Tom, they could not have horrified each other half so much as in their own bewildered persons.

‘Dear, dear!’ cried Tom, ‘what have I done? I hoped it would be a pleasant surprise, sir. I thought you would like to know.’

But at that moment a loud knocking was heard at the hall door.

“Quello,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “è stato molto, molto sbagliato. Prendetevi tutto il tempo che vi serve, signor Pinch.”

“Grazie, signore,” gridò Tom. “Ecco cosa mi hanno chiesto, cioè, lei mi ha chiesto: ‘Non c’era forse un sentiero che portasse alla casa del signor Pecksniff?’”

Il signor Pecksniff improvvisamente mostrò grande interesse.

“Senza passare per il Drago?” Quando ho detto che c’era, e quanto sarei stato felice di mostrarlo a loro, mi hanno fatto proseguire con la carrozza lungo la strada, mentre loro sono venuti con me attraverso i prati. Li ho lasciati all’ingresso per correre ad avvisarvi del loro arrivo. Saranno qui in meno di un minuto, signore,” aggiunse Tom, riprendendo fiato a fatica.

“Ora, chi, ”, disse il signor Pecksniff, riflettendo, “chi potrebbero essere queste persone?”

“Benedica la mia ‘anima, signore!” gridò Tom. “Volevo proprio menzionarlo all’inizio. Li conoscevo: intendo dire, lei. L’uomo che era malato al Dragon, signore, l’ultima inverno; e la giovane signora che si prendeva cura di lui.”

I denti di Tom battevano forte; era letteralmente sbalordito nel vedere l’effetto straordinario che queste semplici parole avevano su Mr Pecksniff. La paura di perdere il favore dell’uomo non appena si erano riconciliati, solo a causa della presenza di Jonas in casa; l’impossibilità di licenziare Jonas, di chiuderlo fuori o di imprigionarlo senza offenderlo irrimediabilmente; il terribile disordine che regnava nella casa, e l’impossibilità di ripristinarne una situazione decente. Tutto ciò riempiva Tom di disperazione. Se solo fosse stato possibile nascondere o spiegare in qualche modo questa situazione caotica. L’accumulo improvviso di complicazioni e problemi che lo minacciavano, da cui si era illuso di potersi liberare grazie al tempo, alla fortuna o alle sue stesse strategie. Tutto ciò gettava Tom nel più profondo sconforto. E se solo lui e Mr Pecksniff fossero stati due Gorgoni che si fissavano a vicenda. Non avrebbero potuto terrorizzarsi a vicenda di più di quanto già facessero nella loro stessa confusione.

“Caro, caro!” gridò Tom, “cosa ho fatto? Speravo fosse una sorpresa piacevole, signore. Pensavo che volesse saperlo.”

Ma in quel momento si sentì bussare forte alla porta d’ingresso.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

MORE AMERICAN EXPERIENCES, MARTIN TAKES A PARTNER, AND MAKES A PURCHASE. SOME ACCOUNT OF EDEN, AS IT APPEARED ON PAPER. ALSO OF THE BRITISH LION. ALSO OF THE KIND OF SYMPATHY PROFESSED AND ENTERTAINED BY THE WATERTOAST ASSOCIATION OF UNITED SYMPATHISERS

The knocking at Mr Pecksniff’s door, though loud enough, bore no resemblance whatever to the noise of an American railway train at full speed. It may be well to begin the present chapter with this frank admission, lest the reader should imagine that the sounds now deafening this history’s ears have any connection with the knocker on Mr Pecksniff’s door, or with the great amount of agitation pretty equally divided between that worthy man and Mr Pinch, of which its strong performance was the cause.

Mr Pecksniff’s house is more than a thousand leagues away; and again this happy chronicle has Liberty and Moral Sensibility for its high companions. Again it breathes the blessed air of Independence; again it contemplates with pious awe that moral sense which renders unto Ceasar nothing that is his; again inhales that sacred atmosphere which was the life of him—oh noble patriot, with many followers!—who dreamed of Freedom in a slave’s embrace, and waking sold her offspring and his own in public markets.

How the wheels clank and rattle, and the tram-road shakes, as the train rushes on! And now the engine yells, as it were lashed and tortured like a living labourer, and writhed in agony. A poor fancy; for steel and iron are of infinitely greater account, in this commonwealth, than flesh and blood. If the cunning work of man be urged beyond its power of endurance, it has within it the elements of its own revenge; whereas the wretched mechanism of the Divine Hand is dangerous with no such property, but may be tampered with, and crushed, and broken, at the driver’s pleasure. Look at that engine! It shall cost a man more dollars in the way of penalty and fine, and satisfaction of the outraged law, to deface in wantonness that senseless mass of metal, than to take the lives of twenty human creatures! Thus the stars wink upon the bloody stripes; and Liberty pulls down her cap upon her eyes, and owns Oppression in its vilest aspect, for her sister.

The engine-driver of the train whose noise awoke us to the present chapter was certainly troubled with no such reflections as these; nor is it very probable that his mind was disturbed by any reflections at all. He leaned with folded arms and crossed legs against the side of the carriage, smoking; and, except when he expressed, by a grunt as short as his pipe, his approval of some particularly dexterous aim on the part of his colleague, the fireman, who beguiled his leisure by throwing logs of wood from the tender at the numerous stray cattle on the line, he preserved a composure so immovable, and an indifference so complete, that if the locomotive had been a sucking-pig, he could not have been more perfectly indifferent to its doings. Notwithstanding the tranquil state of this officer, and his unbroken peace of mind, the train was proceeding with tolerable rapidity; and the rails being but poorly laid, the jolts and bumps it met with in its progress were neither slight nor few.

There were three great caravans or cars attached. The ladies’ car, the gentlemen’s car, and the car for negroes; the latter painted black, as an appropriate compliment to its company. Martin and Mark Tapley were in the first, as it was the most comfortable; and, being far from full, received other gentlemen who, like them, were unblessed by the society of ladies of their own. They were seated side by side, and were engaged in earnest conversation.

‘And so, Mark,’ said Martin, looking at him with an anxious expression, ‘and so you are glad we have left New York far behind us, are you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Mark. ‘I am. Precious glad.’

‘Were you not “jolly” there?’ asked Martin.

‘On the contrairy, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘The jolliest week as ever I spent in my life, was that there week at Pawkins’s.’

‘What do you think of our prospects?’ inquired Martin, with an air that plainly said he had avoided the question for some time.

‘Uncommon bright, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘Impossible for a place to have a better name, sir, than the Walley of Eden. No man couldn’t think of settling in a better place than the Walley of Eden. And I’m told,’ added Mark, after a pause, ‘as there’s lots of serpents there, so we shall come out, quite complete and reg’lar.’

So far from dwelling upon this agreeable piece of information with the least dismay, Mark’s face grew radiant as he called it to mind; so very radiant, that a stranger might have supposed he had all his life been yearning for the society of serpents, and now hailed with delight the approaching consummation of his fondest wishes.

‘Who told you that?’ asked Martin, sternly.

‘A military officer,’ said Mark.

‘Confound you for a ridiculous fellow!’ cried Martin, laughing heartily in spite of himself. ‘What military officer? You know they spring up in every field.’

‘As thick as scarecrows in England, sir,’ interposed Mark, ‘which is a sort of milita themselves, being entirely coat and wescoat, with a stick inside. Ha, ha!—Don’t mind me, sir; it’s my way sometimes. I can’t help being jolly. Why it was one of them inwading conquerors at Pawkins’s, as told me. “Am I rightly informed,” he says—not exactly through his nose, but as if he’d got a stoppage in it, very high up—“that you’re a-going to the Walley of Eden?” “I heard some talk on it,” I told him. “Oh!” says he, “if you should ever happen to go to bed there—you MAY, you know,” he says, “in course of time as civilisation progresses—don’t forget to take a axe with you.” I looks at him tolerable hard. “Fleas?” says I. “And more,” says he. “Wampires?” says I. “And more,” says he. “Musquitoes, perhaps?” says I. “And more,” says he. “What more?” says I. “Snakes more,” says he; “rattle-snakes. You’re right to a certain extent, stranger. There air some catawampous chawers in the small way too, as graze upon a human pretty strong; but don’t mind THEM—they’re company. It’s snakes,” he says, “as you’ll object to; and whenever you wake and see one in a upright poster on your bed,” he says, “like a corkscrew with the handle off a-sittin’ on its bottom ring, cut him down, for he means wenom.”’

CAPITOLO VENTUNO

Altre esperienze americane: Martin trova un partner e effettua un acquisto. Una descrizione di Eden, così come appariva sulla carta. E anche del leone britannico. Inoltre, del tipo di simpatia dimostrata e coltivata dall’Associazione degli Simpatizzanti Uniti.

Il bussare alla porta del signor Pecksniff, per quanto abbastanza forte, non assomigliava affatto al rumore di un treno ferroviario americano che viaggia a piena velocità. Forse è utile iniziare questo capitolo con questa franca ammissione, per evitare che il lettore possa pensare che i suoni che ora assordiscono le orecchie di questa storia abbiano qualche legame con il bussatore alla porta del signor Pecksniff, o con l’enorme agitazione che si divideva in parti uguali tra quell’onorevole uomo e il signor Pinch, la cui intensa azione ne fu la causa.

La casa del signor Pecksniff si trova a più di mille leghe di distanza; e ancora una volta, questa felice cronaca ha come suoi compagni principali la Libertà e il Senso Morale. Ancora una volta, respira quell’aria benedetta dell’Indipendenza; ancora una volta, contempla con reverenza quel senso morale che non riconosce nulla di appartenente a Cesare se non ciò che effettivamente gli appartiene; ancora una volta, assorbe quella sacra atmosfera che fu la vita stessa di colui – oh nobile patriota, seguito da molti altri! – che sognava la Libertà tra le braccia di uno schiavo, ma al risveglio vendeva i suoi ideali e quelli degli altri nei mercati pubblici.

Come cigolano e rumoreggiano le ruote, e come tremola la strada su cui si muove il tram, mentre il treno sfreccia via! Ora l’ingranaggio urla, come se fosse legato e torturato come un lavoratore umano, contorcendosi nel dolore. Una povera immaginazione: in questo “regno”, infatti, acciaio e ferro hanno un valore infinitamente maggiore della carne e del sangue. Se l’ingegnosa opera dell’uomo viene spinta oltre i limiti della sua resistenza, essa contiene in sé gli elementi della propria stessa vendetta; mentre quel misero meccanismo creato dalla “Mano Divina” è pericoloso, ma può essere manipolato, distrutto o schiacciato a piacimento del suo operatore. Guardate quell’ingranaggio: per danneggiare quella massa di metallo in modo sconsiderato, un uomo dovrà pagare una multa enorme, rispettare le leggi, mentre uccidere venti persone costerebbe molto meno! Così le stelle osservano con indifferenza queste strade insanguinate; e la Libertà si copre gli occhi, riconoscendo nell’Oppressione il suo aspetto più vile, come sua sorella.

Il macchinista del treno, il cui rumore ci ha svegliati e portati al presente capitolo, certamente non era turbato da riflessioni del genere; né è molto probabile che la sua mente fosse afflitta da alcuna preoccupazione. Appoggiato con le braccia incrociate e le gambe distese contro il fianco del vagone, fumava tranquillamente; e, a parte i brevi grugniti con cui esprimeva la sua approvazione per qualche movimento particolarmente abile da parte del suo collega, il fuochista che occupava il proprio tempo gettando tronchi di legno dal tender contro le numerose mucche randagie lungo la linea, manteneva una compostezza così ferma e un’indifferenza così assoluta, che anche se la locomotiva fosse stata un maialino, non avrebbe potuto essere più indifferente ai suoi movimenti. Nonostante lo stato di tranquillità di questo ufficiale e la sua mente serena, il treno procedeva a una velocità tollerabile; e poiché i binari erano mal costruiti, le scosse e gli urti che incontrava lungo il percorso non erano né lievi né rari.

C’erano tre grandi carovane o veicoli annessi: la carrozza delle signore, quella dei gentiluomini e quella riservata ai neri; quest’ultima era dipinta di nero, come appropriato omaggio al suo “compagno” di viaggio. Martin e Mark Tapley si trovavano nella prima carrozza, poiché era la più confortevole; inoltre, essendo ancora quasi vuota, accolse altri gentiluomini che, come loro, non erano fortunati ad essere accompagnati da signore della loro stessa classe sociale. Erano seduti uno accanto all’altro e conversavano seriamente.

“E così, Mark,” disse Martin, guardandolo con un’espressione ansiosa,
“quindi sei contento che abbiamo lasciato New York molto indietro, vero?”

“Sì, signore,” disse Mark. “Lo sono. Molto felice.”

“Non eri forse ‘molto felice’ lì?” chiese Martin.

“Al contrario, signore,” rispose Mark. “La settimana più divertente della mia vita è stata proprio quella trascorsa da Pawkins.”

“Che ne pensi delle nostre prospettive?” chiese Martin, con un tono che chiaramente indicava che aveva evitato di rispondere a quella domanda per un po’.

“Straordinariamente bello, signore,” rispose Mark. “Impossibile che esista un posto con un nome migliore di Walley of Eden. Nessuno potrebbe desiderare stabilirsi in un luogo più idilliaco. E mi è stato detto,” aggiunse dopo una pausa, “poiché ci sono molti serpenti laggiù, usciremo da lì completamente illesi e sani.”

Lontano dal riflettere su questa piacevole informazione con il minimo disappunto, il viso di Mark si illuminò non appena se ne ricordò; era così radioso che uno sconosciuto avrebbe potuto pensare che per tutta la vita avesse desiderato la compagnia dei serpenti e ora accogliesse con gioia l’avverarsi dei suoi desideri più ardenti.

“Chi te l’ha detto?” chiese Martin, con tono severo.

“Un ufficiale militare,” disse Mark.

“Maledetto sciocco!” esclamò Martin, ridendo di cuore nonostante se ne stesse rendendo conto. “Quale ufficiale militare? Sai bene che ne spuntano dappertutto.”

“Sono tantissimi, signore, quanto i gufi in Inghilterra,” intervenne Mark. “Si tratta di una sorta di milizia: indossano soltanto giacche e cappotti, con un bastone dentro. Ahah! Non badate a me, signore; a volte mi viene da scherzare. Non posso fare a meno di essere allegro. Uno di loro è addirittura entrato nella casa di Pawkins come conquistatore. Mi ha detto: ‘Sono informato correttamente che state andando nel Valle dell’Eden?’ Gli ho risposto che ne avevo sentito parlare. Lui ha detto: ‘Oh! Se mai doveste dormire lì, potreste farlo, sapete, col passare del tempo, con il progresso della civiltà. Non dimenticate di portare un’ascia con voi.’ Gli ho guardato con aria perplessa. ‘Pulci?’ ha chiesto lui. ‘E molto di più,’ ha risposto. ‘Vampiri?’ ‘E ancora di più.’ ‘Forse zanzare?’ ‘E ancora di più.’ ‘Cosa c’è d’altro?’ ho domandato. ‘Serpenti, serpenti velenosi,’ ha detto lui. ‘In un certo senso avete ragione, straniero. Ci sono anche altri pericoli, meno evidenti. Ma non preoccupatevi: sono soltanto serpenti. E se una notte vi svegliate e ne vedete uno sdraiato sul vostro letto, come un cavatappi senza manico, uccidetelo subito: significa solo dolore.’”

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before!’ cried Martin, with an expression of face which set off the cheerfulness of Mark’s visage to great advantage.

‘I never thought on it, sir,’ said Mark. ‘It come in at one ear, and went out at the other. But Lord love us, he was one of another Company, I dare say, and only made up the story that we might go to his Eden, and not the opposition one.’

‘There’s some probability in that,’ observed Martin. ‘I can honestly say that I hope so, with all my heart.’

‘I’ve not a doubt about it, sir,’ returned Mark, who, full of the inspiriting influence of the anecodote upon himself, had for the moment forgotten its probable effect upon his master; ‘anyhow, we must live, you know, sir.’

‘Live!’ cried Martin. ‘Yes, it’s easy to say live; but if we should happen not to wake when rattlesnakes are making corkscrews of themselves upon our beds, it may be not so easy to do it.’

‘And that’s a fact,’ said a voice so close in his ear that it tickled him. ‘That’s dreadful true.’

Martin looked round, and found that a gentleman, on the seat behind, had thrust his head between himself and Mark, and sat with his chin resting on the back rail of their little bench, entertaining himself with their conversation. He was as languid and listless in his looks as most of the gentlemen they had seen; his cheeks were so hollow that he seemed to be always sucking them in; and the sun had burnt him, not a wholesome red or brown, but dirty yellow. He had bright dark eyes, which he kept half closed; only peeping out of the corners, and even then with a glance that seemed to say, ‘Now you won’t overreach me; you want to, but you won’t.’ His arms rested carelessly on his knees as he leant forward; in the palm of his left hand, as English rustics have their slice of cheese, he had a cake of tobacco; in his right a penknife. He struck into the dialogue with as little reserve as if he had been specially called in, days before, to hear the arguments on both sides, and favour them with his opinion; and he no more contemplated or cared for the possibility of their not desiring the honour of his acquaintance or interference in their private affairs than if he had been a bear or a buffalo.

‘That,’ he repeated, nodding condescendingly to Martin, as to an outer barbarian and foreigner, ‘is dreadful true. Darn all manner of vermin.’

Martin could not help frowning for a moment, as if he were disposed to insinuate that the gentleman had unconsciously ‘darned’ himself. But remembering the wisdom of doing at Rome as Romans do, he smiled with the pleasantest expression he could assume upon so short a notice.

Their new friend said no more just then, being busily employed in cutting a quid or plug from his cake of tobacco, and whistling softly to himself the while. When he had shaped it to his liking, he took out his old plug, and deposited the same on the back of the seat between Mark and Martin, while he thrust the new one into the hollow of his cheek, where it looked like a large walnut, or tolerable pippin. Finding it quite satisfactory, he stuck the point of his knife into the old plug, and holding it out for their inspection, remarked with the air of a man who had not lived in vain, that it was ‘used up considerable.’ Then he tossed it away; put his knife into one pocket and his tobacco into another; rested his chin upon the rail as before; and approving of the pattern on Martin’s waistcoat, reached out his hand to feel the texture of that garment.

‘What do you call this now?’ he asked.

‘Upon my word’ said Martin, ‘I don’t know what it’s called.’

‘It’ll cost a dollar or more a yard, I reckon?’

‘I really don’t know.’

‘In my country,’ said the gentleman, ‘we know the cost of our own pro-duce.’

Martin not discussing the question, there was a pause.

‘Well!’ resumed their new friend, after staring at them intently during the whole interval of silence; ‘how’s the unnat’ral old parent by this time?’

Mr Tapley regarding this inquiry as only another version of the impertinent English question, ‘How’s your mother?’ would have resented it instantly, but for Martin’s prompt interposition.

‘You mean the old country?’ he said.

‘Ah!’ was the reply. ‘How’s she? Progressing back’ards, I expect, as usual? Well! How’s Queen Victoria?’

‘In good health, I believe,’ said Martin.

‘Queen Victoria won’t shake in her royal shoes at all, when she hears to-morrow named,’ observed the stranger, ‘No.’

‘Not that I am aware of. Why should she?’

‘She won’t be taken with a cold chill, when she realises what is being done in these diggings,’ said the stranger. ‘No.’

‘No,’ said Martin. ‘I think I could take my oath of that.’

The strange gentleman looked at him as if in pity for his ignorance or prejudice, and said:

‘Well, sir, I tell you this—there ain’t a engine with its biler bust, in God A’mighty’s free U-nited States, so fixed, and nipped, and frizzled to a most e-tarnal smash, as that young critter, in her luxurious location in the Tower of London will be, when she reads the next double-extra Watertoast Gazette.’

Several other gentlemen had left their seats and gathered round during the foregoing dialogue. They were highly delighted with this speech. One very lank gentleman, in a loose limp white cravat, long white waistcoat, and a black great-coat, who seemed to be in authority among them, felt called upon to acknowledge it.

‘Hem! Mr La Fayette Kettle,’ he said, taking off his hat.

There was a grave murmur of ‘Hush!’

‘Mr La Fayette Kettle! Sir!’

Mr Kettle bowed.

‘In the name of this company, sir, and in the name of our common country, and in the name of that righteous cause of holy sympathy in which we are engaged, I thank you. I thank you, sir, in the name of the Watertoast Sympathisers; and I thank you, sir, in the name of the Watertoast Gazette; and I thank you, sir, in the name of the star-spangled banner of the Great United States, for your eloquent and categorical exposition. And if, sir,’ said the speaker, poking Martin with the handle of his umbrella to bespeak his attention, for he was listening to a whisper from Mark; ‘if, sir, in such a place, and at such a time, I might venture to con-clude with a sentiment, glancing—however slantin’dicularly—at the subject in hand, I would say, sir, may the British Lion have his talons eradicated by the noble bill of the American Eagle, and be taught to play upon the Irish Harp and the Scotch Fiddle that music which is breathed in every empty shell that lies upon the shores of green Co-lumbia!’

“Perché non me l’hai detto prima?” gridò Martin, con un’espressione sul volto che metteva in risalto ancora di più la gioia sul viso di Mark.

“Non ci ho mai pensato, signore,” disse Mark. “È entrata da un orecchio ed è uscita dall’altro. Ma il Signore amore ci vuole bene; probabilmente faceva parte di un’altra compagnia, e ha inventato quella storia solo per farci andare nel suo Eden, e non in quello opposto.”

“C’è una certa probabilità che ciò accada,” osservò Martin. “Posso dire onestamente che lo spero, con tutto il mio cuore.”

“Non ho alcun dubbio al riguardo, signore,” rispose Mark, che, influenzato positivamente da quell’aneddoto, aveva momentaneamente dimenticato l’effetto che avrebbe potuto avere sul suo padrone; “comunque, dobbiamo vivere, capisce, signore.”

“Vivere!”, gridò Martin. “Sì, dire ‘vivere’ è facile. Ma se per caso non ci svegliassimo proprio quando i serpenti a sonagli si avvolgessero intorno ai nostri letti, allora forse non sarebbe così facile davvero.”

“E questo è un fatto,” disse una voce così vicina al suo orecchio da fargli il solletico. “È davvero terribilmente vero.”

Martin guardò intorno e si accorse che un gentiluomo, seduto dietro di lui, aveva infilato la testa tra lui e Mark, appoggiando il mento sullo schienale del loro piccolo banco e ascoltando attentamente la loro conversazione. Aveva un aspetto altrettanto languido e apatico come la maggior parte dei gentiluomini che avevano incontrato; le sue guance erano così incavate da sembrare che stesse costantemente tirandole verso l’interno; il sole le aveva bruciate, lasciando un colore giallo sporco, né rosso né marrone. Aveva occhi scuri e luminosi, ma li teneva sempre semi-chiusi, facendoli spuntare solo dagli angoli degli occhi, con uno sguardo che sembrava dire: “Ora non riuscirete a sorprendermi; vorreste farlo, ma non ci riuscirete.” Le sue braccia erano appoggiate pigramente sulle ginocchia mentre si chinava in avanti; nella palma della mano sinistra teneva un pezzo di tabacco, proprio come fanno i contadini inglesi; nella destra, un coltello a serramanico. Partecipava alla conversazione con la stessa naturalezza, come se fosse stato chiamato appositamente giorni prima per ascoltare entrambe le parti e esprimere il proprio parere al riguardo; non sembrava nemmeno considerare l’eventualità che loro potessero non desiderare la “onorificenza” della sua conoscenza o la sua interferenza nelle loro faccende private, come se fosse stato un orso o un bue.

“Quello,” ripeté, annuendo con disprezzo verso Martin, come se fosse un barbaro e uno straniero, “è una terribile realtà. Maledetti tutti quei parassiti.”

Martin non poté fare a meno di aggrottare la fronte per un momento, come se volesse insinuare che il gentiluomo si fosse inconsapevolmente “rovinato” da solo. Ma ricordandosi del detto “a Roma si fa come fanno i Romani”, sorrise con l’espressione più cordiale che riuscì a assumere in così poco tempo.

Il loro nuovo amico non disse più nulla in quel momento, essendo troppo impegnato a tagliare un pezzetto di tabacco dalla sua stecca e a fischiare sommessamente tra sé e sé. Quando ebbe ottenuto la forma desiderata, prese il vecchio pezzo di tabacco e lo posizionò sul sedile dietro Mark e Martin; poi infilò quello nuovo nella cavità della guancia, dove sembrava un grosso noce o una pesca abbastanza grande. Ritenendolo soddisfacente, conficcò la punta del coltello nel vecchio pezzo di tabacco e, mostrandolo a loro con l’aria di chi non aveva vissuto invano, commentò che era “piuttosto consumato”. Poi lo gettò via; mise il coltello in una tasca e il tabacco nell’altra; appoggiò di nuovo il mento alla ringhiera come prima; e, approvando il disegno sul gilet di Martin, allungò la mano per sentire la consistenza di quel capo d’abbigliamento.

“Come si chiama adesso questo?” chiese.

“Per la mia parola”, disse Martin, “non so nemmeno come si chiami”.

“Costerà almeno un dollaro a iarda, penso, ”

“Non lo so davvero.”

“Nel mio paese,” disse il gentiluomo, “sappiamo esattamente quanto costa la nostra stessa produzione.”

Poiché Martin non discuteva della questione, ci fu un momento di silenzio.

“Beh!”, riprese il loro nuovo amico, dopo averli fissati attentamente per tutto quel periodo di silenzio; “come sta quel genitore anziano e, insolito, a quest’ora?”

Il signor Tapley, considerando questa domanda soltanto un’altra versione di quella impertinente domanda inglese “Come sta tua madre?”, l’avrebbe respinta all’istante, se non fosse stato per l’intervento tempestivo di Martin.

“Intendi quel vecchio paese?” disse lui.

“Ah!” fu la risposta. “Come sta? Immagino che stia facendo progressi, all’indietro, come al solito, vero? Beh! E la Regina Vittoria, come va?”

“Credo di essere in buona salute,” disse Martin.

“La Regina Vittoria non batterà ciglio nei suoi abiti reali, quando sentirà il nome annunciato domani,” osservò lo sconosciuto. “No.”

“Per quanto ne so io, no. Perché dovrebbe farlo?”

“Non resterà indifferente quando capirà cosa sta succedendo in queste gallerie,” disse lo sconosciuto. “No.”

“No,” disse Martin. “Penso di poterlo giurare.”

Quel strano signore lo guardò come se provasse pietà per la sua ignoranza o i suoi pregiudizi, e disse:

‘Beh, signore, le dico una cosa: non esiste nessun motore, con il suo serbatoio rotto, negli Stati Uniti Uniti d’America, che sia così malandato e distrutto da non funzionare più, proprio come quella giovane donna, nella sua lussuosa residenza nella Torre di Londra, quando leggerà il prossimo numero del “Watertoast Gazette”.’

Alcuni altri gentiluomini avevano lasciato i loro posti e si erano radunati durante il dialogo precedente. Erano molto soddisfatti di questo discorso. Un gentiluomo particolarmente magro, con una cravatta bianca lenta e fluttuante, un gilet bianco lungo e un cappotto nero, che sembrava avere autorità tra loro, sentì il dovere di esprimere la sua approvazione.

“Ehm! Signor La Fayette Kettle,” disse, togliendosi il cappello.

Si udì un grave mormorio che diceva “Zitti!”.

“Signor La Fayette Kettle! Signore!”

Il signor Kettle fece un inchino.

‘Nel nome di questa compagnia, signore, e nel nome della nostra nazione comune, e nel nome di quella giusta causa di sacra solidarietà a cui ci impegniamo, vi ringrazio. Vi ringrazio, signore, nel nome dei sostenitori del Watertoast; vi ringrazio, signore, nel nome del giornale Watertoast Gazette; e vi ringrazio, signore, nel nome della bandiera stellata degli Stati Uniti d’America, per la vostra eloquente e categorica esposizione. E se, signore, ’, disse l’oratore, pungendo Martin con il manico dell’ombrello per attirare la sua attenzione – poiché stava ascoltando un sussurro proveniente da Mark – ‘se, in un luogo del genere e in un momento del genere, potessi osare concludere con un pensiero che, sebbene leggermente discostante dall’argomento principale, esprima comunque il mio sentimento, direi, signore, che possa il “Leone britannico” vedere le sue unghie distrutte dal nobile becco dell’Aquila americana, e che venga insegnato a suonare l’arpa irlandese e il violino scozzese, producendo quella musica che risuona in ogni conchiglia abbandonata sulle coste della verde Colombia!’

Here the lank gentleman sat down again, amidst a great sensation; and every one looked very grave.

‘General Choke,’ said Mr La Fayette Kettle, ‘you warm my heart; sir, you warm my heart. But the British Lion is not unrepresented here, sir; and I should be glad to hear his answer to those remarks.’

‘Upon my word,’ cried Martin, laughing, ‘since you do me the honour to consider me his representative, I have only to say that I never heard of Queen Victoria reading the What’s-his-name Gazette and that I should scarcely think it probable.’

General Choke smiled upon the rest, and said, in patient and benignant explanation:

‘It is sent to her, sir. It is sent to her. Her mail.’

‘But if it is addressed to the Tower of London, it would hardly come to hand, I fear,’ returned Martin; ‘for she don’t live there.’

‘The Queen of England, gentlemen,’ observed Mr Tapley, affecting the greatest politeness, and regarding them with an immovable face, ‘usually lives in the Mint to take care of the money. She HAS lodgings, in virtue of her office, with the Lord Mayor at the Mansion House; but don’t often occupy them, in consequence of the parlour chimney smoking.’

‘Mark,’ said Martin, ‘I shall be very much obliged to you if you’ll have the goodness not to interfere with preposterous statements, however jocose they may appear to you. I was merely remarking gentlemen—though it’s a point of very little import—that the Queen of England does not happen to live in the Tower of London.’

‘General!’ cried Mr La Fayette Kettle. ‘You hear?’

‘General!’ echoed several others. ‘General!’

‘Hush! Pray, silence!’ said General Choke, holding up his hand, and speaking with a patient and complacent benevolence that was quite touching. ‘I have always remarked it as a very extraordinary circumstance, which I impute to the natur’ of British Institutions and their tendency to suppress that popular inquiry and information which air so widely diffused even in the trackless forests of this vast Continent of the Western Ocean; that the knowledge of Britishers themselves on such points is not to be compared with that possessed by our intelligent and locomotive citizens. This is interesting, and confirms my observation. When you say, sir,’ he continued, addressing Martin, ‘that your Queen does not reside in the Tower of London, you fall into an error, not uncommon to your countrymen, even when their abilities and moral elements air such as to command respect. But, sir, you air wrong. She DOES live there—’

‘When she is at the Court of Saint James’s,’ interposed Kettle.

‘When she is at the Court of Saint James’s, of course,’ returned the General, in the same benignant way; ‘for if her location was in Windsor Pavilion it couldn’t be in London at the same time. Your Tower of London, sir,’ pursued the General, smiling with a mild consciousness of his knowledge, ‘is nat’rally your royal residence. Being located in the immediate neighbourhood of your Parks, your Drives, your Triumphant Arches, your Opera, and your Royal Almacks, it nat’rally suggests itself as the place for holding a luxurious and thoughtless court. And, consequently,’ said the General, ‘consequently, the court is held there.’

‘Have you been in England?’ asked Martin.

‘In print I have, sir,’ said the General, ‘not otherwise. We air a reading people here, sir. You will meet with much information among us that will surprise you, sir.’

‘I have not the least doubt of it,’ returned Martin. But here he was interrupted by Mr La Fayette Kettle, who whispered in his ear:

‘You know General Choke?’

‘No,’ returned Martin, in the same tone.

‘You know what he is considered?’

‘One of the most remarkable men in the country?’ said Martin, at a venture.

‘That’s a fact,’ rejoined Kettle. ‘I was sure you must have heard of him!’

‘I think,’ said Martin, addressing himself to the General again, ‘that I have the pleasure of being the bearer of a letter of introduction to you, sir. From Mr Bevan, of Massachusetts,’ he added, giving it to him.

The General took it and read it attentively; now and then stopping to glance at the two strangers. When he had finished the note, he came over to Martin, sat down by him, and shook hands.

‘Well!’ he said, ‘and you think of settling in Eden?’

‘Subject to your opinion, and the agent’s advice,’ replied Martin. ‘I am told there is nothing to be done in the old towns.’

‘I can introduce you to the agent, sir,’ said the General. ‘I know him. In fact, I am a member of the Eden Land Corporation myself.’

This was serious news to Martin, for his friend had laid great stress upon the General’s having no connection, as he thought, with any land company, and therefore being likely to give him disinterested advice. The General explained that he had joined the Corporation only a few weeks ago, and that no communication had passed between himself and Mr Bevan since.

‘We have very little to venture,’ said Martin anxiously—‘only a few pounds—but it is our all. Now, do you think that for one of my profession, this would be a speculation with any hope or chance in it?’

‘Well,’ observed the General, gravely, ‘if there wasn’t any hope or chance in the speculation, it wouldn’t have engaged my dollars, I opinionate.’

‘I don’t mean for the sellers,’ said Martin. ‘For the buyers—for the buyers!’

‘For the buyers, sir?’ observed the General, in a most impressive manner. ‘Well! you come from an old country; from a country, sir, that has piled up golden calves as high as Babel, and worshipped ‘em for ages. We are a new country, sir; man is in a more primeval state here, sir; we have not the excuse of having lapsed in the slow course of time into degenerate practices; we have no false gods; man, sir, here, is man in all his dignity. We fought for that or nothing. Here am I, sir,’ said the General, setting up his umbrella to represent himself, and a villanous-looking umbrella it was; a very bad counter to stand for the sterling coin of his benevolence, ‘here am I with grey hairs sir, and a moral sense. Would I, with my principles, invest capital in this speculation if I didn’t think it full of hopes and chances for my brother man?’

Qui, il signore magro si sedette di nuovo, suscitando grande scalpore; e tutti sembravano molto seri.

“Generale Choke,” disse il signor La Fayette Kettle, “mi riscaldate il cuore; davvero, mi riscaldate il cuore. Ma il ‘Leone’ britannico non è certo rappresentato qui, e sarei felice di ascoltare la sua risposta a quelle osservazioni.”

“Per la mia parola,” esclamò Martin ridendo, “poiché mi fate l’onore di considerarmi il suo rappresentante, devo solo dire che non ho mai sentito parlare di una Regina Victoria che legga quel giornale. E difficilmente lo ritengo possibile.”

“Generale Choke sorrise agli altri e, con pazienza e benevolenza, spiegò, ”

“È stato inviato a lei, signore. La sua posta.”

“Ma se è indirizzato alla Torre di Londra, temo che non arrivi mai nelle sue mani”, rispose Martin; “perché lei non vive lì.”

“La Regina d’Inghilterra, signori,” osservò il signor Tapley con la massima cortesia, fissandoli con un’espressione immobile, “di solito vive alla Zecca per occuparsi delle monete. Grazie al suo incarico, dispone di una residenza presso il Lord Mayor nella dimora House; ma non vi soggiorna spesso, a causa del fumo che proviene dal camino della sala.”

“Mark,” disse Martin, “ti sarei molto grato se avessi la gentilezza di non interferire con dichiarazioni assurde, per quanto possano sembrarti divertenti. Stavo semplicemente osservando, signori, anche se si tratta di un dettaglio di scarsa importanza, che la Regina d’Inghilterra non abita affatto nella Torre di Londra.”

“Generale!”, gridò il signor La Fayette Kettle. “Avete sentito?”

“Generale!”, echeggiarono altre voci. “Generale!”

“Zitto! Pregate, silenzio!” disse il generale Choke, alzando la mano e parlando con una pazienza e una benevolenza davvero commoventi. “Ho sempre ritenuto che si trattasse di una circostanza molto straordinaria, che attribuisco alla natura delle istituzioni britanniche e alla loro tendenza a soffocare quella curiosità e quell’informazione popolare che sono così diffuse anche nelle foreste inaccessibili di questo vasto continente dell’Oceano Atlantico; il fatto stesso che i britannici conoscano poco su queste questioni non è paragonabile a quello dei nostri cittadini intelligenti e attivi. È interessante, e conferma la mia osservazione. Quando dite, signore,” continuò, rivolgendosi a Martin, “che la vostra regina non risieda nella Torre di Londra, commettete un errore piuttosto comune tra i vostri connazionali, anche quando quest’ultimi possiedono capacità e qualità morali tali da meritare rispetto. Ma vi sbagliate: lei vive davvero lì.”

“Quando si trova alla Corte di San Giacomo,” intervenne Kettle.

“Quando si trova alla Corte di San Giacomo, naturalmente,” rispose il Generale con lo stesso tono gentile; “perché se fosse nel Padiglione di Windsor, non potrebbe essere contemporaneamente a )Londra. La vostra Torre di )Londra, signore,” proseguì il Generale sorridendo, consapevole della propria erudizione, “è naturalmente la vostra residenza reale. Essendo situata nelle immediate vicinanze dei vostri parchi, delle vostre strade, degli Archi Trionfali, dell’Opera e delle vostre istituzioni reali, sembra ovviamente il luogo adatto per ospitare una corte lussuosa e frivola. E quindi,” concluse il Generale, “la corte si tiene proprio lì.”

“Sei mai stato in Inghilterra?”, chiese Martin.

“Nella stampa ho, signore,” disse il Generale, “nient’altro. Qui facciamo ascoltare delle letture al pubblico, signore. Troverà tra noi molte informazioni che la sorprenderanno, signore.”

“Non ho la minima dubbio al riguardo,” rispose Martin. Ma in quel momento fu interrotto dal signor La Fayette Kettle, che gli sussurrò all’orecchio:

“Conosci il generale Choke?”

“No,” rispose Martin, con lo stesso tono.

“Sai in che modo viene considerato?”

“Uno degli uomini più notevoli del paese?” disse Martin, azzardandosi a dire così.

“È un fatto certo,” ribatté Kettle. “Ero sicura che tu avessi sicuramente sentito parlare di lui!”

“Penso,” disse Martin rivolgendosi di nuovo al Generale, “che abbia il piacere di essere il portatore di una lettera di presentazione per voi, signore. Di parte del signor Bevan, del Massachusetts,” aggiunse, porgendogliela.

Il Generale prese il biglietto e lo lesse con attenzione, fermandosi di tanto in tanto per lanciare uno sguardo ai due estranei. Dopo aver finito di leggerlo, si avvicinò a Martin, si sedette accanto a lui e gli strinse la mano.

“Beh!”, disse, “e pensi davvero di stabilirti in Eden?”

“A seconda del tuo parere e del consiglio dell’agente,” rispose Martin. “Mi è stato detto che non c’è nulla da fare nelle città vecchie.”

“Posso presentarvi l’agente, signore,” disse il Generale. “Lo conosco bene; anzi, anch’io faccio parte della Eden Land Corporation.”

Queste erano notizie serie per Martin, perché il suo amico aveva sottolineato con forza che il Generale non aveva alcun legame, secondo lui, con nessuna compagnia terriera, e quindi era probabile che gli desse consigli imparziali. Il Generale spiegò che si era unito alla Corporazione solo poche settimane prima, e da allora non c’era stata alcuna comunicazione tra lui e il signor Bevan.

“Non abbiamo molto da rischiare,” disse Martin con ansia, “solo poche sterline, ma è tutto ciò che abbiamo. Ora, pensi davvero che, per la mia professione, questa possa essere un’operazione con qualche speranza o possibilità di successo?”

“Beh,” osservò il Generale con serietà, “se in questa speculazione non ci fossero alcuna speranza o possibilità di successo, i miei soldi non sarebbero stati coinvolti, io che sono così deciso nelle mie scelte.”

“Non intendo parlare dei venditori,” disse Martin. “Ma dei compratori, dei compratori!”

“Per i compratori, signore?” osservò il Generale in modo molto impressionante. “Beh! Voi provenite da un vecchio paese; da un paese, signore, che ha accumulato ‘vitelli d’oro’ alti quanto Babilonia e li ha venerati per secoli. Noi siamo un nuovo paese, signore; qui l’uomo si trova in uno stato più primordiale; non abbiamo la scusa di essere decaduti nel corso del tempo verso pratiche degenerate; non abbiamo falsi dèi; qui, signore, l’uomo è uomo nella sua piena dignità. Abbiamo combattuto per questo, o niente. Ecco me,” disse il Generale, aprendo il suo ombrello per rappresentare se stesso, un ombrello dall’aspetto sinistro; davvero una pessima immagine a contrasto con la “moneta d’oro” della sua bontà. “Eccomi qui, signore: con i capelli grigi e un senso morale. Con i miei principi, investirei capitali in questa speculazione se non pensassi che offrisse grandi speranze e opportunità per il mio prossimo?”

Martin tried to look convinced, but he thought of New York, and found it difficult.

‘What are the Great United States for, sir,’ pursued the General ‘if not for the regeneration of man? But it is nat’ral in you to make such an enquerry, for you come from England, and you do not know my country.’

‘Then you think,’ said Martin, ‘that allowing for the hardships we are prepared to undergo, there is a reasonable—Heaven knows we don’t expect much—a reasonable opening in this place?’

‘A reasonable opening in Eden, sir! But see the agent, see the agent; see the maps and plans, sir; and conclude to go or stay, according to the natur’ of the settlement. Eden hadn’t need to go a-begging yet, sir,’ remarked the General.

‘It is an awful lovely place, sure-ly. And frightful wholesome, likewise!’ said Mr Kettle, who had made himself a party to this conversation as a matter of course.

Martin felt that to dispute such testimony, for no better reason than because he had his secret misgivings on the subject, would be ungentlemanly and indecent. So he thanked the General for his promise to put him in personal communication with the agent; and ‘concluded’ to see that officer next morning. He then begged the General to inform him who the Watertoast Sympathisers were, of whom he had spoken in addressing Mr La Fayette Kettle, and on what grievances they bestowed their Sympathy. To which the General, looking very serious, made answer, that he might fully enlighten himself on those points to-morrow by attending a Great Meeting of the Body, which would then be held at the town to which they were travelling; ‘over which, sir,’ said the General, ‘my fellow-citizens have called on me to preside.’

They came to their journey’s end late in the evening. Close to the railway was an immense white edifice, like an ugly hospital, on which was painted ‘NATIONAL HOTEL.’ There was a wooden gallery or verandah in front, in which it was rather startling, when the train stopped, to behold a great many pairs of boots and shoes, and the smoke of a great many cigars, but no other evidences of human habitation. By slow degrees, however, some heads and shoulders appeared, and connecting themselves with the boots and shoes, led to the discovery that certain gentlemen boarders, who had a fancy for putting their heels where the gentlemen boarders in other countries usually put their heads, were enjoying themselves after their own manner in the cool of the evening.

There was a great bar-room in this hotel, and a great public room in which the general table was being set out for supper. There were interminable whitewashed staircases, long whitewashed galleries upstairs and downstairs, scores of little whitewashed bedrooms, and a four-sided verandah to every story in the house, which formed a large brick square with an uncomfortable courtyard in the centre, where some clothes were drying. Here and there, some yawning gentlemen lounged up and down with their hands in their pockets; but within the house and without, wherever half a dozen people were collected together, there, in their looks, dress, morals, manners, habits, intellect, and conversation, were Mr Jefferson Brick, Colonel Diver, Major Pawkins, General Choke, and Mr La Fayette Kettle, over, and over, and over again. They did the same things; said the same things; judged all subjects by, and reduced all subjects to, the same standard. Observing how they lived, and how they were always in the enchanting company of each other, Martin even began to comprehend their being the social, cheerful, winning, airy men they were.

At the sounding of a dismal gong, this pleasant company went trooping down from all parts of the house to the public room; while from the neighbouring stores other guests came flocking in, in shoals; for half the town, married folks as well as single, resided at the National Hotel. Tea, coffee, dried meats, tongue, ham, pickles, cake, toast, preserves, and bread and butter, were swallowed with the usual ravaging speed; and then, as before, the company dropped off by degrees, and lounged away to the desk, the counter, or the bar-room. The ladies had a smaller ordinary of their own, to which their husbands and brothers were admitted if they chose; and in all other respects they enjoyed themselves as at Pawkins’s.

‘Now, Mark, my good fellow, said Martin, closing the door of his little chamber, ‘we must hold a solemn council, for our fate is decided to-morrow morning. You are determined to invest these savings of yours in the common stock, are you?’

‘If I hadn’t been determined to make that wentur, sir,’ answered Mr Tapley, ‘I shouldn’t have come.’

‘How much is there here, did you say’ asked Martin, holding up a little bag.

‘Thirty-seven pound ten and sixpence. The Savings’ Bank said so at least. I never counted it. But THEY know, bless you!’ said Mark, with a shake of the head expressive of his unbounded confidence in the wisdom and arithmetic of those Institutions.

‘The money we brought with us,’ said Martin, ‘is reduced to a few shillings less than eight pounds.’

Mr Tapley smiled, and looked all manner of ways, that he might not be supposed to attach any importance to this fact.

‘Upon the ring—HER ring, Mark,’ said Martin, looking ruefully at his empty finger—

‘Ah!’ sighed Mr Tapley. ‘Beg your pardon, sir.’

‘—We raised, in English money, fourteen pounds. So, even with that, your share of the stock is still very much the larger of the two you see. Now, Mark,’ said Martin, in his old way, just as he might have spoken to Tom Pinch, ‘I have thought of a means of making this up to you—more than making it up to you, I hope—and very materially elevating your prospects in life.’

‘Oh! don’t talk of that, you know, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘I don’t want no elevating, sir. I’m all right enough, sir, I am.’

‘No, but hear me,’ said Martin, ‘because this is very important to you, and a great satisfaction to me. Mark, you shall be a partner in the business; an equal partner with myself. I will put in, as my additional capital, my professional knowledge and ability; and half the annual profits, as long as it is carried on, shall be yours.’

Martin cercò di sembrare convinto, ma pensava a New York e gli risultava difficile farlo.

“Per quale scopo esistono gli Stati Uniti d’America, signore?” continuò il generale. “Se non per la rigenerazione dell’uomo? Ma è naturale che lei ponga una tale domanda: viene dall’Inghilterra e non conosce il mio paese.”

“Allora pensi,” disse Martin, “che, tenendo conto delle difficoltà che siamo disposti ad affrontare, ci sia una possibilità ragionevole. Dio sa che non ci aspettiamo molto, una possibilità concreta in questo posto?”

“Un’ottima opportunità per stabilirsi ad Eden, signore! Ma guardi l’agente, guardi i mappe e i piani; poi decida se andare o restare, in base alle caratteristiche di quella località. Ad Eden non è ancora necessario chiedere aiuto, signore,” osservò il Generale.

“È un posto davvero meraviglioso, e allo stesso tempo terribilmente salutare!” disse il signor Kettle, che aveva naturalmente partecipato a questa conversazione senza pensarci nemmeno.

Martin riteneva che contestare un simile testimone, senza alcuna ragione valida se non quella di avere dei dubbi segreti al riguardo, sarebbe stato scortese e indecente. Così ringraziò il Generale per la sua promessa di metterlo in contatto diretto con quell’agente; e decise di incontrare quell’ufficiale il giorno seguente. Poi pregò il Generale di informarlo su chi fossero i sostenitori del movimento “Watertoast”, di cui aveva parlato nel suo discorso a Mr La Fayette Kettle, e su quali motivi si basasse la loro solidarietà. Il Generale, con aria molto seria, rispose che il giorno dopo avrebbe potuto informarsi completamente su questi argomenti partecipando a un grande raduno del Consiglio cittadino che si sarebbe tenuto nella città verso cui stavano viaggiando; “Su quel raduno”, aggiunse, “i miei concittadini mi hanno chiesto di presiederlo”.

Arrivarono alla fine del loro viaggio verso tarda sera. Vicino alla ferrovia sorgeva un enorme edificio bianco, simile a un brutto ospedale, su cui era scritto “NATIONAL HOTEL”. Davanti ad esso c’era una veranda in legno; quando il treno si fermò, fu piuttosto sorprendente vedere tantissime paia di stivali e scarpe, nonché il fumo di molti sigari, ma nessun altro segno di presenza umana. Tuttavia, gradualmente, apparvero alcune teste e spalle; osservandole meglio, si scoprì che alcuni ospiti del hotel, abituati a mettere i tacchi nei posti in cui normalmente si mettono le teste, si stavano divertendo a modo loro nel fresco della sera.

In questo hotel c’era un grande bar e una vasta sala pubblica dove veniva preparato il tavolo per la cena. C’erano interminabili scale intonacate di bianco, lunghe gallerie anch’esse intonacate su entrambi i piani, decine di piccole camere da letto ugualmente intonacate, e un balcone quadrilatero su ogni piano dell’edificio, che formava un grande spazio in mattoni con un cortile poco confortevole al centro, dove venivano stesi ad asciugare alcuni vestiti. Qui e là, alcuni signori si aggiravano con le mani in tasca; ma all’interno e all’esterno dell’edificio, ovunque si radunassero anche solo sei persone, in loro aspetto, abbigliamento, morale, comportamenti, abitudini, intelligenza e conversazione si rispecchiavano sempre gli stessi tratti tipici di Mr Jefferson Brick, Colonnello Diver, Maggiore Pawkins, Generale Choke e Mr La Fayette Kettle. Facevano le stesse cose, dicevano le stesse cose, giudicavano tutti gli argomenti secondo lo stesso standard. osservando il loro modo di vivere e il fatto che fossero sempre insieme, Martin iniziò persino a capire perché fossero uomini così socievoli, allegri, affabili e piacevoli da frequentare.

Al suono di un cupo gong, questo piacevole gruppo si radunò da tutte le parti della >casa nella sala comune; intanto, da negozi vicini, altri ospiti affluivano a frotte: infatti metà della città, sia le coppie che i single, soggiornava all’National Hotel. Tè, caffè, carne secca, prosciutto, sottaceti, torte, toast, conserve, tutto veniva inghiottito con la solita voracità; poi, come prima, il gruppo si disperse gradualmente, restando a chiacchierare vicino al bancone o al bar. Le signore avevano anche loro una piccola riunione privata, a cui i loro mariti e fratelli potevano partecipare se lo desideravano; in ogni altro aspetto, si divertivano esattamente come da Pawkins’s.

“Ora, Mark, mio caro amico,” disse Martin, chiudendo la porta della sua piccola stanza, “dobbiamo tenere un consiglio solenne, perché il nostro destino sarà deciso domani mattina. Sei deciso a investire questi tuoi risparmi nell’azione ordinaria, vero?”

“Se non fossi stato deciso a riuscirci, signore,” rispose il signor Tapley, “non sarei venuto.”

“Quanto c’è qui dentro, hai detto?” chiese Martin, tenendo in mano un piccolo sacchetto.

“Trentasette libbre dieci scellini e sei pence. Almeno così diceva la Banca di Risparmio. Io non l’ho mai contata. Ma LORO lo sanno, grazie al cielo!” disse Mark, scuotendo la testa in segno della sua infinita fiducia nella saggezza e nell’abilità matematica di quelle istituzioni.

“Il denaro che abbiamo portato con noi,” disse Martin, “è ridotto a pochi scellini in meno di otto sterline.”

Il signor Tapley sorrise e guardò in tutte le direzioni, nel tentativo di far credere che non desse alcuna importanza a questo fatto.

“Sul dito, il suo anello, Mark,” disse Martin, guardando con rammarico il proprio dito vuoto.

“Ah!”, sospirò il signor Tapley. “Scusi, signore.”

“Abbiamo raccolto quattordici sterline in denaro inglese. Quindi, anche con questo, la tua quota azionaria rimane comunque molto più consistente rispetto all’altra che vedi qui. Ora, Mark,” disse Martin, nel suo solito modo, proprio come avrebbe potuto parlare a Tom Pinch, “ho pensato a un modo per compensarti. Anzi, spero di poterti compensare in modo significativo, migliorando notevolmente le tue prospettive nella vita.”

“Oh! Non parliamone più, sa, signore,” rispose Mark. “Non voglio alcuna elevazione, signore. Sto benissimo, davvero.”

“No, ma ascoltami,” disse Martin, “perché questo è molto importante per te e rappresenta anche una grande soddisfazione per me. Mark, diventerai un socio in questa attività; un socio a pari diritti con me. Io investirò, come capitale aggiuntivo, la mia conoscenza professionale e le mie capacità; e metà dei profitti annuali, finché l’attività continuerà ad essere svolta, sarà tua.”

Poor Martin! For ever building castles in the air. For ever, in his very selfishness, forgetful of all but his own teeming hopes and sanguine plans. Swelling, at that instant, with the consciousness of patronizing and most munificently rewarding Mark!

‘I don’t know, sir,’ Mark rejoined, much more sadly than his custom was, though from a very different cause than Martin supposed, ‘what I can say to this, in the way of thanking you. I’ll stand by you, sir, to the best of my ability, and to the last. That’s all.’

‘We quite understand each other, my good fellow,’ said Martin rising in self-approval and condescension. ‘We are no longer master and servant, but friends and partners; and are mutually gratified. If we determine on Eden, the business shall be commenced as soon as we get there. Under the name,’ said Martin, who never hammered upon an idea that wasn’t red hot, ‘under the name of Chuzzlewit and Tapley.’

‘Lord love you, sir,’ cried Mark, ‘don’t have my name in it. I ain’t acquainted with the business, sir. I must be Co., I must. I’ve often thought,’ he added, in a low voice, ‘as I should like to know a Co.; but I little thought as ever I should live to be one.’

‘You shall have your own way, Mark.’

‘Thank’ee, sir. If any country gentleman thereabouts, in the public way, or otherwise, wanted such a thing as a skittle-ground made, I could take that part of the bis’ness, sir.’

‘Against any architect in the States,’ said Martin. ‘Get a couple of sherry-cobblers, Mark, and we’ll drink success to the firm.’

Either he forgot already (and often afterwards), that they were no longer master and servant, or considered this kind of duty to be among the legitimate functions of the Co. But Mark obeyed with his usual alacrity; and before they parted for the night, it was agreed between them that they should go together to the agent’s in the morning, but that Martin should decide the Eden question, on his own sound judgment. And Mark made no merit, even to himself in his jollity, of this concession; perfectly well knowing that the matter would come to that in the end, any way.

The General was one of the party at the public table next day, and after breakfast suggested that they should wait upon the agent without loss of time. They, desiring nothing more, agreed; so off they all four started for the office of the Eden Settlement, which was almost within rifle-shot of the National Hotel.

It was a small place—something like a turnpike. But a great deal of land may be got into a dice-box, and why may not a whole territory be bargained for in a shed? It was but a temporary office too; for the Edeners were ‘going’ to build a superb establishment for the transaction of their business, and had already got so far as to mark out the site. Which is a great way in America. The office-door was wide open, and in the doorway was the agent; no doubt a tremendous fellow to get through his work, for he seemed to have no arrears, but was swinging backwards and forwards in a rocking-chair, with one of his legs planted high up against the door-post, and the other doubled up under him, as if he were hatching his foot.

He was a gaunt man in a huge straw hat, and a coat of green stuff. The weather being hot, he had no cravat, and wore his shirt collar wide open; so that every time he spoke something was seen to twitch and jerk up in his throat, like the little hammers in a harpsichord when the notes are struck. Perhaps it was the Truth feebly endeavouring to leap to his lips. If so, it never reached them.

Two grey eyes lurked deep within this agent’s head, but one of them had no sight in it, and stood stock still. With that side of his face he seemed to listen to what the other side was doing. Thus each profile had a distinct expression; and when the movable side was most in action, the rigid one was in its coldest state of watchfulness. It was like turning the man inside out, to pass to that view of his features in his liveliest mood, and see how calculating and intent they were.

Each long black hair upon his head hung down as straight as any plummet line; but rumpled tufts were on the arches of his eyes, as if the crow whose foot was deeply printed in the corners had pecked and torn them in a savage recognition of his kindred nature as a bird of prey.

Such was the man whom they now approached, and whom the General saluted by the name of Scadder.

‘Well, Gen’ral,’ he returned, ‘and how are you?’

‘Ac-tive and spry, sir, in my country’s service and the sympathetic cause. Two gentlemen on business, Mr Scadder.’

He shook hands with each of them—nothing is done in America without shaking hands—then went on rocking.

‘I think I know what bis’ness you have brought these strangers here upon, then, Gen’ral?’

‘Well, sir. I expect you may.’

‘You air a tongue-y person, Gen’ral. For you talk too much, and that’s fact,’ said Scadder. ‘You speak a-larming well in public, but you didn’t ought to go ahead so fast in private. Now!’

‘If I can realise your meaning, ride me on a rail!’ returned the General, after pausing for consideration.

‘You know we didn’t wish to sell the lots off right away to any loafer as might bid,’ said Scadder; ‘but had con-cluded to reserve ‘em for Aristocrats of Natur’. Yes!’

‘And they are here, sir!’ cried the General with warmth. ‘They are here, sir!’

‘If they air here,’ returned the agent, in reproachful accents, ‘that’s enough. But you didn’t ought to have your dander ris with ME, Gen’ral.’

The General whispered Martin that Scadder was the honestest fellow in the world, and that he wouldn’t have given him offence designedly, for ten thousand dollars.

‘I do my duty; and I raise the dander of my feller critters, as I wish to serve,’ said Scadder in a low voice, looking down the road and rocking still. ‘They rile up rough, along of my objecting to their selling Eden off too cheap. That’s human natur’! Well!’

Povero Martin. Per sempre costruisce castelli in aria; per sempre, nella sua stessa egoismo, dimentica tutto tranne le sue speranze fervide e i suoi piani ambiziosi. In quel momento, si sente invaso dal senso di superiorità e dalla soddisfazione di aver ricompensato generosamente Mark.

“Non so, signore,” rispose Mark, con molta più tristezza del solito, anche se per un motivo molto diverso da quello che Martin immaginava, “cosa posso dire per ringraziarvi. Vi sosterrò, signore, con tutte le mie forze, fino alla fine. Questo è tutto.”

“Ci capiamo benissimo, caro amico,” disse Martin, alzandosi con un senso di autoapprovazione e condiscendenza. “Non siamo più padrone e servo, ma amici e soci; e ci soddisfacciamo a vicenda. Se decideremo di partire per Eden, l’operazione inizierà non appena arriveremo lì. Con il nome,” aggiunse Martin, che non insisteva mai su un’idea se questa non fosse davvero convincente, “con il nome di Chuzzlewit e Tapley.”

“Lord amore vi ama, signore,” gridò Mark, “non mettete il mio nome in quella lista. Non conosco affatto questa faccenda, signore. Devo essere uno dei soci, devo assolutamente. Spesso ho pensato,” aggiunse a bassa voce, “di voler diventare uno dei soci; ma mai avrei immaginato di poterci riuscire davvero.”

“Farai come vuoi tu, Mark.”

“Grazie mille, signore. Se qualche gentiluomo di queste parti, per strada o in qualsiasi altro luogo, avesse bisogno che gli venisse realizzato un terreno adatto per giocare a skittle, potrei occuparmi io di quella parte dell’affare, signore.”

“Contro qualsiasi architetto negli Stati Uniti,” disse Martin. “Prendi un paio di sherry-cobblers, Mark, e brinderemo al successo dell’azienda.”

O aveva già dimenticato (e spesso lo faceva anche dopo), che ormai non erano più padrone e servo, oppure riteneva che questo tipo di dovere rientrasse tra le funzioni legittime del gruppo. Ma Mark obbedì con la solita prontezza; e prima di separarsi per la notte, concordarono sul fatto che il mattino dopo sarebbero andati insieme dall’agente, ma che fosse Martin a decidere sulla questione dell’Eden, in base alla propria valutazione. E Mark, nella sua allegria, non si guadagnò alcun merito per questa concessione; sapeva perfettamente che, comunque fosse, la cosa sarebbe finita così in ogni caso.

Il generale era tra coloro che sedevano al tavolo pubblico il giorno seguente, e dopo colazione suggerì che avrebbero dovuto occuparsi dell’agente senza perdere tempo. Essi, non desiderando nulla di più, acconsentirono; così i quattro partirono insieme verso l’ufficio dell’Eden Settlement, che si trovava a meno di una distanza raggiungibile con un fucile dall’Hotel Nazionale.

Era un posto piccolo, qualcosa di simile a una stazione di pedaggio. Ma molta terra può essere contenuta in una scatola da dadi; perché mai non si potrebbe negoziare un intero territorio all’interno di un capanno? Anche quell’ufficio era solo temporaneo: gli Edener, infatti, avevano intenzione di costruire un impianto davvero lussuoso per svolgere le loro attività commerciali, e avevano già iniziato a delimitare il sito. Questo è un modo tipico dell’America. La porta dell’ufficio era completamente aperta; all’interno c’era l’agente, senza dubbio un uomo molto efficiente, visto che non sembrava avere alcun ritardo nel lavoro: si muoveva avanti e indietro su una sedia a dondolo, con una gamba appoggiata contro lo stipite della porta e l’altra piegata sotto di sé, come se stesse “macchinando” qualcosa.

Era un uomo magro, con un enorme cappello di paglia e un mantello fatto di stoffa verde. Poiché faceva caldo, non indossava cravatta e teneva il colletto della camicia completamente aperto; così, ogni volta che parlava, si poteva vedere qualcosa muoversi e sobbalzare nella sua gola, proprio come i piccoli martelli di un clavicembalo quando vengono premuti per produrre le note. Forse era la Verità che cercava disperatamente di raggiungere le sue labbra. Ma non ci riusciva mai.

Due occhi grigi si nascondevano nel profondo della testa di quell’agente, ma uno di essi non vedeva nulla e rimaneva immobile. Con quel lato del viso sembrava ascoltare ciò che faceva l’altro lato. Così, ogni profilo presentava un’espressione diversa; e quando il lato mobile era più attivo, quello rigido raggiungeva lo stato di allerta più intenso. Era come se si potesse “capovolgere” quell’uomo per osservare i suoi tratti nel momento in cui erano più vividi, e scoprire quanto fossero calcolatori e determinati.

Ogni lungo capello nero sulla sua testa pendeva dritto come qualsiasi linea verticale; ma ciuffi arruffati si trovavano intorno agli archi dei suoi occhi, come se il corvo il cui piede era profondamente impresso in quegli angoli li avesse beccati e strappati, nel riconoscimento selvaggio della sua natura affine a quella di un uccello da preda.

Ecco l’uomo verso il quale ora si stavano avvicinando; il Generale lo salutò chiamandolo Scadder.

“Beh, Generale,” rispose lui, “e come va?”

“Attivo e pieno di energia, signore; al servizio del mio paese e della causa giusta. Due gentiluomini per affari, il signor Scadder.”

Strinse la mano a ciascuno di loro; in America non si fa nulla senza stringere la mano. Poi continuò a dondolarsi avanti e indietro.

“Credo di capire quale affare vi abbia spinto a portare questi estranei qui, generale, ”

“Beh, signore. Immagino che possiate farlo.”

“Sei proprio una persona troppo loquace, Generale. Parli davvero troppo, e questo è un fatto,” disse Scadder. “Parli in modo sorprendentemente bene in pubblico, ma non dovresti esagerare nemmeno in privato. Ora basta!”

“Se riesco a capire cosa intendi, cavalca pure su di me!” rispose il Generale, dopo aver riflettuto per un momento.

“Voi sapete che non volevamo vendere subito quei lotti a chiunque fosse disposto a offrire qualsiasi somma,” disse Scadder; “ma avevamo deciso di riservarli agli ‘Aristocratici della Natura’. Sì!”

“E sono qui, signore!” esclamò il generale con entusiasmo. “Sono qui, signore!”

“Se vengono trasmessi qui,” rispose l’agente con tono di rimprovero, “è già abbastanza. Ma non avresti dovuto arrabbiarti con ME, Generale.”

Il generale sussurrò a Martin che Scadder era l’uomo più onesto del mondo, e che non avrebbe mai intenzionalmente offeso lui, nemmeno per diecimila dollari.

“Faccio il mio dovere; e faccio arrabbiare i miei compagni animali, perché è così che desidero servire,” disse Scadder a bassa voce, guardando lungo la strada e continuando a dondolarsi. “Si arrabbiano facilmente, soprattutto perché mi oppongo al fatto che vendano Eden troppo a buon mercato. Questa è la natura umana, ” “Beh!”

‘Mr Scadder,’ said the General, assuming his oratorical deportment. ‘Sir! Here is my hand, and here my heart. I esteem you, sir, and ask your pardon. These gentlemen air friends of mine, or I would not have brought ‘em here, sir, being well aware, sir, that the lots at present go entirely too cheap. But these air friends, sir; these air partick’ler friends.’

Mr Scadder was so satisfied by this explanation, that he shook the General warmly by the hand, and got out of the rocking-chair to do it. He then invited the General’s particular friends to accompany him into the office. As to the General, he observed, with his usual benevolence, that being one of the company, he wouldn’t interfere in the transaction on any account; so he appropriated the rocking-chair to himself, and looked at the prospect, like a good Samaritan waiting for a traveller.

‘Heyday!’ cried Martin, as his eye rested on a great plan which occupied one whole side of the office. Indeed, the office had little else in it, but some geological and botanical specimens, one or two rusty ledgers, a homely desk, and a stool. ‘Heyday! what’s that?’

‘That’s Eden,’ said Scadder, picking his teeth with a sort of young bayonet that flew out of his knife when he touched a spring.

‘Why, I had no idea it was a city.’

‘Hadn’t you? Oh, it’s a city.’

A flourishing city, too! An architectural city! There were banks, churches, cathedrals, market-places, factories, hotels, stores, mansions, wharves; an exchange, a theatre; public buildings of all kinds, down to the office of the Eden Stinger, a daily journal; all faithfully depicted in the view before them.

‘Dear me! It’s really a most important place!’ cried Martin turning round.

‘Oh! it’s very important,’ observed the agent.

‘But, I am afraid,’ said Martin, glancing again at the Public Buildings, ‘that there’s nothing left for me to do.’

‘Well! it ain’t all built,’ replied the agent. ‘Not quite.’

This was a great relief.

‘The market-place, now,’ said Martin. ‘Is that built?’

‘That?’ said the agent, sticking his toothpick into the weathercock on the top. ‘Let me see. No; that ain’t built.’

‘Rather a good job to begin with—eh, Mark?’ whispered Martin nudging him with his elbow.

Mark, who, with a very stolid countenance had been eyeing the plan and the agent by turns, merely rejoined ‘Uncommon!’

A dead silence ensued, Mr Scadder in some short recesses or vacations of his toothpick, whistled a few bars of Yankee Doodle, and blew the dust off the roof of the Theatre.

‘I suppose,’ said Martin, feigning to look more narrowly at the plan, but showing by his tremulous voice how much depended, in his mind, upon the answer; ‘I suppose there are—several architects there?’

‘There ain’t a single one,’ said Scadder.

‘Mark,’ whispered Martin, pulling him by the sleeve, ‘do you hear that? But whose work is all this before us, then?’ he asked aloud.

‘The soil being very fruitful, public buildings grows spontaneous, perhaps,’ said Mark.

He was on the agent’s dark side as he said it; but Scadder instantly changed his place, and brought his active eye to bear upon him.

‘Feel of my hands, young man,’ he said.

‘What for?’ asked Mark, declining.

‘Air they dirty, or air they clean, sir?’ said Scadder, holding them out.

In a physical point of view they were decidedly dirty. But it being obvious that Mr Scadder offered them for examination in a figurative sense, as emblems of his moral character, Martin hastened to pronounce them pure as the driven snow.

‘I entreat, Mark,’ he said, with some irritation, ‘that you will not obtrude remarks of that nature, which, however harmless and well-intentioned, are quite out of place, and cannot be expected to be very agreeable to strangers. I am quite surprised.’

‘The Co.’s a-putting his foot in it already,’ thought Mark. ‘He must be a sleeping partner—fast asleep and snoring—Co. must; I see.’

Mr Scadder said nothing, but he set his back against the plan, and thrust his toothpick into the desk some twenty times; looking at Mark all the while as if he were stabbing him in effigy.

‘You haven’t said whose work it is,’ Martin ventured to observe at length, in a tone of mild propitiation.

‘Well, never mind whose work it is, or isn’t,’ said the agent sulkily. ‘No matter how it did eventuate. P’raps he cleared off, handsome, with a heap of dollars; p’raps he wasn’t worth a cent. P’raps he was a loafin’ rowdy; p’raps a ring-tailed roarer. Now!’

‘All your doing, Mark!’ said Martin.

‘P’raps,’ pursued the agent, ‘them ain’t plants of Eden’s raising. No! P’raps that desk and stool ain’t made from Eden lumber. No! P’raps no end of squatters ain’t gone out there. No! P’raps there ain’t no such location in the territoary of the Great U-nited States. Oh, no!’

‘I hope you’re satisfied with the success of your joke, Mark,’ said Martin.

But here, at a most opportune and happy time, the General interposed, and called out to Scadder from the doorway to give his friends the particulars of that little lot of fifty acres with the house upon it; which, having belonged to the company formerly, had lately lapsed again into their hands.

‘You air a deal too open-handed, Gen’ral,’ was the answer. ‘It is a lot as should be rose in price. It is.’

He grumblingly opened his books notwithstanding, and always keeping his bright side towards Mark, no matter at what amount of inconvenience to himself, displayed a certain leaf for their perusal. Martin read it greedily, and then inquired:

‘Now where upon the plan may this place be?’

‘Upon the plan?’ said Scadder.

‘Yes.’

He turned towards it, and reflected for a short time, as if, having been put upon his mettle, he was resolved to be particular to the very minutest hair’s breadth of a shade. At length, after wheeling his toothpick slowly round and round in the air, as if it were a carrier pigeon just thrown up, he suddenly made a dart at the drawing, and pierced the very centre of the main wharf, through and through.

“Signor Scadder,” disse il Generale, assumendo il suo tono oratorio.
“Signore! Ecco la mia mano, ed ecco anche il mio cuore. Vi stimo molto, signore, e chiedo il vostro perdono. Questi gentiluomini sono miei amici; altrimenti non li avrei portati qui, poiché so bene che attualmente le opportunità disponibili sono offerte a prezzi davvero troppo bassi. Ma questi, sono amici particolari, signore.”

Il signor Scadder fu così soddisfatto di questa spiegazione che strinse calorosamente la mano al generale e si alzò dalla poltrona a dondolo per farlo. Poi invitò gli amici personali del generale ad accompagnarlo nell’ufficio. Per quanto riguardava il generale, osservò con la sua solita benevolenza che, essendo uno dei partecipanti all’accordo, non avrebbe interferito in alcun modo; quindi si prese per sé la poltrona a dondolo e osservò la situazione, come un buon samaritano in attesa di un viaggiatore.

“L’epoca d’oro!”, esclamò Martin non appena posò lo sguardo su un grande progetto che occupava un intero lato dell’ufficio. Infatti, nell’ufficio non c’era quasi nulla altro: solo alcuni campioni geologici e botanici, uno o due registri arrugginiti, una scrivania semplice e uno sgabello. “L’epoca d’oro. Che cos’è?”

“Quello è l’Eden,” disse Scadder, pulendosi i denti con una sorta di piccola baionetta che spuntava dal suo coltello ogni volta che toccava una fontana.

“Perché, non avevo idea che fosse una città.”

“Non l’avevi? Oh, è una città.”

Anche una città fiorente. Una città dall’aspetto architettonico straordinario! C’erano banche, chiese, cattedrali, mercati, fabbriche, hotel, negozi, residenze, moli; un borsino valutario, un teatro; edifici pubblici di ogni tipo. Persino l’ufficio del “Eden Stinger”, un giornale quotidiano. Tutto descritto con precisione nella vista che si presentava davanti a loro.

“Mio Dio! È davvero un posto molto importante!” esclamò Martin girandosi.

“Ah! È molto importante,” osservò l’agente.

“Ma temo,” disse Martin, guardando di nuovo gli edifici pubblici, “che non ci sia più nulla che io possa fare.”

“Beh! Non è ancora tutto finito,” rispose l’agente. “Non del tutto.”

Fu un grande sollievo.

“Ora il mercato, è stato costruito?” disse Martin.

“Quello?” disse l’agente, infilzando il suo stuzzicadenti nel pennone sulla cima. “Lasciami pensare. No, quello non è stato costruito in questo modo.”

“Un ottimo lavoro per iniziare, eh, Mark?” sussurrò Martin dandogli una spallata con il gomito.

Mark, che con un’espressione molto seria aveva osservato alternativamente il piano e l’agente, si limitò a commentare: “Incredibile!”

Seguì un silenzio mortale; durante alcuni brevi intervalli o pause, il signor Scadder suonò qualche nota di “Yankee Doodle” e soffiò via la polvere dal tetto del Teatro.

“Suppongo di sì,” disse Martin, fingendo di esaminare più attentamente il piano, ma mostrando con la sua voce tremante quanto dipendesse, nella sua mente, dalla risposta; “Suppongo che ci siano, diversi architetti, vero?”

“Non ce n’è nemmeno uno,” disse Scadder.

“Mark,” sussurrò Martin, tirandolo per la manica, “lo senti? Ma allora, di chi è tutto questo che abbiamo davanti agli occhi?” chiese ad alta voce.

“Poiché il terreno è molto fertile, forse gli edifici pubblici crescono spontaneamente,” disse Mark.

Rappresentava il lato oscuro di quell’agente, proprio come aveva detto; ma Scadder cambiò immediatamente posizione e rivolse la sua attenzione su di lui.

“Sentite le mie mani, giovane uomo,” disse.

“Perché?” chiese Mark, rifiutando l’offerta.

“Sono aria sporca, o aria pulita, signore?”, chiese Scadder, tenendole in mano.

Dal punto di vista fisico, erano decisamente sporchi. Ma poiché era evidente che il signor Scadder li offriva per essere esaminati in senso figurato, come emblemi del suo carattere morale, Martin si affrettò a dichiararli puri quanto la neve appena caduta.

“Ti prego, Mark,” disse lui con un certo fastidio, “di non fare commenti di quella natura. Anche se inoffensivi e benintenzionati, sono del tutto fuori luogo e difficilmente possono essere graditi da estranei. Sono davvero sorpreso.”

“Il direttore sta già mettendo i piedi nel piatto,” pensò Mark. “Deve essere un socio silenzioso, profondamente addormentato e che russa. Sicuramente sì.”

Il signor Scadder non disse nulla, ma si oppose fermamente al piano e conficcò il suo stuzzicadenti nel tavolo circa venti volte, guardando intanto Mark come se lo stesse pugnalando in figura.

“Non avete ancora detto di chi sia l’opera,” osò osservare finalmente Martin, con un tono di leggera umiltà.

“Beh,” disse l’agente in tono malinconico, “non importa di chi sia o non sia il lavoro. Non importa come sia andata a finire. Forse se n’è andato via con un sacco di soldi; forse non valeva nemmeno un centesimo. Forse era solo un tipo disordinato e molesto. O forse addirittura un individuo pericoloso. Chissà, ”

“È tutta colpa tua, Mark!” disse Martin.

“Forse,” continuò l’agente, “quelle piante non sono state coltivate nell’Eden. No! Forse quel tavolo e quella sedia non sono fatti di legno proveniente dall’Eden. No! Forse non esiste alcun insediamento illegale in quella zona. No! Forse nemmeno nel territorio degli Stati Uniti Uniti esiste un posto del genere. Oh, no!”

“Spero che tu sia soddisfatto del successo della tua battuta, Mark,” disse Martin.

Ma in questo momento, in un’occasione davvero propizia e felice, il Generale intervenne e chiamò Scadder dalla soglia per fargli conoscere i dettagli di quei cinquanta acri di terreno insieme alla casa che vi sorgeva; quel terreno, che in passato apparteneva alla compagnia, era recentemente tornato nelle loro mani.

“Offri gli oggetti in vendita troppo generosamente, Generale,” fu la risposta. “Il loro prezzo dovrebbe essere all’altezza del valore che rappresentano. Proprio così.”

Aprì i suoi libri con riluttanza, ma mantenne sempre un atteggiamento positivo verso Mark, nonostante le inevitabili difficoltà che ciò comportava per lui; mostrò loro una certa pagina da leggere. Martin la lesse con avidità e poi chiese:

“Ora, dove esattamente si trova questo luogo nel piano?”

“Secondo il piano?” disse Scadder.

“Sì, davvero.”

Si girò verso di esso e rifletté per un breve momento, come se, messo alla prova, fosse deciso ad essere estremamente preciso, fino al minimo dettaglio. Alla fine, dopo aver fatto ruotare lentamente il suo stuzzicadenti nell’aria, come se fosse una colomba viaggiatrice appena lanciata, colpì improvvisamente il disegno, piantandolo esattamente nel centro del molo principale.

‘There!’ he said, leaving his knife quivering in the wall; ‘that’s where it is!’

Martin glanced with sparkling eyes upon his Co., and his Co. saw that the thing was done.

The bargain was not concluded as easily as might have been expected though, for Scadder was caustic and ill-humoured, and cast much unnecessary opposition in the way; at one time requesting them to think of it, and call again in a week or a fortnight; at another, predicting that they wouldn’t like it; at another, offering to retract and let them off, and muttering strong imprecations upon the folly of the General. But the whole of the astoundingly small sum total of purchase-money—it was only one hundred and fifty dollars, or something more than thirty pounds of the capital brought by Co. into the architectural concern—was ultimately paid down; and Martin’s head was two inches nearer the roof of the little wooden office, with the consciousness of being a landed proprietor in the thriving city of Eden.

‘If it shouldn’t happen to fit,’ said Scadder, as he gave Martin the necessary credentials on recepit of his money, ‘don’t blame me.’

‘No, no,’ he replied merrily. ‘We’ll not blame you. General, are you going?’

‘I am at your service, sir; and I wish you,’ said the General, giving him his hand with grave cordiality, ‘joy of your po-ssession. You air now, sir, a denizen of the most powerful and highly-civilised dominion that has ever graced the world; a do-minion, sir, where man is bound to man in one vast bond of equal love and truth. May you, sir, be worthy of your a-dopted country!’

Martin thanked him, and took leave of Mr Scadder; who had resumed his post in the rocking-chair, immediately on the General’s rising from it, and was once more swinging away as if he had never been disturbed. Mark looked back several times as they went down the road towards the National Hotel, but now his blighted profile was towards them, and nothing but attentive thoughtfulness was written on it. Strangely different to the other side! He was not a man much given to laughing, and never laughed outright; but every line in the print of the crow’s foot, and every little wiry vein in that division of his head, was wrinkled up into a grin! The compound figure of Death and the Lady at the top of the old ballad was not divided with a greater nicety, and hadn’t halves more monstrously unlike each other, than the two profiles of Zephaniah Scadder.

The General posted along at a great rate, for the clock was on the stroke of twelve; and at that hour precisely, the Great Meeting of the Watertoast Sympathisers was to be holden in the public room of the National Hotel. Being very curious to witness the demonstration, and know what it was all about, Martin kept close to the General; and, keeping closer than ever when they entered the Hall, got by that means upon a little platform of tables at the upper end; where an armchair was set for the General, and Mr La Fayette Kettle, as secretary, was making a great display of some foolscap documents. Screamers, no doubt.

‘Well, sir!’ he said, as he shook hands with Martin, ‘here is a spectacle calc’lated to make the British Lion put his tail between his legs, and howl with anguish, I expect!’

Martin certainly thought it possible that the British Lion might have been rather out of his element in that Ark; but he kept the idea to himself. The General was then voted to the chair, on the motion of a pallid lad of the Jefferson Brick school; who forthwith set in for a high-spiced speech, with a good deal about hearths and homes in it, and unriveting the chains of Tyranny.

Oh but it was a clincher for the British Lion, it was! The indignation of the glowing young Columbian knew no bounds. If he could only have been one of his own forefathers, he said, wouldn’t he have peppered that same Lion, and been to him as another Brute Tamer with a wire whip, teaching him lessons not easily forgotten. ‘Lion! (cried that young Columbian) where is he? Who is he? What is he? Show him to me. Let me have him here. Here!’ said the young Columbian, in a wrestling attitude, ‘upon this sacred altar. Here!’ cried the young Columbian, idealising the dining-table, ‘upon ancestral ashes, cemented with the glorious blood poured out like water on our native plains of Chickabiddy Lick! Bring forth that Lion!’ said the young Columbian. ‘Alone, I dare him! I taunt that Lion. I tell that Lion, that Freedom’s hand once twisted in his mane, he rolls a corse before me, and the Eagles of the Great Republic laugh ha, ha!’

When it was found that the Lion didn’t come, but kept out of the way; that the young Columbian stood there, with folded arms, alone in his glory; and consequently that the Eagles were no doubt laughing wildly on the mountain tops; such cheers arose as might have shaken the hands upon the Horse-Guards’ clock, and changed the very mean time of the day in England’s capital.

‘Who is this?’ Martin telegraphed to La Fayette.

The Secretary wrote something, very gravely, on a piece of paper, twisted it up, and had it passed to him from hand to hand. It was an improvement on the old sentiment: ‘Perhaps as remarkable a man as any in our country.’

This young Columbian was succeeded by another, to the full as eloquent as he, who drew down storms of cheers. But both remarkable youths, in their great excitement (for your true poetry can never stoop to details), forgot to say with whom or what the Watertoasters sympathized, and likewise why or wherefore they were sympathetic. Thus Martin remained for a long time as completely in the dark as ever; until at length a ray of light broke in upon him through the medium of the Secretary, who, by reading the minutes of their past proceedings, made the matter somewhat clearer. He then learned that the Watertoast Association sympathized with a certain Public Man in Ireland, who held a contest upon certain points with England; and that they did so, because they didn’t love England at all—not by any means because they loved Ireland much; being indeed horribly jealous and distrustful of its people always, and only tolerating them because of their working hard, which made them very useful; labour being held in greater indignity in the simple republic than in any other country upon earth. This rendered Martin curious to see what grounds of sympathy the Watertoast Association put forth; nor was he long in suspense, for the General rose to read a letter to the Public Man, which with his own hands he had written.

“Lì!” disse, lasciando il suo coltello conficcato nel muro; “è proprio lì!”

Martin guardò il suo compagno con occhi scintillanti, e il suo compagno capì che la cosa era stata fatta.

L’accordo non fu concluso così facilmente come ci si sarebbe potuti aspettare: Scadder, infatti, era sarcastico e di cattivo umore, creando molte ostacoli inutili sul loro cammino; a un certo punto li invitò a rifletterci su e a richiamarlo dopo una settimana o due; in un altro momento predisse che non gli sarebbe piaciuto l’accordo; ancora in un’altra occasione propose di ritirare la sua offerta, lasciandoli liberi, e intanto mormorava oscure imprecazioni sulla follia del Generale. Tuttavia, l’intera somma totale richiesta per l’acquisto – soltanto centocinquanta dollari, ovvero poco più di trenta sterline dell’investimento iniziale della compagnia nell’attività edilizia – fu infine pagata. E Martin, con la consapevolezza di essere diventato un proprietario terriero nella fiorente città di Eden, si trovava ora a soli due pollici dal soffitto dell’ufficio in legno dove lavorava.

“Se non dovesse adattarsi perfettamente,” disse Scadder, consegnando a Martin le necessarie credenziali dopo aver ricevuto i suoi soldi, “non incolparmi.”

“No, no,” rispose allegramente. “Non vi incolperemo. Generale, sta andando via?”

“Sono ai vostri ordini, signore; e desidero che voi,” disse il generale porgendogli la mano con profonda cordialità, “godiate appieno della vostra nuova patria. Ora siete cittadino del più potente e altamente civilizzato dominio che abbia mai esistito nel mondo: un dominio in cui gli uomini sono uniti da un vasto legame di uguale amore e verità. Possiate essere degno della vostra nuova nazione!”

Martin gli ringraziò e si congedò dal signor Scadder; quest’ultimo aveva ripreso il suo posto nella sedia a dondolo non appena il generale se n’era alzato, e ora dondolava di nuovo come se nulla fosse accaduto. Mark li guardò più volte mentre scendevano per la strada verso l’Hotel National, ma ora il suo profilo, solitamente cupo, era rivolto verso di loro, e su di esso si leggeva solo una profonda preoccupazione. Stranamente diverso dall’altro lato del suo viso. Non era un uomo incline a ridere, e mai rideva apertamente; tuttavia ogni linea del suo volto sembrava esprimere un sorriso! Quel profilo combinato rappresentava in modo estremamente preciso le figure della Morte e della donna descritte nella vecchia ballata. Eppure quelle due metà del viso di Zephaniah Scadder erano così diverse l’una dall’altra da sembrare quasi mostruose.

Il Generale avanzava a grande velocità; l’orologio stava per battere le dodici. Proprio in quell’ora doveva tenersi la Grande Riunione dei Sostenitori della “Tostata d’Acqua”. Molto curioso di assistere alla dimostrazione e di capirne il senso, Martin rimase sempre vicino al Generale. Quando entrarono nella sala, si avvicinò ancora di più e riuscì a raggiungere una piccola piattaforma formata da tavoli, situata nell’angolo in alto; lì c’era un divano riservato al Generale, mentre il signor La Fayette Kettle, in qualità di segretario, stava esibendo con grande enfasi alcuni documenti apparentemente insignificanti. Senza alcun >dubbio, si trattava di documenti falsi.

“Beh, signore!”, disse stringendo la mano a Martin, “ecco uno spettacolo ideato apposta per far sì che il ‘Leone Britannico’ si metta le zampe in spalla e ululi dal dolore, immagino!”

Martin riteneva certamente possibile che il “Leone britannico” potesse sentirsi piuttosto a disagio in quell’“Arca”; ma tenne quell’idea per sé. Il generale fu poi eletto presidente su proposta di un ragazzo pallido della Jefferson Brick School; quest’ultimo iniziò subito un discorso appassionato, nel quale parlava molto di focolari e case, e menzionava anche la necessità di spezzare le “catene della tirannia”.

Oh, ma fu una vittoria decisiva per il leone britannico. Davvero! L’indignazione di quel giovane colombiano era senza limiti. Se solo fosse potuto essere uno dei suoi antenati, pensava, non avrebbe forse colpito quel medesimo leone con la frusta, insegnandogli lezioni che non si dimenticano facilmente? “Leone! (gridò il giovane colombiano) Dove sei? Chi sei? Che cosa sei? Fatemelo vedere. Portatelo qui, subito!” esclamò, assumendo un atteggiamento aggressivo. “Su questo altare sacro. Qui!” continuò, idealizzando la tavola da pranzo e le ceneri degli antenati, “suggellate dal glorioso sangue versato sulle nostre terre natali. Portatemi quel leone!” gridò ancora. “Da solo, oserei affrontarlo. Lo sfido. Gli dico che la mano della Libertà ha già una volta stretto la sua criniera. Che si rotoli davanti a me. E che gli aquile della Grande Repubblica ridano, ”

Quando si scoprì che il Leone non era arrivato, ma se ne stava da parte; che il giovane colombiano stava lì, con le braccia incrociate, da solo nella sua gloria; e che di conseguenza gli Aquile non ridevano selvaggiamente sulla cima delle montagne; scoppiarono tali acclamazioni che avrebbero potuto far tremare le lancette dell’orologio della Guardia a Cavallo, e cambiare persino l’ora più triste della giornata nella capitale d’Inghilterra.

“Chi è questa persona?” Martin inviò un messaggio a La Fayette.

Il Segretario scrisse qualcosa, con grande serietà, su un pezzo di carta, lo arrotolò e lo fece passare di mano in mano. Era una versione migliorata del vecchio messaggio: “Forse un uomo altrettanto eccezionale quanto qualsiasi altro nel nostro paese”.

Questo giovane colombiano fu sostituito da un altro, altrettanto notevole e eloquente di lui, che suscitò nuovamente grandi applausi. Tuttavia entrambi questi giovani, nel loro grande entusiasmo (poiché la vera poesia non si abbassa mai ai dettagli), dimenticarono di spiegare con chi o per cosa l’Associazione Watertoast provasse simpatia, e altrettanto perché lo facesse. Così Martin rimase a lungo nell’ignoranza; fino a quando, finalmente, un raggio di luce gli fu fornito dal Segretario, il quale, leggendo i verbali delle loro precedenti riunioni, chiarì in parte la situazione. Scoprì così che l’Associazione Watertoast provava simpatia per un certo personaggio pubblico in Irlanda, che aveva avuto dei dibattiti con l’Inghilterra su alcune questioni; e lo facevano perché non amavano affatto l’Inghilterra, né tantomeno perché amassero molto l’Irlanda. Anzi, provavano sempre un profondo gelosia e sfiducia verso il suo popolo, tollerandolo soltanto per via del duro lavoro che svolgeva, rendendolo così molto utile; poiché nel semplice regno repubblicano il lavoro era considerato ancora più disprezzabile di in qualsiasi altro paese al mondo. Questo fece nascere in Martin la curiosità di conoscere quali fossero i motivi della simpatia dell’Associazione Watertoast verso quel personaggio. E non dovette aspettare a lungo: il Presidente lesse una lettera scritta personalmente da quell’uomo al pubblico.

‘Thus,’ said the General, ‘thus, my friends and fellow-citizens, it runs:

‘“SIR—I address you on behalf of the Watertoast Association of United Sympathisers. It is founded, sir, in the great republic of America! and now holds its breath, and swells the blue veins in its forehead nigh to bursting, as it watches, sir, with feverish intensity and sympathetic ardour, your noble efforts in the cause of Freedom.”’

At the name of Freedom, and at every repetition of that name, all the Sympathisers roared aloud; cheering with nine times nine, and nine times over.

‘“In Freedom’s name, sir—holy Freedom—I address you. In Freedom’s name, I send herewith a contribution to the funds of your society. In Freedom’s name, sir, I advert with indignation and disgust to that accursed animal, with gore-stained whiskers, whose rampant cruelty and fiery lust have ever been a scourge, a torment to the world. The naked visitors to Crusoe’s Island, sir; the flying wives of Peter Wilkins; the fruit-smeared children of the tangled bush; nay, even the men of large stature, anciently bred in the mining districts of Cornwall; alike bear witness to its savage nature. Where, sir, are the Cormorans, the Blunderbores, the Great Feefofums, named in History? All, all, exterminated by its destroying hand.

‘“I allude, sir, to the British Lion.

‘“Devoted, mind and body, heart and soul, to Freedom, sir—to Freedom, blessed solace to the snail upon the cellar-door, the oyster in his pearly bed, the still mite in his home of cheese, the very winkle of your country in his shelly lair—in her unsullied name, we offer you our sympathy. Oh, sir, in this our cherished and our happy land, her fires burn bright and clear and smokeless; once lighted up in yours, the lion shall be roasted whole.

‘“I am, sir, in Freedom’s name,

‘“Your affectionate friend and faithful Sympathiser,

‘“CYRUS CHOKE,

‘“General, U.S.M.”’

It happened that just as the General began to read this letter, the railroad train arrived, bringing a new mail from England; and a packet had been handed in to the Secretary, which during its perusal and the frequent cheerings in homage to freedom, he had opened. Now, its contents disturbed him very much, and the moment the General sat down, he hurried to his side, and placed in his hand a letter and several printed extracts from English newspapers; to which, in a state of infinite excitement, he called his immediate attention.

The General, being greatly heated by his own composition, was in a fit state to receive any inflammable influence; but he had no sooner possessed himself of the contents of these documents, than a change came over his face, involving such a huge amount of choler and passion, that the noisy concourse were silent in a moment, in very wonder at the sight of him.

‘My friends!’ cried the General, rising; ‘my friends and fellow citizens, we have been mistaken in this man.’

‘In what man?’ was the cry.

‘In this,’ panted the General, holding up the letter he had read aloud a few minutes before. ‘I find that he has been, and is, the advocate—consistent in it always too—of Nigger emancipation!’

If anything beneath the sky be real, those Sons of Freedom would have pistolled, stabbed—in some way slain—that man by coward hands and murderous violence, if he had stood among them at that time. The most confiding of their own countrymen would not have wagered then—no, nor would they ever peril—one dunghill straw, upon the life of any man in such a strait. They tore the letter, cast the fragments in the air, trod down the pieces as they fell; and yelled, and groaned, and hissed, till they could cry no longer.

‘I shall move,’ said the General, when he could make himself heard, ‘that the Watertoast Association of United Sympathisers be immediately dissolved!’

Down with it! Away with it! Don’t hear of it! Burn its records! Pull the room down! Blot it out of human memory!

‘But, my fellow-countrymen!’ said the General, ‘the contributions. We have funds. What is to be done with the funds?’

It was hastily resolved that a piece of plate should be presented to a certain constitutional Judge, who had laid down from the Bench the noble principle that it was lawful for any white mob to murder any black man; and that another piece of plate, of similar value should be presented to a certain Patriot, who had declared from his high place in the Legislature, that he and his friends would hang without trial, any Abolitionist who might pay them a visit. For the surplus, it was agreed that it should be devoted to aiding the enforcement of those free and equal laws, which render it incalculably more criminal and dangerous to teach a negro to read and write than to roast him alive in a public city. These points adjusted, the meeting broke up in great disorder, and there was an end of the Watertoast Sympathy.

As Martin ascended to his bedroom, his eye was attracted by the Republican banner, which had been hoisted from the house-top in honour of the occasion, and was fluttering before a window which he passed.

‘Tut!’ said Martin. ‘You’re a gay flag in the distance. But let a man be near enough to get the light upon the other side and see through you; and you are but sorry fustian!’

“Ecco dunque,” disse il Generale, “ecco come stanno le cose, miei amici e concittadini.”

“Signore – mi rivolgo a voi a nome dell’Associazione dei Sostenitori Uniti di Watertoast. Questa associazione è stata fondata, signore, nella grande repubblica di America! E ora trattiene il respiro, con le vene blu sulla fronte quasi sul punto di esplodere, mentre osserva, con febbrile intensità e sincero entusiasmo, i vostri nobili sforzi a favore della Libertà.”

Al nome di Libertà, e ad ogni ripetizione di quel nome, tutti i simpatizzanti gridarono ad alta voce; esultando nove volte nove, e ancora nove volte.

‘Nel nome della Libertà, signore – sacra Libertà! – mi rivolgo a voi. Nel nome della Libertà, vi invio con questa lettera una donazione per i fondi della vostra associazione. Nel nome della Libertà, signore, esprimo con indignazione e disgusto quella maledetta creatura dalle labbra insanguinate: la sua crudeltà sfrenata e il suo desiderio ardente sono sempre stati una piaga, un tormento per il mondo. I visitatori nudi dell’Isola di Crusoe, le “mogli volanti” di Peter Wilkins, i bambini coperti di frutta, persino gli uomini di alta statura, originari delle zone minerarie del Cornovaglia, tutti testimoniano la sua natura selvaggia. Dov’è finita, signore, quella razza di creature menzionate nella Storia? Tutte, completamente estinte per mano sua.’

“Mi riferisco, signore, al Leone britannico.”

“Devoti, con mente e -corpo, cuore e -anima alla Libertà, signore, alla Libertà, benedetta consolazione per il lumache sulla porta del seminterrato, per l’ostrica nel suo letto di perle, per il pidocchio tranquillo nella sua “casa” di formaggio. Nel nome puro e immacolato della vostra nazione, vi offriamo la nostra solidarietà. Oh, signore, in questa nostra amata e felice terra, i suoi fuochi bruciano luminosi, chiari e senza fumo; una volta accesi anche nel vostro paese, il Leone verrà arrostito interamente.”

“Sono qui, signore, in nome della Libertà”.

“#Il tuo affezionato amico e fedele simpatizzante”

“Cyrus Choke”

“Generale, U.S.M.”

Accadde che proprio mentre il Generale iniziava a leggere questa lettera, arrivò il treno ferroviario, portando con sé una nuova corrispondenza dall’Inghilterra; tra le lettere consegnate al Segretario c’era anche un pacco che, durante la lettura e i frequenti esclamazioni di gioia in onore della libertà, egli aveva già aperto. Ora, il contenuto di quel pacco lo turbò profondamente; non appena il Generale si sedette, egli gli si avvicinò rapidamente e gli mise in mano una lettera insieme a diversi estratti stampati da giornali inglesi; richiamando immediatamente l’attenzione del Generale in uno stato di estrema agitazione.

Il Generale, profondamente eccitato dal proprio scritto, era in uno stato di estrema agitazione; ma non appena ebbe letto il contenuto di quei documenti, il suo viso cambiò espressione, riflettendo un’ira e una passione così intense che l’intera folla, sorpresa da quella scena, cadde immediatamente nel silenzio.

“Amici miei!” gridò il Generale alzandosi; “amici miei e concittadini, ci siamo sbagliati riguardo a quest’uomo.”

“Di quale uomo?”, fu la domanda che si levò.

“In questo,” ansimò il Generale, mostrando la lettera che aveva letto ad alta voce pochi minuti prima, “trovo che lui sia stato, e sia ancora oggi, un sostenitore convinto – e sempre coerente in questa posizione – dell’emancipazione dei neri!”

Se qualcosa sotto il cielo fosse davvero reale, quei Figli della Libertà avrebbero sparato, pugnalato, in qualche modo lo avrebbero ucciso, quell’uomo, se solo si fosse trovato tra loro in quel momento. Nemmeno il più fiducioso dei loro connazionali avrebbe osato scommettere, allora, no, né mai avrebbero rischiato la vita di nessuno in una situazione così disperata. Strapparono la lettera, gettarono i suoi frammenti in aria, calpestarono i pezzi mentre cadevano; gridavano, gemevano, sibilavano, fino a quando non riuscirono più a piangere.

“Mi muoverò,” disse il Generale quando riuscì a farsi sentire, “affinché l’Associazione dei Sostenitori Uniti di Watertoast venga immediatamente sciolta!”

Giù con esso! Via con esso! Non parlarne più! Bruciate i suoi documenti! Demolite quella stanza! cancellatelo dalla memoria umana!

“Ma, miei connazionali!”, disse il Generale, “le donazioni. Abbiamo dei fondi. Cosa dobbiamo fare con questi fondi?”

Si decise all’improvviso di donare una certa somma di denaro a un certo giudice costituzionale, il quale aveva enunciato dal banco della corte il nobile principio secondo cui fosse legittimo che qualsiasi folla bianca assassinasse un uomo nero; inoltre, si decise di donare un’altra somma di denaro, di valore simile, a un certo patriota, il quale aveva dichiarato dal suo alto incarico nel Parlamento che lui e i suoi amici avrebbero impiccato senza processo qualsiasi abolizionista si presentasse loro. Per quanto riguardava il resto del denaro, si concordò di utilizzarlo per aiutare nell’applicazione di quelle leggi di libertà ed uguaglianza che rendono infinitamente più criminoso e pericoloso insegnare a un nero a leggere e scrivere, piuttosto che arrostirlo vivo in una città pubblica. Una volta definiti questi punti, la riunione si concluse nel caos, e così terminò l’“Incontro di Solidarietà per il Tè al Latte”.

Mentre Martin saliva al suo letto, il suo sguardo fu attratto dalla bandiera repubblicana, che era stata issata sulla cima della casa in onore dell’occasione e sventolava davanti a una finestra che stava attraversando.

“Tut!” disse Martin. “Sei una bella bandiera lontano lì. Ma se qualcuno si avvicina abbastanza da vedere oltre, allora scopre che in realtà sei solo un misero pezzo di stoffa!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

FROM WHICH IT WILL BE SEEN THAT MARTIN BECAME A LION OF HIS OWN ACCOUNT. TOGETHER WITH THE REASON WHY

As soon as it was generally known in the National Hotel, that the young Englishman, Mr Chuzzlewit, had purchased a ‘lo-cation’ in the Valley of Eden, and intended to betake himself to that earthly Paradise by the next steamboat, he became a popular character. Why this should be, or how it had come to pass, Martin no more knew than Mrs Gamp, of Kingsgate Street, High Holborn, did; but that he was for the time being the lion, by popular election, of the Watertoast community, and that his society was in rather inconvenient request there could be no kind of doubt.

The first notification he received of this change in his position, was the following epistle, written in a thin running hand—with here and there a fat letter or two, to make the general effect more striking—on a sheet of paper, ruled with blue lines.

‘NATIONAL HOTEL,

‘MONDAY MORNING.

‘Dear Sir—‘When I had the privillidge of being your fellow-traveller in the cars, the day before yesterday, you offered some remarks upon the subject of the tower of London, which (in common with my fellow-citizens generally) I could wish to hear repeated to a public audience.

‘As secretary to the Young Men’s Watertoast Association of this town, I am requested to inform you that the Society will be proud to hear you deliver a lecture upon the Tower of London, at their Hall to-morrow evening, at seven o’clock; and as a large issue of quarter-dollar tickets may be expected, your answer and consent by bearer will be considered obliging.

‘Dear Sir,

‘Yours truly,

‘LA FAYETTE KETTLE.

‘The Honourable M. Chuzzlewit.

‘P.S.—The Society would not be particular in limiting you to the Tower of London. Permit me to suggest that any remarks upon the Elements of Geology, or (if more convenient) upon the Writings of your talented and witty countryman, the honourable Mr Miller, would be well received.’

Very much aghast at this invitation, Martin wrote back, civilly declining it; and had scarcely done so, when he received another letter.

‘No. 47, Bunker Hill Street,

‘Monday Morning.

‘(Private).

‘Sir—I was raised in those interminable solitudes where our mighty Mississippi (or Father of Waters) rolls his turbid flood.

‘I am young, and ardent. For there is a poetry in wildness, and every alligator basking in the slime is in himself an Epic, self-contained. I aspirate for fame. It is my yearning and my thirst.

‘Are you, sir, aware of any member of Congress in England, who would undertake to pay my expenses to that country, and for six months after my arrival?

‘There is something within me which gives me the assurance that this enlightened patronage would not be thrown away. In literature or art; the bar, the pulpit, or the stage; in one or other, if not all, I feel that I am certain to succeed.

‘If too much engaged to write to any such yourself, please let me have a list of three or four of those most likely to respond, and I will address them through the Post Office. May I also ask you to favour me with any critical observations that have ever presented themselves to your reflective faculties, on “Cain, a Mystery,” by the Right Honourable Lord Byron?

‘I am, Sir,

‘Yours (forgive me if I add, soaringly),

‘PUTNAM SMIF

‘P.S.—Address your answer to America Junior, Messrs. Hancock & Floby, Dry Goods Store, as above.’

Both of which letters, together with Martin’s reply to each, were, according to a laudable custom, much tending to the promotion of gentlemanly feeling and social confidence, published in the next number of the Watertoast Gazette.

He had scarcely got through this correspondence when Captain Kedgick, the landlord, kindly came upstairs to see how he was getting on. The Captain sat down upon the bed before he spoke; and finding it rather hard, moved to the pillow.

‘Well, sir!’ said the Captain, putting his hat a little more on one side, for it was rather tight in the crown: ‘You’re quite a public man I calc’late.’

‘So it seems,’ retorted Martin, who was very tired.

‘Our citizens, sir,’ pursued the Captain, ‘intend to pay their respects to you. You will have to hold a sort of le-vee, sir, while you’re here.’

‘Powers above!’ cried Martin, ‘I couldn’t do that, my good fellow!’

‘I reckon you MUST then,’ said the Captain.

‘Must is not a pleasant word, Captain,’ urged Martin.

‘Well! I didn’t fix the mother language, and I can’t unfix it,’ said the Captain coolly; ‘else I’d make it pleasant. You must re-ceive. That’s all.’

‘But why should I receive people who care as much for me as I care for them?’ asked Martin.

‘Well! because I have had a muniment put up in the bar,’ returned the Captain.

‘A what?’ cried Martin.

‘A muniment,’ rejoined the Captain.

Martin looked despairingly at Mark, who informed him that the Captain meant a written notice that Mr Chuzzlewit would receive the Watertoasters that day, at and after two o’clock which was in effect then hanging in the bar, as Mark, from ocular inspection of the same, could testify.

‘You wouldn’t be unpop’lar, I know,’ said the Captain, paring his nails. ‘Our citizens an’t long of riling up, I tell you; and our Gazette could flay you like a wild cat.’

Martin was going to be very wroth, but he thought better of it, and said:

‘In Heaven’s name let them come, then.’

‘Oh, THEY’ll come,’ returned the Captain. ‘I have seen the big room fixed a’purpose, with my eyes.’

‘But will you,’ said Martin, seeing that the Captain was about to go; ‘will you at least tell me this? What do they want to see me for? what have I done? and how do they happen to have such a sudden interest in me?’

Captain Kedgick put a thumb and three fingers to each side of the brim of his hat; lifted it a little way off his head; put it on again carefully; passed one hand all down his face, beginning at the forehead and ending at the chin; looked at Martin; then at Mark; then at Martin again; winked, and walked out.

CAPITOLO VENTI-DUE

Da ciò si evince che Martin divenne un vero e proprio “leone” per sua stessa volontà. E anche il motivo per cui.

Non appena divenne di dominio pubblico nell’Hotel Nazionale che il giovane inglese, il signor Chuzzlewit, aveva acquistato una “proprietà” nella Valle dell’Eden e intendeva recarsi in quel paradiso terrestre con la prossima nave a vapore, divenne una figura molto popolare. Perché ciò fosse accaduto, o come fosse potuto succedere, Martin lo sapeva tanto poco quanto la signora Gamp di Kingsgate Street, High Holborn; ma che, per il momento, fosse diventato, per elezione popolare, la “star” della comunità di Watertoast, e che le persone desiderassero molto frequentare la sua compagnia, su questo non c’era alcun dubbio.

La prima notifica che ricevette riguardo a questo cambiamento nella sua posizione fu la seguente lettera, scritta con una calligrafia sottile e continua; qua e là c’erano una o due lettere più grandi, per rendere l’effetto complessivo più evidente; era stata scritta su un foglio di carta segnato da linee blu.

“National Hotel”

“Lunedì mattina.”

‘Caro Signore–’ Quando ebbi l’onore di essere vostro compagno di viaggio sui treni, il giorno prima ieri, voi feceste alcune osservazioni sul tema della torre di Londra, le quali (così come quelle dei miei concittadini in generale) vorrei molto che venissero ripetute davanti a un pubblico più ampio.

“In qualità di segretario dell’Associazione Giovanile per le Cerimonie con il Tè e i Panini di questa città, vi comunico che l’associazione sarà onorata di ascoltare la vostra conferenza sul Tower di Londra nella loro sede domani sera alle sette in punto. Poiché si prevedono numerose richieste di biglietti da venticinque centesimi, il vostro riscontro e il vostro consenso saranno molto apprezzati.”

“Caro Signore,”

“Vostro umile servitore,”

“La Fayette Kettle.”

“L’onorevole signor Chuzzlewit.”

‘P.S. – La Società non avrebbe obiezioni se vi limitaste alla Torre di Londra. Permettetemi di suggerire che qualsiasi commento sugli Elementi della Geologia, o (se più conveniente) sulle opere del vostro talentuoso e arguto connazionale, l’onorevole signor Miller, sarebbe molto apprezzato.’

Molto sbalordito da questa invitazione, Martin rispose in modo cortese rifiutandola; e appena lo fece, ricevette un’altra lettera.

‘N. 47, via Hill Bunker.’

“Lunedì mattina.”

‘(Soldato semplice).’

“Signore. Sono cresciuto in quelle infinite solitudini dove il nostro potente Mississippi, o ‘Padre delle Acque’, scorre con le sue acque torbide.”

“Sono giovane e appassionato. C’è una poesia nella natura selvaggia; ogni alligatore che si riscalda nel fango rappresenta in sé stesso un’epopea, un io completo. Anelo alla fama. È il mio desiderio più profondo.”

“Signore, è a conoscenza di qualche membro del Congresso in Inghilterra che sarebbe disposto a coprire le mie spese in quel paese, e per i sei mesi successivi al mio arrivo?”

“C’è qualcosa dentro di me che mi dà la certezza che questo sostegno illuminato non verrà sprecato. Nella letteratura o nell’arte; sul podio, davanti al pulpito o sul palcoscenico; in uno di questi ambiti, se non in tutti, sento di essere sicuro del mio successo.”

‘Se siete troppo impegnati per scrivere direttamente a queste persone, vi prego di fornirmi un elenco di tre o quattro di coloro che sono più probabili a rispondere, e io li contatterò tramite la Posta. Posso anche chiedervi di condividere con me eventuali osservazioni critiche che si siano mai presentate nella vostra riflessione riguardo a “Cain, un mistero” di Sua Signoria Lord Byron?’

“Sono io, signore, ”

“Tuo, (scusami se lo dico in modo un po’ enfatico)”

“Putnam Smiff”

‘P.S.: Inviate la vostra risposta a America Junior, signori Hancock & Floby, Dry Goods Store, come indicato sopra.’

Entrambe queste lettere, insieme alla risposta di Martin ad ognuna di esse, furono, secondo una consuetudine lodevole, molto utili per promuovere i sentimenti da gentiluomo e la fiducia sociale; vennero pubblicate nel numero successivo del “Watertoast Gazette”.

Aveva appena finito di scrivere questa corrispondenza quando il Capitano Kedgick, il proprietario dell’edificio, venne gentilmente da lui per vedere come stesse. Il Capitano si sedette sul letto prima di parlare; e trovandolo piuttosto scomodo, si spostò verso il cuscino.

“Beh, signore!”, disse il Capitano, spostando leggermente il cappello da un lato, poiché gli stava un po’ stretto sulla testa: “Immagino che lei sia una persona molto nota in pubblico, ”

“Sembra proprio così,” ribatté Martin, che era molto stanco.

“I nostri cittadini, signore,” proseguì il Capitano, “desiderano rendervi omaggio. Durante la vostra permanenza qui, sarà necessario che teniate una sorta di ricevimento, signore.”

“Poteri superiori!”, esclamò Martin, “Non potrei mai farlo, mio caro amico!”

“Penso che allora tu debba farlo,” disse il Capitano.

“‘Deve’ non è una parola piacevole, Capitano,” insistette Martin.

“Beh! Non ho modificato la lingua madre, e non posso nemmeno rimuovere le modifiche apportate,” disse il Capitano con calma; “altrimenti l’avrei resa più piacevole da utilizzare. Dovete semplicemente raccogliere i dati ricevuti. E basta.”

“Ma perché dovrei accogliere persone che si preoccupano per me tanto quanto io mi preoccupo per loro?” chiese Martin.

“Beh! perché ho fatto affiggere un avviso nel bar,” rispose il Capitano.

“‘A cosa?’ gridò Martin.”

“Come un’arma,” ribatté il Capitano.

Martin guardò Mark con disperazione; questi gli spiegò che il Capitano intendeva un avviso scritto, secondo cui il signor Chuzzlewit avrebbe ricevuto i “Watertoasters” quel giorno, alle due in punto e dopo. Il cartello con l’orario era effettivamente appeso nel bar, come Mark poteva testimoniare dopo averlo esaminato personalmente.

“Non saresti certo impopolare, lo so,” disse il Capitano, lucidandosi le unghie.
“I nostri cittadini non aspettano altro che scatenarsi; e il nostro giornale potrebbe distruggerti completamente.”

“Martin avrebbe dovuto arrabbiarsi molto, ma poi ci pensò meglio e disse, ”

“Per il nome del cielo, allora che vengano.”

“Ah, arriveranno,” rispose il Capitano. “Ho visto con i miei occhi che quella grande stanza è stata preparata apposta per questo scopo.”

“Ma lo farai davvero?” disse Martin, vedendo che il Capitano stava per andarsene; “almeno dimmelo: perché vogliono vedermi? Cosa ho fatto? E come mai hanno improvvisamente così tanto interesse per me?”

Il Capitano Kedgick posizionò un pollice e tre dita su ciascun lato della tesa del suo cappello; lo sollevò leggermente dalla testa; lo rimise giù con cura; si passò una mano sul viso, partendo dalla fronte e arrivando fino al mento; guardò Martin, poi Mark, poi di nuovo Martin; fece l’occhiolino e uscì.

‘Upon my life, now!’ said Martin, bringing his hand heavily upon the table; ‘such a perfectly unaccountable fellow as that, I never saw. Mark, what do you say to this?’

‘Why, sir,’ returned his partner, ‘my opinion is that we must have got to the MOST remarkable man in the country at last. So I hope there’s an end to the breed, sir.’

Although this made Martin laugh, it couldn’t keep off two o’clock. Punctually, as the hour struck, Captain Kedgick returned to hand him to the room of state; and he had no sooner got him safe there, than he bawled down the staircase to his fellow-citizens below, that Mr Chuzzlewit was ‘receiving.’

Up they came with a rush. Up they came until the room was full, and, through the open door, a dismal perspective of more to come, was shown upon the stairs. One after another, one after another, dozen after dozen, score after score, more, more, more, up they came; all shaking hands with Martin. Such varieties of hands, the thick, the thin, the short, the long, the fat, the lean, the coarse, the fine; such differences of temperature, the hot, the cold, the dry, the moist, the flabby; such diversities of grasp, the tight, the loose, the short-lived, and the lingering! Still up, up, up, more, more, more; and ever and anon the Captain’s voice was heard above the crowd—‘There’s more below! there’s more below. Now, gentlemen you that have been introduced to Mr Chuzzlewit, will you clear gentlemen? Will you clear? Will you be so good as clear, gentlemen, and make a little room for more?’

Regardless of the Captain’s cries, they didn’t clear at all, but stood there, bolt upright and staring. Two gentlemen connected with the Watertoast Gazette had come express to get the matter for an article on Martin. They had agreed to divide the labour. One of them took him below the waistcoat. One above. Each stood directly in front of his subject with his head a little on one side, intent on his department. If Martin put one boot before the other, the lower gentleman was down upon him; he rubbed a pimple on his nose, and the upper gentleman booked it. He opened his mouth to speak, and the same gentleman was on one knee before him, looking in at his teeth, with the nice scrutiny of a dentist. Amateurs in the physiognomical and phrenological sciences roved about him with watchful eyes and itching fingers, and sometimes one, more daring than the rest, made a mad grasp at the back of his head, and vanished in the crowd. They had him in all points of view: in front, in profile, three-quarter face, and behind. Those who were not professional or scientific, audibly exchanged opinions on his looks. New lights shone in upon him, in respect of his nose. Contradictory rumours were abroad on the subject of his hair. And still the Captain’s voice was heard—so stifled by the concourse, that he seemed to speak from underneath a feather-bed—exclaiming—‘Gentlemen, you that have been introduced to Mr Chuzzlewit, WILL you clear?’

Even when they began to clear it was no better; for then a stream of gentlemen, every one with a lady on each arm (exactly like the chorus to the National Anthem when Royalty goes in state to the play), came gliding in—every new group fresher than the last, and bent on staying to the latest moment. If they spoke to him, which was not often, they invariably asked the same questions, in the same tone; with no more remorse, or delicacy, or consideration, than if he had been a figure of stone, purchased, and paid for, and set up there for their delight. Even when, in the slow course of time, these died off, it was as bad as ever, if not worse; for then the boys grew bold, and came in as a class of themselves, and did everything that the grown-up people had done. Uncouth stragglers, too, appeared; men of a ghostly kind, who being in, didn’t know how to get out again; insomuch that one silent gentleman with glazed and fishy eyes and only one button on his waistcoat (which was a very large metal one, and shone prodigiously), got behind the door, and stood there, like a clock, long after everybody else was gone.

Martin felt, from pure fatigue, and heat, and worry, as if he could have fallen on the ground and willingly remained there, if they would but have had the mercy to leave him alone. But as letters and messages, threatening his public denouncement if he didn’t see the senders, poured in like hail; and as more visitors came while he took his coffee by himself; and as Mark, with all his vigilance, was unable to keep them from the door; he resolved to go to bed—not that he felt at all sure of bed being any protection, but that he might not leave a forlorn hope untried.

He had communicated this design to Mark, and was on the eve of escaping, when the door was thrown open in a great hurry, and an elderly gentleman entered; bringing with him a lady who certainly could not be considered young—that was matter of fact; and probably could not be considered handsome—but that was matter of opinion. She was very straight, very tall, and not at all flexible in face or figure. On her head she wore a great straw bonnet, with trimmings of the same, in which she looked as if she had been thatched by an unskillful labourer; and in her hand she held a most enormous fan.

‘Mr Chuzzlewit, I believe?’ said the gentleman.

‘That is my name.’

‘Sir,’ said the gentleman, ‘I am pressed for time.’

‘Thank God!’ thought Martin.

‘I go back Toe my home, sir,’ pursued the gentleman, ‘by the return train, which starts immediate. Start is not a word you use in your country, sir.’

‘Oh yes, it is,’ said Martin.

‘You air mistaken, sir,’ returned the gentleman, with great decision: ‘but we will not pursue the subject, lest it should awake your preju—dice. Sir, Mrs Hominy.’

Martin bowed.

‘Mrs Hominy, sir, is the lady of Major Hominy, one of our chicest spirits; and belongs Toe one of our most aristocratic families. You air, p’raps, acquainted, sir, with Mrs Hominy’s writings.’

“Per la mia vita!”, esclamò Martin, battendo con forza la mano sul tavolo; “Non ho mai visto uno così completamente irragionevole. Mark, che ne pensi?”

“Perché, signore,” rispose il suo compagno, “io penso che finalmente abbiamo incontrato l’uomo più straordinario di questo paese. Quindi spero che questa specie abbia ormai raggiunto la sua fine, signore.”

Anche se questo fece ridere Martin, non riuscì comunque a far sì che la situazione si risolvesse entro le due di ore. Puntuale come sempre, all’ora stabilita, il Capitano Kedgick lo portò nella sala di stato; e appena lo ebbe messo al sicuro lì dentro, gridò giù per le scale ai suoi concittadini che il signor Chuzzlewit stava “ricevendo”.

Salirono tutti insieme, in fretta. Salirono fino a quando la stanza non fu piena; e, attraverso la porta aperta, si poteva vedere una scena desolante: c’erano ancora molte altre persone che stavano salendo le scale. Uno dopo l’altro, dozzine su dozzine, decine su decine, tutti stringevano la mano a Martin. Mani di ogni tipo: grosse, sottili, corte, lunghe, grasse, magre, ruvide, delicate; temperature diverse: calde, fredde, asciutte, umide, flaccide, modi diversi di stringere la mano: stretti, lenti, fugaci. Continuavano a salire, sempre più in alto. Di tanto in tanto si sentiva la voce del Capitano sopra la folla: “Ci sono ancora altri sotto! Signori, ora che avete conosciuto il signor Chuzzlewit, potreste per favore spostarvi un po’? Potreste fare posto a quelli che stanno arrivando?”

Nonostante le grida del Capitano, loro non si mossero affatto; rimasero lì in piedi, dritti come pali e con lo sguardo fisso. Due signori, in contatto con il “Watertoast Gazette”, erano venuti appositamente per scrivere un articolo su Martin. Avevano concordato di dividere i compiti: uno si occupava della parte inferiore del suo corpo, l’altro di quella superiore. Ognuno stava proprio davanti al proprio “oggetto di studio”, con la testa leggermente inclinata da un lato, concentratissimo nel proprio compito. Se Martin metteva uno stivale prima dell’altro, il signore che si occupava della parte inferiore gli si gettava addosso; se si grattava un brufolo sul naso, quello che si occupava della parte superiore annotava subito i dettagli. Se apriva bocca per parlare, lo stesso signore si trovava già in ginocchio davanti a lui, esaminandogli i denti con l’attenzione di un dentista. Gli appassionati di fisiognomia e frenologia lo osservavano attentamente, con dita pronte ad intervenire; a volte, uno più audace tentava addirittura di afferrargli la nuca per poi scomparire nella folla. Lo studiavano da tutti i punti di vista: di fronte, di profilo, a tre quarti del viso. E quelli che non erano professionisti o scienziati si scambiavano opinioni ad alta voce sul suo aspetto. Nuove ipotesi emergevano riguardo al suo naso; circolavano anche voci contraddittorie sulla sua barba. E la voce del Capitano continuava a risuonare, soffocata dal clamore della folla. Sembrava parlare da sotto un materasso di piume, “Signori”, esclamava, “voi che avete conosciuto il signor Chuzzlewit, vi dispiacerebbe spostarvi da parte?”

Anche quando iniziarono ad allontanarsi, la situazione non migliorò affatto; infatti arrivò un flusso continuo di gentiluomini, ognuno con una signora per braccio (esattamente come il coro dell’inno nazionale quando la famiglia reale si reca a teatro), che entravano uno dopo l’altro, sempre più numerosi e decisi a rimanere fino all’ultimo momento. Se gli parlavano – il che accadeva raramente – ponevano invariabilmente le stesse domande, con lo stesso tono; senza alcun rimorso, delicatezza o considerazione, come se lui fosse stato soltanto una statua di pietra, acquistata e pagata apposta per il loro divertimento. Anche quando, col passare del tempo, questi visitatori iniziarono ad andarsene, la situazione rimase altrettanto brutta, se non peggiore; i ragazzi, infatti, presero coraggio e iniziarono a comportarsi esattamente come gli adulti. Comparvero anche individui strani e inquietanti, uomini dallo sguardo vacuo che, una volta entrati, non sapevano più come uscire. Uno di questi, un gentiluomo silenzioso con occhi vitrei e un solo bottone sulla giacca (un grosso bottone metallico che brillava intensamente), rimase fermo dietro la porta, immobile come un orologio, molto dopo che tutti gli altri se n’erano andati.

Martin, per la pura stanchezza, il caldo e l’ansia, aveva l’impressione di poter cadere a terra e rimanerci volentieri, se solo loro avessero avuto la misericordia di lasciarlo da solo. Ma poiché arrivarono lettere e messaggi che minacciavano di denunciarlo pubblicamente se non incontrava i mittenti; poiché sempre più persone venivano a trovarlo mentre beveva il caffè da solo; e poiché Mark, nonostante tutta la sua attenzione, non riusciva a impedire loro di entrare, decise di andare a letto. Non perché fosse sicuro che il sonno potesse offrirgli protezione, ma per non lasciare inesplorata nemmeno una remota >speranza.

Gli aveva comunicato questo progetto a Mark, ed era sul punto di fuggire quando la porta si aprì improvvisamente con grande fretta e entrò un anziano signore, accompagnato da una donna che certamente non poteva essere considerata giovane. Questo era un fatto indiscutibile; probabilmente nemmeno bella. Ma questa era una questione di opinione. Era molto dritta, molto alta, e assolutamente rigida sia nel viso che nella figura. Sulla testa portava un enorme cappello di paglia, decorato con frange dello stesso materiale; sembrava davvero essere stata “coperta di paglia” da un lavoratore inesperto. E in mano teneva un ventaglio gigantesco.

“Signor Chuzzlewit, giusto?”, disse il gentiluomo.

“Quello è il mio nome.”

“Signore,” disse il gentiluomo, “ho molto poco tempo a disposizione.”

“Grazie a Dio!”, pensò Martin.

“Torno a casa mia, signore,” continuò il gentiluomo, “con il treno di ritorno che parte subito. ‘Partire’ non è una parola che usate nel vostro paese, signore.”

“Sì, proprio,” disse Martin.

“Vi sbagliate, signore,” rispose il gentiluomo con grande fermezza: “ma non continueremo su questo argomento, per non suscitare in voi eventuali pregiudizi. Signori, la signora Hominy.”

Martin si inchinò.

“Signora Hominy, signore, è la moglie del Maggiore Hominy, uno dei nostri personaggi più eleganti e raffinati; appartiene inoltre a una delle nostre famiglie più aristocratiche. Forse lei conosce già le opere della signora Hominy, ”

Martin couldn’t say he was.

‘You have much Toe learn, and Toe enjoy, sir,’ said the gentleman. ‘Mrs Hominy is going Toe stay until the end of the Fall, sir, with her married daughter at the settlement of New Thermopylae, three days this side of Eden. Any attention, sir, that you can show Toe Mrs Hominy upon the journey, will be very grateful Toe the Major and our fellow-citizens. Mrs Hominy, I wish you good night, ma’am, and a pleasant pro-gress on your route!’

Martin could scarcely believe it; but he had gone, and Mrs Hominy was drinking the milk.

‘A’most used-up I am, I do declare!’ she observed. ‘The jolting in the cars is pretty nigh as bad as if the rail was full of snags and sawyers.’

‘Snags and sawyers, ma’am?’ said Martin.

‘Well, then, I do suppose you’ll hardly realise my meaning, sir,’ said Mrs Hominy. ‘My! Only think! DO tell!’

It did not appear that these expressions, although they seemed to conclude with an urgent entreaty, stood in need of any answer; for Mrs Hominy, untying her bonnet-strings, observed that she would withdraw to lay that article of dress aside, and would return immediately.

‘Mark!’ said Martin. ‘Touch me, will you. Am I awake?’

‘Hominy is, sir,’ returned his partner—‘Broad awake! Just the sort of woman, sir, as would be discovered with her eyes wide open, and her mind a-working for her country’s good, at any hour of the day or night.’

They had no opportunity of saying more, for Mrs Hominy stalked in again—very erect, in proof of her aristocratic blood; and holding in her clasped hands a red cotton pocket-handkerchief, perhaps a parting gift from that choice spirit, the Major. She had laid aside her bonnet, and now appeared in a highly aristocratic and classical cap, meeting beneath her chin: a style of headdress so admirably adapted to her countenance, that if the late Mr Grimaldi had appeared in the lappets of Mrs Siddons, a more complete effect could not have been produced.

Martin handed her to a chair. Her first words arrested him before he could get back to his own seat.

‘Pray, sir!’ said Mrs Hominy, ‘where do you hail from?’

‘I am afraid I am dull of comprehension,’ answered Martin, ‘being extremely tired; but upon my word I don’t understand you.’

Mrs Hominy shook her head with a melancholy smile that said, not inexpressively, ‘They corrupt even the language in that old country!’ and added then, as coming down a step or two to meet his low capacity, ‘Where was you rose?’

‘Oh!’ said Martin ‘I was born in Kent.’

‘And how do you like our country, sir?’ asked Mrs Hominy.

‘Very much indeed,’ said Martin, half asleep. ‘At least—that is—pretty well, ma’am.’

‘Most strangers—and partick’larly Britishers—are much surprised by what they see in the U-nited States,’ remarked Mrs Hominy.

‘They have excellent reason to be so, ma’am,’ said Martin. ‘I never was so much surprised in all my life.’

‘Our institutions make our people smart much, sir,’ Mrs Hominy remarked.

‘The most short-sighted man could see that at a glance, with his naked eye,’ said Martin.

Mrs Hominy was a philosopher and an authoress, and consequently had a pretty strong digestion; but this coarse, this indecorous phrase, was almost too much for her. For a gentleman sitting alone with a lady—although the door WAS open—to talk about a naked eye!

A long interval elapsed before even she—woman of masculine and towering intellect though she was—could call up fortitude enough to resume the conversation. But Mrs Hominy was a traveller. Mrs Hominy was a writer of reviews and analytical disquisitions. Mrs Hominy had had her letters from abroad, beginning ‘My ever dearest blank,’ and signed ‘The Mother of the Modern Gracchi’ (meaning the married Miss Hominy), regularly printed in a public journal, with all the indignation in capitals, and all the sarcasm in italics. Mrs Hominy had looked on foreign countries with the eye of a perfect republican hot from the model oven; and Mrs Hominy could talk (or write) about them by the hour together. So Mrs Hominy at last came down on Martin heavily, and as he was fast asleep, she had it all her own way, and bruised him to her heart’s content.

It is no great matter what Mrs Hominy said, save that she had learnt it from the cant of a class, and a large class, of her fellow countrymen, who in their every word, avow themselves to be as senseless to the high principles on which America sprang, a nation, into life, as any Orson in her legislative halls. Who are no more capable of feeling, or of caring if they did feel, that by reducing their own country to the ebb of honest men’s contempt, they put in hazard the rights of nations yet unborn, and very progress of the human race, than are the swine who wallow in their streets. Who think that crying out to other nations, old in their iniquity, ‘We are no worse than you!’ (No worse!) is high defence and ‘vantage-ground enough for that Republic, but yesterday let loose upon her noble course, and but to-day so maimed and lame, so full of sores and ulcers, foul to the eye and almost hopeless to the sense, that her best friends turn from the loathsome creature with disgust. Who, having by their ancestors declared and won their Independence, because they would not bend the knee to certain Public vices and corruptions, and would not abrogate the truth, run riot in the Bad, and turn their backs upon the Good; and lying down contented with the wretched boast that other Temples also are of glass, and stones which batter theirs may be flung back; show themselves, in that alone, as immeasurably behind the import of the trust they hold, and as unworthy to possess it as if the sordid hucksterings of all their little governments—each one a kingdom in its small depravity—were brought into a heap for evidence against them.

Martin by degrees became so far awake, that he had a sense of a terrible oppression on his mind; an imperfect dream that he had murdered a particular friend, and couldn’t get rid of the body. When his eyes opened it was staring him full in the face. There was the horrible Hominy talking deep truths in a melodious snuffle, and pouring forth her mental endowments to such an extent that the Major’s bitterest enemy, hearing her, would have forgiven him from the bottom of his heart. Martin might have done something desperate if the gong had not sounded for supper; but sound it did most opportunely; and having stationed Mrs Hominy at the upper end of the table he took refuge at the lower end himself; whence, after a hasty meal he stole away, while the lady was yet busied with dried beef and a saucer-full of pickled fixings.

Martin non poteva dire di sì.

“C’è ancora molto da imparare e da godere, signore,” disse il gentiluomo.
“La signora Hominy rimarrà fino alla fine dell’autunno con sua figlia sposata nella colonia di New Thermopylae, a tre giorni da qui. Qualsiasi aiuto lei possa ricevere durante il viaggio, sarà molto apprezzato dal maggiore e dai nostri concittadini. Signora Hominy, le auguro una buona notte e un viaggio sereno!”

Martin faticava a crederci; ma era già andato via, e la signora Hominy stava bevendo il latte.

“Sono davvero completamente esausta!”, osservò. “I sobbalzi sui treni sono quasi altrettanto terribili come se le rotaie fossero piene di ostacoli e seghe.”

“Cespugli e salici tagliati, signora?” chiese Martin.

“Beh, allora, immagino che difficilmente comprenderete il mio significato, signore,” disse la signora Hominy. “Mio Dio! Pensateci solo. Ditemelo!”

Non sembrava che queste espressioni, sebbene terminassero con una preghiera urgente, richiedessero alcuna risposta; infatti, la signora Hominy, sciogliendo i lacci del suo cappello, disse che si sarebbe ritirata per mettere da parte quell’indumento e sarebbe tornata subito dopo.

“Mark!” disse Martin. “Toccami, per favore. Sono sveglio?”

“Hominy è proprio così, signore,” rispose il suo compagno. “Del tutto sveglia! Il tipo di donna che, con gli occhi ben aperti e la mente impegnata a servire il bene del proprio paese, sarebbe sempre pronta ad agire, in qualsiasi momento della giornata o della notte.”

Non ebbero la possibilità di dire altro, perché la signora Hominy entrò di nuovo – molto dritta, a dimostrazione del suo aristocratico sangue; teneva tra le mani un fazzoletto di cotone rosso, forse un regalo d’addio da parte di quel nobile signore, il maggiore. Aveva messo da parte il cappello e ora indossava un copricapo estremamente aristocratico e classico, che le arrivava fino al mento: un tipo di acconciatura così perfettamente adatto al suo viso, che se il defunto signor Grimaldi fosse apparso con i bordi del cappello della signora Siddons, non si sarebbe potuto ottenere un effetto più completo.

Martin la fece sedere su una sedia. Le sue prime parole lo colpirono profondamente, prima ancora che potesse tornare al proprio posto.

“Per favore, signore!”, disse la signora Hominy, “da dove viene?”

“Temo di non essere molto intelligente,” rispose Martin, “sono estremamente stanco; ma giuro che non capisco quello che dici.”

La signora Hominy scosse la testa con un sorriso melancolico che, in modo inequivocabile, esprimeva: “Corrompono persino il linguaggio in quel vecchio paese!” Poi aggiunse, come se volesse adattarsi al suo livello di comprensione limitato: “Dove sei stato tu, rosa?”

“Oh!”, disse Martin, “sono nato nel Kent.”

“E come le piace il nostro paese, signore?” chiese la signora Hominy.

“Certo che sì,” disse Martin, mezzo addormentato. “Almeno, cioè, abbastanza bene, signora.”

“La maggior parte degli sconosciuti – e soprattutto i britannici – rimane molto sorpresa da ciò che vede negli Stati Uniti,” osservò la signora Hominy.

“Hanno tutte le ragioni per essere così, signora,” disse Martin. “Non sono mai stato così sorpreso in tutta la mia vita.”

“Le nostre istituzioni rendono la nostra gente molto intelligente, signore,” osservò la signora Hominy.

“Anche la persona più miope potrebbe vederlo a prima vista, con i propri occhi nudi,” disse Martin.

La signora Hominy era una filosofa e un’autrice, quindi aveva un’appetito piuttosto robusto; ma questa espressione volgare e indecorosa fu quasi troppo per lei. Che un gentiluomo, seduto da solo con una signora – anche se la porta era APERTA – parlasse di “occhio nudo”!

Trascorse molto tempo prima che anche lei – donna di intelletto maschile e eccezionale – riuscisse a trovare la forza necessaria per riprendere la conversazione. Ma la signora Hominy era una viaggiatrice; scriveva recensioni e saggi analitici. Le sue lettere dall’estero, iniziate con “Mio carissimo, ”, erano firmate “La Madre dei Moderni Gracchi” (si riferiva alla signorina Hominy sposata) e venivano regolarmente pubblicate su un giornale, con tutte le parole importanti scritte in maiuscolo e il sarcasmo evidenziato in corsivo. La signora Hominy guardava i paesi stranieri con gli occhi di una perfetta repubblicana; poteva parlare (o scrivere) di loro per ore intere. Alla fine, la signora Hominy attaccò duramente Martin; poiché dormiva profondamente, poté fare tutto ciò che voleva e criticarlo a sazietà.

Non ha molta importanza ciò che ha detto la signora Hominy, se non il fatto che l’ha imparato dalle parole di un intero gruppo dei suoi connazionali, i quali, con ogni loro parola, ammettono di essere altrettanto ignoranti riguardo ai principi fondamentali su cui si è fondata America, una nazione che ha preso vita. Queste persone non sono in grado di comprendere, né di curarsi del fatto che, riducendo il proprio paese all’odio e al disprezzo delle persone oneste, mettono a rischio i diritti di altre nazioni ancora non nate, così come il progresso stesso dell’umanità. Sono come quei maiali che si rotolano nelle loro strade: pensano che gridare ad altre nazioni, vecchie di iniquità, “Non siamo peggiori di voi!” sia una valida difesa. Ma ieri ancora quelle stesse nazioni erano sulla retta via; oggi, invece, sono così danneggiate e deformate da essere quasi disprezzabili agli occhi di tutti. Coloro che, pur avendo ottenuto l’Indipendenza grazie ai loro antenati perché non volevano sottomettersi a certe vizi pubblici e corruzioni, né abrogare la verità, si abbandonano al male e voltano le spalle al bene. Si compiacciono del fatto che anche altri templi siano fatti di vetro e pietra, e che ciò che li distrugge possa essere loro rivolto contro. Ma in questo modo dimostrano di non essere degni della fiducia che la gente ha riposto in loro. Come se tutte le pratiche disoneste dei loro piccoli governi – ognuno un regno di corruzione e decadenza – potessero costituire prove contro di loro.

Martin, gradualmente, si rese completamente sveglio e avvertì una terribile oppressione nella mente: gli sembrava di aver assassinato un amico particolare e di non riuscire a liberarsi del suo corpo. Quando aprì gli occhi, quel corpo lo fissava dritto in faccia. C’era quella orribile signora Hominy che pronunciava verità profonde con un tono melodioso, riversando le proprie capacità mentali in modo tale che anche il più acerrimo nemico del maggiore, ascoltandola, gli avrebbe perdonato dal profondo del cuore. Martin avrebbe potuto compiere qualcosa di disperato se non fosse suonato il gong che annunciava la cena; ma suonò proprio nel momento giusto. Dopo aver fatto sedere la signora Hominy all’estremità superiore del tavolo, lui si rifugiò nell’estremità inferiore; poi, dopo aver mangiato in fretta, se ne andò mentre lei era ancora impegnata a consumare carne essiccata e vari condimenti sottaceti.

It would be difficult to give an adequate idea of Mrs Hominy’s freshness next day, or of the avidity with which she went headlong into moral philosophy at breakfast. Some little additional degree of asperity, perhaps, was visible in her features, but not more than the pickles would have naturally produced. All that day she clung to Martin. She sat beside him while he received his friends (for there was another Reception, yet more numerous than the former), propounded theories, and answered imaginary objections, so that Martin really began to think he must be dreaming, and speaking for two; she quoted interminable passages from certain essays on government, written by herself; used the Major’s pocket-handkerchief as if the snuffle were a temporary malady, of which she was determined to rid herself by some means or other; and, in short, was such a remarkable companion, that Martin quite settled it between himself and his conscience, that in any new settlement it would be absolutely necessary to have such a person knocked on the head for the general peace of society.

In the meantime Mark was busy, from early in the morning until late at night, in getting on board the steamboat such provisions, tools and other necessaries, as they had been forewarned it would be wise to take. The purchase of these things, and the settlement of their bill at the National, reduced their finances to so low an ebb, that if the captain had delayed his departure any longer, they would have been in almost as bad a plight as the unfortunate poorer emigrants, who (seduced on board by solemn advertisement) had been living on the lower deck a whole week, and exhausting their miserable stock of provisions before the voyage commenced. There they were, all huddled together with the engine and the fires. Farmers who had never seen a plough; woodmen who had never used an axe; builders who couldn’t make a box; cast out of their own land, with not a hand to aid them: newly come into an unknown world, children in helplessness, but men in wants—with younger children at their backs, to live or die as it might happen!

The morning came, and they would start at noon. Noon came, and they would start at night. But nothing is eternal in this world; not even the procrastination of an American skipper; and at night all was ready.

Dispirited and weary to the last degree, but a greater lion than ever (he had done nothing all the afternoon but answer letters from strangers; half of them about nothing; half about borrowing money, and all requiring an instantaneous reply), Martin walked down to the wharf, through a concourse of people, with Mrs Hominy upon his arm; and went on board. But Mark was bent on solving the riddle of this lionship, if he could; and so, not without the risk of being left behind, ran back to the hotel.

Captain Kedgick was sitting in the colonnade, with a julep on his knee, and a cigar in his mouth. He caught Mark’s eye, and said:

‘Why, what the ‘Tarnal brings you here?’

‘I’ll tell you plainly what it is, Captain,’ said Mark. ‘I want to ask you a question.’

‘A man may ASK a question, so he may,’ returned Kedgick; strongly implying that another man might not answer a question, so he mightn’t.

‘What have they been making so much of him for, now?’ said Mark, slyly. ‘Come!’

‘Our people like ex-citement,’ answered Kedgick, sucking his cigar.

‘But how has he excited ‘em?’ asked Mark.

The Captain looked at him as if he were half inclined to unburden his mind of a capital joke.

‘You air a-going?’ he said.

‘Going!’ cried Mark. ‘Ain’t every moment precious?’

‘Our people like ex-citement,’ said the Captain, whispering. ‘He ain’t like emigrants in gin’ral; and he excited ‘em along of this;’ he winked and burst into a smothered laugh; ‘along of this. Scadder is a smart man, and—and—nobody as goes to Eden ever comes back alive!’

The wharf was close at hand, and at that instant Mark could hear them shouting out his name; could even hear Martin calling to him to make haste, or they would be separated. It was too late to mend the matter, or put any face upon it but the best. He gave the Captain a parting benediction, and ran off like a race-horse.

‘Mark! Mark!’ cried Martin.

‘Here am I, sir!’ shouted Mark, suddenly replying from the edge of the quay, and leaping at a bound on board. ‘Never was half so jolly, sir. All right. Haul in! Go ahead!’

The sparks from the wood fire streamed upward from the two chimneys, as if the vessel were a great firework just lighted; and they roared away upon the dark water.

Sarebbe difficile dare un’idea adeguata della freschezza di Mrs Hominy il giorno seguente, o dell’entusiasmo con cui si immerse nella filosofia morale a colazione. Forse nei suoi tratti c’era un certo grado di asprezza in più, ma non superiore a quello che naturalmente avrebbero potuto produrre i sottaceti. Quel giorno intero rimase accanto a Martin: sedeva al suo fianco mentre riceveva gli amici (ci fu un’altra riunione, ancora più numerosa della precedente), proponeva teorie e rispondeva a obiezioni immaginarie; tanto che Martin iniziò davvero a pensare di stare sognando. Citava interminabili passaggi da alcuni saggi sulla politica scritti da lei stessa, utilizzava il fazzoletto del maggiore come se quel naso che colpiva fosse una malattia temporanea dalla quale era determinata a liberarsi a tutti i costi. In breve, fu un compagna così straordinaria che Martin concluse tra sé e la sua coscienza che, in qualsiasi nuova situazione, sarebbe stato assolutamente necessario “colpire in testa” una persona del genere per il bene della pace sociale.

Nel frattempo, Mark era impegnato, dalle prime ore del mattino fino a tardi di notte, a caricare sul battello a vapore provviste, attrezzi e altre necessità, poiché avevano ricevuto avvertimenti che fosse saggio portarli con sé. L’acquisto di queste cose, unito al pagamento del conto presso la banca National, ridussero le loro finanze a un livello così basso che, se il capitano avesse ritardato ancora la partenza, si sarebbero trovati in una situazione quasi altrettanto difficile quanto quella degli sfortunati emigranti più poveri. Questi ultimi, ingannati da annunci solenni, avevano trascorso un’intera settimana sul ponte inferiore del battello, consumando tutte le loro scarse provviste prima ancora che la navigazione iniziasse. Lì erano, ammassati insieme all’engine e ai focolari: contadini che non avevano mai visto un aratro; boscaioli che non avevano mai usato un’ascia; costruttori incapaci di realizzare nemmeno una scatola. Scacciati dalla loro terra natale, senza nessuno che potesse aiutarli, appena arrivati in un mondo sconosciuto: bambini in condizioni di totale impotenza, uomini affamati. Con altri bambini più piccoli da mantenere. Costretti a vivere o morire a seconda delle circostanze!

Sorse la mattina, e avrebbero iniziato a mattino. Arrivò l’mattino, e avrebbero iniziato a :notte. Ma nulla è eterno in questo mondo; nemmeno il rinvio di un capitano americano. E alla :notte tutto era pronto.

Disperato e stanco fino all’estremo, ma più “leone” che mai (aveva passato l’intera pomeriggio a rispondere alle lettere di sconosciuti; la metà di esse riguardava cose insignificanti, l’altra metà richiedeva prestiti di denaro, e tutte richiedevano una risposta immediata), Martin scese verso il molo, attraverso una folla di persone, con la signora Hominy al suo braccio; poi salì a bordo. Ma Mark era deciso a risolvere questo “mistero” legato alla natura di quel “leone”; così, non senza rischiare di rimanere indietro, corse nuovamente all’hotel.

Il Capitano Kedgick era seduto nella colonnata, con un bicchiere di julep sulle ginocchia e un sigaro in bocca. Notò Mark e disse:

“Ma che cosa vi ha portato qui, Tarnal?”

“Le dirò chiaramente di cosa si tratta, Capitano,” disse Mark. “Vorrei farle una domanda.”

“Un uomo può porre una domanda, se lo desidera,” rispose Kedgick; dando chiaramente a intendere che un altro uomo potesse non rispondere a una domanda, se non lo desiderava.

“Perché ora fanno tanta enfasi su di lui?”, disse Mark, con aria astuta.
“Vieni!”

“Il nostro popolo ama le emozioni forti,” rispose Kedgick, succhiando il suo sigaro.

“Ma come è riuscito a eccitarli?” chiese Mark.

Il Capitano lo guardò come se fosse quasi tentato di condividere con lui una barzelletta davvero divertente.

“Stai andando in aria?” disse.

“Via!” gridò Mark. “Non è forse ogni momento prezioso?”

“Il nostro popolo ama l’avventura,” disse il Capitano sussurrando. “Lui non è come gli emigranti in generale. Lui li ha eccitati con questa storia, ” Fece l’occhiolino e scoppiò in una risata soffocata. “Scadder è un uomo astuto. E nessuno che va verso Eden torna mai indietro vivo!”

Il molo era proprio lì vicino, e in quell’istante Mark riuscì a sentire loro gridare il suo nome; poteva persino udire Martin che lo esortava ad affrettarsi, altrimenti si sarebbero separati. Era troppo tardi per rimediare alla situazione o per trovare una scusa plausibile. Diede al Capitano un ultimo saluto e corse via come un cavallo da corsa.

“Mark! Mark!” gridò Martin.

“Eccomi qui, signore!” gridò Mark, rispondendo all’improvviso dal bordo del molo e saltando a bordo con un balzo. “Non sono mai stato così felice, signore. Bene, tirate su la nave! Avanti!”

Le scintille del fuoco nel legno si alzavano verso l’alto dalle due ciminiere, come se la nave fosse un enorme fuoch d’artificio appena acceso; e si disperdevano nella notte sulle tenebre dell’acqua.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

MARTIN AND HIS PARTNER TAKE POSSESSION OF THEIR ESTATE. THE JOYFUL OCCASION INVOLVES SOME FURTHER ACCOUNT OF EDEN

There happened to be on board the steamboat several gentlemen passengers, of the same stamp as Martin’s New York friend Mr Bevan; and in their society he was cheerful and happy. They released him as well as they could from the intellectual entanglements of Mrs Hominy; and exhibited, in all they said and did, so much good sense and high feeling, that he could not like them too well. ‘If this were a republic of Intellect and Worth,’ he said, ‘instead of vapouring and jobbing, they would not want the levers to keep it in motion.’

‘Having good tools, and using bad ones,’ returned Mr Tapley, ‘would look as if they was rather a poor sort of carpenters, sir, wouldn’t it?’

Martin nodded. ‘As if their work were infinitely above their powers and purpose, Mark; and they botched it in consequence.’

‘The best on it is,’ said Mark, ‘that when they do happen to make a decent stroke; such as better workmen, with no such opportunities, make every day of their lives and think nothing of—they begin to sing out so surprising loud. Take notice of my words, sir. If ever the defaulting part of this here country pays its debts—along of finding that not paying ‘em won’t do in a commercial point of view, you see, and is inconvenient in its consequences—they’ll take such a shine out of it, and make such bragging speeches, that a man might suppose no borrowed money had ever been paid afore, since the world was first begun. That’s the way they gammon each other, sir. Bless you, I know ‘em. Take notice of my words, now!’

‘You seem to be growing profoundly sagacious!’ cried Martin, laughing.

‘Whether that is,’ thought Mark, ‘because I’m a day’s journey nearer Eden, and am brightening up afore I die, I can’t say. P’rhaps by the time I get there I shall have growed into a prophet.’

He gave no utterance to these sentiments; but the excessive joviality they inspired within him, and the merriment they brought upon his shining face, were quite enough for Martin. Although he might sometimes profess to make light of his partner’s inexhaustible cheerfulness, and might sometimes, as in the case of Zephaniah Scadder, find him too jocose a commentator, he was always sensible of the effect of his example in rousing him to hopefulness and courage. Whether he were in the humour to profit by it, mattered not a jot. It was contagious, and he could not choose but be affected.

At first they parted with some of their passengers once or twice a day, and took in others to replace them. But by degrees, the towns upon their route became more thinly scattered; and for many hours together they would see no other habitations than the huts of the wood-cutters, where the vessel stopped for fuel. Sky, wood, and water all the livelong day; and heat that blistered everything it touched.

On they toiled through great solitudes, where the trees upon the banks grew thick and close; and floated in the stream; and held up shrivelled arms from out the river’s depths; and slid down from the margin of the land, half growing, half decaying, in the miry water. On through the weary day and melancholy night; beneath the burning sun, and in the mist and vapour of the evening; on, until return appeared impossible, and restoration to their home a miserable dream.

They had now but few people on board, and these few were as flat, as dull, and stagnant, as the vegetation that oppressed their eyes. No sound of cheerfulness or hope was heard; no pleasant talk beguiled the tardy time; no little group made common cause against the full depression of the scene. But that, at certain periods, they swallowed food together from a common trough, it might have been old Charon’s boat, conveying melancholy shades to judgment.

At length they drew near New Thermopylae; where, that same evening, Mrs Hominy would disembark. A gleam of comfort sunk into Martin’s bosom when she told him this. Mark needed none; but he was not displeased.

It was almost night when they came alongside the landing-place. A steep bank with an hotel like a barn on the top of it; a wooden store or two; and a few scattered sheds.

‘You sleep here to-night, and go on in the morning, I suppose, ma’am?’ said Martin.

‘Where should I go on to?’ cried the mother of the modern Gracchi.

‘To New Thermopylae.’

‘My! ain’t I there?’ said Mrs Hominy.

Martin looked for it all round the darkening panorama; but he couldn’t see it, and was obliged to say so.

‘Why that’s it!’ cried Mrs Hominy, pointing to the sheds just mentioned.

‘THAT!’ exclaimed Martin.

‘Ah! that; and work it which way you will, it whips Eden,’ said Mrs Hominy, nodding her head with great expression.

The married Miss Hominy, who had come on board with her husband, gave to this statement her most unqualified support, as did that gentleman also. Martin gratefully declined their invitation to regale himself at their house during the half hour of the vessel’s stay; and having escorted Mrs Hominy and the red pocket-handkerchief (which was still on active service) safely across the gangway, returned in a thoughtful mood to watch the emigrants as they removed their goods ashore.

Mark, as he stood beside him, glanced in his face from time to time; anxious to discover what effect this dialogue had had upon him, and not unwilling that his hopes should be dashed before they reached their destination, so that the blow he feared might be broken in its fall. But saving that he sometimes looked up quickly at the poor erections on the hill, he gave him no clue to what was passing in his mind, until they were again upon their way.

‘Mark,’ he said then, ‘are there really none but ourselves on board this boat who are bound for Eden?’

CAPITOLO VENTITRÉ

Martin e il suo compagno prendono possesso della loro tenuta. Questa gioiosa occasione richiede ulteriori spiegazioni riguardo ad Eden.

Sul battello a vapore c’erano diversi signori passeggeri, del medesimo tipo dell’amico di Martin da New York, il signor Bevan; in loro compagnia lui era allegro e felice. Lasciarono che si liberasse, nel miglior modo possibile, dagli intrighi intellettuali della signora Hominy; e dimostrarono, in tutto ciò che dicevano e facevano, tanto buon senso e nobili sentimenti, che lui non poteva non apprezzarli molto. “Se questa fosse una repubblica dell’Intelligenza e del Valore,” disse, “invece di sprecare tempo in chiacchiere inutili, non avrebbero bisogno di alcun mezzo per farla funzionare.”

“Disporre di buoni strumenti e usarne di scadenti,” rispose il signor Tapley, “sarebbe come se quei carpentieri fossero piuttosto inesperti, non crede?”.

Martin annuì. “Come se il loro compito fosse infinitamente al di sopra delle loro capacità e dei loro scopi, Mark. E per questo hanno fallito.”

“La cosa migliore è,” disse Mark, “che quando per caso riescono a compiere un lavoro decente – come fanno i lavoratori migliori, che non hanno queste opportunità e lo fanno ogni giorno senza pensarci troppo – allora iniziano a esultare in modo davvero sorprendente. Presti attenzione alle mie parole, signore: se mai la parte di questo paese che finora non ha pagato i suoi debiti dovesse finalmente farlo, e si rendesse conto che non pagarli non è conveniente dal punto di vista commerciale, né tollerabile per le conseguenze negative, allora inizieranno a esultare così tanto e a fare discorsi così compiaciuti, da far credere che nessun debito sia mai stato pagato prima d’ora, fin dai tempi più antichi. È proprio così che si comportano tra loro. Li conosco bene, signore. Prenda davvero in considerazione le mie parole!”

“Sembri diventare sempre più saggio!” esclamò Martin ridendo.

“Se sia così, ”, pensò Mark, “non lo so. Forse perché sono ormai a un solo giorno di viaggio da Eden e sto iniziando a vedere la luce prima di morire. Chissà. Forse, quando arriverò lì, sarò diventato un profeta.”

Non esprimeva mai apertamente questi sentimenti; ma l’eccessiva allegria che essi suscitavano in lui, e il sorriso radioso che appariva sul suo volto, erano più che sufficienti per Martin. Anche se a volte fingeva di prendere alla leggera l’infinita gioia del proprio compagno, o lo considerava talvolta troppo scherzoso nel suo modo di commentare le cose – come nel caso di Zephaniah Scadder – era sempre consapevole dell’influenza positiva che il comportamento di quell’uomo aveva su di lui, stimolando in lui speranza e coraggio. Che fosse disposto o meno ad approfittare di quella gioia, non faceva alcuna differenza: era davvero contagiosa, e lui non poteva fare a meno di esserne influenzato.

All’inizio si separavano da alcuni dei loro passeggeri una o due volte al giorno, per poi accoglierne altri al loro posto. Ma gradualmente, le città lungo il loro percorso divennero sempre più sparse; per molte ore consecutive non vedevano altre abitazioni se non quelle degli taglialegna, dove la nave si fermava per rifornirsi di carburante. Solo cielo, legno e acqua per tutto il giorno, e un caldo che bruciava qualsiasi cosa toccasse.

Proseguirono il loro cammino attraverso immense solitudini, dove gli alberi lungo le rive crescevano fitti e densi; galleggiavano nel corso d’acqua, tendevano i loro rami avvizziti dalle profondità del fiume e scivolavano giù dal bordo della terra, metà cresciuti, metà in decomposizione, nell’acqua stagnante e fangosa. Avanti, per tutto il lungo giorno stancante e la melanconica notte; sotto il sole ardente, nella nebbia e nel vapore del crepuscolo. Avanti, fino a quando il ritorno sembrò impossibile, e il rientro a casa un sogno miserabile.

Ora a bordo c’erano soltanto poche persone, e queste poche erano altrettanto piatte, noiose e stagnanti quanto la vegetazione che offuscava loro la vista. Non si udiva alcun suono di allegria o speranza; nessuna conversazione piacevole alleviava il trascorrere del tempo; nessun piccolo gruppo si univa per contrastare quella totale depressione dell’atmosfera. Tuttavia, il fatto che, in certi momenti, mangiassero insieme dallo stesso secchio, forse quel vecchio barca di Caronte, che trasportava ombre di melanconia verso l’aldilà, poteva forse rappresentare un segno di unità in mezzo a tanta desolazione.

Finalmente si avvicinarono a Nuove Termopili; quella stessa sera, la signora Hominy sarebbe sbarcata lì. Un senso di conforto invase il cuore di Martin quando glielo disse. Mark non ne aveva bisogno, ma non fu nemmeno dispiaciuto.

Era quasi notte quando arrivarono vicino al molo di sbarco. Una riva scoscesa su cui c’era un hotel simile a un fienile in cima; uno o due negozi di legno; e alcune capanne sparse qua e là.

“Viene a dormire qui di notte e poi se ne va al mattino, giusto, signora?” disse Martin.

“Dove dovrei andare ora?”, gridò la madre dei moderni Gracchi.

“Verso le nuove Termopili.”

“Mio Dio! Non sono forse lì?” disse la signora Hominy.

Martin cercò dappertutto in quel paesaggio che si oscurava; ma non riuscì a trovarlo e dovette ammetterlo.

“Perché proprio quello?”, esclamò la signora Hominy, indicando gli stessi capanni di cui aveva appena parlato.

“Quello!” esclamò Martin.

“Ah! Proprio così. E si possa usare come si vuole, ma finirà per distruggere l’Eden,” disse la signora Hominy, annuendo con grande enfasi.

La signorina Hominy, sposata e venuta a bordo con suo marito, diede il proprio pieno sostegno a questa dichiarazione, così come fece anche quel gentiluomo. Martin ringraziò cortesemente per l’invito a trascorrere mezz’ora nella loro casa durante la sosta della nave; dopo aver accompagnato con cura la signora Hominy e il fazzoletto rosso (che era ancora in uso), tornò sul ponte con aria pensierosa per osservare gli emigranti mentre scaricavano i loro bagagli a riva.

Mark, mentre stava al suo fianco, lo osservava di tanto in tanto; era ansioso di scoprire quale effetto avesse avuto su di lui quel dialogo, e non voleva che le sue speranze venissero deluse prima ancora di raggiungere il loro obiettivo, così da poter evitare il colpo che temeva potesse verificarsi. Tuttavia, a parte qualche rapido sguardo verso quelle misere costruzioni sulla collina, non gli diede alcun indizio di ciò che stava pensando, fino a quando non ripresero il cammino.

“Mark,” disse allora, “davvero non c’è nessun altro su questa barca, oltre a noi, che sia diretto verso l’Eden?”

‘None at all, sir. Most of ‘em, as you know, have stopped short; and the few that are left are going further on. What matters that! More room there for us, sir.’

‘Oh, to be sure!’ said Martin. ‘But I was thinking—’ and there he paused.

‘Yes, sir?’ observed Mark.

‘How odd it was that the people should have arranged to try their fortune at a wretched hole like that, for instance, when there is such a much better, and such a very different kind of place, near at hand, as one may say.’

He spoke in a tone so very different from his usual confidence, and with such an obvious dread of Mark’s reply, that the good-natured fellow was full of pity.

‘Why, you know, sir,’ said Mark, as gently as he could by any means insinuate the observation, ‘we must guard against being too sanguine. There’s no occasion for it, either, because we’re determined to make the best of everything, after we know the worst of it. Ain’t we, sir?’

Martin looked at him, but answered not a word.

‘Even Eden, you know, ain’t all built,’ said Mark.

‘In the name of Heaven, man,’ cried Martin angrily, ‘don’t talk of Eden in the same breath with that place. Are you mad? There—God forgive me!—don’t think harshly of me for my temper!’

After that, he turned away, and walked to and fro upon the deck full two hours. Nor did he speak again, except to say ‘Good night,’ until next day; nor even then upon this subject, but on other topics quite foreign to the purpose.

As they proceeded further on their track, and came more and more towards their journey’s end, the monotonous desolation of the scene increased to that degree, that for any redeeming feature it presented to their eyes, they might have entered, in the body, on the grim domains of Giant Despair. A flat morass, bestrewn with fallen timber; a marsh on which the good growth of the earth seemed to have been wrecked and cast away, that from its decomposing ashes vile and ugly things might rise; where the very trees took the aspect of huge weeds, begotten of the slime from which they sprung, by the hot sun that burnt them up; where fatal maladies, seeking whom they might infect, came forth at night in misty shapes, and creeping out upon the water, hunted them like spectres until day; where even the blessed sun, shining down on festering elements of corruption and disease, became a horror; this was the realm of Hope through which they moved.

At last they stopped. At Eden too. The waters of the Deluge might have left it but a week before; so choked with slime and matted growth was the hideous swamp which bore that name.

There being no depth of water close in shore, they landed from the vessel’s boat, with all their goods beside them. There were a few log-houses visible among the dark trees; the best, a cow-shed or a rude stable; but for the wharves, the market-place, the public buildings—

‘Here comes an Edener,’ said Mark. ‘He’ll get us help to carry these things up. Keep a good heart, sir. Hallo there!’

The man advanced toward them through the thickening gloom, very slowly; leaning on a stick. As he drew nearer, they observed that he was pale and worn, and that his anxious eyes were deeply sunken in his head. His dress of homespun blue hung about him in rags; his feet and head were bare. He sat down on a stump half-way, and beckoned them to come to him. When they complied, he put his hand upon his side as if in pain, and while he fetched his breath stared at them, wondering.

‘Strangers!’ he exclaimed, as soon as he could speak.

‘The very same,’ said Mark. ‘How are you, sir?’

‘I’ve had the fever very bad,’ he answered faintly. ‘I haven’t stood upright these many weeks. Those are your notions I see,’ pointing to their property.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Mark, ‘they are. You couldn’t recommend us some one as would lend a hand to help carry ‘em up to the—to the town, could you, sir?’

‘My eldest son would do it if he could,’ replied the man; ‘but today he has his chill upon him, and is lying wrapped up in the blankets. My youngest died last week.’

‘I’m sorry for it, governor, with all my heart,’ said Mark, shaking him by the hand. ‘Don’t mind us. Come along with me, and I’ll give you an arm back. The goods is safe enough, sir’—to Martin—‘there ain’t many people about, to make away with ‘em. What a comfort that is!’

‘No,’ cried the man. ‘You must look for such folk here,’ knocking his stick upon the ground, ‘or yonder in the bush, towards the north. We’ve buried most of ‘em. The rest have gone away. Them that we have here, don’t come out at night.’

‘The night air ain’t quite wholesome, I suppose?’ said Mark.

‘It’s deadly poison,’ was the settler’s answer.

Mark showed no more uneasiness than if it had been commended to him as ambrosia; but he gave the man his arm, and as they went along explained to him the nature of their purchase, and inquired where it lay. Close to his own log-house, he said; so close that he had used their dwelling as a store-house for some corn; they must excuse it that night, but he would endeavour to get it taken out upon the morrow. He then gave them to understand, as an additional scrap of local chit-chat, that he had buried the last proprietor with his own hands; a piece of information which Mark also received without the least abatement of his equanimity.

In a word, he conducted them to a miserable cabin, rudely constructed of the trunks of trees; the door of which had either fallen down or been carried away long ago; and which was consequently open to the wild landscape and the dark night. Saving for the little store he had mentioned, it was perfectly bare of all furniture; but they had left a chest upon the landing-place, and he gave them a rude torch in lieu of candle. This latter acquisition Mark planted in the earth, and then declaring that the mansion ‘looked quite comfortable,’ hurried Martin off again to help bring up the chest. And all the way to the landing-place and back, Mark talked incessantly; as if he would infuse into his partner’s breast some faint belief that they had arrived under the most auspicious and cheerful of all imaginable circumstances.

‘Assolutamente no, signore. La maggior parte di loro, come sapete, si è fermata a metà strada; e i pochi che sono rimasti proseguono ancora. Che importanza ha! Ci sarà più spazio per noi, signore.’

“Oh, sicuramente!” disse Martin. “Ma stavo pensando, ” e si fermò lì.

“Sì, signore?”, osservò Mark.

“Che strano fosse che le persone decidessero di provare fortuna in un posto così misero. Quando, in realtà, c’era un luogo molto migliore e completamente diverso, proprio nelle vicinanze.”

Parlava con un tono molto diverso dal suo solito atteggiamento sicuro, e con una paura così evidente della risposta di Mark, che quell’uomo dal cuore gentile provò solo compassione per lui.

“Beh, sa, signore,” disse Mark, nel modo più gentile possibile per far intendere quel commento, “dobbiamo stare attenti a non essere troppo ottimisti. Non c’è motivo di esserlo, inoltre, perché siamo decisi a sfruttare al meglio ogni situazione, anche dopo aver conosciuto il suo lato peggiore, giusto signore?”

Martin lo guardò, ma non disse una parola.

“Anche l’Eden, sai, non è ancora completamente costruito,” disse Mark.

“Nel nome del Cielo, uomo,” gridò Martin arrabbiato, “non parla di Eden nello stesso contesto di quel posto. Sei pazzo? Per favore. Dio mi perdoni, non giudicarmi troppo severamente per il mio carattere!”

Dopo quello, si allontanò e camminò avanti e indietro sul ponte per ben due ore. Non parlò più, se non per dire “Buona notte”, fino al giorno seguente; nemmeno allora riguardo a quell’argomento, ma su altri temi del tutto estranei alla questione in discussione.

Man mano che proseguivano lungo il loro cammino, avvicinandosi sempre di più alla fine della loro viaggio, la desolazione monotona del paesaggio diventava sempre più intensa; al punto che qualsiasi tratto positivo che quei luoghi potessero offrire ai loro occhi sembrava farli entrare, nel corpo stesso, nei cupi regni del Dispero gigantesco. Un terreno paludoso e piatto, coperto di legname caduto; una distesa fangosa in cui la normale crescita della vegetazione sembrava essere stata distrutta completamente, tanto che dalle sue ceneri in decomposizione potevano emergere cose orribili e disgustose; alberi che assomigliavano a enormi erbacce, nati dal fango da cui provenivano e bruciati dal sole cocente; malattie mortali che, alla notte, apparivano sotto forme nebbiose sull’acqua e li inseguivano come spettri fino al giorno; persino il benedetto sole, che illuminava quegli elementi corrotti e malati, diventava una fonte di orrore. Questo era il regno della >Speranza attraverso cui dovevano avanzare.

Finalmente si fermarono. Anche ad Eden. Le acque dell’Inondazione forse l’avevano lasciata solo una settimana prima; quel terribile pantano che portava quel nome era infatti coperto di melma e vegetazione rigogliosa.

Non essendoci acque profonde nelle vicinanze della riva, sbarcarono dalla barca del veliero, con tutti i loro beni al seguito. Tra gli alberi scuri si intravedevano alcune capanne di legno; la migliore tra queste era una stalla o un semplice recinto per il bestiame. Ma non c’erano moli, mercati né edifici pubblici.

“Ecco arrivare un abitante di Eden,” disse Mark. “Ci aiuterà a portare queste cose su. Mantenga la calma, signore. Ehi, là!”

L’uomo avanzava verso di loro nella crescente oscurità, molto lentamente; si appoggiava a un bastone. Man mano che si avvicinava, notarono che era pallido e stanco, e che i suoi occhi ansiosi erano profondamente incassati nel viso. Il suo abito di tela blu era liso e strappato; aveva i piedi e la testa nudi. Si sedette su un tronco a metà strada e li chiamò vicino a sé. Quando si avvicinarono, si premette una mano sul fianco, come se provasse dolore, e mentre cercava di respirare fissò loro gli occhi con aria perplessa.

“Stranieri!”, esclamò non appena riuscì a parlare.

“Esattamente lo stesso,” disse Mark. “Come sta, signore?”

“Ho avuto la febbre molto alta,” rispose debolmente. “Non sono riuscito a stare in piedi per molte settimane. Quelle sono le tue idee, vedo,” disse indicando la loro proprietà.

“Sì, signore,” disse Mark, “lo sono. Non potrebbe consigliarci qualcuno che ci aiutasse a portarle in città, per favore?”

“Mio figlio maggiore lo farebbe se potesse,” rispose l’uomo; “ma oggi ha la febbre e sta rannicchiato sotto le coperte. Mio figlio minore è morto la scorsa settimana.”

“Mi dispiace davvero molto, governatore, con tutto il cuore,” disse Mark, stringendogli la mano. “Non badate a noi. Venite con me e vi restituirò l’arma. Le merci sono al sicuro, signore” – rivolgendosi a Martin – “non ci sono molte persone in giro che potrebbero rubarle. Che sollievo!”

“No,” gridò l’uomo. “Dovete cercare queste persone qui,” disse battendo il suo bastone a terra, “o laggiù tra i cespugli, verso nord. Ne abbiamo seppelliti la maggior parte; gli altri sono andati via. Quelli che abbiamo qui non escono di notte.”

“L’aria di notte, immagino, non sia del tutto salutare, ”, disse Mark.

“È un veleno mortale,” fu la risposta del colono.

Mark non mostrò alcun segno di disagio, come se quella richiesta fosse stata per lui un vero onore; invece mise il braccio attorno all’uomo e, camminando con lui, gli spiegò la natura dell’acquisto che avevano fatto e chiese dove si trovasse la merce. “Vicino alla mia stessa casa di legno,” rispose; così vicina, anzi, che aveva utilizzato la loro abitazione come magazzino per conservare del grano, “Dovete scusarmi per questa notte,” aggiunse, “ma cercherò di far portare via la merce domani stesso.” Poi, come se fosse solo un altro dettaglio della conversazione, raccontò loro che era stato lui stesso ad seppellire l’ultimo proprietario. Una notizia che Mark accettò senza mostrare il minimo turbamento.

In breve, li portò in una misera capanna costruita rudemente con tronchi d’albero; la porta di cui o era caduta o era stata portata via da tempo; quindi la capanna era completamente aperta al paesaggio selvaggio e alla buia notte. A parte le poche cose che aveva menzionato, era assolutamente priva di mobili; ma avevano lasciato un baule sul posto dove si trovavano, e lui gli diede una torcia rozza al posto di una candela. Mark piantò questa torcia nel terreno e poi, dichiarando che quella “casa” sembrava davvero confortevole, si affrettò a portare Martin ad aiutare a tirare su il baule. Per tutto il tragitto fino al posto dove si trovavano e ritorno, Mark parlò senza sosta; come se volesse instillare nel cuore del suo compagno la convinzione che fossero arrivati in circostanze davvero fortunate e gioiose.

But many a man who would have stood within a home dismantled, strong in his passion and design of vengeance, has had the firmness of his nature conquered by the razing of an air-built castle. When the log-hut received them for the second time, Martin laid down upon the ground, and wept aloud.

‘Lord love you, sir!’ cried Mr Tapley, in great terror; ‘Don’t do that! Don’t do that, sir! Anything but that! It never helped man, woman, or child, over the lowest fence yet, sir, and it never will. Besides its being of no use to you, it’s worse than of no use to me, for the least sound of it will knock me flat down. I can’t stand up agin it, sir. Anything but that!’

There is no doubt he spoke the truth, for the extraordinary alarm with which he looked at Martin as he paused upon his knees before the chest, in the act of unlocking it, to say these words, sufficiently confirmed him.

‘I ask your forgiveness a thousand times, my dear fellow,’ said Martin. ‘I couldn’t have helped it, if death had been the penalty.’

‘Ask my forgiveness!’ said Mark, with his accustomed cheerfulness, as he proceeded to unpack the chest. ‘The head partner a-asking forgiveness of Co., eh? There must be something wrong in the firm when that happens. I must have the books inspected and the accounts gone over immediate. Here we are. Everything in its proper place. Here’s the salt pork. Here’s the biscuit. Here’s the whiskey. Uncommon good it smells too. Here’s the tin pot. This tin pot’s a small fortun’ in itself! Here’s the blankets. Here’s the axe. Who says we ain’t got a first-rate fit out? I feel as if I was a cadet gone out to Indy, and my noble father was chairman of the Board of Directors. Now, when I’ve got some water from the stream afore the door and mixed the grog,’ cried Mark, running out to suit the action to the word, ‘there’s a supper ready, comprising every delicacy of the season. Here we are, sir, all complete. For what we are going to receive, et cetrer. Lord bless you, sir, it’s very like a gipsy party!’

It was impossible not to take heart, in the company of such a man as this. Martin sat upon the ground beside the box; took out his knife; and ate and drank sturdily.

‘Now you see,’ said Mark, when they had made a hearty meal; ‘with your knife and mine, I sticks this blanket right afore the door. Or where, in a state of high civilization, the door would be. And very neat it looks. Then I stops the aperture below, by putting the chest agin it. And very neat THAT looks. Then there’s your blanket, sir. Then here’s mine. And what’s to hinder our passing a good night?’

For all his light-hearted speaking, it was long before he slept himself. He wrapped his blanket round him, put the axe ready to his hand, and lay across the threshold of the door; too anxious and too watchful to close his eyes. The novelty of their dreary situation, the dread of some rapacious animal or human enemy, the terrible uncertainty of their means of subsistence, the apprehension of death, the immense distance and the hosts of obstacles between themselves and England, were fruitful sources of disquiet in the deep silence of the night. Though Martin would have had him think otherwise, Mark felt that he was waking also, and a prey to the same reflections. This was almost worse than all, for if he began to brood over their miseries instead of trying to make head against them there could be little doubt that such a state of mind would powerfully assist the influence of the pestilent climate. Never had the light of day been half so welcome to his eyes, as when awaking from a fitful doze, Mark saw it shining through the blanket in the doorway.

He stole out gently, for his companion was sleeping now; and having refreshed himself by washing in the river, where it snowed before the door, took a rough survey of the settlement. There were not above a score of cabins in the whole; half of these appeared untenanted; all were rotten and decayed. The most tottering, abject, and forlorn among them was called, with great propriety, the Bank, and National Credit Office. It had some feeble props about it, but was settling deep down in the mud, past all recovery.

Here and there an effort had been made to clear the land, and something like a field had been marked out, where, among the stumps and ashes of burnt trees, a scanty crop of Indian corn was growing. In some quarters, a snake or zigzag fence had been begun, but in no instance had it been completed; and the felled logs, half hidden in the soil, lay mouldering away. Three or four meagre dogs, wasted and vexed with hunger; some long-legged pigs, wandering away into the woods in search of food; some children, nearly naked, gazing at him from the huts; were all the living things he saw. A fetid vapour, hot and sickening as the breath of an oven, rose up from the earth, and hung on everything around; and as his foot-prints sunk into the marshy ground, a black ooze started forth to blot them out.

Their own land was mere forest. The trees had grown so think and close that they shouldered one another out of their places, and the weakest, forced into shapes of strange distortion, languished like cripples. The best were stunted, from the pressure and the want of room; and high about the stems of all grew long rank grass, dank weeds, and frowsy underwood; not divisible into their separate kinds, but tangled all together in a heap; a jungle deep and dark, with neither earth nor water at its roots, but putrid matter, formed of the pulpy offal of the two, and of their own corruption.

He went down to the landing-place where they had left their goods last night; and there he found some half-dozen men—wan and forlorn to look at, but ready enough to assist—who helped him to carry them to the log-house. They shook their heads in speaking of the settlement, and had no comfort to give him. Those who had the means of going away had all deserted it. They who were left had lost their wives, their children, friends, or brothers there, and suffered much themselves. Most of them were ill then; none were the men they had been once. They frankly offered their assistance and advice, and, leaving him for that time, went sadly off upon their several tasks.

Ma molti uomini che avrebbero potuto rimanere dentro una casa distrutta, animati dalla loro passione e dal desiderio di vendetta, hanno visto la fermezza della loro natura essere sopraffatta dall’abbattimento di un castello costruito soltanto in aria. Quando la capanna di tronchi li accolse per la seconda volta, Martin si gettò a terra e pianse ad alta voce.

“Lord amore vi ama, signore!” gridò il signor Tapley, in preda al terrore; “Non fatelo! Per favore, non fatelo! Niente di tutto ciò. Mai ha aiutato uomini, donne o bambini, nemmeno quando si trattava delle situazioni più disperate. E mai lo farà. Inoltre, oltre a essere completamente inutile per voi, è anche peggio che inutile per me: il minimo suono prodotto da quell’oggetto mi fa cadere a terra privo di sensi. Non riesco proprio a sopportarlo, signore. Niente di tutto ciò!”

Non c’è alcun dubbio che abbia detto la verità, poiché l’espressione di terrore estremo sul suo volto quando si fermò in ginocchio davanti all’armadio, nel momento in cui stava per aprirlo per pronunciare quelle parole, ne fu una conferma più che sufficiente.

“Chiedo mille volte il tuo perdono, caro amico,” disse Martin. “Non avrei potuto fare altrimenti, anche se la punizione fosse stata la morte.”

“Chiedete il mio perdono!”, disse Mark con la sua solita allegria, mentre iniziava ad aprire il baule. “Il socio principale chiede scusa alla società. Eh? Deve esserci qualcosa che non va nell’azienda quando succede una cosa del genere. Devo far controllare i registri e verificare immediatamente i conti. Ecco qui: tutto al suo posto. Ecco la carne salata, i biscotti, il whisky. Ha un odore davvero delizioso! Ecco anche questa pentola di latta. Da sola vale una piccola fortuna! E poi coperte, accetta. Chi direbbe che non abbiamo tutto il necessario per partire? Mi sento come un cadetto diretto a Indianapolis, e mio nobile padre sarebbe il presidente del consiglio di amministrazione. Ora, basterà prendere un po’ d’acqua dal ruscello davanti alla porta e preparare il grog, ” gridò Mark, correndo fuori per mettere in pratica quanto aveva detto. “E poi c’è la cena pronta, con tutte le delizie di questa stagione. Ecco qua, signore: tutto pronto. Per ciò che stiamo per ricevere. Che il Signore vi benedica, signore. È davvero come una festa gitana!”

Era impossibile non sentirsi incoraggiati, in compagnia di un uomo del genere. Martin si sedette a terra accanto alla scatola, tirò fuori il suo coltello e mangiò e bevve con grande appetito.

“Ora capite,” disse Mark, dopo aver mangiato con appetito; “con il vostro coltello e il mio, sistemo questa coperta proprio davanti alla porta. O meglio, nel punto in cui, in una società civile, dovrebbe esserci la porta. E sembra davvero molto ordinato. Poi chiudo l’apertura sotto, mettendo di nuovo lo scatolone al suo posto. E anche questo sembra molto ordinato. Ecco dunque la vostra coperta, signore. E questa è la mia. Che cosa ci impedirebbe quindi di trascorrere una buona notte?”

Nonostante il suo modo spensierato di parlare, ci volle molto tempo prima che riuscisse ad addormentarsi. Si avvolse nella coperta, tenne l’ascia a portata di mano e si sdraiò sul ciglio della porta; troppo ansioso e troppo all’erta per chiudere gli occhi. La novità della loro situazione desolata, la paura di qualche animale predatore o nemico umano, l’incertezza riguardo ai mezzi per sopravvivere, la minaccia della morte, la vasta distanza e gli innumerevoli ostacoli che li separavano dall’Inghilterra, tutte queste cose costituivano fonti continue di preoccupazione nel profondo silenzio della notte. Anche se Martin avrebbe voluto fargli credere il contrario, Mark sentiva di essere anch’egli sveglio e vittima delle stesse riflessioni. Questo era quasi peggio di tutto: se iniziava a rimuginare sulle loro miserie invece di cercare modi per affrontarle, non c’era dubbio che tale stato d’animo avrebbe favorito ulteriormente l’influenza di quell’ambiente ostile. Mai la luce del giorno gli era apparsa così gradita come quando, svegliandosi da un sonno agitato, vide il sole filtrare attraverso la coperta, sulla soglia della porta.

Se ne andò silenziosamente, perché il suo compagno ormai dormiva; dopo essersi rinfrescato lavandosi nel fiume, dove aveva nevicato proprio davanti alla porta, fece un rapido giro dell’insediamento. In tutto non c’erano più di una ventina di capanne; la metà di queste sembrava disabitata; tutte erano in rovina e in stato di decadenza. Quella che appariva più fatiscente, desolata e abbandonata veniva chiamata, con grande appropriazione, l’Ufficio Bancario e del Credito Nazionale. Aveva ancora qualche debole sostegno intorno a sé, ma stava affondando sempre di più nel fango, irrimediabilmente perduta.

Qui e là si erano fatti degli sforzi per bonificare il terreno; era stato delimitato qualcosa che assomigliava a un campo, dove, tra i ceppi e le ceneri degli alberi bruciati, cresceva una misera coltivazione di mais indiano. In alcune zone erano stati iniziati ad erigere recinzioni a forma di serpente o a zigzag, ma in nessun caso venivano completate; i tronchi tagliati, parzialmente nascosti nel terreno, marcivano lì dove giacevano. Tre o quattro miseri cani, magri e affamati; alcuni maiali dalle zampe lunghe che vagavano nella foresta in cerca di cibo; alcuni bambini, quasi nudi, che lo osservavano dalle capanne. Questi erano gli unici esseri viventi che si vedevano. Un vapore fetido, caldo e nauseabondo, simile al respiro di un forno, si levava dalla terra e avvolgeva tutto intorno; mentre le sue orme affondavano nel terreno paludoso, una sostanza nera e vischiosa iniziava a cancellarle.

La loro stessa terra non era altro che una foresta. Gli alberi erano cresciuti così fitti e intrecciati che si sovrapponevano a vicenda, impedendo loro di crescere normalmente; quelli più deboli, deformati dal peso degli altri, appassivano come invalidi. Anche gli alberi più forti venivano ostacolati nella loro crescita a causa della pressione e della mancanza di spazio. In alto, intorno ai tronchi, cresceva erba alta, piante infestanti e un sottobosco intricato; tutto era mescolato insieme senza distinzioni tra le varie specie, formando una giungla buia e profonda, priva sia di terra che d’acqua alle sue radici. Solo materia putrefatta, composta dai resti mollicci degli alberi stessi e dalla loro decomposizione.

Scese al luogo dove avevano lasciato i loro beni la sera precedente; lì trovò un paio di uomini dall’aspetto pallido e desolato, ma pronti ad aiutarlo. Lo aiutarono a portare i beni nella capanna di legno. Parlando dell’accaduto, scossero la testa senza potergli offrire alcun conforto: coloro che avevano i mezzi per andarsene se n’erano già andati; quelli rimasti avevano perso lì mogli, figli, amici o fratelli, e soffrivano molto. La maggior parte di loro era malata in quel momento; nessuno di loro era più la stessa persona di prima. Gli offrirono sinceramente il loro aiuto e i loro consigli, poi se ne andarono tristemente, ognuno per le proprie faccende.

Martin was by this time stirring; but he had greatly changed, even in one night. He was very pale and languid; he spoke of pains and weakness in his limbs, and complained that his sight was dim, and his voice feeble. Increasing in his own briskness as the prospect grew more and more dismal, Mark brought away a door from one of the deserted houses, and fitted it to their own habitation; then went back again for a rude bench he had observed, with which he presently returned in triumph; and having put this piece of furniture outside the house, arranged the notable tin pot and other such movables upon it, that it might represent a dresser or a sideboard. Greatly satisfied with this arrangement, he next rolled their cask of flour into the house and set it up on end in one corner, where it served for a side-table. No better dining-table could be required than the chest, which he solemnly devoted to that useful service thenceforth. Their blankets, clothes, and the like, he hung on pegs and nails. And lastly, he brought forth a great placard (which Martin in the exultation of his heart had prepared with his own hands at the National Hotel) bearing the inscription, CHUZZLEWIT & CO., ARCHITECTS AND SURVEYORS, which he displayed upon the most conspicuous part of the premises, with as much gravity as if the thriving city of Eden had a real existence, and they expected to be overwhelmed with business.

‘These here tools,’ said Mark, bringing forward Martin’s case of instruments and sticking the compasses upright in a stump before the door, ‘shall be set out in the open air to show that we come provided. And now, if any gentleman wants a house built, he’d better give his orders, afore we’re other ways bespoke.’

Considering the intense heat of the weather, this was not a bad morning’s work; but without pausing for a moment, though he was streaming at every pore, Mark vanished into the house again, and presently reappeared with a hatchet; intent on performing some impossibilities with that implement.

‘Here’s ugly old tree in the way, sir,’ he observed, ‘which’ll be all the better down. We can build the oven in the afternoon. There never was such a handy spot for clay as Eden is. That’s convenient, anyhow.’

But Martin gave him no answer. He had sat the whole time with his head upon his hands, gazing at the current as it rolled swiftly by; thinking, perhaps, how fast it moved towards the open sea, the high road to the home he never would behold again.

Not even the vigorous strokes which Mark dealt at the tree awoke him from his mournful meditation. Finding all his endeavours to rouse him of no use, Mark stopped in his work and came towards him.

‘Don’t give in, sir,’ said Mr Tapley.

‘Oh, Mark,’ returned his friend, ‘what have I done in all my life that has deserved this heavy fate?’

‘Why, sir,’ returned Mark, ‘for the matter of that, everybody as is here might say the same thing; many of ‘em with better reason p’raps than you or me. Hold up, sir. Do something. Couldn’t you ease your mind, now, don’t you think, by making some personal obserwations in a letter to Scadder?’

‘No,’ said Martin, shaking his head sorrowfully: ‘I am past that.’

‘But if you’re past that already,’ returned Mark, ‘you must be ill, and ought to be attended to.’

‘Don’t mind me,’ said Martin. ‘Do the best you can for yourself. You’ll soon have only yourself to consider. And then God speed you home, and forgive me for bringing you here! I am destined to die in this place. I felt it the instant I set foot upon the shore. Sleeping or waking, Mark, I dreamed it all last night.’

‘I said you must be ill,’ returned Mark, tenderly, ‘and now I’m sure of it. A touch of fever and ague caught on these rivers, I dare say; but bless you, THAT’S nothing. It’s only a seasoning, and we must all be seasoned, one way or another. That’s religion that is, you know,’ said Mark.

He only sighed and shook his head.

‘Wait half a minute,’ said Mark cheerily, ‘till I run up to one of our neighbours and ask what’s best to be took, and borrow a little of it to give you; and to-morrow you’ll find yourself as strong as ever again. I won’t be gone a minute. Don’t give in while I’m away, whatever you do!’

Throwing down his hatchet, he sped away immediately, but stopped when he had got a little distance, and looked back; then hurried on again.

‘Now, Mr Tapley,’ said Mark, giving himself a tremendous blow in the chest by way of reviver, ‘just you attend to what I’ve got to say. Things is looking about as bad as they CAN look, young man. You’ll not have such another opportunity for showing your jolly disposition, my fine fellow, as long as you live. And therefore, Tapley, Now’s your time to come out strong; or Never!’

A quell’ora, Martin era già molto attivo; ma era cambiato notevolmente, in soltanto una notte. Era molto pallido e debole; parlava di dolori e di sensazione di fragilità nelle membra, si lamentava che la vista gli fosse offuscata e che la voce gli risultasse debole. Man mano che le prospettive diventavano sempre più cupe, Mark prendeva in prestito una porta da una delle case abbandonate e la sistemava nella loro dimora; poi tornava indietro a prendere un semplice banco che aveva notato prima, e con esso tornava trionfante. Posizionando questo mobile all’esterno della casa, vi dispose sopra il grande pentolone di latta e altri oggetti simili, in modo che potesse sembrare un comò o un buffet. Molto soddisfatto di questa sistemazione, fece poi rotolare dentro la casa il loro barile di farina e lo posizionò in piedi in un angolo, utilizzandolo come tavolino da pranzo. Non si poteva desiderare un tavolo da pranzo migliore di quello; lo dedicò solennemente a tale scopo per il futuro. I loro copriletti, i vestiti e gli altri oggetti simili li appese a ganci e chiodi. Infine, tirò fuori un grande cartello (che Martin aveva preparato personalmente all’Hotel Nazionale, nell’euforia del momento) su cui era scritto: “CHUZZLEWIT & CO., ARCHITETTI E INGEGNERI”, e lo espose nel punto più visibile della struttura, con la stessa solennità come se l’affollata città di Eden esistesse davvero, e come se si aspettassero di ricevere un numero enorme di commesse.

“Questi strumenti,” disse Mark, avvicinando il cestino degli attrezzi di Martin e piantando le bussole in posizione verticale davanti alla porta, “verranno disposti all’aperto per dimostrare che siamo venuti preparati. Ora, se qualcuno desidera far costruire una casa, farebbe meglio a dare le sue istruzioni prima che ci impegniamo in altri lavori.”

Considerando il calore intenso del tempo, non si trattava di un lavoro difficile da svolgere quella mattina; ma senza fermarsi nemmeno per un momento, nonostante sudasse copiosamente, Mark rientrò nella casa e poco dopo ne uscì con un’ascia, deciso a compiere qualcosa di apparentemente impossibile con quell’attrezzo.

“Ecco questo brutto vecchio albero che ostacola il passaggio, signore,” osservò, “sarà meglio tagliarlo via. Possiamo costruire il forno nel pomeriggio. Non esiste posto più adatto per lavorare l’argilla di Eden. Comunque, è davvero conveniente.”

Ma Martin non gli rispose. Era rimasto seduto per tutto il tempo, con la testa tra le mani, a osservare il corso dell’acqua che scorreva velocemente via; forse pensava a quanto fosse rapida nel dirigersi verso il mare aperto, verso quella lunga strada che lo avrebbe portato verso la casa che non avrebbe mai più rivisto.

Nemmeno i vigorosi colpi che Mark assestò all’albero riuscirono a svegliarlo dalla sua triste meditazione. Vedendo che tutti i suoi tentativi per risvegliarlo erano vani, Mark smise di lavorare e si avvicinò a lui.

“Non arrendetevi, signore,” disse il signor Tapley.

“Oh, Mark,” rispose il suo amico, “cosa ho mai fatto nella mia vita per meritare un destino così terribile?”

“Perché, signore,” rispose Mark, “in merito a questa questione, chiunque qui potrebbe dire la stessa cosa; molti di loro, forse, con ragioni migliori delle vostre o delle mie. Aspettate un attimo, signore. Non potreste, almeno ora, tranquillizzarvi facendo alcune osservazioni personali in una lettera a Scadder?”

“No,” disse Martin, scuotendo la testa con tristezza: “Ormai sono oltre quel punto.”

“Ma se ormai sei oltre quel punto,” rispose Mark, “devi essere malato e dovresti farti curare.”

“Non badare a me,” disse Martin. “Fai del tuo meglio per te stesso. Presto dovrai pensare solo a te stesso. E poi Dio ti aiuti ad tornare a casa. Perdonami per averti portato qui! Sono destinato a morire in questo posto. L’ho sentito non appena ho messo piede sulla riva. Sia che dormissi che che fossi sveglio, Mark, l’ho sognato tutta la scorsa notte.”

“Ho detto che dovevi essere malato,” rispose Mark con tenerezza, “e ora ne sono sicuro. Probabilmente hai preso un po’ di febbre e brividi lungo questi fiumi. Ma, per l’amor del cielo, non è niente di grave. È solo una sorta di ‘condimento’ necessario nella vita; tutti noi, in un modo o nell’altro, dobbiamo subirlo. Questa è la vera essenza della religione, sai,” disse Mark.

Si limitò a sospirare e scuotere la testa.

“Aspetta un attimo,” disse Mark allegramente, “vado subito da uno dei nostri vicini a chiedere cosa sia meglio prendere, e poi ne prenderò un po’ per dartelo; domani sarai di nuovo forte come prima. Non arrenderti mentre non ci sono, per nulla al mondo!”

Gettando via il suo machete, se ne andò immediatamente, ma si fermò dopo aver percorso un po’ di strada e si girò indietro; poi riprese ad andare velocemente.

“Ora, signor Tapley,” disse Mark, dandosi un forte pugno sul petto per rinvigorirsi, “ascolti attentamente quello che ho da dire. Le cose stanno andando proprio male come possono andare, giovane uomo. Non avrai mai più un’altra opportunità per dimostrare il tuo ottimo umore, mio caro amico. Quindi, Tapley: ora è il tuo momento di mostrare coraggio. Altrimenti, mai più!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

REPORTS PROGRESS IN CERTAIN HOMELY MATTERS OF LOVE, HATRED, JEALOUSY, AND REVENGE

‘Hallo, Pecksniff!’ cried Mr Jonas from the parlour. ‘Isn’t somebody a-going to open that precious old door of yours?’

‘Immediately, Mr Jonas. Immediately.’

‘Ecod,’ muttered the orphan, ‘not before it’s time neither. Whoever it is, has knocked three times, and each one loud enough to wake the—’ he had such a repugnance to the idea of waking the Dead, that he stopped even then with the words upon his tongue, and said, instead, ‘the Seven Sleepers.’

‘Immediately, Mr Jonas; immediately,’ repeated Pecksniff. ‘Thomas Pinch’—he couldn’t make up his mind, in his great agitation, whether to call Tom his dear friend or a villain, so he shook his fist at him PRO TEM—‘go up to my daughters’ room, and tell them who is here. Say, Silence. Silence! Do you hear me, sir?

‘Directly, sir!’ cried Tom, departing, in a state of much amazement, on his errand.

‘You’ll—ha, ha, ha!—you’ll excuse me, Mr Jonas, if I close this door a moment, will you?’ said Pecksniff. ‘This may be a professional call. Indeed I am pretty sure it is. Thank you.’ Then Mr Pecksniff, gently warbling a rustic stave, put on his garden hat, seized a spade, and opened the street door; calmly appearing on the threshold, as if he thought he had, from his vineyard, heard a modest rap, but was not quite certain.

Seeing a gentleman and lady before him, he started back in as much confusion as a good man with a crystal conscience might betray in mere surprise. Recognition came upon him the next moment, and he cried:

‘Mr Chuzzlewit! Can I believe my eyes! My dear sir; my good sir! A joyful hour, a happy hour indeed. Pray, my dear sir, walk in. You find me in my garden-dress. You will excuse it, I know. It is an ancient pursuit, gardening. Primitive, my dear sir. Or, if I am not mistaken, Adam was the first of our calling. MY Eve, I grieve to say is no more, sir; but’—here he pointed to his spade, and shook his head as if he were not cheerful without an effort—‘but I do a little bit of Adam still.’

He had by this time got them into the best parlour, where the portrait by Spiller, and the bust by Spoker, were.

‘My daughters,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘will be overjoyed. If I could feel weary upon such a theme, I should have been worn out long ago, my dear sir, by their constant anticipation of this happiness and their repeated allusions to our meeting at Mrs Todgers’s. Their fair young friend, too,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘whom they so desire to know and love—indeed to know her, is to love—I hope I see her well. I hope in saying, “Welcome to my humble roof!” I find some echo in her own sentiments. If features are an index to the heart, I have no fears of that. An extremely engaging expression of countenance, Mr Chuzzlewit, my dear sir—very much so!’

‘Mary,’ said the old man, ‘Mr Pecksniff flatters you. But flattery from him is worth the having. He is not a dealer in it, and it comes from his heart. We thought Mr—’

‘Pinch,’ said Mary.

‘Mr Pinch would have arrived before us, Pecksniff.’

‘He did arrive before you, my dear sir,’ retorted Pecksniff, raising his voice for the edification of Tom upon the stairs, ‘and was about, I dare say, to tell me of your coming, when I begged him first to knock at my daughters’ chamber, and inquire after Charity, my dear child, who is not so well as I could wish. No,’ said Mr Pecksniff, answering their looks, ‘I am sorry to say, she is not. It is merely an hysterical affection; nothing more, I am not uneasy. Mr Pinch! Thomas!’ exclaimed Pecksniff, in his kindest accents. ‘Pray come in. I shall make no stranger of you. Thomas is a friend of mine, of rather long-standing, Mr Chuzzlewit, you must know.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Tom. ‘You introduce me very kindly, and speak of me in terms of which I am very proud.’

‘Old Thomas!’ cried his master, pleasantly ‘God bless you!’

Tom reported that the young ladies would appear directly, and that the best refreshments which the house afforded were even then in preparation, under their joint superintendence. While he was speaking, the old man looked at him intently, though with less harshness than was common to him; nor did the mutual embarrassment of Tom and the young lady, to whatever cause he attributed it, seem to escape his observation.

‘Pecksniff,’ he said after a pause, rising and taking him aside towards the window, ‘I was much shocked on hearing of my brother’s death. We had been strangers for many years. My only comfort is that he must have lived the happier and better man for having associated no hopes or schemes with me. Peace to his memory! We were play-fellows once; and it would have been better for us both if we had died then.’

Finding him in this gentle mood, Mr Pecksniff began to see another way out of his difficulties, besides the casting overboard of Jonas.

‘That any man, my dear sir, could possibly be the happier for not knowing you,’ he returned, ‘you will excuse my doubting. But that Mr Anthony, in the evening of his life, was happier in the affection of his excellent son—a pattern, my dear sir, a pattern to all sons—and in the care of a distant relation who, however lowly in his means of serving him, had no bounds to his inclination; I can inform you.’

‘How’s this?’ said the old man. ‘You are not a legatee?’

‘You don’t,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a melancholy pressure of his hand, ‘quite understand my nature yet, I find. No, sir, I am not a legatee. I am proud to say I am not a legatee. I am proud to say that neither of my children is a legatee. And yet, sir, I was with him at his own request. HE understood me somewhat better, sir. He wrote and said, “I am sick. I am sinking. Come to me!” I went to him. I sat beside his bed, sir, and I stood beside his grave. Yes, at the risk of offending even you, I did it, sir. Though the avowal should lead to our instant separation, and to the severing of those tender ties between us which have recently been formed, I make it. But I am not a legatee,’ said Mr Pecksniff, smiling dispassionately; ‘and I never expected to be a legatee. I knew better!’

CAPITOLO VENTIQUATTRO

Rapporti sui progressi in alcune questioni legate alla amore, all’odio, alla invidia e alla vendetta.

“Salve, Pecksniff!” gridò il signor Jonas dal salotto. “Non c’è nessuno che intenda aprire quella tua preziosa vecchia porta?”

“Immediatamente, signor Jonas. Immediatamente.”

“Ecod, ”, mormorò l’orfano, “non prima che sia arrivato il momento giusto. Chiunque sia, ha bussato tre volte, e ogni colpo è stato abbastanza forte da svegliare i, ” Provava un tale disgusto all’idea di svegliare i Morti, che si fermò subito, senza completare la frase, e disse invece: “I Sette Dormienti.”

“Subito, signor Jonas; immediatamente,” ripeté Pecksniff. “Thomas Pinch”, nella sua grande agitazione, non riusciva a decidere se chiamarlo suo caro amico o un malvagio; così gli fece un gesto minaccioso con il pugno: “Vai nella stanza delle mie figlie e digli chi è qui. Dì loro di stare in silenzio! Mi hai sentito, signore?”

“Subito, signore!” gridò Tom, allontanandosi in uno stato di grande meraviglia per andare ad eseguire il suo compito.

“Lei, ahahah, mi scuserà, signor Jonas, se chiudo questa porta per un momento, va bene?” disse Pecksniff. “Potrebbe trattarsi di una chiamata professionale. Anzi, ne sono abbastanza sicuro. Grazie.” Poi il signor Pecksniff, canticchiando dolcemente una melodia rustica, si mise il suo cappello da giardiniere, prese una zappa e aprì la porta d’ingresso; apparve sul portale con calma, come se avesse sentito un leggero bussare provenire dal suo vigneto, ma non ne era del tutto certo.

Vedendo davanti a sé un gentiluomo e una signora, indietreggiò, nel più totale sconcerto, proprio come potrebbe fare un uomo onesto e con una coscienza limpida di fronte a una semplice sorpresa. Un attimo dopo riconobbe loro e gridò:

“Signor Chuzzlewit! Posso credere ai miei occhi? Mio caro signore. Che momento gioioso, davvero felice! Per favore, entri pure. La trovo in questo abito da giardiniera. Capirà, ne sono consapevole. È un’antica passione. Il giardinaggio. Primitivo, direi. O forse, se non mi sbaglio, Adamo fu il primo ad intraprendere questa attività. Purtroppo, mia cara Eva, non c’è più, signore; ma, ” – indicò la sua pala e scosse la testa, come se senza quel lavoro non si sentisse felice – “tuttavia, continuo ancora un po’, in questo spirito di Adamo.”

A quel momento, li aveva già fatti entrare nella migliore sala, dove si trovavano il ritratto di Spiller e il busto di Spoker.

“Le mie figlie,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “saranno estremamente felici. Se solo provassi stanchezza riguardo a questo argomento, ormai sarei completamente esaurito, mio caro signore, a causa delle loro continue aspettative di questa gioia e delle loro ripetute allusioni al nostro incontro da parte della signora Todgers. Anche la loro cara giovane amica,” aggiunse il signor Pecksniff, “che desiderano tanto conoscere e, amare, beh, conoscerla significa proprio amarla. Spero che stia bene. Quando dico ‘Benvenuta sotto il mio umile tetto!’, credo di risuonare nei suoi sentimenti. Se i tratti del viso riflettono davvero l’animo di una persona, non ho alcuna preoccupazione al riguardo. Un’espressione estremamente affascinante, signor Chuzzlewit, davvero molto attraente!”

“Mary,” disse l’uomo anziano, “il signor Pecksniff ti lusinga. Ma le lusinghe da parte sua valgono la pena di essere accettate. Lui non è un professionista in questo campo; vengono dal suo cuore. Pensavamo che il signor, ”

“Pizzicami,” disse Mary.

“Il signor Pinch sarebbe arrivato prima di noi, Pecksniff.”

“È arrivato prima di voi, mio caro signore,” ribatté Pecksniff, alzando la voce affinché Tom potesse sentire sulle scale, “e stava per dirmi della sua venuta, quando gli chiesi prima di bussare nella stanza delle mie figlie e di informarsi su Charity, mia cara figlia, che non sta affatto bene come vorrei. No,” disse Pecksniff, rispondendo ai loro sguardi, “mi dispiace dirlo, ma non sta bene. Si tratta soltanto di un disturbo isterico; nient’altro, non sono preoccupato. Signor Pinch! Thomas!” esclamò Pecksniff con tono molto gentile. “Per favore, entrate. Non vi considererò degli estranei. Thomas è un mio amico, di vecchia data. Signor Chuzzlewit, dovete saperlo.”

“Grazie, signore,” disse Tom. “Mi ha presentato con grande gentilezza e ha parlato di me in termini di cui sono molto orgoglioso.”

“Vecchio Thomas!”, esclamò il suo padrone con piacere, “Dio ti benedica!”

Tom riferì che le giovani signore sarebbero arrivate subito, e che i migliori rinfreschi disponibili nella casa erano già in preparazione, sotto la loro supervisione congiunta. Mentre parlava, l’uomo anziano lo osservava attentamente, sebbene con meno durezza del solito; inoltre, l’imbarazzo reciproco di Tom e della giovane signora, per qualsiasi motivo fosse, non sembrava sfuggirgli.

“Pecksniff,” disse dopo una pausa, alzandosi e portandolo da parte vicino alla finestra, “Sono rimasto molto scioccato apprendendo della morte di mio fratello. Eravamo estranei da molti anni. L’unica consolazione è che deve aver vissuto una vita più felice e migliore, non essendo mai stato coinvolto in alcuna mia speranza o piano. Pace alla sua memoria! Un tempo eravamo compagni di giochi. Sarebbe stato meglio per entrambi se fossimo morti allora.”

Vedendolo in questo umore gentile, il signor Pecksniff iniziò a considerare un altro modo per uscire dalle sue difficoltà, diverso dal gettare via Jonas.

“Che un uomo, mio caro signore, possa essere più felice per non conoscervi. Vi scuserete se dubito. Ma che il signor Anthony, nella tarda età della sua vita, fosse più felice nell’affetto di suo figlio eccellente – un esempio, mio caro signore, un modello per tutti i figli – e nella cura di un lontano parente che, per quanto modesti fossero i mezzi a disposizione di quest’ultimo per servirlo, non conosceva limiti nel suo affetto. Posso dirvelo.”

“Che ne dici di questo?” disse l’uomo anziano. “Non sei un erede, vero?”

“Non capite ancora del tutto la mia natura, temo,” disse il signor Pecksniff, appoggiando tristemente la mano su quella dell’interlocutore. “No, signore: non sono un erede. Sono orgoglioso di dirlo. Nessuno dei miei figli è un erede. Eppure, signore, ero con lui su sua stessa richiesta. Lui mi capì un po’ meglio. Scrisse: ‘Sono malato. Sto per morire. Vieni da me!’ Andai da lui. Rimasi seduto accanto al suo letto. E poi anche accanto alla sua tomba. Sì, anche a rischio di offendervi, lo feci. Anche se questo avrebbe significato la nostra immediata separazione, e la rottura di quei legami teneri che si erano appena creati tra noi. Ma non sono un erede,” disse il signor Pecksniff, sorridendo con distacco. “E non mi aspettavo mai di esserlo. Lo sapevo bene!”

‘His son a pattern!’ cried old Martin. ‘How can you tell me that? My brother had in his wealth the usual doom of wealth, and root of misery. He carried his corrupting influence with him, go where he would; and shed it round him, even on his hearth. It made of his own child a greedy expectant, who measured every day and hour the lessening distance between his father and the grave, and cursed his tardy progress on that dismal road.’

‘No!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, boldly. ‘Not at all, sir!’

‘But I saw that shadow in his house,’ said Martin Chuzzlewit, ‘the last time we met, and warned him of its presence. I know it when I see it, do I not? I, who have lived within it all these years!’

‘I deny it,’ Mr Pecksniff answered, warmly. ‘I deny it altogether. That bereaved young man is now in this house, sir, seeking in change of scene the peace of mind he has lost. Shall I be backward in doing justice to that young man, when even undertakers and coffin-makers have been moved by the conduct he has exhibited; when even mutes have spoken in his praise, and the medical man hasn’t known what to do with himself in the excitement of his feelings! There is a person of the name of Gamp, sir—Mrs Gamp—ask her. She saw Mr Jonas in a trying time. Ask HER, sir. She is respectable, but not sentimental, and will state the fact. A line addressed to Mrs Gamp, at the Bird Shop, Kingsgate Street, High Holborn, London, will meet with every attention, I have no doubt. Let her be examined, my good sir. Strike, but hear! Leap, Mr Chuzzlewit, but look! Forgive me, my dear sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, taking both his hands, ‘if I am warm; but I am honest, and must state the truth.’

In proof of the character he gave himself, Mr Pecksniff suffered tears of honesty to ooze out of his eyes.

The old man gazed at him for a moment with a look of wonder, repeating to himself, ‘Here now! In this house!’ But he mastered his surprise, and said, after a pause:

‘Let me see him.’

‘In a friendly spirit, I hope?’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Forgive me, sir but he is in the receipt of my humble hospitality.’

‘I said,’ replied the old man, ‘let me see him. If I were disposed to regard him in any other than a friendly spirit, I should have said keep us apart.’

‘Certainly, my dear sir. So you would. You are frankness itself, I know. I will break this happiness to him,’ said Mr Pecksniff, as he left the room, ‘if you will excuse me for a minute—gently.’

He paved the way to the disclosure so very gently, that a quarter of an hour elapsed before he returned with Mr Jonas. In the meantime the young ladies had made their appearance, and the table had been set out for the refreshment of the travellers.

Now, however well Mr Pecksniff, in his morality, had taught Jonas the lesson of dutiful behaviour to his uncle, and however perfectly Jonas, in the cunning of his nature, had learnt it, that young man’s bearing, when presented to his father’s brother, was anything but manly or engaging. Perhaps, indeed, so singular a mixture of defiance and obsequiousness, of fear and hardihood, of dogged sullenness and an attempt at enraging and propitiation, never was expressed in any one human figure as in that of Jonas, when, having raised his downcast eyes to Martin’s face, he let them fall again, and uneasily closing and unclosing his hands without a moment’s intermission, stood swinging himself from side to side, waiting to be addressed.

‘Nephew,’ said the old man. ‘You have been a dutiful son, I hear.’

‘As dutiful as sons in general, I suppose,’ returned Jonas, looking up and down once more. ‘I don’t brag to have been any better than other sons; but I haven’t been any worse, I dare say.’

‘A pattern to all sons, I am told,’ said the old man, glancing towards Mr Pecksniff.

‘Ecod!’ said Jonas, looking up again for a moment, and shaking his head, ‘I’ve been as good a son as ever you were a brother. It’s the pot and the kettle, if you come to that.’

‘You speak bitterly, in the violence of your regret,’ said Martin, after a pause. ‘Give me your hand.’

Jonas did so, and was almost at his ease. ‘Pecksniff,’ he whispered, as they drew their chairs about the table; ‘I gave him as good as he brought, eh? He had better look at home, before he looks out of window, I think?’

Mr Pecksniff only answered by a nudge of the elbow, which might either be construed into an indignant remonstrance or a cordial assent; but which, in any case, was an emphatic admonition to his chosen son-in-law to be silent. He then proceeded to do the honours of the house with his accustomed ease and amiability.

But not even Mr Pecksniff’s guileless merriment could set such a party at their ease, or reconcile materials so utterly discordant and conflicting as those with which he had to deal. The unspeakable jealously and hatred which that night’s explanation had sown in Charity’s breast, was not to be so easily kept down; and more than once it showed itself in such intensity, as seemed to render a full disclosure of all the circumstances then and there, impossible to be avoided. The beauteous Merry, too, with all the glory of her conquest fresh upon her, so probed and lanced the rankling disappointment of her sister by her capricious airs and thousand little trials of Mr Jonas’s obedience, that she almost goaded her into a fit of madness, and obliged her to retire from table in a burst of passion, hardly less vehement than that to which she had abandoned herself in the first tumult of her wrath. The constraint imposed upon the family by the presence among them for the first time of Mary Graham (for by that name old Martin Chuzzlewit had introduced her) did not at all improve this state of things; gentle and quiet though her manner was. Mr Pecksniff’s situation was peculiarly trying; for, what with having constantly to keep the peace between his daughters; to maintain a reasonable show of affection and unity in his household; to curb the growing ease and gaiety of Jonas, which vented itself in sundry insolences towards Mr Pinch, and an indefinable coarseness of manner in reference to Mary (they being the two dependants); to make no mention at all of his having perpetually to conciliate his rich old relative, and to smooth down, or explain away, some of the ten thousand bad appearances and combinations of bad appearances, by which they were surrounded on that unlucky evening—what with having to do this, and it would be difficult to sum up how much more, without the least relief or assistance from anybody, it may be easily imagined that Mr Pecksniff had in his enjoyment something more than that usual portion of alloy which is mixed up with the best of men’s delights. Perhaps he had never in his life felt such relief as when old Martin, looking at his watch, announced that it was time to go.

“Mio figlio è davvero un esempio negativo!” gridò il vecchio Martin. “Come puoi dire una cosa del genere? Mio fratello, con la sua ricchezza, ha subito quella stessa sorte che spesso colpisce chi possiede molto: la fonte della sofferenza. Ha portato con sé quell’influenza corrottrice ovunque sia andato, diffondendola intorno a sé, persino nella sua stessa casa. Questo ha reso suo figlio un giovane avido e ansioso, che ogni giorno contava i giorni che mancavano alla morte di suo padre, maledicendo il lento avanzare di quest’ultimo su quella tragica strada.”

“Mai!” esclamò il signor Pecksniff con decisione. “Assolutamente no, signore!”

“Ma ho visto quella ombra nella sua casa”, disse Martin Chuzzlewit, “l’ultima volta che ci siamo visti, e gli ho avvertito della sua presenza. La riconosco subito, non è vero? Io, che ci ho vissuto dentro per tutti questi anni, ”

“Lo nego,” rispose calorosamente il signor Pecksniff. “Lo nego assolutamente. Quel giovane in lutto si trova ora in questa casa, signore: cerca, cambiando ambiente, la pace interiore che gli è stata tolta. Come potrei mancare di fare giustizia a quel ragazzo, quando persino i becchini e i falegnami sono stati commossi dal suo comportamento; quando anche i muti hanno parlato in suo favore, e il medico non sapeva come gestire la propria emozione di fronte alle sue azioni! C’è una persona di nome Gamp, signore, la signora Gamp: chiedetela. Lei ha visto il signor Jonas in un momento difficile. Chiedetela, signore. È rispettabile, ma non sentimentale, e dirà la verità. Una lettera indirizzata alla signora Gamp, presso il negozio di uccelli in Kingsgate Street, High Holborn, Londra, riceverà sicuramente ogni attenzione. Non ne ho alcun dubbio. Lasciate che venga interrogata, mio buon signore. Colpite pure, ma ascoltate! Saltate pure, signor Chuzzlewit, ma guardate prima! Perdonatemi, mio caro signore,” disse il signor Pecksniff, prendendogli entrambe le mani, “se sono troppo appassionato. Ma sono onesto, e devo dire la verità.”

A dimostrazione del carattere che si era imposto, il signor Pecksniff versò lacrime di onestà che gli sgorgavano dagli occhi.

L’uomo anziano lo fissò per un momento con uno sguardo di stupore, ripetendosi tra sé: “Eccolo qui! In questa casa!” Ma riuscì a controllare la propria sorpresa e, dopo una pausa, disse:

“Lasciami vederlo.”

“Con spirito amichevole, io spero, ”, disse il signor Pecksniff. “Perdonatemi, signore, ma lui sta godendo della mia umile ospitalità.”

“Ho detto,” rispose l’uomo anziano, “lasciate che lo veda. Se avessi intenzione di trattarlo in modo diverso da amichevole, avrei detto di tenerci separati.”

“Certamente, mio caro signore. Voi lo vorreste davvero. So che siete la franchezza stessa. Dirò questa cosa a lui,” disse il signor Pecksniff uscendo dalla stanza, “se mi volete scusare per un momento, con delicatezza.”

Aprì la strada alla rivelazione in modo così delicato che trascorse un quarto d’ora prima che tornasse con il signor Jonas. Nel frattempo, le giovani signore erano già arrivate e la tavola era stata preparata per il rinfresco dei viaggiatori.

Tuttavia, per quanto bene il signor Pecksniff avesse insegnato a Jonas la lezione del comportamento dovuto verso suo zio, e per quanto perfettamente Jonas l’avesse imparata, grazie alla astuzia della sua natura, l’atteggiamento di quel giovane, quando si trovò di fronte al fratello di suo padre, era tutt’altro che virile o affascinante. Forse, davvero, una tale miscela di sfida e ossequiosità, di paura e coraggio, di ostinata malinconia e tentativi sia di provocare che di placare, non si era mai manifestata in nessuna persona come in Jonas: quando sollevò lo sguardo verso il viso di Martin, poi lo abbassò di nuovo, stringendo e aprendo le mani con nervosismo senza sosta, rimase lì a dondolarsi da una parte all’altra, in attesa che qualcuno gli parlasse.

“Nipote,” disse l’uomo anziano. “Ho sentito dire che sei stato un figlio devoto.”

“Suppongo di essere stato altrettanto diligente quanto la maggior parte dei figli,” rispose Jonas, guardandosi intorno ancora una volta. “Non mi vanto di essere stato migliore degli altri figli; ma non credo di essere stato nemmeno peggiore.”

“Un esempio per tutti i figli, mi dicono,” disse l’uomo anziano, guardando verso il signor Pecksniff.

“Ecod!”, disse Jonas, alzando lo sguardo per un momento e scuotendo la testa. “Sono stato un figlio altrettanto buono di quanto tu sia mai stato un fratello. È proprio come dire ‘la pentola e il calderone’, ”

“Parli con amarezza, nella violenza del tuo rimpianto,” disse Martin, dopo una pausa. “Dammi la tua mano.”

Jonas fece così e si sentì quasi a suo agio. “Pecksniff,” sussurrò mentre sistemavano le sedie intorno al tavolo, “gli ho dato esattamente ciò che lui mi aveva dato, eh? Penso che farebbe meglio a guardare dentro casa prima di guardare fuori dalla finestra, no?”

Il signor Pecksniff rispose soltanto spingendo il gomito del suo interlocutore, un gesto che poteva essere interpretato sia come una protesta indignata che come un assenso cordiale; in ogni caso, rappresentava comunque un chiaro invito a mantenere il silenzio da parte di quel genero scelto. Poi continuò ad occuparsi delle faccende della casa con la sua solita disinvoltura e affabilità.

Ma nemmeno la ingenua allegria di Mr Pecksniff riusciva a rendere quella compagnia più serena, né a conciliare elementi così totalmente discordanti e contrastanti tra loro come quelli con cui doveva fare i conti. L’inimmaginabile gelosia e odio che quella spiegazione della notte aveva seminato nel cuore di Charity non erano così facilmente reprimibili; più di una volta si manifestavano con tale intensità da rendere impossibile evitare una piena rivelazione di tutte le circostanze in quel momento. Anche la bella Merry, con tutta la gloria della sua vittoria ancora fresca nella mente, con i suoi modi capricciosi e mille piccole provocazioni nei confronti dell’obbedienza di Mr Jonas, quasi spingeva sua sorella verso una crisi di follezza, costringendola ad allontanarsi dal tavolo in un impeto di passione non meno violento di quello con cui aveva esploduto la sua rabbia iniziale. La presenza, per la prima volta nella famiglia, di Mary Graham (così l’aveva presentata il vecchio Martin Chuzzlewit) non migliorava affatto la situazione; nonostante il suo comportamento fosse gentile e tranquillo. La posizione di Mr Pecksniff era particolarmente difficile: doveva mantenere la pace tra le sue figlie, mostrare un certo affetto e unità in famiglia, contenere l’aggressività crescente di Jonas, che si sfogava in varie insolenze verso Mr Pinch e in comportamenti grossolani nei confronti di Mary (essendo loro i due dipendenti della famiglia); doveva anche evitare di menzionare il fatto che doveva costantemente mediare tra il suo ricco parente anziano e risolvere o giustificare le mille situazioni imbarazzanti in cui si trovavano quella sfortunata sera. Con tutto questo, e molto altro ancora, senza alcun aiuto da parte di nessuno, è facile immaginare quanto fosse difficile per Mr Pecksniff godersi i momenti felici della sua vita. Forse non aveva mai provato un sollievo simile quando il vecchio Martin, guardando l’orologio, annunciò che era ora di andarsene.

‘We have rooms,’ he said, ‘at the Dragon, for the present. I have a fancy for the evening walk. The nights are dark just now; perhaps Mr Pinch would not object to light us home?’

‘My dear sir!’ cried Pecksniff, ‘I shall be delighted. Merry, my child, the lantern.’

‘The lantern, if you please, my dear,’ said Martin; ‘but I couldn’t think of taking your father out of doors to-night; and, to be brief, I won’t.’

Mr Pecksniff already had his hat in his hand, but it was so emphatically said that he paused.

‘I take Mr Pinch, or go alone,’ said Martin. ‘Which shall it be?’

‘It shall be Thomas, sir,’ cried Pecksniff, ‘since you are so resolute upon it. Thomas, my friend, be very careful, if you please.’

Tom was in some need of this injunction, for he felt so nervous, and trembled to such a degree, that he found it difficult to hold the lantern. How much more difficult when, at the old man’s bidding she drew her hand through his—Tom Pinch’s—arm!

‘And so, Mr Pinch,’ said Martin, on the way, ‘you are very comfortably situated here; are you?’

Tom answered, with even more than his usual enthusiasm, that he was under obligations to Mr Pecksniff which the devotion of a lifetime would but imperfectly repay.

‘How long have you known my nephew?’ asked Martin.

‘Your nephew, sir?’ faltered Tom.

‘Mr Jonas Chuzzlewit,’ said Mary.

‘Oh dear, yes,’ cried Tom, greatly relieved, for his mind was running upon Martin. ‘Certainly. I never spoke to him before to-night, sir!’

‘Perhaps half a lifetime will suffice for the acknowledgment of HIS kindness,’ observed the old man.

Tom felt that this was a rebuff for him, and could not but understand it as a left-handed hit at his employer. So he was silent. Mary felt that Mr Pinch was not remarkable for presence of mind, and that he could not say too little under existing circumstances. So SHE was silent. The old man, disgusted by what in his suspicious nature he considered a shameless and fulsome puff of Mr Pecksniff, which was a part of Tom’s hired service and in which he was determined to persevere, set him down at once for a deceitful, servile, miserable fawner. So HE was silent. And though they were all sufficiently uncomfortable, it is fair to say that Martin was perhaps the most so; for he had felt kindly towards Tom at first, and had been interested by his seeming simplicity.

‘You’re like the rest,’ he thought, glancing at the face of the unconscious Tom. ‘You had nearly imposed upon me, but you have lost your labour. You are too zealous a toad-eater, and betray yourself, Mr Pinch.’

During the whole remainder of the walk, not another word was spoken. First among the meetings to which Tom had long looked forward with a beating heart, it was memorable for nothing but embarrassment and confusion. They parted at the Dragon door; and sighing as he extinguished the candle in the lantern, Tom turned back again over the gloomy fields.

As he approached the first stile, which was in a lonely part, made very dark by a plantation of young firs, a man slipped past him and went on before. Coming to the stile he stopped, and took his seat upon it. Tom was rather startled, and for a moment stood still, but he stepped forward again immediately, and went close up to him.

It was Jonas; swinging his legs to and fro, sucking the head of a stick, and looking with a sneer at Tom.

‘Good gracious me!’ cried Tom, ‘who would have thought of its being you! You followed us, then?’

‘What’s that to you?’ said Jonas. ‘Go to the devil!’

‘You are not very civil, I think,’ remarked Tom.

‘Civil enough for YOU,’ retorted Jonas. ‘Who are you?’

‘One who has as good a right to common consideration as another,’ said Tom mildly.

‘You’re a liar,’ said Jonas. ‘You haven’t a right to any consideration. You haven’t a right to anything. You’re a pretty sort of fellow to talk about your rights, upon my soul! Ha, ha!—Rights, too!’

‘If you proceed in this way,’ returned Tom, reddening, ‘you will oblige me to talk about my wrongs. But I hope your joke is over.’

‘It’s the way with you curs,’ said Mr Jonas, ‘that when you know a man’s in real earnest, you pretend to think he’s joking, so that you may turn it off. But that won’t do with me. It’s too stale. Now just attend to me for a bit, Mr Pitch, or Witch, or Stitch, or whatever your name is.’

‘My name is Pinch,’ observed Tom. ‘Have the goodness to call me by it.’

‘What! You mustn’t even be called out of your name, mustn’t you!’ cried Jonas. ‘Pauper’ prentices are looking up, I think. Ecod, we manage ‘em a little better in the city!’

‘Never mind what you do in the city,’ said Tom. ‘What have you got to say to me?’

‘Just this, Mister Pinch,’ retorted Jonas, thrusting his face so close to Tom’s that Tom was obliged to retreat a step. ‘I advise you to keep your own counsel, and to avoid title-tattle, and not to cut in where you’re not wanted. I’ve heard something of you, my friend, and your meek ways; and I recommend you to forget ‘em till I am married to one of Pecksniff’s gals, and not to curry favour among my relations, but to leave the course clear. You know, when curs won’t leave the course clear, they’re whipped off; so this is kind advice. Do you understand? Eh? Damme, who are you,’ cried Jonas, with increased contempt, ‘that you should walk home with THEM, unless it was behind ‘em, like any other servant out of livery?’

‘Come!’ cried Tom, ‘I see that you had better get off the stile, and let me pursue my way home. Make room for me, if you please.’

‘Don’t think it!’ said Jonas, spreading out his legs. ‘Not till I choose. And I don’t choose now. What! You’re afraid of my making you split upon some of your babbling just now, are you, Sneak?’

‘I am not afraid of many things, I hope,’ said Tom; ‘and certainly not of anything that you will do. I am not a tale-bearer, and I despise all meanness. You quite mistake me. Ah!’ cried Tom, indignantly. ‘Is this manly from one in your position to one in mine? Please to make room for me to pass. The less I say, the better.’

“Abbiamo delle stanze,” disse, “al Dragon, per il momento. Mi piace fare una passeggiata al tramonto. Le notti sono ancora buie in questo periodo; forse il signor Pinch non avrebbe obiezioni ad accompagnarci a casa?”

“Mio caro signore!”, esclamò Pecksniff, “sarò molto felice. Felice, mio bambino, la lanterna, ”

“La lanterna, per favore, mia cara,” disse Martin; “ma non mi è venuto in mente di portare tuo padre fuori casa a-notte; e, per essere breve, non lo farò.”

Il signor Pecksniff aveva già il cappello in mano, ma poiché quelle parole furono dette con tale enfasi, si fermò.

“Prenderò il signor Pinch, oppure andrò da solo”, disse Martin. “Qual delle due opzioni sceglierò?”

“Sarà Thomas, signore,” gridò Pecksniff, “poiché siete così deciso al riguardo. Thomas, mio caro amico, fate molta attenzione, per favore.”

A Tom serviva davvero questo ordine, perché si sentiva così nervoso e tremava così tanto che gli risultava difficile tenere la lanterna. E quanto ancora più difficile quando, su ordine dell’uomo anziano, lei mise la sua mano nel braccio di Tom Pinch!

“E così, signor Pinch,” disse Martin durante il viaggio, “vi trovate in una posizione molto comoda, vero?”

Tom rispose, con ancora più entusiasmo del solito, che era in debito con il signor Pecksniff e che nemmeno un’intera vita di dedizione sarebbe stata sufficiente per ripagarlo appieno.

“Da quanto tempo conosci mio nipote?” chiese Martin.

“Vostro nipote, signore?” balbettò Tom.

“Signor Jonas Chuzzlewit”, disse Mary.

“Oddio, sì,” esclamò Tom, molto sollevato, perché aveva subito pensato a Martin. “Certo. Non ho mai parlato con lui prima di stasera, signore!”

“Forse mezza vita sarà sufficiente per riconoscere la SUA gentilezza,” osservò l’uomo anziano.

Tom sentì che questo fosse un rifiuto nei suoi confronti e non poté fare a meno di considerarlo un attacco indiretto contro il suo datore di lavoro. Così rimase in silenzio. Mary pensò che il signor Pinch non fosse particolarmente dotato di prontezza di spirito, e che quindi fosse meglio per lui dire il meno possibile nelle circostanze attuali. Quindi anche lei rimase in silenzio. L’anziano, disgustato da ciò che, nella sua natura sospettosa, considerava un comportamento vergognoso e insincero da parte del signor Pecksniff – un aspetto delle mansioni retribuite di Tom nel quale era deciso a perseverare – lo definì immediatamente un individuo ingannevole, servile e meschino. Anche lui rimase in silenzio. E sebbene tutti fossero piuttosto a disagio, è lecito dire che Martin fosse probabilmente il più turbato di tutti; infatti, all’inizio aveva provato simpatia per Tom e gli era sembrata sincera la sua apparente semplicità.

“Sei come gli altri,” pensò, guardando il viso di Tom privo di sensi. “Avresti quasi riuscito a costringermi, ma hai perso inutilmente i tuoi sforzi. Sei troppo zelante nel tuo compito, signor Pinch. E così ti tradisci da solo.”

Per tutto il resto del cammino, non fu detta nemmeno una parola. Tra tutte le riunioni che Tom aveva da tempo atteso con ansia, quella rimase ricordata soltanto per imbarazzo e confusione. Si separarono alla Porta del Drago; e mentre spegneva la candela nella lanterna, Tom si voltò di nuovo e riprese il cammino attraverso i campi bui.

Mentre si avvicinava al primo cancello, che si trovava in una zona desolata e molto oscura a causa di un boschetto di giovani abeti, un uomo gli passò accanto e proseguì oltre. Arrivato al cancello, l’uomo si fermò e vi si sedette sopra. Tom rimase piuttosto sorpreso e per un momento rimase fermo, ma subito dopo si avvicinò di nuovo a lui.

Era Jonas: dondolava le gambe avanti e indietro, succhiando l’estremità di un bastone e guardando Tom con disprezzo.

“Mio Dio!” esclamò Tom, “chi avrebbe mai pensato che fossi tu! Quindi ci hai seguiti, ”

“Che te ne importa?” disse Jonas. “Vai all’inferno!”

“Non sei molto cortese, penso,” osservò Tom.

“Abbastanza civile per te, forse. Ma chi sei tu?” ribatté Jonas.

“Chi ha lo stesso diritto all’attenzione degli altri”, disse Tom con dolcezza.

“Sei un bugiardo,” disse Jonas. “Non hai alcun diritto a nulla. Non hai il diritto di chiedere considerazione. Non hai il diritto a niente. Che tipo di persona sei tu, per parlare dei tuoi diritti. Per la mia ‘anima! Ahah. Diritti, addirittura!”

“Se continui così,” rispose Tom, arrossendo, “mi costringerai a parlare dei miei torti. Ma spero che la tua battuta sia finita.”

“È sempre così con voi, maledetti,” disse il signor Jonas, “quando sapete che qualcuno è serio, fingete di pensare che stia scherzando, solo per potergli impedire di portare a termine ciò che ha in mente. Ma con me non funziona. È troppo vecchio e trito questo comportamento. Ora, per favore, prestatemi attenzione per un momento, signor Pitch, o Strega, o Stitch, o qualunque sia il vostro vero nome.”

“Mi chiamo Pinch,” osservò Tom. “Per favore, chiamatemi così.”

“Che cosa! Non si dovrebbe nemmeno chiamare con il proprio nome, vero?” gridò Jonas. “Penso che quei giovani apprendisti poveracci stiano cercando di migliorare la loro situazione. Ehi, in città riusciamo a gestirli un po’ meglio!”

“Non importa cosa fai nella città,” disse Tom. “Cosa hai da dirmi?”

“Solo questo, signor Pinch,” ribatté Jonas, avvicinando il viso così tanto a quello di Tom che quest’ultimo fu costretto a fare un passo indietro. “Vi consiglio di tenere per voi le vostre opinioni, di evitare di spettegolare e di intromettervi dove non siete desiderati. Ho sentito parlare di voi, mio caro, e dei vostri modi umili; vi consiglio quindi di dimenticarli finché non mi sposerò una delle ragazze di Pecksniff. Non cercate di guadagnarvi i favori dei miei parenti: lasciate che le cose seguano il loro corso naturale. Sapete, quando i cani non vogliono lasciare libero il passaggio, vengono scacciati a frustate; quindi questo è un consiglio sincero. Capite? Ehi, chi diavolo siete voi,” esclamò Jonas con ancora più disprezzo, “da dover tornare a casa CON LORO, se non proprio dietro di loro, come qualsiasi altro servitore?”

“Che cosa!” esclamò Tom, “Vedo che è meglio che tu scenda dal tetto e mi lasci proseguire verso casa. Fai spazio per me, per favore.”

“Non pensarci nemmeno!” disse Jonas, allargando le gambe. “Non finché non lo deciderò io. E adesso non ho ancora deciso. Che cosa! Hai paura che ti faccia ripetere quelle sciocchezze che hai detto poco fa, vero, Sneak?”

“Non ho paura di molte cose, spero,” disse Tom; “e certamente non ho paura di nulla di ciò che potresti fare tu. Non sono uno che spettegola e disprezzo ogni forma di meschinità. Mi stai completamente fraintendendo. Ah!” esclamò Tom, indignato. “È davvero comportamento da uomo una persona nella tua posizione verso qualcuno nella mia? Per favore, fatti da parte così possa passare. Più non dico nulla, meglio è.”

‘The less you say!’ retorted Jonas, dangling his legs the more, and taking no heed of this request. ‘You say very little, don’t you? Ecod, I should like to know what goes on between you and a vagabond member of my family. There’s very little in that too, I dare say!’

‘I know no vagabond member of your family,’ cried Tom, stoutly.

‘You do!’ said Jonas.

‘I don’t,’ said Tom. ‘Your uncle’s namesake, if you mean him, is no vagabond. Any comparison between you and him’—Tom snapped his fingers at him, for he was rising fast in wrath—‘is immeasurably to your disadvantage.’

‘Oh indeed!’ sneered Jonas. ‘And what do you think of his deary—his beggarly leavings, eh, Mister Pinch?’

‘I don’t mean to say another word, or stay here another instant,’ replied Tom.

‘As I told you before, you’re a liar,’ said Jonas, coolly. ‘You’ll stay here till I give you leave to go. Now, keep where you are, will you?’

He flourished his stick over Tom’s head; but in a moment it was spinning harmlessly in the air, and Jonas himself lay sprawling in the ditch. In the momentary struggle for the stick, Tom had brought it into violent contact with his opponent’s forehead; and the blood welled out profusely from a deep cut on the temple. Tom was first apprised of this by seeing that he pressed his handkerchief to the wounded part, and staggered as he rose, being stunned.

‘Are you hurt?’ said Tom. ‘I am very sorry. Lean on me for a moment. You can do that without forgiving me, if you still bear me malice. But I don’t know why; for I never offended you before we met on this spot.’

He made him no answer; not appearing at first to understand him, or even to know that he was hurt, though he several times took his handkerchief from the cut to look vacantly at the blood upon it. After one of these examinations, he looked at Tom, and then there was an expression in his features, which showed that he understood what had taken place, and would remember it.

Nothing more passed between them as they went home. Jonas kept a little in advance, and Tom Pinch sadly followed, thinking of the grief which the knowledge of this quarrel must occasion his excellent benefactor. When Jonas knocked at the door, Tom’s heart beat high; higher when Miss Mercy answered it, and seeing her wounded lover, shireked aloud; higher, when he followed them into the family parlour; higher than at any other time, when Jonas spoke.

‘Don’t make a noise about it,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing worth mentioning. I didn’t know the road; the night’s very dark; and just as I came up with Mr Pinch’—he turned his face towards Tom, but not his eyes—‘I ran against a tree. It’s only skin deep.’

‘Cold water, Merry, my child!’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘Brown paper! Scissors! A piece of old linen! Charity, my dear, make a bandage. Bless me, Mr Jonas!’

‘Oh, bother YOUR nonsense,’ returned the gracious son-in-law elect. ‘Be of some use if you can. If you can’t, get out!’

Miss Charity, though called upon to lend her aid, sat upright in one corner, with a smile upon her face, and didn’t move a finger. Though Mercy laved the wound herself; and Mr Pecksniff held the patient’s head between his two hands, as if without that assistance it must inevitably come in half; and Tom Pinch, in his guilty agitation, shook a bottle of Dutch Drops until they were nothing but English Froth, and in his other hand sustained a formidable carving-knife, really intended to reduce the swelling, but apparently designed for the ruthless infliction of another wound as soon as that was dressed; Charity rendered not the least assistance, nor uttered a word. But when Mr Jonas’s head was bound up, and he had gone to bed, and everybody else had retired, and the house was quiet, Mr Pinch, as he sat mournfully on his bedstead, ruminating, heard a gentle tap at his door; and opening it, saw her, to his great astonishment, standing before him with her finger on her lip.

‘Mr Pinch,’ she whispered. ‘Dear Mr Pinch! Tell me the truth! You did that? There was some quarrel between you, and you struck him? I am sure of it!’

It was the first time she had ever spoken kindly to Tom, in all the many years they had passed together. He was stupefied with amazement.

‘Was it so, or not?’ she eagerly demanded.

‘I was very much provoked,’ said Tom.

‘Then it was?’ cried Charity, with sparkling eyes.

‘Ye-yes. We had a struggle for the path,’ said Tom. ‘But I didn’t mean to hurt him so much.’

‘Not so much!’ she repeated, clenching her hand and stamping her foot, to Tom’s great wonder. ‘Don’t say that. It was brave of you. I honour you for it. If you should ever quarrel again, don’t spare him for the world, but beat him down and set your shoe upon him. Not a word of this to anybody. Dear Mr Pinch, I am your friend from tonight. I am always your friend from this time.’

She turned her flushed face upon Tom to confirm her words by its kindling expression; and seizing his right hand, pressed it to her breast, and kissed it. And there was nothing personal in this to render it at all embarrassing, for even Tom, whose power of observation was by no means remarkable, knew from the energy with which she did it that she would have fondled any hand, no matter how bedaubed or dyed, that had broken the head of Jonas Chuzzlewit.

Tom went into his room, and went to bed, full of uncomfortable thoughts. That there should be any such tremendous division in the family as he knew must have taken place to convert Charity Pecksniff into his friend, for any reason, but, above all, for that which was clearly the real one; that Jonas, who had assailed him with such exceeding coarseness, should have been sufficiently magnanimous to keep the secret of their quarrel; and that any train of circumstances should have led to the commission of an assault and battery by Thomas Pinch upon any man calling himself the friend of Seth Pecksniff; were matters of such deep and painful cogitation that he could not close his eyes. His own violence, in particular, so preyed upon the generous mind of Tom, that coupling it with the many former occasions on which he had given Mr Pecksniff pain and anxiety (occasions of which that gentleman often reminded him), he really began to regard himself as destined by a mysterious fate to be the evil genius and bad angel of his patron. But he fell asleep at last, and dreamed—new source of waking uneasiness—that he had betrayed his trust, and run away with Mary Graham.

“Più stai zitto e meglio è!”, ribatté Jonas, dondolando ancora di più le gambe senza prestare alcuna attenzione a quella richiesta. “Parli molto poco, vero? Ecod, vorrei sapere cosa succede tra te e quel vagabondo che fa parte della mia famiglia. Anche in questo caso, direi che non ci sia molto da dire!”

“Non conosco nessun membro vagabondo della tua famiglia,” gridò Tom con fermezza.

“Fallo!” disse Jonas.

“Non è vero,” disse Tom. “Il tuo omonimo, se intendi lui, non è affatto un vagabondo. Qualsiasi paragone tra te e lui, ” – Tom gli fece schioccare le dita, perché stava iniziando ad arrabbiarsi molto – “è estremamente a tuo svantaggio.”

“Ah davvero!” sogghignò Jonas. “E cosa ne pensi delle sue misere reliquie, eh, signor Pinch?”

“Non intendo dire altro, né rimanere qui un istante di più,” rispose Tom.

“Come ti ho detto prima, sei un bugiardo,” disse Jonas con calma. “Resterai qui finché non ti darò il permesso di andartene. Ora, stai fermo dove sei, va bene?”

Agitò il suo bastone sopra la testa di Tom; ma in un attimo esso iniziò a girare innocuamente nell’aria, mentre Jonas stesso giaceva disteso nel fossato. Nel breve scontro per il bastone, Tom lo aveva colpito con forza sulla fronte; il sangue iniziò a sgorgare abbondantemente da una profonda ferita alla tempia. Tom se ne rese conto solo quando vide che si teneva il fazzoletto sulla parte ferita e barcollò mentre si rialzava, ancora stordito.

“Sei ferito?” disse Tom. “Mi dispiace molto. Appoggiati a me per un momento. Puoi farlo anche senza perdonarmi, se ancora mi porti rancore. Ma non capisco il motivo: non ti ho mai offeso prima di incontrarci in questo posto.”

Non gli rispose; all’inizio sembrava non capirlo, o addirittura non sapere che fosse ferito, anche se più volte prese il fazzoletto dalla ferita per osservare con distacco il sangue che c’era sopra. Dopo uno di questi esami, guardò Tom e sul suo volto apparve un’espressione che mostrava chiaramente che aveva capito cosa fosse accaduto e che se ne sarebbe ricordato.

Non accadde più nulla tra di loro mentre tornavano a casa. Jonas procedeva un po’ avanti, e Tom Pinch lo seguiva tristemente, pensando al dolore che la conoscenza di questa lite avrebbe sicuramente causato al suo eccellente benefattore. Quando Jonas bussò alla porta, il cuore di Tom batté forte; ancora più forte quando fu Miss Mercy ad aprire e, vedendo il suo innamorato ferito, gridò in preda all’angoscia; ancora più forte quando li seguì nel salotto familiare. Più forte che in qualsiasi altro momento, anche quando Jonas parlò.

“Non parlarne,” disse. “Non è nulla di che valga la pena parlare. Non conoscevo quella strada; era una notte molto buia; e proprio mentre stavo per raggiungere il signor Pinch, ” – girò il viso verso Tom, ma non i suoi occhi – “mi sono scontrato con un albero. È solo un graffio superficiale.”

“Acqua fredda, Merry, mia cara bambina!” gridò il signor Pecksniff. “Carta marrone! Fogli di carta! Un pezzo di vecchio lino. Carità, mia cara, prepara una benda. Beneditemi, signor Jonas!”

“Ah, lasciate perdere queste sciocchezze,” rispose il gentile genero eletto. “Se potete essere utili, fatelo; altrimenti, andatevene!”

La signorina Charity, sebbene chiamata ad offrire il suo aiuto, rimase seduta immobile in un angolo, con un sorriso sul viso, senza muovere un dito. Anche se Mercy curò personalmente la ferita, e il signor Pecksniff tenne la testa del paziente tra le sue mani, come se senza quel sostegno essa dovesse inevitabilmente spezzarsi in due; e anche se Tom Pinch, nella sua agitazione, scosse una bottiglia di pillole fino a ridurle in polvere, tenendo nell’altra mano un coltello da intaglio apparentemente destinato a ridurre il gonfiore, ma in realtà pronto a infliggere un’altra ferita non appena quella precedente fosse stata curata; la signorina Charity non fornì alcun aiuto e non pronunciò una parola. Ma quando la testa del signor Jonas fu fasciata, egli andò a letto e tutti gli altri si ritirarono, lasciando la casa in silenzio, il signor Pinch, seduto tristemente sul suo letto, sentì bussare delicatamente alla porta; aprendola, la vide davanti a sé, con un dito sulle labbra. A sua grande sorpresa.

“Signor Pinch,” sussurrò. “Caro signor Pinch. Ditemi la verità! Siete stato voi a farlo? Dev’esserci stata qualche lite tra voi, e allora lo avete colpito. Ne sono sicura!”

Era la prima volta che lei parlava gentilmente con Tom, in tutti gli anni trascorsi insieme. Lui rimase sbalordito dalla sorpresa.

“È stato davvero così, o no?”, chiese lei con impazienza.

“Sono stato molto provocato,” disse Tom.

“Allora è successo così?” esclamò Charity con gli occhi scintillanti.

“Sì-sì. C’è stata una lotta per prendere quel sentiero,” disse Tom. “Ma non volevo fargli così male.”

“Non proprio!” ripeté lei, stringendo la mano e battendo il piede, con grande stupore di Tom. “Non dire così. È stato coraggioso da parte tua. Te ne sono grata. Se mai doveste litigare di nuovo, non risparmiarlo per nulla. Picchialo e metti il tuo piede sopra di lui. Non dirlo a nessuno. Caro signor Pinch, da stasera io sono tua amica. Da questo momento, sarò sempre tua amica.”

Si voltò verso Tom con il viso arrossato, per confermare le sue parole attraverso l’espressione appassionata sul suo volto; poi prese la sua mano destra, la posò sul proprio petto e la baciò. Non c’era nulla di personale in quel gesto che potesse renderlo imbarazzante, perché anche Tom, il cui acume osservativo non era certo eccezionale, capì dall’intensità con cui lei lo fece che avrebbe accarezzato qualsiasi mano, per quanto sporca o tinta, che fosse stata in grado di spezzare la testa di Jonas Chuzzlewit.

Tom entrò nella sua stanza e andò a letto, pieno di pensieri sgradevoli. Il fatto che esistesse una tale profonda divisione all’interno della famiglia – una divisione che, ne era certo, doveva essere avvenuta per convincere Charity Pecksniff ad accettarlo come amico –, per qualsiasi motivo, ma soprattutto per quello che ovviamente ne era la vera ragione; il fatto che Jonas, che lo aveva attaccato con tanta crudeltà, fosse stato abbastanza nobile da mantenere il segreto della loro lite; e il fatto che una serie di circostanze potesse aver portato Thomas Pinch a commettere un atto di aggressione contro chiunque si definisse amico di Seth Pecksniff, tutte queste cose rappresentavano argomenti di riflessione così profonda e dolorosa che non riusciva a chiudere gli occhi. In particolare, la propria violenza tormentava profondamente la mente generosa di Tom; e combinandola con le molte occasioni in cui aveva causato dolore e ansia al signor Pecksniff (circostanze di cui quel gentiluomo gli ricordava spesso), cominciò davvero a ritenersi destinato, per qualche misteriosa volontà del destino, ad essere il “genio malvagio” e l’“angelo cattivo” del proprio protettore. Alla fine, tuttavia, si addormentò, e sognò – un nuovo motivo di inquietudine al risveglio – che avesse tradito la fiducia che gli era stata affidata e fosse fuggito con Mary Graham.

It must be acknowledged that, asleep or awake, Tom’s position in reference to this young lady was full of uneasiness. The more he saw of her, the more he admired her beauty, her intelligence, the amiable qualities that even won on the divided house of Pecksniff, and in a few days restored, at all events, the semblance of harmony and kindness between the angry sisters. When she spoke, Tom held his breath, so eagerly he listened; when she sang, he sat like one entranced. She touched his organ, and from that bright epoch even it, the old companion of his happiest hours, incapable as he had thought of elevation, began a new and deified existence.

God’s love upon thy patience, Tom! Who, that had beheld thee, for three summer weeks, poring through half the deadlong night over the jingling anatomy of that inscrutable old harpsichord in the back parlour, could have missed the entrance to thy secret heart: albeit it was dimly known to thee? Who that had seen the glow upon thy cheek when leaning down to listen, after hours of labour, for the sound of one incorrigible note, thou foundest that it had a voice at last, and wheezed out a flat something, distantly akin to what it ought to be, would not have known that it was destined for no common touch, but one that smote, though gently as an angel’s hand, upon the deepest chord within thee! And if a friendly glance—aye, even though it were as guileless as thine own, Dear Tom—could have but pierced the twilight of that evening, when, in a voice well tempered to the time, sad, sweet, and low, yet hopeful, she first sang to the altered instrument, and wondered at the change; and thou, sitting apart at the open window, kept a glad silence and a swelling heart—must not that glance have read perforce the dawning of a story, Tom, that it were well for thee had never been begun!

Tom Pinch’s situation was not made the less dangerous or difficult by the fact of no one word passing between them in reference to Martin. Honourably mindful of his promise, Tom gave her opportunities of all kinds. Early and late he was in the church; in her favourite walks; in the village, in the garden, in the meadows; and in any or all of these places he might have spoken freely. But no; at all such times she carefully avoided him, or never came in his way unaccompanied. It could not be that she disliked or distrusted him, for by a thousand little delicate means, too slight for any notice but his own, she singled him out when others were present, and showed herself the very soul of kindness. Could it be that she had broken with Martin, or had never returned his affection, save in his own bold and heightened fancy? Tom’s cheek grew red with self-reproach as he dismissed the thought.

All this time old Martin came and went in his own strange manner, or sat among the rest absorbed within himself, and holding little intercourse with any one. Although he was unsocial, he was not willful in other things, or troublesome, or morose; being never better pleased than when they left him quite unnoticed at his book, and pursued their own amusements in his presence, unreserved. It was impossible to discern in whom he took an interest, or whether he had an interest in any of them. Unless they spoke to him directly, he never showed that he had ears or eyes for anything that passed.

One day the lively Merry, sitting with downcast eyes under a shady tree in the churchyard, whither she had retired after fatiguing herself by the imposition of sundry trials on the temper of Mr Jonas, felt that a new shadow came between her and the sun. Raising her eyes in the expectation of seeing her betrothed, she was not a little surprised to see old Martin instead. Her surprise was not diminished when he took his seat upon the turf beside her, and opened a conversation thus:

‘When are you to be married?’

‘Oh! dear Mr Chuzzlewit, my goodness me! I’m sure I don’t know. Not yet awhile, I hope.’

‘You hope?’ said the old man.

It was very gravely said, but she took it for banter, and giggled excessively.

‘Come!’ said the old man, with unusual kindness, ‘you are young, good-looking, and I think good-natured! Frivolous you are, and love to be, undoubtedly; but you must have some heart.’

‘I have not given it all away, I can tell you,’ said Merry, nodding her head shrewdly, and plucking up the grass.

‘Have you parted with any of it?’

She threw the grass about, and looked another way, but said nothing.

Martin repeated his question.

‘Lor, my dear Mr Chuzzlewit! really you must excuse me! How very odd you are.’

‘If it be odd in me to desire to know whether you love the young man whom I understand you are to marry, I AM very odd,’ said Martin. ‘For that is certainly my wish.’

‘He’s such a monster, you know,’ said Merry, pouting.

‘Then you don’t love him?’ returned the old man. ‘Is that your meaning?’

‘Why, my dear Mr Chuzzlewit, I’m sure I tell him a hundred times a day that I hate him. You must have heard me tell him that.’

‘Often,’ said Martin.

‘And so I do,’ cried Merry. ‘I do positively.’

‘Being at the same time engaged to marry him,’ observed the old man.

‘Oh yes,’ said Merry. ‘But I told the wretch—my dear Mr Chuzzlewit, I told him when he asked me—that if I ever did marry him, it should only be that I might hate and tease him all my life.’

She had a suspicion that the old man regarded Jonas with anything but favour, and intended these remarks to be extremely captivating. He did not appear, however, to regard them in that light by any means; for when he spoke again, it was in a tone of severity.

‘Look about you,’ he said, pointing to the graves; ‘and remember that from your bridal hour to the day which sees you brought as low as these, and laid in such a bed, there will be no appeal against him. Think, and speak, and act, for once, like an accountable creature. Is any control put upon your inclinations? Are you forced into this match? Are you insidiously advised or tempted to contract it, by any one? I will not ask by whom; by any one?’

È necessario ammettere che, sia sveglio che addormentato, la posizione di Tom rispetto a questa giovane signora era piena di imbarazzo. Più la vedeva, più ammirava la sua bellezza, la sua intelligenza, le qualità affabili che riuscirono persino a ristabilire un certo senso di armonia e gentilezza tra le sorelle in conflitto. Quando lei parlava, Tom tratteneva il respiro, ascoltando con grande attenzione; quando cantava, rimaneva seduto come incantato. Lei toccava il suo organo, e da quel momento anche quell’oggetto, vecchio compagno dei suoi momenti più felici, che lui stesso aveva sempre ritenuto incapace di elevazioni spirituali, iniziò a vivere una nuova vita, quasi divinizzata.

Che la amore di Dio possa benedire la tua pazienza, Tom! Chi ti avesse visto, per tre settimane estive, immerso nella mezza notte a studiare l’intricata struttura di quel vecchio clavicembalo nel salotto posteriore, non avrebbe potuto non notare l’ingresso al tuo cuore segreto, anche se tu stesso ne conoscevi appena i contorni. Chi avesse visto il rossore sulle tue guance mentre, dopo ore di lavoro, cercavi invano di produrre quella nota imperfetta, non avrebbe potuto non capire che quel suono era destinato a toccare una corda profonda dentro di te, sebbene con delicatezza, come la mano di un angelo. E se uno sguardo amichevole – sì, anche uno così sincero e innocente come il tuo, caro Tom – fosse riuscito a penetrare nella penombra di quella sera, quando, con una voce dolce, triste e piena di speranza, lei cantò per la prima volta su quell’strumento trasformato, meravigliandosi del cambiamento, e tu, seduto lì, alla finestra aperta, tenevi un silenzio felice e il cuore gonfio di emozione, non avrebbe forse quel sguardo potuto leggere, inevitabilmente, l’inizio di una storia, una storia che, forse, sarebbe stato meglio per te non fosse mai iniziata?

La situazione di Tom Pinch non risultava meno pericolosa o difficile dal fatto che non si scambiavano una parola riguardo a Martin. Onorando fedelmente la sua promessa, Tom le offriva ogni opportunità possibile: era sempre in chiesa, nei luoghi dove lei amava passeggiare, nel villaggio, nel giardino, sui prati. In qualsiasi di questi posti avrebbe potuto parlare liberamente con lei. Ma no: in quei momenti lei lo evitava attentamente o non si avvicinava mai a lui se non accompagnata da qualcuno. Non poteva essere che lo disprezzasse o non si fidasse di lui, perché con mille piccoli gesti delicati – troppo sottili per essere notati da chiunque tranne lui stesso – lei lo distingueva dagli altri quando c’erano altre persone presenti e gli dimostrava tutta la sua gentilezza. Forse aveva rotto con Martin, o forse non aveva mai ricambiato i suoi sentimenti, se non nella sua stessa fervida immaginazione? Il viso di Tom arrossiva per il rimorso mentre scacciava quel pensiero.

In tutto quel tempo, il vecchio Martin andava e veniva a suo modo strano, o si sedeva tra gli altri immerso nei suoi pensieri, senza scambiare quasi mai parole con nessuno. Sebbene fosse poco socievole, non era né ostinato né fastidioso, né malinconico; anzi, era sempre più contento quando lo lasciavano tranquillamente a leggere i suoi libri, senza che nessuno interferisse con i suoi passatempi. Non si riusciva mai a capire di chi fosse interessato, o se avesse qualche interesse per qualcuno in particolare. A meno che non gli parlassero direttamente, non mostrava mai di prestare attenzione a ciò che accadeva intorno a lui.

Un giorno, la vivace Merry, seduta con lo sguardo abbassato sotto un albero ombreggiato nel cimitero della chiesa – dove si era ritirata dopo essersi stancata di mettere alla prova la pazienza del signor Jonas con varie prove – sentì che una nuova ombra si frapponeva tra lei e il sole. Alzando lo sguardo nella speranza di vedere il suo promesso, rimase piuttosto sorpresa nel vedere invece il vecchio Martin. La sua sorpresa non diminuì quando lui si sedette accanto a lei sull’erba e iniziò a parlare così.

“Quando ti sposerai?”

“Oh, caro signor Chuzzlewit, mio Dio. Credo proprio di non saperlo. Almeno per ora, spero.”

“Tu >speri?”, disse l’uomo anziano.

Fu detto in modo molto serio, ma lei lo prese per uno scherzo e rise eccessivamente.

“Come!” disse l’uomo anziano con una gentilezza insolita, “sei giovane, bello e, credo, anche di buon carattere! Sei frivolo, e senza dubbio ami divertirti. Ma devi pur avere un cuore.”

“Non l’ho ancora dato via tutto, posso dirvelo,” disse Merry, annuendo saggiamente e raccogliendo l’erba intorno a lei.

“Ne hai già dato via qualche pezzo?”

Scagliò l’erba dappertutto e guardò da un’altra parte, ma non disse nulla.

Martin ripeté la sua domanda.

“Ah, caro signor Chuzzlewit, davvero devo scusarmi! Che strano che siate.”

“Se è strano da parte mia desiderare di sapere se tu ami quel giovane con cui, a quanto so, hai intenzione di sposarti, allora sì, sono davvero molto strano,” disse Martin. “Perché in realtà questo è esattamente ciò che desidero.”

“È davvero un tale mostro, lo sai,” disse Merry, facendo il broncio.

“Allora non lo ami?” ribatté l’uomo anziano. “È questo che intendi?”

“Ma caro signor Chuzzlewit, sono sicura che glielo dico centinaia di volte al giorno: lo odio. Deve avermi sentito dirlo.”

“Spesso,” disse Martin.

“E così faccio,” esclamò Merry. “Lo faccio davvero.”

“Essendo contemporaneamente promessa in sposa a lui,” osservò l’uomo anziano.

“Oh sì,” disse Merry. “Ma ho detto a quel poveretto, al mio caro signor Chuzzlewit, gliel’ho detto quando me l’ha chiesto, che se mai lo sposassi, sarebbe solo per poterlo odiare e prendere in giro per tutta la vita.”

Sospettava che l’uomo anziano non vedesse Jonas con simpatia alcuna e che quelle parole avessero lo scopo di essere estremamente seducenti. Tuttavia, lui non sembrava affatto considerarle in quel senso; quando parlò di nuovo, infatti, lo fece con tono severo.

“Guardatevi intorno,” disse, indicando le tombe; “e ricordate che, dal vostro momento nuziale fino al giorno in cui verrete ridotti a questo stato, e sepolti in un letto simile, non ci sarà alcuna possibilità di appellarsi contro questa sorte. Pensateci, parlateci e agite, per una volta, come esseri responsabili delle vostre azioni. Esiste qualche controllo sulle vostre inclinazioni? Siete stati costretti a questo matrimonio? Qualcuno vi ha consigliato o tentato segretamente di contrarlo? Non chiederò da chi, da qualcuno, in ogni caso.”

‘No,’ said Merry, shrugging her shoulders. ‘I don’t know that I am.’

‘Don’t know that you are! Are you?’

‘No,’ replied Merry. ‘Nobody ever said anything to me about it. If any one had tried to make me have him, I wouldn’t have had him at all.’

‘I am told that he was at first supposed to be your sister’s admirer,’ said Martin.

‘Oh, good gracious! My dear Mr Chuzzlewit, it would be very hard to make him, though he IS a monster, accountable for other people’s vanity,’ said Merry. ‘And poor dear Cherry is the vainest darling!’

‘It was her mistake, then?’

‘I hope it was,’ cried Merry; ‘but, all along, the dear child has been so dreadfully jealous, and SO cross, that, upon my word and honour, it’s impossible to please her, and it’s of no use trying.’

‘Not forced, persuaded, or controlled,’ said Martin, thoughtfully. ‘And that’s true, I see. There is one chance yet. You may have lapsed into this engagement in very giddiness. It may have been the wanton act of a light head. Is that so?’

‘My dear Mr Chuzzlewit,’ simpered Merry, ‘as to light-headedness, there never was such a feather of a head as mine. It’s perfect balloon, I declare! You never DID, you know!’

He waited quietly till she had finished, and then said, steadily and slowly, and in a softened voice, as if he would still invite her confidence:

‘Have you any wish—or is there anything within your breast that whispers you may form the wish, if you have time to think—to be released from this engagement?’

Again Miss Merry pouted, and looked down, and plucked the grass, and shrugged her shoulders. No. She didn’t know that she had. She was pretty sure she hadn’t. Quite sure, she might say. She ‘didn’t mind it.’

‘Has it ever occurred to you,’ said Martin, ‘that your married life may perhaps be miserable, full of bitterness, and most unhappy?’

Merry looked down again; and now she tore the grass up by the roots.

‘My dear Mr Chuzzlewit, what shocking words! Of course, I shall quarrel with him. I should quarrel with any husband. Married people always quarrel, I believe. But as to being miserable, and bitter, and all those dreadful things, you know, why I couldn’t be absolutely that, unless he always had the best of it; and I mean to have the best of it myself. I always do now,’ cried Merry, nodding her head and giggling very much; ‘for I make a perfect slave of the creature.’

‘Let it go on,’ said Martin, rising. ‘Let it go on! I sought to know your mind, my dear, and you have shown it me. I wish you joy. Joy!’ he repeated, looking full upon her, and pointing to the wicket-gate where Jonas entered at the moment. And then, without waiting for his nephew, he passed out at another gate, and went away.

‘Oh, you terrible old man!’ cried the facetious Merry to herself. ‘What a perfectly hideous monster to be wandering about churchyards in the broad daylight, frightening people out of their wits! Don’t come here, Griffin, or I’ll go away directly.’

Mr Jonas was the Griffin. He sat down upon the grass at her side, in spite of this warning, and sulkily inquired:

‘What’s my uncle been a-talking about?’

‘About you,’ rejoined Merry. ‘He says you’re not half good enough for me.’

‘Oh, yes, I dare say! We all know that. He means to give you some present worth having, I hope. Did he say anything that looked like it?’

‘THAT he didn’t!’ cried Merry, most decisively.

‘A stingy old dog he is,’ said Jonas. ‘Well?’

‘Griffin!’ cried Miss Mercy, in counterfeit amazement; ‘what are you doing, Griffin?’

‘Only giving you a squeeze,’ said the discomfited Jonas. ‘There’s no harm in that, I suppose?’

‘But there is great deal of harm in it, if I don’t consider it agreeable,’ returned his cousin. ‘Do go along, will you? You make me so hot!’

Mr Jonas withdrew his arm, and for a moment looked at her more like a murderer than a lover. But he cleared his brow by degrees, and broke silence with:

‘I say, Mel!’

‘What do you say, you vulgar thing—you low savage?’ cried his fair betrothed.

‘When is it to be? I can’t afford to go on dawdling about here half my life, I needn’t tell you, and Pecksniff says that father’s being so lately dead makes very little odds; for we can be married as quiet as we please down here, and my being lonely is a good reason to the neighbours for taking a wife home so soon, especially one that he knew. As to crossbones (my uncle, I mean), he’s sure not to put a spoke in the wheel, whatever we settle on, for he told Pecksniff only this morning, that if YOU liked it he’d nothing at all to say. So, Mel,’ said Jonas, venturing on another squeeze; ‘when shall it be?’

‘Upon my word!’ cried Merry.

‘Upon my soul, if you like,’ said Jonas. ‘What do you say to next week, now?’

‘To next week! If you had said next quarter, I should have wondered at your impudence.’

‘But I didn’t say next quarter,’ retorted Jonas. ‘I said next week.’

‘Then, Griffin,’ cried Miss Merry, pushing him off, and rising. ‘I say no! not next week. It shan’t be till I choose, and I may not choose it to be for months. There!’

He glanced up at her from the ground, almost as darkly as he had looked at Tom Pinch; but held his peace.

‘No fright of a Griffin with a patch over his eye shall dictate to me or have a voice in the matter,’ said Merry. ‘There!’

Still Mr Jonas held his peace.

‘If it’s next month, that shall be the very earliest; but I won’t say when it shall be till to-morrow; and if you don’t like that, it shall never be at all,’ said Merry; ‘and if you follow me about and won’t leave me alone, it shall never be at all. There! And if you don’t do everything I order you to do, it shall never be at all. So don’t follow me. There, Griffin!’

And with that, she skipped away, among the trees.

‘Ecod, my lady!’ said Jonas, looking after her, and biting a piece of straw, almost to powder; ‘you’ll catch it for this, when you ARE married. It’s all very well now—it keeps one on, somehow, and you know it—but I’ll pay you off scot and lot by-and-bye. This is a plaguey dull sort of a place for a man to be sitting by himself in. I never could abide a mouldy old churchyard.’

As he turned into the avenue himself, Miss Merry, who was far ahead, happened to look back.

‘Ah!’ said Jonas, with a sullen smile, and a nod that was not addressed to her. ‘Make the most of it while it lasts. Get in your hay while the sun shines. Take your own way as long as it’s in your power, my lady!’

“No,” disse Merry, scuotendo le spalle. “Non so se lo sia.”

“Non so se lo sei davvero. Lo sei?”

“No,” rispose Merry. “Nessuno mi ha mai detto nulla al riguardo. Se qualcuno avesse cercato di costringermi ad accettarlo, io non l’avrei assolutamente preso.”

“Mi è stato detto che all’inizio si pensava fosse l’ammiratore di tua sorella,” disse Martin.

“Oh, mio Dio! Caro signor Chuzzlewit, sarebbe davvero molto difficile far sì che lui, anche se è un mostro, si assuma la responsabilità della vanità altrui,” disse Merry. “E povera cara Cherry, è davvero la più vanitosa di tutte!”

“Quindi è stata una sua colpa?”

“Spero che sia così,” gridò Merry; “ma, in tutto questo tempo, la cara bambina è stata così terribilmente gelosa e così irascibile, che, giuro sulla mia parola e sulla mia onore, è impossibile compiacerla. E non ha senso nemmeno provare.”

“Né costretto, né persuaso, né controllato,” disse Martin, pensieroso. “E capisco che sia vero. C’è ancora una possibilità. Forse sei entrato in questo impegno per un momento di distrazione. Forse è stato solo l’atto impulsivo di qualcuno che non ha riflettuto. È così?”

“Mio caro signor Chuzzlewit,” disse Merry con un sorrisetto, “per quanto riguarda la sensazione di vertigine, non c’è mai stata una testa più stabile della mia. È davvero perfetta, lo giuro! Voi non l’avete mai fatto, vero?”

Aspettò in silenzio finché non ebbe finito, poi disse, con voce ferma e lenta, e con un tono più dolce, come se volesse ancora guadagnarsi la sua fiducia:

“Hai qualche desiderio, o c’è qualcosa dentro di te che ti sussurra che potresti formulare un desiderio, se hai il tempo per pensarci, di essere liberato da questo impegno?”

Di nuovo, la signorina Merry fece il broncio, abbassò lo sguardo, strappò un filo d’erba e alzò le spalle. No. Non sapeva di averlo fatto. Era abbastanza sicura di no. Direi proprio che ne era certa. “Non mi dispiaceva”, pensò.

“Ti è mai passato per la mente,” disse Martin, “che la tua vita coniugale potrebbe essere infelice, piena di amarezza e estremamente sfortunata?”

Merry guardò di nuovo giù; questa volta strappò via l’erba fino alle radici.

“Mio caro signor Chuzzlewit, che parole scioccanti! Certo che litigherò con lui. Litigherei con qualsiasi marito. Le persone sposate litigano sempre, credo. Ma quanto ad essere infelici, amareggiati o provare tutte quelle cose terribili, beh, non potrei assolutamente esserlo, a meno che lui non avesse sempre la meglio. E io intendo avere sempre la meglio io stessa,” esclamò Merry, annuendo e ridacchiando molto; “perché trasformo quel poveretto in un vero schiavo.”

“Lasciate che continui,” disse Martin alzandosi. “Lasciate che continui! Volevo conoscere i vostri pensieri, mia cara, e ora li avete mostrati. Vi auguro gioia. Gioia!” ripeté, guardandola negli occhi e indicando la porta da cui Jonas era appena entrato. Poi, senza aspettare il nipote, uscì da un’altra porta e se ne andò.

“Oh, terribile vecchio!” esclamò scherzosamente Merry tra sé. “Che mostro orribile, girovagare nei cimiteri a pieno giorno, spaventando la gente a morte! Non avvicinarti, Griffin, altrimenti me ne vado subito.”

Il signor Jonas era il “Griffin”. Nonostante quell’avvertimento, si sedette sull’erba accanto a lei e chiese, con aria malinconica:

“Di cosa stava parlando mio zio?”

“Su di te, ”, ribatté Merry. “Lui dice che non sei nemmeno lontanamente adatta a me.”

“Oh, sì, oserei dire di sì! Lo sappiamo tutti. Intende darti un regalo davvero prezioso, spero. Ha detto qualcosa del genere?”

“Che non l’abbia fatto!” esclamò Merry con grande decisione.

“È un vecchio avaro,” disse Jonas. “E allora?”

“Griffin!” gridò la signorina Mercy con finto stupore; “che cosa stai facendo, Griffin?”

“Solo un piccolo strizzo,” disse Jonas, imbarazzato. “Non c’è niente di male, vero?”

“Ma ci sono molti danni in questo, se non lo considero piacevole,” rispose suo cugino. “Vai pure, per favore. Mi fai diventare così eccitato!”

Il signor Jonas ritirò il suo braccio e, per un momento, la guardò più come un assassino che come un innamorato. Ma gradualmente si rilassò e romse il silenzio, dicendo:

“Dico io, Mel!”

“Cosa dici tu, essere volgare e barbaro?”, gridò la sua bella fidanzata.

“Quando avverrà? Non posso permettermi di continuare a perdere tempo qui per metà della mia vita. Pecksniff dice che, visto che nostro padre è morto di recente, non ci sono grandi ostacoli; possiamo sposarci in segreto, e il fatto che io sia sola rappresenta una buona scusa per i vicini, che potranno pensare che abbiamo preso moglie molto presto, soprattutto una persona che conoscevano già. Per quanto riguarda mio zio, be’, di certo non cercherà di ostacolarci, qualunque decisione prendiamo; stamattina stesso ha detto a Pecksniff che, se a TE andava bene, lui non aveva nulla in contrario. Quindi, Mel, ” disse Jonas, stringendola di nuovo a sé, “quando avverrà?”

“Per la mia parola!”, esclamò Merry.

“Per la mia ‘anima, se vuoi,” disse Jonas. “Che ne dici di cominciare la prossima settimana?”

“Per la prossima settimana. Se avessi detto il prossimo trimestre, mi sarei chiesto quale fosse la tua audacia.”

“Ma non ho detto il prossimo trimestre”, ribatté Jonas. “Ho detto la prossima settimana”.

“Allora, Griffin,” gridò la signorina Merry, spingendolo via e alzandosi in piedi. “Io dico di no! Non la prossima settimana. Non accadrà fino a quando non lo deciderò io, e potrebbe volerci anche mesi. Ecco!”

Alzò lo sguardo su di lei dal suolo, con lo stesso tono cupo con cui aveva guardato Tom Pinch; ma rimase in silenzio.

“Nessun timore di un Grifone con un pezzo di stoffa sugli occhi potrà impormi nulla o avere voce in questa questione,” disse Merry. “Ecco!”

Tuttavia, il signor Jonas rimase in silenzio.

“Se sarà il mese prossimo, allora sarà il prima possibile; ma non dirò quando esattamente accadrà fino a domani. E se non vi piace, allora non succederà mai,” disse Merry. “E se mi seguite dappertutto e non volete lasciarmi sola, allora nemmeno in quel caso succederà mai. Capito? E se non fate tutto ciò che vi ordino, allora ancora meno. Quindi smettete di seguirmi. Ehi, Griffin!”

E così, lei si allontanò saltellando, tra gli alberi.

“Ecod, mia signora!” disse Jonas, prendendosi cura di lei e mordicchiando un pezzo di paglia fino a ridurlo in polvere; “farai una brutta fine per questo, quando sarai sposata. Ora tutto va abbastanza bene, in qualche modo. Ma ti ripagherò completamente, te lo prometto. Questo posto è davvero noioso e deprimente per un uomo che deve stare qui da solo. Non riuscirei mai a sopportare un vecchio cimitero umido e muffito.”

Mentre lui stesso svoltava in quella via, la signorina Merry, che si trovava molto avanti, ebbe l’occasione di guardare indietro.

“Ah!”, disse Jonas con un sorriso cupo e un cenno del capo che non era rivolto a lei. “Goditela finché dura. Raccogli il tuo raccolto mentre c’è sole. Segui la strada che preferisci, purché sia nelle tue possibilità, mia signora!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

IS IN PART PROFESSIONAL, AND FURNISHES THE READER WITH SOME VALUABLE HINTS IN RELATION TO THE MANAGEMENT OF A SICK CHAMBER

Mr Mould was surrounded by his household gods. He was enjoying the sweets of domestic repose, and gazing on them with a calm delight. The day being sultry, and the window open, the legs of Mr Mould were on the window-seat, and his back reclined against the shutter. Over his shining head a handkerchief was drawn, to guard his baldness from the flies. The room was fragrant with the smell of punch, a tumbler of which grateful compound stood upon a small round table, convenient to the hand of Mr Mould; so deftly mixed that as his eye looked down into the cool transparent drink, another eye, peering brightly from behind the crisp lemon-peel, looked up at him, and twinkled like a star.

Deep in the City, and within the ward of Cheap, stood Mr Mould’s establishment. His Harem, or, in other words, the common sitting room of Mrs Mould and family, was at the back, over the little counting-house behind the shop; abutting on a churchyard small and shady. In this domestic chamber Mr Mould now sat; gazing, a placid man, upon his punch and home. If, for a moment at a time, he sought a wider prospect, whence he might return with freshened zest to these enjoyments, his moist glance wandered like a sunbeam through a rural screen of scarlet runners, trained on strings before the window, and he looked down, with an artist’s eye, upon the graves.

The partner of his life, and daughters twain, were Mr Mould’s companions. Plump as any partridge was each Miss Mould, and Mrs M. was plumper than the two together. So round and chubby were their fair proportions, that they might have been the bodies once belonging to the angels’ faces in the shop below, grown up, with other heads attached to make them mortal. Even their peachy cheeks were puffed out and distended, as though they ought of right to be performing on celestial trumpets. The bodiless cherubs in the shop, who were depicted as constantly blowing those instruments for ever and ever without any lungs, played, it is to be presumed, entirely by ear.

Mr Mould looked lovingly at Mrs Mould, who sat hard by, and was a helpmate to him in his punch as in all other things. Each seraph daughter, too, enjoyed her share of his regards, and smiled upon him in return. So bountiful were Mr Mould’s possessions, and so large his stock in trade, that even there, within his household sanctuary, stood a cumbrous press, whose mahogany maw was filled with shrouds, and winding-sheets, and other furniture of funerals. But, though the Misses Mould had been brought up, as one may say, beneath his eye, it had cast no shadow on their timid infancy or blooming youth. Sporting behind the scenes of death and burial from cradlehood, the Misses Mould knew better. Hat-bands, to them, were but so many yards of silk or crape; the final robe but such a quantity of linen. The Misses Mould could idealise a player’s habit, or a court-lady’s petticoat, or even an act of parliament. But they were not to be taken in by palls. They made them sometimes.

The premises of Mr Mould were hard of hearing to the boisterous noises in the great main streets, and nestled in a quiet corner, where the City strife became a drowsy hum, that sometimes rose and sometimes fell and sometimes altogether ceased; suggesting to a thoughtful mind a stoppage in Cheapside. The light came sparkling in among the scarlet runners, as if the churchyard winked at Mr Mould, and said, ‘We understand each other;’ and from the distant shop a pleasant sound arose of coffin-making with a low melodious hammer, rat, tat, tat, tat, alike promoting slumber and digestion.

‘Quite the buzz of insects,’ said Mr Mould, closing his eyes in a perfect luxury. ‘It puts one in mind of the sound of animated nature in the agricultural districts. It’s exactly like the woodpecker tapping.’

‘The woodpecker tapping the hollow ELM tree,’ observed Mrs Mould, adapting the words of the popular melody to the description of wood commonly used in the trade.

‘Ha, ha!’ laughed Mr Mould. ‘Not at all bad, my dear. We shall be glad to hear from you again, Mrs M. Hollow elm tree, eh! Ha, ha! Very good indeed. I’ve seen worse than that in the Sunday papers, my love.’

Mrs Mould, thus encouraged, took a little more of the punch, and handed it to her daughters, who dutifully followed the example of their mother.

‘Hollow ELM tree, eh?’ said Mr Mould, making a slight motion with his legs in his enjoyment of the joke. ‘It’s beech in the song. Elm, eh? Yes, to be sure. Ha, ha, ha! Upon my soul, that’s one of the best things I know?’ He was so excessively tickled by the jest that he couldn’t forget it, but repeated twenty times, ‘Elm, eh? Yes, to be sure. Elm, of course. Ha, ha, ha! Upon my life, you know, that ought to be sent to somebody who could make use of it. It’s one of the smartest things that ever was said. Hollow ELM tree, eh? of course. Very hollow. Ha, ha, ha!’

Here a knock was heard at the room door.

‘That’s Tacker, I know,’ said Mrs Mould, ‘by the wheezing he makes. Who that hears him now, would suppose he’d ever had wind enough to carry the feathers on his head! Come in, Tacker.’

‘Beg your pardon, ma’am,’ said Tacker, looking in a little way. ‘I thought our Governor was here.’

‘Well! so he is,’ cried Mould.

‘Oh! I didn’t see you, I’m sure,’ said Tacker, looking in a little farther. ‘You wouldn’t be inclined to take a walking one of two, with the plain wood and a tin plate, I suppose?’

‘Certainly not,’ replied Mr Mould, ‘much too common. Nothing to say to it.’

‘I told ‘em it was precious low,’ observed Mr Tacker.

‘Tell ‘em to go somewhere else. We don’t do that style of business here,’ said Mr Mould. ‘Like their impudence to propose it. Who is it?’

CAPITOLO VENTI-CINQUE

È in parte di natura professionale e fornisce al lettore alcune utili indicazioni riguardo alla gestione di una stanza per malati.

Il signor Mould era circondato dai suoi “dèi domestici”. Godette dei piaceri della tranquillità familiare, osservandoli con un sereno compiacimento. Poiché faceva caldo e la finestra era aperta, le gambe del signor Mould erano appoggiate sul sedile accanto alla finestra, mentre la schiena era rivolta contro la persiana. Sopra la sua testa lucente era stato drappeggiato un fazzoletto, per proteggere la sua calvizie dalle mosche. La stanza era profumata dall’aroma del punch: una caraffetta di questo delizioso liquido era posizionata su un piccolo tavolino rotondo, facilmente raggiungibile dal signor Mould; il punch era stato preparato con estrema abilità, al punto che mentre uno sguardo si posava su quel drink fresco e trasparente, un altro occhio, che brillava dietro la crosta di limone, lo osservava dall’alto, scintillando come una stella.

Nel profondo della >Città, nel quartiere di Cheap, si trovava la dimora del signor Mould. Il suo “harem”, o meglio, il salotto comune della signora Mould e della sua famiglia, si trovava sul retro, oltre la piccola bottega; confinava con un cimitero piccolo e ombreggiato. In quella stanza domestica sedeva ora il signor Mould; un uomo tranquillo, che fissava il suo punch e la sua “casa”. Se, di tanto in tanto, cercava uno scenario più ampio dal quale poter tornare con rinnovato entusiasmo a quei piaceri, il suo sguardo si perdeva, come un raggio di sole che attraversasse una siepe di piante rosse disposte davanti alla finestra, e osservava i sepolcri con gli occhi di un artista.

La compagna della sua vita e le sue due figlie erano le compagnie del signor Mould. Ogni signorina Mould era rotonda come qualsiasi fagiano, e la signora Mould era ancora più rotonda delle due insieme. Le loro proporzioni erano così armoniose e paffute che avrebbero potuto essere i corpi un tempo appartenuti ai volti degli angeli nella bottega di sotto, cresciuti, con altre teste attaccate per renderli mortali. Anche le loro guance rosee erano gonfie e distese, come se dovessero davvero suonare trombe celesti. Si presume che quei cherubini senza corpo raffigurati nella bottega, descritti come persone che soffiano continuamente in quelle strumenti senza alcun polmone, suonassero soltanto ascoltando il suono.

Il signor Mould guardava con affetto la signora Mould, che sedeva accanto a lui e lo aiutava sia nella preparazione dei suoi prodotti che in tutte le altre faccende. Anche le figlie del signor Mould godevano delle sue attenzioni e gli sorridevano in risposta. Le ricchezze del signor Mould erano così abbondanti, il suo “magazzino” di merci così vasto, che persino all’interno della sua dimora familiare si trovava una pesante pressa, la cui cassa in mogano era piena di lenzuola funebri, coperte da lutto e altri oggetti utilizzati per i riti funebri. Tuttavia, anche se le signorine Mould erano cresciute sotto i suoi occhi, ciò non aveva mai gettato ombra sulla loro timida infanzia o sulla loro giovinezza in fiore. Essendo state immerse fin dall’infanzia nel mondo del dolore e dei riti funebri, le signorine Mould ne comprendevano perfettamente i meccanismi. Per loro, i nastri da cappello non erano altro che semplici metri di seta o lutto; l’abito funebre finale, soltanto una certa quantità di stoffa bianca. Le signorine Mould potevano anche immaginare abiti da attore, sottogonne da dama di corte, o persino gli abiti utilizzati durante le sessioni del parlamento. Ma non si lasciavano ingannare dalle apparenze: a volte, anzi, erano loro stesse a confezionarli.

Le stanze di Mr Mould erano difficili da udire a causa del frastuono assordante delle grandi strade principali; si trovavano in un angolo tranquillo, dove il clamore della Città diventava soltanto un rumore sommesso e discontinuo. A chi rifletteva bene, quel luogo sembrava rappresentare una sorta di “pausa” dal caos circostante. La luce filtrava attraverso le tende rosse, come se il cimitero stesse sorridendo a Mr Mould e dicendogli: “Ci capiamo a vicenda, ”. Dal negozio lontano proveniva il suono piacevole del martello che costruiva i feretri, un ritmo dolce e melodioso che sembrava incoraggiare il sonno e la digestione.

“Un vero e proprio fruscio di —insetti,” disse il signor Mould, chiudendo gli occhi in un perfetto piacere. “Ricorda il suono della natura vivace nelle zone agricole. È esattamente come il rumore prodotto dal picchio quando batte sul tronco degli alberi.”

“Il picchio che batte sul tronco cavo del pioppo”, osservò la signora Mould, adattando le parole della canzone popolare alla descrizione del legno comunemente utilizzato nel settore.

“Ha, ha!” rise il signor Mould. “Niente male affatto, cara mia. Sarà un piacere ricevere nuove tue notizie, signora M. L’albero di olmo, eh! Ha, ha! Davvero molto buono. Ho visto cose peggiori nei giornali della domenica, mio caro.”

La signora Mould, così incoraggiata, ne bevve un po’ in più di punch e lo passò alle sue figlie, le quali seguirono diligentemente l’esempio della loro madre.

“Albero di quercia cavo, eh?” disse il signor Mould, muovendo leggermente le gambe per godersi la battuta. “Nella canzone si parla di faggio. Quercia, eh? Sì, certamente. Ahahah! Per la mia ‘anima, questa è davvero una delle cose più intelligenti che abbia mai sentito. Albero di quercia cavo, eh? Molto cavo, davvero. Ahahah!”

Si sentì bussare alla porta della stanza.

“È Tacker, lo so,” disse la signora Mould, “si capisce dal suo respiro affannoso. Chi lo sentisse ora, non penserebbe mai che abbia mai avuto abbastanza forza per portare tutte quelle piume in testa! Entra pure, Tacker.”

“Perdonatemi, signora,” disse Tacker, guardando intorno con un po’ di imbarazzo. “Pensavo che il nostro governatore fosse qui.”

“Beh! Allora è proprio lui,” esclamò Mould.

“Oh! Non ti avevo visto, ne sono sicuro,” disse Tacker, guardando un po’ più lontano. “Non saresti interessato ad acquistare uno di quei modelli da camminata, con il legno semplice e la lamina di latta, vero?”

“Certamente no,” rispose il signor Mould, “troppo comune. Non c’è nulla da dire al riguardo.”

“Gli ho detto che era molto basso,” osservò il signor Tacker.

“Dite loro di andare da qualche altra parte. Qui non facciamo questo tipo di affari,” disse il signor Mould. “Che sfrontatezza anche proporlo. Chi è?”

‘Why,’ returned Tacker, pausing, ‘that’s where it is, you see. It’s the beadle’s son-in-law.’

‘The beadle’s son-in-law, eh?’ said Mould. ‘Well! I’ll do it if the beadle follows in his cocked hat; not else. We carry it off that way, by looking official, but it’ll be low enough, then. His cocked hat, mind!’

‘I’ll take care, sir,’ rejoined Tacker. ‘Oh! Mrs Gamp’s below, and wants to speak to you.’

‘Tell Mrs Gamp to come upstairs,’ said Mould. ‘Now Mrs Gamp, what’s YOUR news?’

The lady in question was by this time in the doorway, curtseying to Mrs Mould. At the same moment a peculiar fragrance was borne upon the breeze, as if a passing fairy had hiccoughed, and had previously been to a wine-vaults.

Mrs Gamp made no response to Mr Mould, but curtseyed to Mrs Mould again, and held up her hands and eyes, as in a devout thanksgiving that she looked so well. She was neatly, but not gaudily attired, in the weeds she had worn when Mr Pecksniff had the pleasure of making her acquaintance; and was perhaps the turning of a scale more snuffy.

‘There are some happy creeturs,’ Mrs Gamp observed, ‘as time runs back’ards with, and you are one, Mrs Mould; not that he need do nothing except use you in his most owldacious way for years to come, I’m sure; for young you are and will be. I says to Mrs Harris,’ Mrs Gamp continued, ‘only t’other day; the last Monday evening fortnight as ever dawned upon this Piljian’s Projiss of a mortal wale; I says to Mrs Harris when she says to me, “Years and our trials, Mrs Gamp, sets marks upon us all.”—“Say not the words, Mrs Harris, if you and me is to be continual friends, for sech is not the case. Mrs Mould,” I says, making so free, I will confess, as use the name,’ (she curtseyed here), ‘“is one of them that goes agen the obserwation straight; and never, Mrs Harris, whilst I’ve a drop of breath to draw, will I set by, and not stand up, don’t think it.”—“I ast your pardon, ma’am,” says Mrs Harris, “and I humbly grant your grace; for if ever a woman lived as would see her feller creeturs into fits to serve her friends, well do I know that woman’s name is Sairey Gamp.”’

At this point she was fain to stop for breath; and advantage may be taken of the circumstance, to state that a fearful mystery surrounded this lady of the name of Harris, whom no one in the circle of Mrs Gamp’s acquaintance had ever seen; neither did any human being know her place of residence, though Mrs Gamp appeared on her own showing to be in constant communication with her. There were conflicting rumours on the subject; but the prevalent opinion was that she was a phantom of Mrs Gamp’s brain—as Messrs. Doe and Roe are fictions of the law—created for the express purpose of holding visionary dialogues with her on all manner of subjects, and invariably winding up with a compliment to the excellence of her nature.

‘And likeways what a pleasure,’ said Mrs Gamp, turning with a tearful smile towards the daughters, ‘to see them two young ladies as I know’d afore a tooth in their pretty heads was cut, and have many a day seen—ah, the sweet creeturs!—playing at berryins down in the shop, and follerin’ the order-book to its long home in the iron safe! But that’s all past and over, Mr Mould;’ as she thus got in a carefully regulated routine to that gentleman, she shook her head waggishly; ‘That’s all past and over now, sir, an’t it?’

‘Changes, Mrs Gamp, changes!’ returned the undertaker.

‘More changes too, to come, afore we’ve done with changes, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp, nodding yet more waggishly than before. ‘Young ladies with such faces thinks of something else besides berryins, don’t they, sir?’

‘I am sure I don’t know, Mrs Gamp,’ said Mould, with a chuckle—‘Not bad in Mrs Gamp, my dear?’

‘Oh yes, you do know, sir!’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘and so does Mrs Mould, your ‘ansome pardner too, sir; and so do I, although the blessing of a daughter was deniged me; which, if we had had one, Gamp would certainly have drunk its little shoes right off its feet, as with our precious boy he did, and arterward send the child a errand to sell his wooden leg for any money it would fetch as matches in the rough, and bring it home in liquor; which was truly done beyond his years, for ev’ry individgle penny that child lost at toss or buy for kidney ones; and come home arterwards quite bold, to break the news, and offering to drown himself if sech would be a satisfaction to his parents.—Oh yes, you do know, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp, wiping her eye with her shawl, and resuming the thread of her discourse. ‘There’s something besides births and berryins in the newspapers, an’t there, Mr Mould?’

Mr Mould winked at Mrs Mould, whom he had by this time taken on his knee, and said: ‘No doubt. A good deal more, Mrs Gamp. Upon my life, Mrs Gamp is very far from bad, my dear!’

‘There’s marryings, an’t there, sir?’ said Mrs Gamp, while both the daughters blushed and tittered. ‘Bless their precious hearts, and well they knows it! Well you know’d it too, and well did Mrs Mould, when you was at their time of life! But my opinion is, you’re all of one age now. For as to you and Mrs Mould, sir, ever having grandchildren—’

‘Oh! Fie, fie! Nonsense, Mrs Gamp,’ replied the undertaker. ‘Devilish smart, though. Ca-pi-tal!’—this was in a whisper. ‘My dear’—aloud again—‘Mrs Gamp can drink a glass of rum, I dare say. Sit down, Mrs Gamp, sit down.’

Mrs Gamp took the chair that was nearest the door, and casting up her eyes towards the ceiling, feigned to be wholly insensible to the fact of a glass of rum being in preparation, until it was placed in her hand by one of the young ladies, when she exhibited the greatest surprise.

‘A thing,’ she said, ‘as hardly ever, Mrs Mould, occurs with me unless it is when I am indispoged, and find my half a pint of porter settling heavy on the chest. Mrs Harris often and often says to me, “Sairey Gamp,” she says, “you raly do amaze me!” “Mrs Harris,” I says to her, “why so? Give it a name, I beg.” “Telling the truth then, ma’am,” says Mrs Harris, “and shaming him as shall be nameless betwixt you and me, never did I think till I know’d you, as any woman could sick-nurse and monthly likeways, on the little that you takes to drink.” “Mrs Harris,” I says to her, “none on us knows what we can do till we tries; and wunst, when me and Gamp kept ‘ouse, I thought so too. But now,” I says, “my half a pint of porter fully satisfies; perwisin’, Mrs Harris, that it is brought reg’lar, and draw’d mild. Whether I sicks or monthlies, ma’am, I hope I does my duty, but I am but a poor woman, and I earns my living hard; therefore I DO require it, which I makes confession, to be brought reg’lar and draw’d mild.”’

“Perché,” rispose Tacker, dopo una pausa, “è proprio lì che si trova. È il genero del sagrestano.”

“Il genero del sagrestano, eh?” disse Mould. “Beh! Lo farò solo se il sagrestano indossa il suo cappello a punta; altrimenti no. Ci arrangiamo in questo modo, fingendo di essere ufficiali, ma dovrà essere abbastanza basso, intesi? Il suo cappello a punta, soprattutto!”

“Me ne occuperò io, signore,” rispose Tacker. “Oh! La signora Gamp è giù e vuole parlarle.”

“Dica alla signora Gamp di salire al piano di sopra,” disse Mould. “Ora, signora Gamp, quali sono le sue novità?”

A quell’ora, la signora in questione si trovava sulla soglia, inchinandosi davanti alla signora Mould. Nello stesso istante, una fragranza particolare arrivò con la brezza, come se una fata di passaggio avesse starnutito e fosse appena stata in un magazzino di vini.

La signora Gamp non rispose al signor Mould, ma gli fece di nuovo un inchino e sollevò le mani e gli occhi, come in un devoto ringraziamento per il fatto che sembrava così in buona salute. Era vestita in modo ordinato, ma senza eccessi di decorazioni; indossava ancora gli stessi abiti che portava quando il signor Pecksniff aveva avuto l’onore di conoscerla. E forse era un po’ più snob del solito.

“Ci sono alcune creature davvero felici,” osservò la signora Gamp, “quelle per cui il tempo scorre all’indietro. E voi siete una di queste, signora Mould; anche se, ne sono sicura, non dovrete fare altro che essere utilizzata dal signor Mould nel modo più prepotente possibile per molti anni ancora. Siete giovane, dopotutto.” Continuò la signora Gamp: “L’altro giorno, proprio l’ultima domenica sera, ho detto alla signora Harris: ‘Gli anni e le prove che attraversiamo lasciano segni su di noi tutti.’ Lei mi rispose: ‘Non dite così, signora Gamp, se vogliamo rimanere amiche per sempre.’ E io le dissi: ‘Signora Mould, per esempio, è proprio una di quelle donne che non seguono mai le regole comuni; e finché avrò un respiro in gola, non permetterò mai che venga ignorata o trascurata.’ Lei si scusò, ma ammise umilmente: ‘Se c’è davvero una donna disposta a fare di tutto per aiutare i suoi amici, beh, so bene qual è il suo nome: Sairey Gamp.’”

A questo punto, lei fu costretta a fermarsi per riprendere fiato; e si può approfittare di questa circostanza per affermare che un mistero inquietante avvolgeva questa signora di nome Harris, che nessuno tra le conoscenze della signora Gamp aveva mai visto; né alcuna persona conosceva il suo indirizzo di residenza, sebbene la signora Gamp sembrasse mantenere con lei un costante contatto. Circolavano voci contrastanti al riguardo; ma l’opinione prevalente era che si trattasse di un fantasma creato dalla mente della signora Gamp – proprio come i signori Doe e Roe sono invenzioni legali – allo scopo espressamente di intrattenere con lei dialoghi visionari su ogni argomento, sempre conclusisi con lodi all’eccellenza della sua >natura.

“E allo stesso modo, che piacere,” disse la signora Gamp, voltandosi con un sorriso lacrimoso verso le figlie, “vederle, queste due giovani signorine, come le conoscevo quando non avevano ancora nemmeno un dente in bocca. Le ho viste giocare nel negozio, seguire il registro delle ordinazioni fino al suo lungo ‘rifugio’ nella cassaforte di ferro. Ma tutto questo è ormai passato, signor Mould, ” Mentre ripeteva questa routine ben orchestrata davanti a quel gentiluomo, scosse la testa in modo scherzoso. “Tutto finito, vero, signore?”

“Cambiamenti, signora Gamp, cambiamenti!” rispose l’impresario di pompe funebri.

“Ci saranno ancora altre modifiche, prima che abbiamo finito con queste, signore,” disse la signora Gamp, annuendo in modo ancora più buffo del solito. “Le giovani donne con facce del genere pensano a qualcos’altro, oltre che a raccogliere bacche, non è vero, signore?”

“Sono sicuro di non saperlo, signora Gamp,” disse Mould, ridacchiando. “Niente male, vero, signora Gamp?”

“Oh sì, signore, lei lo sa bene!” disse la signora Gamp, “e lo sa anche la signora Mould, la sua ‘carina compagna’, signore; e lo so anch’io, sebbene a me sia stata negata la benedizione di avere una figlia. Se ne avessimo avuta una, la signora Gamp l’avrebbe sicuramente ‘bevuta tutta d’un fiato’, proprio come fece con nostro prezioso ragazzo; poi avrebbe mandato il bambino a vendere quella sua gamba di legno per qualsiasi somma riuscisse a guadagnare, e l’avrebbe riportata a casa piena di alcol. Il che, davvero, era un comportamento insolito per la sua età. Perché ogni singolo penny che quel bambino perdeva giocando o comprando altre gambe di legno, lo riportava a casa completamente ubriaco. E poi veniva a raccontare tutto con tale audacia, che offriva persino di annegarsi se questo avesse potuto consolare i suoi genitori. Oh sì, signore, lei lo sa bene, ” continuò la signora Gamp, asciugandosi gli occhi con il suo scialle e riprendendo il filo del suo discorso. “Ci sono altre cose, oltre alle nascite e ai matrimoni, nei giornali, vero, signora Mould?”

Il signor Mould fece l’occhiolino alla signora Mould, che a quel punto aveva già preso sulle ginocchia, e disse: “Nessun >dubbio. Anzi, molto di più, signora Gamp. Sul mio onore, la signora Gamp è davvero molto brava, cara!”

“Ci sono matrimoni, vero, signore?”, disse la signora Gamp, mentre entrambe le figlie arrossivano e ridacchiavano. “Poveri cuori loro, beh, lei lo sa bene! Anche voi lo sapevate, e naturalmente anche la signora Mould, quando eravate nella loro stessa età. Ma a mio parere, ora siete tutti della stessa età. Per quanto riguarda voi e la signora Mould, signore, beh, avere dei nipoti, ”

“Oh! Fie, fie! Sciocchezze, signora Gamp,” rispose l’impresario di pompe funebri. “Però è davvero molto astuta. Davvero eccezionale!” – disse sottovoce. “Mia cara, ” – riprese ad alta voce – “direi che la signora Gamp possa bere un bicchiere di rum. Si sieda, signora Gamp, si sieda.”

La signora Gamp si sedette sulla sedia più vicina alla porta e, alzando lo sguardo verso il soffitto, fece finta di non accorgersi affatto che stava per essere servita una coppa di rum; solo quando una delle giovani donne gliela porse in mano, mostrò la massima sorpresa.

“Una cosa,” disse lei, “che quasi mai mi capita, signora Mould, tranne quando non mi sento bene e il mio mezzo litro di birra pesa troppo sul petto. La signora Harris mi dice spesso: ‘Sairey Gamp, davvero mi sorprendi!’ ‘Signora Harris,’ le rispondo, ‘perché? Ditemi pure il motivo.’ ‘Diciamo la verità, allora,’ dice lei, ‘e lo rimproveriamo, anche se non possiamo dirlo ad alta voce. Non avrei mai pensato, prima di conoscerla, che una donna potesse prendersi cura di qualcuno in questo modo, con così poco da bere.’ ‘Signora Harris,’ le dico ancora, ‘nessuno sa cosa può fare finché non ci prova; una volta, quando io e Gamp gestivamo la casa, pensavo lo stesso. Ma ora,’ aggiungo, ‘il mio mezzo litro di birra mi basta completamente, purché venga portata regolarmente e servita leggera. Che io stia male o che abbia le mie mestruazioni, signora, spero di fare il mio dovere. Ma sono solo una povera donna che guadagna a fatica da vivere; per questo ho davvero bisogno che mi venga portata regolarmente e servita leggera.’”

The precise connection between these observations and the glass of rum, did not appear; for Mrs Gamp proposing as a toast ‘The best of lucks to all!’ took off the dram in quite a scientific manner, without any further remarks.

‘And what’s your news, Mrs Gamp?’ asked Mould again, as that lady wiped her lips upon her shawl, and nibbled a corner off a soft biscuit, which she appeared to carry in her pocket as a provision against contingent drams. ‘How’s Mr Chuffey?’

‘Mr Chuffey, sir,’ she replied, ‘is jest as usual; he an’t no better and he an’t no worse. I take it very kind in the gentleman to have wrote up to you and said, “let Mrs Gamp take care of him till I come home;” but ev’rythink he does is kind. There an’t a many like him. If there was, we shouldn’t want no churches.’

‘What do you want to speak to me about, Mrs Gamp?’ said Mould, coming to the point.

‘Jest this, sir,’ Mrs Gamp returned, ‘with thanks to you for asking. There IS a gent, sir, at the Bull in Holborn, as has been took ill there, and is bad abed. They have a day nurse as was recommended from Bartholomew’s; and well I knows her, Mr Mould, her name bein’ Mrs Prig, the best of creeturs. But she is otherways engaged at night, and they are in wants of night-watching; consequent she says to them, having reposed the greatest friendliness in me for twenty year, “The soberest person going, and the best of blessings in a sick room, is Mrs Gamp. Send a boy to Kingsgate Street,” she says, “and snap her up at any price, for Mrs Gamp is worth her weight and more in goldian guineas.” My landlord brings the message down to me, and says, “bein’ in a light place where you are, and this job promising so well, why not unite the two?” “No, sir,” I says, “not unbeknown to Mr Mould, and therefore do not think it. But I will go to Mr Mould,” I says, “and ast him, if you like.”’ Here she looked sideways at the undertaker, and came to a stop.

‘Night-watching, eh?’ said Mould, rubbing his chin.

‘From eight o’clock till eight, sir. I will not deceive you,’ Mrs Gamp rejoined.

‘And then go back, eh?’ said would.

‘Quite free, then, sir, to attend to Mr Chuffey. His ways bein’ quiet, and his hours early, he’d be abed, sir, nearly all the time. I will not deny,’ said Mrs Gamp with meekness, ‘that I am but a poor woman, and that the money is a object; but do not let that act upon you, Mr Mould. Rich folks may ride on camels, but it an’t so easy for ‘em to see out of a needle’s eye. That is my comfort, and I hope I knows it.’

‘Well, Mrs Gamp,’ observed Mould, ‘I don’t see any particular objection to your earning an honest penny under such circumstances. I should keep it quiet, I think, Mrs Gamp. I wouldn’t mention it to Mr Chuzzlewit on his return, for instance, unless it were necessary, or he asked you pointblank.’

‘The very words was on my lips, sir,’ Mrs Gamp rejoined. ‘Suppoging that the gent should die, I hope I might take the liberty of saying as I know’d some one in the undertaking line, and yet give no offence to you, sir?’

‘Certainly, Mrs Gamp,’ said Mould, with much condescension. ‘You may casually remark, in such a case, that we do the thing pleasantly and in a great variety of styles, and are generally considered to make it as agreeable as possible to the feelings of the survivors. But don’t obtrude it, don’t obtrude it. Easy, easy! My dear, you may as well give Mrs Gamp a card or two, if you please.’

Mrs Gamp received them, and scenting no more rum in the wind (for the bottle was locked up again) rose to take her departure.

‘Wishing ev’ry happiness to this happy family,’ said Mrs Gamp ‘with all my heart. Good arternoon, Mrs Mould! If I was Mr would I should be jealous of you, ma’am; and I’m sure, if I was you, I should be jealous of Mr Mould.’

‘Tut, tut! Bah, bah! Go along, Mrs Gamp!’ cried the delighted undertaker.

‘As to the young ladies,’ said Mrs Gamp, dropping a curtsey, ‘bless their sweet looks—how they can ever reconsize it with their duties to be so grown up with such young parents, it an’t for sech as me to give a guess at.’

‘Nonsense, nonsense. Be off, Mrs Gamp!’ cried Mould. But in the height of his gratification he actually pinched Mrs Mould as he said it.

‘I’ll tell you what, my dear,’ he observed, when Mrs Gamp had at last withdrawn and shut the door, ‘that’s a ve-ry shrewd woman. That’s a woman whose intellect is immensely superior to her station in life. That’s a woman who observes and reflects in an uncommon manner. She’s the sort of woman now,’ said Mould, drawing his silk handkerchief over his head again, and composing himself for a nap ‘one would almost feel disposed to bury for nothing; and do it neatly, too!’

Mrs Mould and her daughters fully concurred in these remarks; the subject of which had by this time reached the street, where she experienced so much inconvenience from the air, that she was obliged to stand under an archway for a short time, to recover herself. Even after this precaution, she walked so unsteadily as to attract the compassionate regards of divers kind-hearted boys, who took the liveliest interest in her disorder; and in their simple language bade her be of good cheer, for she was ‘only a little screwed.’

Whatever she was, or whatever name the vocabulary of medical science would have bestowed upon her malady, Mrs Gamp was perfectly acquainted with the way home again; and arriving at the house of Anthony Chuzzlewit & Son, lay down to rest. Remaining there until seven o’clock in the evening, and then persuading poor old Chuffey to betake himself to bed, she sallied forth upon her new engagement. First, she went to her private lodgings in Kingsgate Street, for a bundle of robes and wrappings comfortable in the night season; and then repaired to the Bull in Holborn, which she reached as the clocks were striking eight.

Il legame preciso tra queste osservazioni e il bicchiere di rum non divenne evidente; infatti, la signora Gamp, proponendo come brindisi “Buona fortuna a tutti!”, bevve il liquore in modo piuttosto “scientifico”, senza aggiungere altre parole.

“E allora, quali novità ci sono, signora Gamp?” chiese di nuovo Mould, mentre quella donna si puliva le labbra con il suo scialle e mordicchiava un angolo di un biscotto morbido che sembrava portare sempre in tasca, come provvista per eventuali bisogni improvvisi. “E come va il signor Chuffey?”

“Signor Chuffey, sì,” rispose lei, “è esattamente come al solito; non è né meglio né peggio. Trovo molto gentile da parte del signore avervi scritto per dirvi: ‘Lasciate che la signora Gamp si prenda cura di lui fino al mio ritorno a casa’; ma tutto ciò che fa è davvero gentile. Non ce ne sono molti come lui. Se ci fossero, non avremmo bisogno delle chiese.”

“Di cosa vuole parlarmi, signora Gamp?”, disse Mould, andando subito al punto.

“Ecco, signore,” rispose la signora Gamp, “grazie per avermelo chiesto. C’è davvero un gentiluomo al Bull in Holborn che si è ammalato lì e ora sta molto male. Hanno assunto una infermiera per la notte, come consigliato da Bartholomew; beh, io la conosco bene, signor Mould. Si chiama signora Prig, ed è davvero una brava persona. Ma lei ha altri impegni di notte, e loro hanno bisogno di qualcuno che vegli sul malato. Così mi ha detto, dopo avermi dimostrato grande stima per vent’anni: ‘La persona più affidabile e preziosa in una stanza di malati è la signora Gamp. Mandate un ragazzo a Kingsgate Street e portatela qui a tutti i costi. La signora Gamp vale davvero il suo peso in guinee d’oro.’ Il mio padrone di casa mi ha portato questo messaggio e mi ha chiesto: ‘Visto che si tratta di un incarico facile e ben retribuito, perché non unirli entrambi?’ Ma no, signore. Non senza il permesso del signor Mould, almeno. Comunque, andrò da lui a chiederglielo, se volete.” A quel punto guardò di sottecchi l’impresario di pompe funebri e si fermò.

“La guardia di notte, eh?”, disse Mould, strofinandosi il mento.

“Dalle otto in punto fino alle otto, signore. Non vi ingannerò,” ribatté la signora Gamp.

“E poi tornare indietro, eh?” disse Will.

“Allora, signore, posso dedicarmi completamente al signor Chuffey. Poiché i suoi comportamenti sono tranquilli e le sue attività iniziano presto la mattina, di solito è già a letto quasi tutto il tempo. Non negherò,” disse la signora Gamp con umiltà, “che sia solo una donna povera e che i soldi siano un problema. Ma non lasciate che questo vi influenzi, signor Mould. I ricchi possono anche cavalcare cammelli, ma per loro non è facile vedere attraverso l’occhio di una aguglia. Questa è la mia consolazione, e spero di conoscerla bene.”

“Beh, signora Gamp,” osservò Mould, “non vedo alcun motivo particolare per cui lei non possa guadagnarsi onestamente da vivere in queste circostanze. Penso che dovrebbe tenere la cosa per sé, signora Gamp. Non ne parlerei a Mr Chuzzlewit al suo ritorno, a meno che non fosse necessario, o che lui non me lo chiedesse esplicitamente.”

“Esattamente quelle parole stavano per uscire dalle mie labbra, signore,” rispose la signora Gamp. “Supponendo che quel gentiluomo dovesse morire, spero di potermi permettere di dire ciò che so riguardo a qualcuno nel settore delle imprese funebri, senza offendervi, signore, ”

“Certamente, signora Gamp,” disse Mould con grande condiscendenza. “In un caso del genere, potreste tranquillamente menzionare che noi facciamo queste cose in modo piacevole e con molta varietà di metodi, e che generalmente si ritiene che rendiamo l’esperienza il più gradevole possibile per i sentimenti delle persone coinvolte. Ma non insistete troppo. Calma, calma! Mia cara, potreste benissimo dare una o due carte alla signora Gamp, se vi fa piacere.”

La signora Gamp li accolse; non avvertendo più l’odore del rum nell’aria (poiché la bottiglia era stata di nuovo chiusa a chiave), si preparò ad andarsene.

“Desidero tutta la felicità possibile a questa famiglia felice,” disse la signora Gamp “con tutto il mio cuore. Buon pomeriggio, signora Mould! Se fossi un uomo, sarei geloso di lei, signora; e sono sicura che, se fossi al suo posto, sarei gelosa del signor Mould.”

“Tut, tut! Bah, bah! Andate pure avanti, signora Gamp!” gridò l’impresario di pompe funebri, felicissimo.

“Per quanto riguarda le giovani signorine,” disse la signora Gamp facendo una riverenza, “che bellezza hanno. Come possano conciliare questa loro bellezza con i doveri che comporta essere così adulte con genitori così giovani. Solo io potrei provare a indovinare.”

“Sciocchezze, sciocchezze. Vada via, signora Gamp!” gridò Mould. Ma, nel pieno della sua soddisfazione, in realtà strinse la signora Mould mentre lo diceva.

“Ti dico una cosa, cara mia,” osservò lui quando finalmente la signora Gamp si fu ritirata e chiuse la porta. “Quella è davvero una donna molto astuta. Una donna il cui intelletto è di gran lunga superiore al suo rango sociale. Una donna che osserva e riflette in modo insolito. Il tipo di donna, insomma,” continuò Mould, ripiegando nuovamente il fazzoletto di seta sulla testa e preparandosi a sonnecchiare, “che uno quasi sentirebbe il desiderio di seppellirla. E per di più farlo in modo pulito e ordinato!”

La signora Mould e sue figlie concordavano pienamente con queste osservazioni; l’argomento di cui si trattava era ormai giunto in strada, dove lei subì tanti disagi a causa dell’aria fresca che fu costretta a riposare per un momento sotto un arco per riprendersi. Anche dopo questa precauzione, camminava con tale instabilità da attirare l’attenzione di alcuni ragazzi gentili e premurosi, i quali si interessarono molto al suo stato; con parole semplici le dissero di non preoccuparsi, perché “era solo un po’ sballata”.

Qualunque cosa fosse, o quale nome il lessico della scienza medica avesse potuto dare alla sua malattia, la signora Gamp conosceva perfettamente i modi per tornare a casa. Arrivata alla casa di Anthony Chuzzlewit & Figli, si sdraiò per riposare. Rimase lì fino alle sette di sera, poi convinse il povero vecchio Chuffey ad andare a letto, e infine uscì per recarsi al suo nuovo impegno. Prima andò ai suoi alloggi privati in Kingsgate Street, per prendere un mucchio di abiti e coperte confortevoli per la stagione invernale; poi si recò al Bull in Holborn, dove arrivò alle otto in punto.

As she turned into the yard, she stopped; for the landlord, landlady, and head chambermaid, were all on the threshold together talking earnestly with a young gentleman who seemed to have just come or to be just going away. The first words that struck upon Mrs Gamp’s ear obviously bore reference to the patient; and it being expedient that all good attendants should know as much as possible about the case on which their skill is brought to bear, Mrs Gamp listened as a matter of duty.

‘No better, then?’ observed the gentleman.

‘Worse!’ said the landlord.

‘Much worse,’ added the landlady.

‘Oh! a deal badder,’ cried the chambermaid from the background, opening her eyes very wide, and shaking her head.

‘Poor fellow!’ said the gentleman, ‘I am sorry to hear it. The worst of it is, that I have no idea what friends or relations he has, or where they live, except that it certainly is not in London.’

The landlord looked at the landlady; the landlady looked at the landlord; and the chambermaid remarked, hysterically, ‘that of all the many wague directions she had ever seen or heerd of (and they wasn’t few in an hotel), THAT was the waguest.’

‘The fact is, you see,’ pursued the gentleman, ‘as I told you yesterday when you sent to me, I really know very little about him. We were school-fellows together; but since that time I have only met him twice. On both occasions I was in London for a boy’s holiday (having come up for a week or so from Wiltshire), and lost sight of him again directly. The letter bearing my name and address which you found upon his table, and which led to your applying to me, is in answer, you will observe, to one he wrote from this house the very day he was taken ill, making an appointment with him at his own request. Here is his letter, if you wish to see it.’

The landlord read it; the landlady looked over him. The chambermaid, in the background, made out as much of it as she could, and invented the rest; believing it all from that time forth as a positive piece of evidence.

‘He has very little luggage, you say?’ observed the gentleman, who was no other than our old friend, John Westlock.

‘Nothing but a portmanteau,’ said the landlord; ‘and very little in it.’

‘A few pounds in his purse, though?’

‘Yes. It’s sealed up, and in the cash-box. I made a memorandum of the amount, which you’re welcome to see.’

‘Well!’ said John, ‘as the medical gentleman says the fever must take its course, and nothing can be done just now beyond giving him his drinks regularly and having him carefully attended to, nothing more can be said that I know of, until he is in a condition to give us some information. Can you suggest anything else?’

‘N-no,’ replied the landlord, ‘except—’

‘Except, who’s to pay, I suppose?’ said John.

‘Why,’ hesitated the landlord, ‘it would be as well.’

‘Quite as well,’ said the landlady.

‘Not forgetting to remember the servants,’ said the chambermaid in a bland whisper.

‘It is but reasonable, I fully admit,’ said John Westlock. ‘At all events, you have the stock in hand to go upon for the present; and I will readily undertake to pay the doctor and the nurses.’

‘Ah!’ cried Mrs Gamp. ‘A rayal gentleman!’

She groaned her admiration so audibly, that they all turned round. Mrs Gamp felt the necessity of advancing, bundle in hand, and introducing herself.

‘The night-nurse,’ she observed, ‘from Kingsgate Street, well beknown to Mrs Prig the day-nurse, and the best of creeturs. How is the poor dear gentleman to-night? If he an’t no better yet, still that is what must be expected and prepared for. It an’t the fust time by a many score, ma’am,’ dropping a curtsey to the landlady, ‘that Mrs Prig and me has nussed together, turn and turn about, one off, one on. We knows each other’s ways, and often gives relief when others fail. Our charges is but low, sir’—Mrs Gamp addressed herself to John on this head—‘considerin’ the nater of our painful dooty. If they wos made accordin’ to our wishes, they would be easy paid.’

Regarding herself as having now delivered her inauguration address, Mrs Gamp curtseyed all round, and signified her wish to be conducted to the scene of her official duties. The chambermaid led her, through a variety of intricate passages, to the top of the house; and pointing at length to a solitary door at the end of a gallery, informed her that yonder was the chamber where the patient lay. That done, she hurried off with all the speed she could make.

Mrs Gamp traversed the gallery in a great heat from having carried her large bundle up so many stairs, and tapped at the door which was immediately opened by Mrs Prig, bonneted and shawled and all impatience to be gone. Mrs Prig was of the Gamp build, but not so fat; and her voice was deeper and more like a man’s. She had also a beard.

‘I began to think you warn’t a-coming!’ Mrs Prig observed, in some displeasure.

‘It shall be made good to-morrow night,’ said Mrs Gamp ‘Honorable. I had to go and fetch my things.’ She had begun to make signs of inquiry in reference to the position of the patient and his overhearing them—for there was a screen before the door—when Mrs Prig settled that point easily.

‘Oh!’ she said aloud, ‘he’s quiet, but his wits is gone. It an’t no matter wot you say.’

‘Anythin’ to tell afore you goes, my dear?’ asked Mrs Gamp, setting her bundle down inside the door, and looking affectionately at her partner.

‘The pickled salmon,’ Mrs Prig replied, ‘is quite delicious. I can partlck’ler recommend it. Don’t have nothink to say to the cold meat, for it tastes of the stable. The drinks is all good.’

Mrs Gamp expressed herself much gratified.

‘The physic and them things is on the drawers and mankleshelf,’ said Mrs Prig, cursorily. ‘He took his last slime draught at seven. The easy-chair an’t soft enough. You’ll want his piller.’

Mrs Gamp thanked her for these hints, and giving her a friendly good night, held the door open until she had disappeared at the other end of the gallery. Having thus performed the hospitable duty of seeing her safely off, she shut it, locked it on the inside, took up her bundle, walked round the screen, and entered on her occupation of the sick chamber.

Mentre entrava nel cortile, si fermò: il padrone di casa, la padrona di casa e la cameriera capo erano tutti insieme sul portone, discutendo seriamente con un giovane signore che sembrava essere appena arrivato o stesse per andarsene. Le prime parole che raggiunsero le orecchie della signora Gamp riguardavano ovviamente il paziente; e poiché era opportuno che tutti i migliori assistenti conoscessero il più possibile su quella situazione per cui veniva chiamata la loro abilità, la signora Gamp ascoltò, ritenendolo suo dovere.

“Niente di meglio, allora?” osservò il gentiluomo.

“Peggio ancora!”, disse il proprietario.

“Molto peggio,” aggiunse la padrona di casa.

“Oh! Una situazione ancora peggiore,” gridò la cameriera da dietro, aprendo molto gli occhi e scuotendo la testa.

“Povero ragazzo!”, disse il gentiluomo, “Mi dispiace molto sentirlo dire. Il peggio è che non ho la minima idea di quali amici o parenti abbia, né dove vivano, sebbene sia certo che non si trovino a Londra.”

Il padrone di casa guardò la padrona di casa; la padrona di casa guardò il padrone di casa; e la cameriera, in modo isterico, commentò: “Di tutte le stranezze che aveva mai visto o sentito (e non erano poche in un hotel), questa era davvero la più assurda”.

“Il fatto è,” proseguì il gentiluomo, “come vi ho detto ieri quando mi avete scritto, che in realtà so molto poco su di lui. Eravamo compagni di scuola; ma da allora l’ho incontrato solo due volte. Entrambe le volte mi trovavo a Londra per le vacanze estive (essendo arrivato da Wiltshire per una settimana circa) e subito dopo l’ho perso di vista. La lettera con il mio nome e indirizzo che avete trovato sul suo tavolo, e che vi ha spinto a contattarmi, in realtà è una risposta a quella che lui stesso aveva scritto da questa casa il giorno stesso in cui si ammalò, chiedendomi di incontrarlo su sua richiesta. Ecco la sua lettera, se desiderate vederla.”

Il padrone di casa lo lesse; la padrona di casa lo esaminò attentamente. La cameriera, in sottofondo, cercò di capirne il più possibile e inventò il resto; da quel momento in poi, credette tutto ciò fosse una prova concreta e affidabile.

“Ha molto poco bagaglio, dite?” osservò il gentiluomo, che non era altri che il nostro vecchio amico John Westlock.

“Nient’altro che un portamanteau, e dentro ci sta davvero molto poco,” disse il proprietario di casa.

“Qualche sterlina nel suo portafoglio, però, ”

“Sì. È stato sigillato e si trova nella cassaforte. Ho redatto un promemoria con l’importo esatto; potete tranquillamente darci un’occhiata.”

‘Beh!’ disse John, ‘come dice il medico, la febbre deve seguire il suo corso; al momento non possiamo fare altro che dargli da bere regolarmente e prendersi cura di lui con attenzione. Non so nulla di più, finché non sarà in condizioni di darci qualche informazione. Potete suggerire qualcos’altro?’

“M-mai,” rispose il proprietario, “tranne che, ”

“Tranne che, chi dovrà pagare, immagino?” disse John.

“Perché,” esitò il proprietario, “sarebbe comunque lo stesso.”

“Piuttosto bene,” disse la padrona di casa.

“Non dimentichiamo di ricordarci dei servitori,” disse la cameriera sussurrando dolcemente.

“È del tutto ragionevole, lo ammetto pienamente,” disse John Westlock. “In ogni caso, avete le risorse necessarie per procedere al momento; e sarò più che felice di pagare il dottore e le infermiere.”

“Ah!”, esclamò la signora Gamp. “Un vero gentiluomo!”

Esprimeva la sua ammirazione in modo così udibile che tutti si girarono verso di lei. La signora Gamp sentì la necessità di avvicinarsi, con il fagotto in mano, e di presentarsi.

“La infermiera di notte,” osservò, “di Kingsgate Street, ben conosciuta dalla signora Prig durante il giorno, e davvero una persona eccellente. Come sta quel povero gentiluomo di notte? Anche se non si è ancora ripreso, bisogna comunque prepararsi a questa eventualità. Non è certo la prima volta che io e la signora Prig ci occupiamo insieme delle stesse persone, avanti e indietro. Ci conosciamo bene le rispettive abitudini, e spesso possiamo offrire un aiuto quando gli altri falliscono. Il nostro compenso è davvero modesto, signore, ” La signora Gamp si rivolse a John su questo argomento. “Considerando la natura del nostro compito difficile, se solo venisse pagato secondo i nostri desideri, sarebbe più che giusto.”

Ritenendo di aver ormai pronunciato il proprio discorso di insediamento, la signora Gamp fece un inchino a tutti e manifestò il desiderio di essere accompagnata sul luogo dove avrebbe svolto le proprie mansioni ufficiali. La cameriera la guidò, attraverso varie stanze complesse, fino al piano superiore della casa; dopo aver indicato una porta solitaria all’estremità di un corridoio, le spiegò che lì si trovava la stanza dove giaceva il paziente. Detto questo, se ne andò il più in fretta possibile.

La signora Gamp attraversò la galleria, visibilmente accaldata per aver portato su tanti gradini quel grosso fagotto, e bussò alla porta che fu immediatamente aperta dalla signora Prig: quest’ultima, con cappello e sciarpa addosso, era ansiosa di andarsene. La signora Prig aveva la stessa corporatura della signora Gamp, ma non era così grassa; inoltre, la sua voce era più profonda e assomigliava di più a quella di un uomo. Aveva anche la barba.

“Cominciavo a pensare che non saresti venuto!”, osservò la signora Prig, con evidente disappunto.

“Domani notte tutto verrà sistemato,” disse la signora Gamp. “Dovevo andare a prendere le mie cose.” Aveva iniziato a fare segni per chiedere informazioni sulla condizione del paziente e se li avesse sentiti, poiché c’era una tenda davanti alla porta, quando la signora Prig risolse facilmente quella questione.

“Oh!”, esclamò ad alta voce, “è silenzioso, ma ha perso la ragione. Non importa cosa tu dica.”

“C’è qualcosa che vuoi dirmi prima di andartene, caro?” chiese la signora Gamp, posando il suo fagotto all’interno della porta e guardando con affetto il suo compagno.

“Il salmone in scatola,” rispose la signora Prig, “è davvero delizioso. Posso consigliarlo caldamente. Non ho nulla da dire sulla carne fredda, perché ha un sapore, beh, di stalla. I drink invece sono tutti ottimi.”

La signora Gamp si dichiarò molto soddisfatta.

“La medicina e tutte quelle cose sono negli armadietti e sugli scaffali,” disse Mrs Prig con noncuranza. “Ha preso l’ultima dose di quella sostanza vischiosa alle sette. La poltrona non è abbastanza morbida. Avrai bisogno del suo supporto per le pillole.”

La signora Gamp le ringraziò per questi suggerimenti e, augurandole una buona notte in modo cordiale, tenne la porta aperta finché lei non scomparve all’altra estremità del corridoio. Dopo aver adempiuto così al dovere di ospitalità di assicurarsi che se ne andasse in sicurezza, chiuse la porta, la bloccò dall’interno, raccolse il proprio fagotto, aggirò lo schermo e tornò alle sue occupazioni nella stanza del malato.

‘A little dull, but not so bad as might be,’ Mrs Gamp remarked. ‘I’m glad to see a parapidge, in case of fire, and lots of roofs and chimley-pots to walk upon.’

It will be seen from these remarks that Mrs Gamp was looking out of window. When she had exhausted the prospect, she tried the easy-chair, which she indignantly declared was ‘harder than a brickbadge.’ Next she pursued her researches among the physic-bottles, glasses, jugs, and tea-cups; and when she had entirely satisfied her curiosity on all these subjects of investigation, she untied her bonnet-strings and strolled up to the bedside to take a look at the patient.

A young man—dark and not ill-looking—with long black hair, that seemed the blacker for the whiteness of the bed-clothes. His eyes were partly open, and he never ceased to roll his head from side to side upon the pillow, keeping his body almost quiet. He did not utter words; but every now and then gave vent to an expression of impatience or fatigue, sometimes of surprise; and still his restless head—oh, weary, weary hour!—went to and fro without a moment’s intermission.

Mrs Gamp solaced herself with a pinch of snuff, and stood looking at him with her head inclined a little sideways, as a connoisseur might gaze upon a doubtful work of art. By degrees, a horrible remembrance of one branch of her calling took possession of the woman; and stooping down, she pinned his wandering arms against his sides, to see how he would look if laid out as a dead man. Her fingers itched to compose his limbs in that last marble attitude.

‘Ah!’ said Mrs Gamp, walking away from the bed, ‘he’d make a lovely corpse.’

She now proceeded to unpack her bundle; lighted a candle with the aid of a fire-box on the drawers; filled a small kettle, as a preliminary to refreshing herself with a cup of tea in the course of the night; laid what she called ‘a little bit of fire,’ for the same philanthropic purpose; and also set forth a small tea-board, that nothing might be wanting for her comfortable enjoyment. These preparations occupied so long, that when they were brought to a conclusion it was high time to think about supper; so she rang the bell and ordered it.

‘I think, young woman,’ said Mrs Gamp to the assistant chambermaid, in a tone expressive of weakness, ‘that I could pick a little bit of pickled salmon, with a nice little sprig of fennel, and a sprinkling of white pepper. I takes new bread, my dear, with just a little pat of fresh butter, and a mossel of cheese. In case there should be such a thing as a cowcumber in the ‘ouse, will you be so kind as bring it, for I’m rather partial to ‘em, and they does a world of good in a sick room. If they draws the Brighton Old Tipper here, I takes THAT ale at night, my love, it bein’ considered wakeful by the doctors. And whatever you do, young woman, don’t bring more than a shilling’s-worth of gin and water-warm when I rings the bell a second time; for that is always my allowance, and I never takes a drop beyond!’

Having preferred these moderate requests, Mrs Gamp observed that she would stand at the door until the order was executed, to the end that the patient might not be disturbed by her opening it a second time; and therefore she would thank the young woman to ‘look sharp.’

A tray was brought with everything upon it, even to the cucumber and Mrs Gamp accordingly sat down to eat and drink in high good humour. The extent to which she availed herself of the vinegar, and supped up that refreshing fluid with the blade of her knife, can scarcely be expressed in narrative.

‘Ah!’ sighed Mrs Gamp, as she meditated over the warm shilling’s-worth, ‘what a blessed thing it is—living in a wale—to be contented! What a blessed thing it is to make sick people happy in their beds, and never mind one’s self as long as one can do a service! I don’t believe a finer cowcumber was ever grow’d. I’m sure I never see one!’

She moralised in the same vein until her glass was empty, and then administered the patient’s medicine, by the simple process of clutching his windpipe to make him gasp, and immediately pouring it down his throat.

‘I a’most forgot the piller, I declare!’ said Mrs Gamp, drawing it away. ‘There! Now he’s comfortable as he can be, I’m sure! I must try to make myself as much so as I can.’

With this view, she went about the construction of an extemporaneous bed in the easy-chair, with the addition of the next easy one for her feet. Having formed the best couch that the circumstances admitted of, she took out of her bundle a yellow night-cap, of prodigious size, in shape resembling a cabbage; which article of dress she fixed and tied on with the utmost care, previously divesting herself of a row of bald old curls that could scarcely be called false, they were so very innocent of anything approaching to deception. From the same repository she brought forth a night-jacket, in which she also attired herself. Finally, she produced a watchman’s coat which she tied round her neck by the sleeves, so that she become two people; and looked, behind, as if she were in the act of being embraced by one of the old patrol.

All these arrangements made, she lighted the rush-light, coiled herself up on her couch, and went to sleep. Ghostly and dark the room became, and full of lowering shadows. The distant noises in the streets were gradually hushed; the house was quiet as a sepulchre; the dead of night was coffined in the silent city.

Oh, weary, weary hour! Oh, haggard mind, groping darkly through the past; incapable of detaching itself from the miserable present; dragging its heavy chain of care through imaginary feasts and revels, and scenes of awful pomp; seeking but a moment’s rest among the long-forgotten haunts of childhood, and the resorts of yesterday; and dimly finding fear and horror everywhere! Oh, weary, weary hour! What were the wanderings of Cain, to these!

“Un po’ noioso, ma non così male come potrebbe essere,” osservò la signora Gamp.
“Sono contenta di vedere dei piccioni viaggiatori: in caso di incendio, sarebbero utili, e poi ci sono tanti tetti e comignoli su cui camminare.”

Si può dedurre da queste osservazioni che la signora Gamp stava guardando fuori dalla finestra. Dopo aver esaminato tutto ciò che si vedeva dall’esterno, provò il divano, che dichiarò con indignazione essere “più duro di un distintivo di mattoni”. Poi continuò le sue ricerche tra le bottiglie di medicina, i bicchieri, le giare e le tazze da tè; e quando ebbe completamente soddisfatto la sua curiosità su tutti questi oggetti, sciolse i lacci del suo cappello e si avvicinò al letto per dare un’occhiata al paziente.

Un giovane uomo – scuro di pelle e non sgradevole d’aspetto – con lunghi capelli neri, che sembravano ancora più neri per il bianco delle lenzuola. I suoi occhi erano parzialmente aperti, e non smetteva mai di girare la testa da una parte all’altra sul cuscino, mantenendo il proprio corpo quasi immobile. Non pronunciava parole; ma di tanto in tanto esprimeva segni di impazienza o stanchezza, a volte anche sorpresa; e la sua testa inquieta, oh, quante ore interminabili, continuava a muoversi avanti e indietro senza sosta.

La signora Gamp si consolò con un pizzico di tabacco e rimase a guardarlo, inclinando leggermente la testa di lato, come un intenditore che osserva un’opera d’arte dubbia. Gradualmente, un orribile ricordo legato al suo mestiere prese il sopravvento su di lei; si chinò e fissò le sue braccia distese, per vedere com’avesse l’aspetto se fosse stato adagiato come un morto. Le sue dita avevano voglia di sistemargli le membra in quella posizione definitiva, come se fosse davvero una statua di marmo.

“Ah!”, esclamò la signora Gamp allontanandosi dal letto, “sarebbe un cadavere davvero bello, ”

Ora iniziò ad aprire il suo fagotto; accese una candela con l’aiuto di una scatola per il fuoco posizionata sui cassetti; riempì una piccola pentola, come preparativo per rinfrescarsi con una tazza di tè durante la notte; accese quella che chiamava “una piccola quantità di fuoco”, per lo stesso scopo filantropico; e predispose anche un piccolo tavolino da tè, affinché nulla mancasse per il suo confortevole divertimento. Queste preparazioni richiesero molto tempo; quando finalmente furono terminate, era ormai molto tardi per pensare alla cena, quindi suonò la campanella e ne ordinò la preparazione.

“Penso, giovane donna,” disse la signora Gamp all’assistente delle cameriere, con un tono che esprimeva debolezza, “che potrei prendere un po’ di salmone in scatola, insieme a un bel rametto di finocchio e un pizzico di pepe bianco. Mi piace molto il pane fresco, mio caro, con solo un filo di burro fresco e una fetta di formaggio. Se per caso in casa ci fosse del ‘cowcumber’, potresti essere così gentile da portarmelo. Ne ho davvero una grande passione, e fa molto bene nelle stanze dei malati. E se dovesse venire qui il ‘Brighton Old Tipper’, mi piace quell’ale di sera, mio caro. Secondo i dottori è un ottimo bevanda per tenersi svegli. E, per favore, giovane donna, non portare mai più di una sterlina di gin mescolato con acqua tiepida quando suonerò il campanello per la seconda volta. Quella è sempre la mia razione, e non ne prendo mai di più!”

Avendo preferito queste richieste moderate, la signora Gamp osservò che sarebbe rimasta alla porta fino all’esecuzione dell’ordine, affinché il paziente non venisse disturbato dal suo riaprire la porta una seconda volta; e perciò ringraziò la giovane donna di “fare attenzione”.

Fu portata una tavola con tutto ciò che era necessario, compresi i cetrioli; così la signora Gamp si sedette a mangiare e bere in ottimo umore. L’entità con cui fece uso dell’aceto, e bevve quel liquido rinfrescante utilizzando la lama del suo coltello, è difficilmente descrivibile a parole.

“Ah!” sospirò la signora Gamp, riflettendo su quel caldo scellino che aveva guadagnato, “Che cosa meravigliosa è vivere in povertà e sentirsi comunque soddisfatti! Che cosa meravigliosa è rendere felici le persone malate a letto, senza mai pensare a se stessi, purché si possa essere d’aiuto agli altri. Non credo che esista mai stato nessuno più nobile di così. Sono sicura di non averne mai incontrato uno!”

Continuò a fare la predica nello stesso tono finché il suo bicchiere non fu vuoto; poi somministrò il farmaco al paziente in questo modo semplice: gli strinse la trachea per farlo ansimare e subito dopo gli versò il medicinale nella gola.

“Perdona, ma quasi mi dimenticavo di quel pilastro, ”, disse la signora Gamp, tirandolo via. “Ecco! Ora è sicuramente comodo quanto possibile. Devo cercare anch’io di stare il più comoda possibile.”

Con questo piano in mente, iniziò a preparare un “letto” improvvisato utilizzando la poltrona, aggiungendo poi un’altra poltrona per posizionare i piedi. Dopo aver creato il miglior “divano” possibile date le circostanze, tirò fuori dal suo fagotto un berretto da notte giallo, di dimensioni enormi e dalla forma simile a una cavolo; indossò quell’indumento con estrema cura, dopo essersi tolta una serie di vecchi riccioli ormai quasi bianchi, che a malapena si potevano definire “falsi”, poiché erano davvero troppo innocenti per essere considerati inganni. Dallo stesso fagotto tirò fuori anche un giubbotto da notte, che indossò subito dopo. Infine, estrasse un cappotto da guardiano notturno e se lo legò intorno al collo passandolo attraverso le maniche, in questo modo sembrava diventare due persone diverse; e, guardandosi alle spalle, dava l’impressione di essere abbracciata da uno dei vecchi pattugliatori.

Dopo aver fatto tutti questi preparativi, accese la lampada a olio, si rannicchiò sul divano e andò a >dormire. La stanza divenne cupa e oscura, piena di ombre scure. I rumori lontani per le strade si attenuarono gradualmente; la >casa era silenziosa come una tomba; la notte profonda avvolgeva la tranquilla >città.

Oh, ora così stancante, così faticosa. Oh, mente esausta, che si aggira nel buio del passato; incapace di liberarsi dal presente misero; che trascina con sé il pesante fardello delle preoccupazioni tra immaginari banchetti e festeggiamenti, tra scene di terribile pompa. In cerca solo di un momento di riposo tra i luoghi ormai dimenticati dell’infanzia e tra le abitudini di ieri. E che ovunque trova soltanto >paura e orrore. Oh, ora così stancante, così faticosa. Quali potevano essere i vagabondaggi di Cain al confronto?

Still, without a moment’s interval, the burning head tossed to and fro. Still, from time to time, fatigue, impatience, suffering, and surprise, found utterance upon that rack, and plainly too, though never once in words. At length, in the solemn hour of midnight, he began to talk; waiting awfully for answers sometimes; as though invisible companions were about his bed; and so replying to their speech and questioning again.

Mrs Gamp awoke, and sat up in her bed; presenting on the wall the shadow of a gigantic night constable, struggling with a prisoner.

‘Come! Hold your tongue!’ she cried, in sharp reproof. ‘Don’t make none of that noise here.’

There was no alteration in the face, or in the incessant motion of the head, but he talked on wildly.

‘Ah!’ said Mrs Gamp, coming out of the chair with an impatient shiver; ‘I thought I was a-sleepin’ too pleasant to last! The devil’s in the night, I think, it’s turned so chilly!’

‘Don’t drink so much!’ cried the sick man. ‘You’ll ruin us all. Don’t you see how the fountain sinks? Look at the mark where the sparkling water was just now!’

‘Sparkling water, indeed!’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘I’ll have a sparkling cup o’ tea, I think. I wish you’d hold your noise!’

He burst into a laugh, which, being prolonged, fell off into a dismal wail. Checking himself, with fierce inconstancy he began to count—fast.

‘One—two—three—four—five—six.’

“One, two, buckle my shoe,”’ said Mrs Gamp, who was now on her knees, lighting the fire, “three, four, shut the door,”—I wish you’d shut your mouth, young man—“five, six, picking up sticks.” If I’d got a few handy, I should have the kettle boiling all the sooner.’

Awaiting this desirable consummation, she sat down so close to the fender (which was a high one) that her nose rested upon it; and for some time she drowsily amused herself by sliding that feature backwards and forwards along the brass top, as far as she could, without changing her position to do it. She maintained, all the while, a running commentary upon the wanderings of the man in bed.

‘That makes five hundred and twenty-one men, all dressed alike, and with the same distortion on their faces, that have passed in at the window, and out at the door,’ he cried, anxiously. ‘Look there! Five hundred and twenty-two—twenty-three—twenty-four. Do you see them?’

‘Ah! I see ‘em,’ said Mrs Gamp; ‘all the whole kit of ‘em numbered like hackney-coaches, an’t they?’

‘Touch me! Let me be sure of this. Touch me!’

‘You’ll take your next draught when I’ve made the kettle bile,’ retorted Mrs Gamp, composedly, ‘and you’ll be touched then. You’ll be touched up, too, if you don’t take it quiet.’

‘Five hundred and twenty-eight, five hundred and twenty-nine, five hundred and thirty.—Look here!’

‘What’s the matter now?’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘They’re coming four abreast, each man with his arm entwined in the next man’s, and his hand upon his shoulder. What’s that upon the arm of every man, and on the flag?’

‘Spiders, p’raps,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘Crape! Black crape! Good God! why do they wear it outside?’

‘Would you have ‘em carry black crape in their insides?’ Mrs Gamp retorted. ‘Hold your noise, hold your noise.’

The fire beginning by this time to impart a grateful warmth, Mrs Gamp became silent; gradually rubbed her nose more and more slowly along the top of the fender; and fell into a heavy doze. She was awakened by the room ringing (as she fancied) with a name she knew:

‘Chuzzlewit!’

The sound was so distinct and real, and so full of agonised entreaty, that Mrs Gamp jumped up in terror, and ran to the door. She expected to find the passage filled with people, come to tell her that the house in the city had taken fire. But the place was empty; not a soul was there. She opened the window, and looked out. Dark, dull, dingy, and desolate house-tops. As she passed to her seat again, she glanced at the patient. Just the same; but silent. Mrs Gamp was so warm now, that she threw off the watchman’s coat, and fanned herself.

‘It seemed to make the wery bottles ring,’ she said. ‘What could I have been a-dreaming of? That dratted Chuffey, I’ll be bound.’

The supposition was probable enough. At any rate, a pinch of snuff, and the song of the steaming kettle, quite restored the tone of Mrs Gamp’s nerves, which were none of the weakest. She brewed her tea; made some buttered toast; and sat down at the tea-board, with her face to the fire.

When once again, in a tone more terrible than that which had vibrated in her slumbering ear, these words were shrieked out:

‘Chuzzlewit! Jonas! No!’

Mrs Gamp dropped the cup she was in the act of raising to her lips, and turned round with a start that made the little tea-board leap. The cry had come from the bed.

It was bright morning the next time Mrs Gamp looked out of the window, and the sun was rising cheerfully. Lighter and lighter grew the sky, and noisier the streets; and high into the summer air uprose the smoke of newly kindled fires, until the busy day was broad awake.

Mrs Prig relieved punctually, having passed a good night at her other patient’s. Mr Westlock came at the same time, but he was not admitted, the disorder being infectious. The doctor came too. The doctor shook his head. It was all he could do, under the circumstances, and he did it well.

‘What sort of a night, nurse?’

‘Restless, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘Talk much?’

‘Middling, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘Nothing to the purpose, I suppose?’

‘Oh bless you, no, sir. Only jargon.’

‘Well!’ said the doctor, ‘we must keep him quiet; keep the room cool; give him his draughts regularly; and see that he’s carefully looked to. That’s all!’

‘And as long as Mrs Prig and me waits upon him, sir, no fear of that,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘I suppose,’ observed Mrs Prig, when they had curtseyed the doctor out; ‘there’s nothin’ new?’

‘Nothin’ at all, my dear,’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘He’s rather wearin’ in his talk from making up a lot of names; elseways you needn’t mind him.’

‘Oh, I shan’t mind him,’ Mrs Prig returned. ‘I have somethin’ else to think of.’

‘I pays my debts to-night, you know, my dear, and comes afore my time,’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘But, Betsy Prig’—speaking with great feeling, and laying her hand upon her arm—‘try the cowcumbers, God bless you!’

Eppure, senza un attimo di pausa, quella testa ardente continuava a dondolarsi avanti e indietro. Eppure, da tempo a tempo, stanchezza, impazienza, sofferenza e sorpresa trovavano modo di esprimersi su quel patibolo, in modo chiaro, anche se mai con parole. Alla fine, nell’ora solenne di mezzanotte, iniziò a parlare; a volte aspettando con terrore delle risposte, come se compagni invisibili fossero intorno al suo letto, e così rispondeva alle loro “voci” e poneva nuove domande.

La signora Gamp si svegliò e si sedette sul letto; sulla parete apparve l’ombra di un gigantesco poliziotto di notte che lottava con un prigioniero.

“Ma come! Tieni a bada la lingua!” gridò lei, rimproverandolo aspramente. “Non fare tutto questo rumore qui dentro.”

Non c’era alcun cambiamento nel suo viso, né nell’ininterrotto movimento della testa; continuava comunque a parlare in modo delirante.

“Ah!” esclamò la signora Gamp, alzandosi dalla sedia con un brivido di impazienza; “Pensavo di stare dormendo così bene che non sarebbe mai finito. Credo ci sia il diavolo in giro questa notte; fa davvero un freddo terribile!”

“Non bere così tanto!”, gridò l’uomo malato. “Ci rovinerai tutti. Non vedi come il pozzo si sta prosciugando? Guarda quel segno dove poco fa c’era l’acqua limpida e scintillante, ”

“Acqua frizzante, davvero!” disse la signora Gamp. “Penso che prenderò una tazza di tè frizzante. Vorrei che smetteste di fare rumore!”

Scoppiò a ridere, ma quella risata, prolungandosi, si trasformò in un lamento triste e desolato. Riprendendosi, con una mancanza di coerenza totale, iniziò a contare, velocemente.

“Uno–due–tre–quattro–cinque–sei.”

“Uno, due, allaccia il mio scarpe,” disse la signora Gamp, che ora era in ginocchio e stava accendendo il fuoco, “tre, quattro, chiudi la porta, ” Vorrei proprio che tu tacessi, giovane, “cinque, sei, raccogli i rametti.” Se avessi avuto alcuni rametti a portata di mano, il bollitore sarebbe già pronto.

In attesa di questa desiderata realizzazione, si sedette così vicina al parafango (che era piuttosto alto) che il suo naso vi si appoggiò; per un po’ si divertì pigramente a spostarlo avanti e indietro lungo la superficie in ottone, per quanto possibile, senza cambiare posizione. Nel frattempo, continuava a commentare ciò che accadeva nella stanza da letto.

“Quindi sono cinquecentoventuno uomini, tutti vestiti allo stesso modo e con la stessa deformazione sul viso, quelli che sono entrati dalla finestra ed usciti dalla porta,” gridò ansiosamente. “Guardate lì! Cinquecentoventidue, ventitré, ventiquattro. Li vedete?”

“Ah! Li vedo,” disse la signora Gamp; “tutta quella roba, numerata come le carrozze di piazza, vero?”

“Toccami! Devo esserne sicura. Toccami!”

“Prenderai la tua prossima tazza di tè quando avrò fatto bollire la pentola,” ribatté Mrs Gamp con calma, “e allora sarai colpito. Sarai anche peggio se non la bevi in silenzio.”

“Quattrocentoventotto, quattrocentoventinove, cinquecentotrenta. Guardate qui!”

“Che c’è adesso?” disse la signora Gamp.

“Vengono quattro uno accanto all’altro, ognuno con il braccio intrecciato a quello del vicino e la mano posata sulla sua spalla. Cosa c’è sul braccio di ogni uomo, e sulla bandiera?”

“Forse sono ragni,” disse la signora Gamp.

“Cravatta nera! Mio Dio, perché la indossano all’aperto?”

“Vorreste che avessero il lutto nero dentro di loro?” ribatté la signora Gamp. “State zitta, state zitta.”

La fiamma, che a quell’ora iniziava a diffondere un calore piacevole, fece sì che la signora Gamp rimanesse in silenzio; gradualmente iniziò ad strofinarsi il naso sempre più lentamente contro la parte superiore del parafango, e si addormentò profondamente. Fu svegliata dal suono della stanza che, secondo lei, echeggiava con un nome che conosceva bene.

“Chuzzlewit!”

Il suono era così distinto e reale, pieno di suppliche angosciate, che la signora Gamp balzò in piedi dal terrore e corse verso la porta. Si aspettava di trovare il corridoio pieno di persone venute a dirle che la casa nella città era andata a fuoco. Ma il posto era vuoto; non c’era anima viva. Aprì la finestra e guardò fuori: tetti scuri, tetri, squallidi e desolati. Tornando al suo posto, gettò un’occhiata al paziente. Era sempre lo stesso, ma silenzioso. La signora Gamp ormai si sentiva così riscaldata che si tolse il cappotto del custode e iniziò a farsi aria con esso.

“Sembrava che facesse suonare quelle maledette bottiglie,” disse lei. “Di cosa avrei potuto sognare? Quel maledetto Chuffey. Deve essere stato per colpa sua.”

Quella supposizione sembrava abbastanza plausibile. Comunque, un pizzico di tabacco da fiuto e il suono della pentola che bolliva ripristinarono immediatamente la calma dei nervi di Mrs Gamp, i quali non erano certo deboli. Preparò il tè, fece del pane tostato con burro e si sedette al tavolo da tè, con il viso rivolto verso il fuoco.

Quando ancora una volta, con un tono più terribile di quello che aveva risuonato nel suo orecchio addormentato, queste parole furono urlate:

“Chuzzlewit! Jonas! No!”

La signora Gamp lasciò cadere la tazza che stava per portare alle labbra e si girò di scatto, con tale violenza che il piccolo vassoio da tè sobbalzò. Quel grido proveniva dal letto.

Era una mattina luminosa; la volta successiva, la signora Gamp guardò fuori dalla finestra, e il sole sorgeva allegramente. Il cielo diventava sempre più chiaro, le strade sempre più rumorose; e nell’aria calda dell’estate si alzava il fumo dei fuochi appena accesi, fino a quando la giornata frenetica non iniziava completamente.

La signora Prig si recò puntualmente al suo altro paziente, dopo aver trascorso una buona notte con lui. Anche il signor Westlock arrivò alla stessa ora, ma non fu ammesso, poiché la malattia era contagiosa. Arrivò anche il dottore; scosse la testa. Era tutto ciò che poteva fare, date le circostanze, e lo fece in modo buono.

“Che tipo di notte è questa, infermiera?”

“Inquieto, signore,” disse la signora Gamp.

“Parli troppo?”

“Mediocre, signore,” disse la signora Gamp.

“Niente di utile, suppongo, ”

“Ah, grazie mille, no signore. Solo gergo tecnico.”

“Beh!”, disse il dottore, “dobbiamo tenerlo tranquillo; mantenere la stanza fresca; somministrargli regolarmente le medicine e assicurarci che venga curato con attenzione. È tutto!”

“E finché la signora Prig ed io ci occuperemo di lui, signore, non c’è alcun pericolo in questo,” disse la signora Gamp.

“Suppongo di no,” osservò la signora Prig dopo che ebbero salutato il dottore e lo lasciarono andare; “non c’è nulla di nuovo, vero?”

“Niente affatto, mia cara,” disse la signora Gamp. “Parla in modo un po’ strano perché inventa tanti nomi; altrimenti non dovresti preoccupartene.”

“Ah, non mi darà fastidio,” rispose la signora Prig. “Ho altre cose a cui pensare.”

“Pago i miei debiti di notte, sai, caro mio, e arriva prima del mio momento,” disse la signora Gamp. “Ma, Betsy Prig, ” – dicendo queste parole con grande emozione e posando una mano sul suo braccio – “prova quelle zucche, che Dio ti benedica!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING, AND A PROMISING PROSPECT

The laws of sympathy between beards and birds, and the secret source of that attraction which frequently impels a shaver of the one to be a dealer in the other, are questions for the subtle reasoning of scientific bodies; not the less so, because their investigation would seem calculated to lead to no particular result. It is enough to know that the artist who had the honour of entertaining Mrs Gamp as his first-floor lodger, united the two pursuits of barbering and bird-fancying; and that it was not an original idea of his, but one in which he had, dispersed about the by-streets and suburbs of the town, a host of rivals.

The name of the householder was Paul Sweedlepipe. But he was commonly called Poll Sweedlepipe; and was not uncommonly believed to have been so christened, among his friends and neighbours.

With the exception of the staircase, and his lodger’s private apartment, Poll Sweedlepipe’s house was one great bird’s nest. Gamecocks resided in the kitchen; pheasants wasted the brightness of their golden plumage on the garret; bantams roosted in the cellar; owls had possession of the bedroom; and specimens of all the smaller fry of birds chirrupped and twittered in the shop. The staircase was sacred to rabbits. There in hutches of all shapes and kinds, made from old packing-cases, boxes, drawers, and tea-chests, they increased in a prodigious degree, and contributed their share towards that complicated whiff which, quite impartially, and without distinction of persons, saluted every nose that was put into Sweedlepipe’s easy shaving-shop.

Many noses found their way there, for all that, especially on Sunday morning, before church-time. Even archbishops shave, or must be shaved, on a Sunday, and beards WILL grow after twelve o’clock on Saturday night, though it be upon the chins of base mechanics; who, not being able to engage their valets by the quarter, hire them by the job, and pay them—oh, the wickedness of copper coin!—in dirty pence. Poll Sweedlepipe, the sinner, shaved all comers at a penny each, and cut the hair of any customer for twopence; and being a lone unmarried man, and having some connection in the bird line, Poll got on tolerably well.

He was a little elderly man, with a clammy cold right hand, from which even rabbits and birds could not remove the smell of shaving-soap. Poll had something of the bird in his nature; not of the hawk or eagle, but of the sparrow, that builds in chimney-stacks and inclines to human company. He was not quarrelsome, though, like the sparrow; but peaceful, like the dove. In his walk he strutted; and, in this respect, he bore a faint resemblance to the pigeon, as well as in a certain prosiness of speech, which might, in its monotony, be likened to the cooing of that bird. He was very inquisitive; and when he stood at his shop-door in the evening-tide, watching the neighbours, with his head on one side, and his eye cocked knowingly, there was a dash of the raven in him. Yet there was no more wickedness in Poll than in a robin. Happily, too, when any of his ornithological properties were on the verge of going too far, they were quenched, dissolved, melted down, and neutralised in the barber; just as his bald head—otherwise, as the head of a shaved magpie—lost itself in a wig of curly black ringlets, parted on one side, and cut away almost to the crown, to indicate immense capacity of intellect.

Poll had a very small, shrill treble voice, which might have led the wags of Kingsgate Street to insist the more upon his feminine designation. He had a tender heart, too; for, when he had a good commission to provide three or four score sparrows for a shooting-match, he would observe, in a compassionate tone, how singular it was that sparrows should have been made expressly for such purposes. The question, whether men were made to shoot them, never entered into Poll’s philosophy.

Poll wore, in his sporting character, a velveteen coat, a great deal of blue stocking, ankle boots, a neckerchief of some bright colour, and a very tall hat. Pursuing his more quiet occupation of barber, he generally subsided into an apron not over-clean, a flannel jacket, and corduroy knee-shorts. It was in this latter costume, but with his apron girded round his waist, as a token of his having shut up shop for the night, that he closed the door one evening, some weeks after the occurrences detailed in the last chapter, and stood upon the steps in Kingsgate Street, listening until the little cracked bell within should leave off ringing. For until it did—this was Mr Sweedlepipe’s reflection—the place never seemed quiet enough to be left to itself.

‘It’s the greediest little bell to ring,’ said Poll, ‘that ever was. But it’s quiet at last.’

He rolled his apron up a little tighter as he said these words, and hastened down the street. Just as he was turning into Holborn, he ran against a young gentleman in a livery. This youth was bold, though small, and with several lively expressions of displeasure, turned upon him instantly.

‘Now, STOO-PID!’ cried the young gentleman. ‘Can’t you look where you’re a-going to—eh? Can’t you mind where you’re a-coming to—eh? What do you think your eyes was made for—eh? Ah! Yes. Oh! Now then!’

The young gentleman pronounced the two last words in a very loud tone and with frightful emphasis, as though they contained within themselves the essence of the direst aggravation. But he had scarcely done so, when his anger yielded to surprise, and he cried, in a milder tone:

‘What! Polly!’

‘Why, it an’t you, sure!’ cried Poll. ‘It can’t be you!’

‘No. It an’t me,’ returned the youth. ‘It’s my son, my oldest one. He’s a credit to his father, an’t he, Polly?’ With this delicate little piece of banter, he halted on the pavement, and went round and round in circles, for the better exhibition of his figure; rather to the inconvenience of the passengers generally, who were not in an equal state of spirits with himself.

CAPITOLO VENTISEI

Un incontro inaspettato e prospettive promettenti

Le leggi della simpatia che esistono tra barbe e uccelli, nonché la fonte nascosta di quell’attrazione che spesso spinge un uomo che si rade a diventare anche commerciante di uccelli, sono questioni destinate all’analisi approfondita da parte degli istituti scientifici; e ciò nonostante perché la loro indagine potrebbe sembrare priva di risultati concreti. Basta sapere che l’artista il quale ebbe l’onore di ospitare la signora Gamp nel suo appartamento al primo piano, combinava le due attività di barbiere e appassionato di uccelli; e che questa non fu un’idea sua originale, ma una pratica molto diffusa tra i commercianti di queste merci nelle strade secondarie e nei sobborghi della città.

Il nome del proprietario di casa era Paul Sweedlepipe. Ma veniva comunemente chiamato Poll Sweedlepipe; e tra amici e vicini era abbastanza diffusa l’idea che fosse stato proprio così battezzato.

Ad eccezione della scala e dell’appartamento privato del suo inquilino, la casa di Poll Sweedlepipe era un vero nido d’uccelli. I galli da combattimento abitavano in cucina; i fagiani sfoggiavano il loro piumaggio dorato nel sottotetto; i polli domestici si riposavano nel seminterrato; le civette occupavano la camera da letto; e esemplari di tutti i piccoli uccelli cinguettavano e trillavano nel negozio. La scala, invece, era sacra ai conigli: in gabbie di ogni forma e dimensione, realizzate con vecchi scatoloni, casse, cassetti e comò, i conigli si moltiplicavano a ritmo incredibile, contribuendo a quella miscela complessa di odori che, senza distinzioni di persona, raggiungeva ogni naso che entrava nel negozio di barbiatura di Sweedlepipe.

Molte persone si recavano lì, soprattutto la mattina di Domenica, prima dell’ora della messa. Anche gli arcivescovi si radono, o almeno devono farlo, il giorno di Domenica; inoltre, le barbe ricrescono dopo le dodici di sabato sera, anche se questo accade soltanto sulle guance dei lavoratori umili, che non riescono a permettersi i servizi dei loro valletti e quindi li assumono per singoli lavori, pagandoli, oh, la malvagità delle monete di rame! Poll Sweedlepipe, quel peccatore, radava tutti al prezzo di un penny a testa e tagliava i capelli dei clienti per due penny; essendo un uomo single e non sposato, e avendo qualche conoscenza nel settore della caccia agli uccelli, Poll se la cavava abbastanza bene.

Era un uomo piuttosto anziano, con la mano destra umida e fredda; nemmeno i conigli o gli uccelli riuscivano a eliminare dall’odore di quella mano il profumo del sapone da barba. Poll aveva in sé qualcosa dell’essenza degli uccelli, non dell’aquila o del falco, ma dello spillo, quel piccolo uccello che costruisce i nidi nei comignoli e ama la compagnia umana. Tuttavia, non era litigioso come lo spillo, bensì pacifico, come la colomba. Camminava con passo deciso; in questo aspetto assomigliava vagamente alla colomba, così come nella monotonia del suo modo di parlare, che poteva essere paragonata al canto di quel uccello. Era molto curioso; e quando stava davanti alla porta del suo negozio, osservando i vicini con la testa inclinata da un lato e uno sguardo saputo, in lui si percepiva una traccia dell’corvo. Eppure, non c’era alcuna malvagità in Poll, al contrario, era più gentile di un pettirosso. Fortunatamente, quando qualcuna delle sue caratteristiche “ornitologiche” rischiava di esagerare, veniva subito contenuta, proprio come la sua testa calva – altrimenti simile a quella di una gazza rasata – veniva nascosta da una parrucca di riccioli neri, divisi su un lato e tagliati quasi fino alla corona, a simboleggiare una grande intelligenza.

Poll aveva una voce molto acuta e sottile; forse proprio per questo i giovani di Kingsgate Street insistevano ancora di più nel chiamarlo con un nome femminile. Aveva anche un cuore tenero: quando riceveva un incarico importante, come fornire trenta o quaranta passeri per una gara di tiro, commentava con tono compassionevole quanto fosse strano che i passeri fossero stati creati apposta per scopi del genere. La domanda su se gli uomini fossero fatti apposta per sparare a loro non mai entrò nella “filosofia” di Poll.

Poll, nel suo carattere sportivo, indossava un cappotto di velluto, delle calze blu scure, stivali fino alla caviglia, un fazzoletto dal colore vivace e un cappello molto alto. Quando svolgeva la sua attività più tranquilla di barbiere, di solito indossava un grembiule non troppo pulito, una giacca di flanella e pantaloncini di velluto a coste. Fu in questo secondo abbigliamento, con il grembiule legato intorno alla vita come segno che aveva chiuso il negozio per la notte, che una sera, alcune settimane dopo gli eventi descritti nel capitolo precedente, chiuse la porta e si fermò sulle scale di Kingsgate Street, ascoltando fino a quando il piccolo campanello all’interno non smise di suonare. Perché, secondo lui, finché continuava a suonare, il posto non sembrava mai abbastanza tranquillo da essere lasciato da solo.

“È la campanella più avida che abbia mai suonato,” disse Poll, “ma finalmente è silenziosa.”

Si arrotolò un po’ di più il grembiule mentre pronunciava queste parole, poi si affrettò lungo la strada. Proprio quando stava per svoltare in Holborn, si scontrò con un giovane gentiluomo vestito in abiti da servitore. Questo ragazzo, sebbene di piccola statura, era piuttosto audace e, esprimendo diverse volte il proprio disappunto, si rivolse immediatamente contro di lui.

“Adesso, basta!” gridò il giovane gentiluomo. “Non riesci proprio a guardare dove vai, eh? Non ti importa nemmeno dove stai tornando, eh? Perché pensi che siano stati fatti i tuoi occhi, eh? Ah! Sì. Ora basta davvero!”

Il giovane gentiluomo pronunciò le ultime due parole con un tono molto alto e con un’enfasi terribile, come se contenessero in sé l’essenza della più grave offesa possibile. Ma appena lo fece, la sua rabbia lasciò il posto alla sorpresa, e gridò, con un tono più mite:

“Che cosa! Polly!”

“Ma sei tu, davvero!”, esclamò Poll. “Non può essere proprio te!”

“No, non sono io,” rispose il giovane. “È mio figlio, il maggiore. È un onore per suo padre, vero, Polly?” Con questa delicata battuta scherzosa, si fermò sul marciapiede e iniziò a camminare in cerchi, per mettere meglio in evidenza la sua figura; il che causò non poche difficoltà ai passanti, che non erano certo nello stesso stato d’animo di lui.

‘I wouldn’t have believed it,’ said Poll. ‘What! You’ve left your old place, then? Have you?’

‘Have I!’ returned his young friend, who had by this time stuck his hands into the pockets of his white cord breeches, and was swaggering along at the barber’s side. ‘D’ye know a pair of top-boots when you see ‘em, Polly?—look here!’

‘Beau-ti-ful’ cried Mr Sweedlepipe.

‘D’ye know a slap-up sort of button, when you see it?’ said the youth. ‘Don’t look at mine, if you ain’t a judge, because these lions’ heads was made for men of taste; not snobs.’

‘Beau-ti-ful!’ cried the barber again. ‘A grass-green frock-coat, too, bound with gold; and a cockade in your hat!’

‘I should hope so,’ replied the youth. ‘Blow the cockade, though; for, except that it don’t turn round, it’s like the wentilator that used to be in the kitchen winder at Todgers’s. You ain’t seen the old lady’s name in the Gazette, have you?’

‘No,’ returned the barber. ‘Is she a bankrupt?’

‘If she ain’t, she will be,’ retorted Bailey. ‘That bis’ness never can be carried on without ME. Well! How are you?’

‘Oh! I’m pretty well,’ said Poll. ‘Are you living at this end of the town, or were you coming to see me? Was that the bis’ness that brought you to Holborn?’

‘I haven’t got no bis’ness in Holborn,’ returned Bailey, with some displeasure. ‘All my bis’ness lays at the West End. I’ve got the right sort of governor now. You can’t see his face for his whiskers, and can’t see his whiskers for the dye upon ‘em. That’s a gentleman ain’t it? You wouldn’t like a ride in a cab, would you? Why, it wouldn’t be safe to offer it. You’d faint away, only to see me a-comin’ at a mild trot round the corner.’

To convey a slight idea of the effect of this approach, Mr Bailey counterfeited in his own person the action of a high-trotting horse and threw up his head so high, in backing against a pump, that he shook his hat off.

‘Why, he’s own uncle to Capricorn,’ said Bailey, ‘and brother to Cauliflower. He’s been through the winders of two chaney shops since we’ve had him, and was sold for killin’ his missis. That’s a horse, I hope?’

‘Ah! you’ll never want to buy any more red polls, now,’ observed Poll, looking on his young friend with an air of melancholy. ‘You’ll never want to buy any more red polls now, to hang up over the sink, will you?’

‘I should think not,’ replied Bailey. ‘Reether so. I wouldn’t have nothin’ to say to any bird below a Peacock; and HE’d be wulgar. Well, how are you?’

‘Oh! I’m pretty well,’ said Poll. He answered the question again because Mr Bailey asked it again; Mr Bailey asked it again, because—accompanied with a straddling action of the white cords, a bend of the knees, and a striking forth of the top-boots—it was an easy horse-fleshy, turfy sort of thing to do.

‘Wot are you up to, old feller?’ added Mr Bailey, with the same graceful rakishness. He was quite the man-about-town of the conversation, while the easy-shaver was the child.

‘Why, I am going to fetch my lodger home,’ said Paul.

‘A woman!’ cried Mr Bailey, ‘for a twenty-pun’ note!’

The little barber hastened to explain that she was neither a young woman, nor a handsome woman, but a nurse, who had been acting as a kind of house-keeper to a gentleman for some weeks past, and left her place that night, in consequence of being superseded by another and a more legitimate house-keeper—to wit, the gentleman’s bride.

‘He’s newly married, and he brings his young wife home to-night,’ said the barber. ‘So I’m going to fetch my lodger away—Mr Chuzzlewit’s, close behind the Post Office—and carry her box for her.’

‘Jonas Chuzzlewit’s?’ said Bailey.

‘Ah!’ returned Paul: ‘that’s the name sure enough. Do you know him?’

‘Oh, no!’ cried Mr Bailey; ‘not at all. And I don’t know her! Not neither! Why, they first kept company through me, a’most.’

‘Ah?’ said Paul.

‘Ah!’ said Mr Bailey, with a wink; ‘and she ain’t bad looking mind you. But her sister was the best. SHE was the merry one. I often used to have a bit of fun with her, in the hold times!’

Mr Bailey spoke as if he already had a leg and three-quarters in the grave, and this had happened twenty or thirty years ago. Paul Sweedlepipe, the meek, was so perfectly confounded by his precocious self-possession, and his patronizing manner, as well as by his boots, cockade, and livery, that a mist swam before his eyes, and he saw—not the Bailey of acknowledged juvenility from Todgers’s Commercial Boarding House, who had made his acquaintance within a twelvemonth, by purchasing, at sundry times, small birds at twopence each—but a highly-condensed embodiment of all the sporting grooms in London; an abstract of all the stable-knowledge of the time; a something at a high-pressure that must have had existence many years, and was fraught with terrible experiences. And truly, though in the cloudy atmosphere of Todgers’s, Mr Bailey’s genius had ever shone out brightly in this particular respect, it now eclipsed both time and space, cheated beholders of their senses, and worked on their belief in defiance of all natural laws. He walked along the tangible and real stones of Holborn Hill, an undersized boy; and yet he winked the winks, and thought the thoughts, and did the deeds, and said the sayings of an ancient man. There was an old principle within him, and a young surface without. He became an inexplicable creature; a breeched and booted Sphinx. There was no course open to the barber, but to go distracted himself, or to take Bailey for granted; and he wisely chose the latter.

Mr Bailey was good enough to continue to bear him company, and to entertain him, as they went, with easy conversation on various sporting topics; especially on the comparative merits, as a general principle, of horses with white stockings, and horses without. In regard to the style of tail to be preferred, Mr Bailey had opinions of his own, which he explained, but begged they might by no means influence his friend’s, as here he knew he had the misfortune to differ from some excellent authorities. He treated Mr Sweedlepipe to a dram, compounded agreeably to his own directions, which he informed him had been invented by a member of the Jockey Club; and, as they were by this time near the barber’s destination, he observed that, as he had an hour to spare, and knew the parties, he would, if quite agreeable, be introduced to Mrs Gamp.

“Non me l’avrei mai creduto,” disse Poll. “Cosa? Quindi hai lasciato il tuo vecchio posto. Davvero?”

“Certo che sì!” rispose il suo giovane amico, che ormai aveva infilato le mani nelle tasche dei suoi pantaloni bianchi di corda e camminava con aria trionfale al fianco del barbiere. “Riconosci una bella coppia di stivali quando li vedi, Polly? Guarda qui!”

“Bel-lis-simo!” gridò il signor Sweedlepipe.

“Conosci quel tipo di pulsante davvero elegante, che ti colpisce subito all’occhio quando lo vedi?” disse il giovane.
“Non guardare il mio, se non sei un esperto. Queste teste di leone sono fatte per persone con gusto, non per snob.”

“Bellissimo!”, esclamò di nuovo il barbiere. “Anche un gilet di colore verde erba, decorato d’oro. E una piuma sul cappello!”

“Dovrei >sperarlo,” rispose il giovane. “Però soffia nella coccarda, perché, a parte il fatto che non gira, assomiglia proprio al ventilatore che c’era nel frigorifero di Todgers’s. Non hai visto il nome della vecchia signora sul giornale, vero?”

“No,” rispose il barbiere. “È fallita?”

“Se non lo è già, lo diventerà,” ribatté Bailey. “Quel business non può andare avanti senza di ME. Beh. Come stai?”

“Oh! Sto abbastanza bene,” disse Poll. “Vivi in questa parte della città, o sei venuta a trovarmi? Era per qualche affare che sei arrivata a Holborn?”

“Non ho alcun affare a Holborn,” rispose Bailey con un certo disappunto. “Tutti i miei affari si svolgono nel West End. Ora ho trovato il tipo giusto di ‘governatore’: non si riesce nemmeno a vedere il suo viso a causa delle sue basette, e le basette stesse sono tinte. Che gentiluomo, vero? Non vorresti certo fare un giro in taxi, eh? Beh, sarebbe pericoloso offrirtelo: saresti sicuramente svenuto solo a vedermi arrivare trotterellando all’angolo.”

Per dare un’idea approssimativa dell’effetto di questo metodo, il signor Bailey simulò personalmente l’andatura di un cavallo che correva ad alta velocità; alzando la testa così in alto mentre si appoggiava a una pompa, fece persino cadere il proprio cappello.

“Ma è lo zio stesso di Capricorn,” disse Bailey, “e fratello di Cauliflower. Da quando l’abbiamo preso, è passato per mille avventure in due negozi diversi. E addirittura è stato venduto perché aveva ucciso sua moglie. Che tipo di cavallo è mai questo, spero?”

“Ah! Ora non vorrai mai più comprare quei ganci rossi, vero?” osservò Poll, guardando il suo giovane amico con un’aria di melanconia. “Ora non vorrai mai più comprarli per appenderli sopra il lavandino, giusto?”

“Non credo proprio,” rispose Bailey. “Reether, beh, non avrei nulla da dire su nessun uccello che non sia un Pavone; e lui sarebbe davvero volgare. Beh, come stai?”

“Oh! Sto abbastanza bene,” disse Poll. Rispose di nuovo alla domanda perché il signor Bailey la ripeté; il signor Bailey la ripeté perché, accompagnata da un movimento delle cinture bianche, una flessione delle ginocchia e l’uscita in evidenza degli stivali alti, era davvero un’azione facile da eseguire.

“Cosa stai combinando, vecchio mio?” aggiunse il signor Bailey, con la solita sua grazia disinvolta. Lui era davvero l’uomo che sapeva come intrattenere in una conversazione, mentre quel tipo dall’aspetto trasandato sembrava più un bambino che un adulto.

“Beh, sto andando a prendere il mio inquilino a casa”, disse Paul.

“Una donna!”, esclamò il signor Bailey, “per una banconota da venti penny!”

La piccola barbiera si affrettò a spiegare che non era né una giovane donna né una donna attraente, ma una infermiera che per alcune settimane aveva svolto il ruolo di una sorta di >casa-tenutrice per un gentiluomo. Quella notte se n’era andata perché era stata sostituita da un’altra, più legittima “casa]-tenutrice: la sposa del gentiluomo stesso.

“È appena sposato e porta sua moglie giovane a casa di notte,” disse il barbiere. “Quindi andrò a prendere la mia inquilina – la signora Chuzzlewit, che abita proprio dietro all’ufficio postale – e le porterò anche la sua valigia.”

“Di ‘Jonas Chuzzlewit’?” disse Bailey.

“Ah!”, rispose Paul: “Quel nome è proprio quello giusto. Lo conosci?”

“Oh, no!” gridò il signor Bailey; “Assolutamente no. E inoltre non la conosco affatto! Nemmeno un po’. Del resto, all’inizio si frequentavano proprio attraverso di me, ”

“Ah?”, disse Paul.

“Ah!” disse il signor Bailey, con un battito di ciglia; “e, tra l’altro, non è nemmeno male da vedere. Ma sua sorella era la migliore. Lei era quella allegra. Spesso mi divertivo un po’ con lei, nei momenti di attesa, ”

Il signor Bailey parlava come se già avesse metà del corpo nella tomba, e che tutto ciò fosse accaduto venti o trent’anni prima. Paul Sweedlepipe, quel timido ragazzo, era così completamente confuso dalla sua precoce presunzione, dal suo tono condiscendente, nonché dalle sue scarpe, dalla sua uniforme e dai suoi accessori, che gli si offuscò la vista. E ciò che vide non fu il signor Bailey, quel giovane appena conosciuto dodici mesi prima presso la scuola di convitto commerciale di Todgers’s, che aveva acquistato piccoli uccellini al prezzo di due penny l’uno. Ma piuttosto un’incarnazione concentrata di tutti i cocchieri e stallieri di Londra, un riassunto di tutta la conoscenza legata alle stalle dell’epoca. Qualcosa di così complesso che doveva esistere da molti anni, e che era pieno di terribili esperienze. E in effetti, sebbene nel contesto confuso della scuola di Todgers’s il genio del signor Bailey avesse sempre brillato in questo particolare ambito, ora sembrava superare sia il tempo che lo spazio, ingannando gli occhi dei presenti e sfidando tutte le leggi naturali. Camminava lungo i soliti ciottoli di Holborn Hill. Ma era un ragazzo di statura bassa; eppure faceva quei gesti, pensava quelle cose, compiva quelle azioni, pronunciava quelle parole come se fosse un uomo anziano. Dentro di lui c’era un principio antico. Ma in superficie sembrava giovane. Diventò una creatura inspiegabile. Una sorta di sfinge con pantaloni corti e stivali. Per il barbiere non c’era altra scelta se non quella di perdere la ragione. O di accettare le cose così come stavano. E lui, saggiamente, scelse la seconda opzione.

Il signor Bailey fu così gentile da continuare a fargli compagnia e intrattenerlo durante il viaggio con conversazioni leggere su vari argomenti sportivi; in particolare sui meriti relativi, in linea di principio generale, dei cavalli con le zampe bianche rispetto a quelli senza. Per quanto riguardava lo stile della coda da preferire, il signor Bailey aveva le sue opinioni personali, che spiegò chiaramente, ma pregò che queste in nessun modo influenzassero quelle del suo amico, poiché sapeva bene di dissentire da alcune autorevoli opinioni. Offrì al signor Sweedlepipe un bicchiere di liquore preparato secondo le sue indicazioni; gli spiegò anche che tale bevanda era stata inventata da un membro del Jockey Club. Quando si avvicinarono alla destinazione, osservò che, poiché aveva un’ora libera e conosceva bene le persone coinvolte, avrebbe presentato il signor Sweedlepipe alla signora Gamp, se quest’ultimo fosse stato d’accordo.

Paul knocked at Jonas Chuzzlewit’s; and, on the door being opened by that lady, made the two distinguished persons known to one another. It was a happy feature in Mrs Gamp’s twofold profession, that it gave her an interest in everything that was young as well as in everything that was old. She received Mr Bailey with much kindness.

‘It’s very good, I’m sure, of you to come,’ she said to her landlord, ‘as well as bring so nice a friend. But I’m afraid that I must trouble you so far as to step in, for the young couple has not yet made appearance.’

‘They’re late, ain’t they?’ inquired her landlord, when she had conducted them downstairs into the kitchen.

‘Well, sir, considern’ the Wings of Love, they are,’ said Mrs Gamp.

Mr Bailey inquired whether the Wings of Love had ever won a plate, or could be backed to do anything remarkable; and being informed that it was not a horse, but merely a poetical or figurative expression, evinced considerable disgust. Mrs Gamp was so very much astonished by his affable manners and great ease, that she was about to propound to her landlord in a whisper the staggering inquiry, whether he was a man or a boy, when Mr Sweedlepipe, anticipating her design, made a timely diversion.

‘He knows Mrs Chuzzlewit,’ said Paul aloud.

‘There’s nothin’ he don’t know; that’s my opinion,’ observed Mrs Gamp. ‘All the wickedness of the world is Print to him.’

Mr Bailey received this as a compliment, and said, adjusting his cravat, ‘reether so.’

‘As you knows Mrs Chuzzlewit, you knows, p’raps, what her chris’en name is?’ Mrs Gamp observed.

‘Charity,’ said Bailey.

‘That it ain’t!’ cried Mrs Gamp.

‘Cherry, then,’ said Bailey. ‘Cherry’s short for it. It’s all the same.’

‘It don’t begin with a C at all,’ retorted Mrs Gamp, shaking her head. ‘It begins with a M.’

‘Whew!’ cried Mr Bailey, slapping a little cloud of pipe-clay out of his left leg, ‘then he’s been and married the merry one!’

As these words were mysterious, Mrs Gamp called upon him to explain, which Mr Bailey proceeded to do; that lady listening greedily to everything he said. He was yet in the fullness of his narrative when the sound of wheels, and a double knock at the street door, announced the arrival of the newly married couple. Begging him to reserve what more he had to say for her hearing on the way home, Mrs Gamp took up the candle, and hurried away to receive and welcome the young mistress of the house.

‘Wishing you appiness and joy with all my art,’ said Mrs Gamp, dropping a curtsey as they entered the hall; ‘and you, too, sir. Your lady looks a little tired with the journey, Mr Chuzzlewit, a pretty dear!’

‘She has bothered enough about it,’ grumbled Mr Jonas. ‘Now, show a light, will you?’

‘This way, ma’am, if you please,’ said Mrs Gamp, going upstairs before them. ‘Things has been made as comfortable as they could be, but there’s many things you’ll have to alter your own self when you gets time to look about you! Ah! sweet thing! But you don’t,’ added Mrs Gamp, internally, ‘you don’t look much like a merry one, I must say!’

It was true; she did not. The death that had gone before the bridal seemed to have left its shade upon the house. The air was heavy and oppressive; the rooms were dark; a deep gloom filled up every chink and corner. Upon the hearthstone, like a creature of ill omen, sat the aged clerk, with his eyes fixed on some withered branches in the stove. He rose and looked at her.

‘So there you are, Mr Chuff,’ said Jonas carelessly, as he dusted his boots; ‘still in the land of the living, eh?’

‘Still in the land of the living, sir,’ retorted Mrs Gamp. ‘And Mr Chuffey may thank you for it, as many and many a time I’ve told him.’

Mr Jonas was not in the best of humours, for he merely said, as he looked round, ‘We don’t want you any more, you know, Mrs Gamp.’

‘I’m a-going immediate, sir,’ returned the nurse; ‘unless there’s nothink I can do for you, ma’am. Ain’t there,’ said Mrs Gamp, with a look of great sweetness, and rummaging all the time in her pocket; ‘ain’t there nothink I can do for you, my little bird?’

‘No,’ said Merry, almost crying. ‘You had better go away, please!’

With a leer of mingled sweetness and slyness; with one eye on the future, one on the bride, and an arch expression in her face, partly spiritual, partly spirituous, and wholly professional and peculiar to her art; Mrs Gamp rummaged in her pocket again, and took from it a printed card, whereon was an inscription copied from her signboard.

‘Would you be so good, my darling dovey of a dear young married lady,’ Mrs Gamp observed, in a low voice, ‘as put that somewheres where you can keep it in your mind? I’m well beknown to many ladies, and it’s my card. Gamp is my name, and Gamp my nater. Livin’ quite handy, I will make so bold as call in now and then, and make inquiry how your health and spirits is, my precious chick!’

And with innumerable leers, winks, coughs, nods, smiles, and curtseys, all leading to the establishment of a mysterious and confidential understanding between herself and the bride, Mrs Gamp, invoking a blessing upon the house, leered, winked, coughed, nodded, smiled, and curtseyed herself out of the room.

‘But I will say, and I would if I was led a Martha to the Stakes for it,’ Mrs Gamp remarked below stairs, in a whisper, ‘that she don’t look much like a merry one at this present moment of time.’

‘Ah! wait till you hear her laugh!’ said Bailey.

‘Hem!’ cried Mrs Gamp, in a kind of groan. ‘I will, child.’

They said no more in the house, for Mrs Gamp put on her bonnet, Mr Sweedlepipe took up her box; and Mr Bailey accompanied them towards Kingsgate Street; recounting to Mrs Gamp as they went along, the origin and progress of his acquaintance with Mrs Chuzzlewit and her sister. It was a pleasant instance of this youth’s precocity, that he fancied Mrs Gamp had conceived a tenderness for him, and was much tickled by her misplaced attachment.

As the door closed heavily behind them, Mrs Jonas sat down in a chair, and felt a strange chill creep upon her, whilst she looked about the room. It was pretty much as she had known it, but appeared more dreary. She had thought to see it brightened to receive her.

‘It ain’t good enough for you, I suppose?’ said Jonas, watching her looks.

‘Why, it IS dull,’ said Merry, trying to be more herself.

‘It’ll be duller before you’re done with it,’ retorted Jonas, ‘if you give me any of your airs. You’re a nice article, to turn sulky on first coming home! Ecod, you used to have life enough, when you could plague me with it. The gal’s downstairs. Ring the bell for supper, while I take my boots off!’

She roused herself from looking after him as he left the room, to do what he had desired; when the old man Chuffey laid his hand softly on her arm.

‘You are not married?’ he said eagerly. ‘Not married?’

‘Yes. A month ago. Good Heaven, what is the matter?’

He answered nothing was the matter; and turned from her. But in her fear and wonder, turning also, she saw him raise his trembling hands above his head, and heard him say:

‘Oh! woe, woe, woe, upon this wicked house!’

It was her welcome—HOME.

Paul bussò alla porta di Jonas Chuzzlewit; e quando la signora aprì la porta, presentò le due persone distinte l’una all’altra. Era una caratteristica felice della doppia professione di Mrs Gamp: le permetteva di interessarsi sia a tutto ciò che era giovane e bello sia a tutto ciò che era vecchio. Accolse il signor Bailey con grande gentilezza.

“È davvero molto gentile da parte tua venire,” disse alla sua padrona di casa, “e anche portare con te un’amica così cara. Ma temo di doverti chiedere un piccolo favore: la giovane coppia non si è ancora fatta vedere.”

“Sono in ritardo, vero?”, chiese il suo padrone di casa quando lei li accompagnò al piano di sotto in cucina.

“Beh, signore,” disse la signora Gamp, “pensate alle ali dell’Amore: eccole lì.”

Il signor Bailey chiese se le “Ali dell’Amore” avessero mai vinto qualche premio, o se si potesse sperare che compiessero qualcosa di straordinario; venuto a sapere che non si trattava di un cavallo, ma soltanto di un’espressione poetica o figurativa, mostrò notevole disgusto. La signora Gamp fu così sorpresa dai suoi modi affabili e dalla sua grande disinvoltura, che stava per sussurrare al suo padrone di casa la domanda incredibile: se fosse un uomo o un ragazzo. Quando il signor Sweedlepipe, anticipando le sue intenzioni, interruppe tempestivamente la conversazione.

“Conosce la signora Chuzzlewit,” disse Paul ad alta voce.

“Non c’è nulla che lui non sappia; questa è la mia opinione,” osservò la signora Gamp. “Tutta la malvagità del mondo è come se fosse stampata davanti ai suoi occhi.”

“Mr Bailey lo considerò un complimento e, sistemandosi la cravatta, disse: ‘Esattamente così.’”

“Come sa bene, signora Chuzzlewit, forse conosce anche il suo vero nome, ” osservò la signora Gamp.

“‘Carità’,” disse Bailey.

“Non è affatto vero!”, esclamò la signora Gamp.

“Allora ‘Cherry’”, disse Bailey. “‘Cherry’ è l’abbreviazione. Non fa differenza.”

“Non inizia affatto con la lettera ‘C’”, ribatté la signora Gamp scuotendo la testa. “Inizia con la lettera ‘M’.”

“Uff!” esclamò il signor Bailey, scacciando via una piccola nuvola di argilla da pipa dalla sua gamba sinistra, “quindi si è sposato con quella allegra ragazza!”

Poiché queste parole erano misteriose, la signora Gamp lo pregò di spiegarle, e il signor Bailey iniziò a farlo; quella signora ascoltava con grande attenzione tutto ciò che diceva. Mentre lui era ancora nel bel mezzo del suo racconto, il suono delle ruote e due colpi alla porta d’ingresso annunciarono l’arrivo della coppia appena sposata. Chiedendogli di riservare per l’occasione successiva ciò che aveva ancora da dire, la signora Gamp prese la candela e si affrettò ad andare ad accogliere la giovane padrona di casa.

“Vi auguro felicità e gioia con tutta la mia arte,” disse la signora Gamp, facendo un breve inchino mentre entravano nel salone; “E anche a voi, signore. Vostra moglie sembra un po’ stanca per il viaggio, il signor Chuzzlewit. Che cara persona!”

“Ne ha già fatto abbastanza a riguardo“, borbottò il signor Jonas. “Ora, per favore, accendi una luce, va bene?“

“Da questa parte, signora, per favore,” disse la signora Gamp, salendo le scale davanti a loro. “Tutto è stato reso il più confortevole possibile, ma ci sono molte cose che dovrete sistemare da sole quando avrete il tempo di guardarvi intorno. Ah! Che cara ragazza. Ma devo dire,” aggiunse la signora Gamp tra sé e sé, “non sembrate affatto allegra, ”

Era vero; lei non l’aveva fatto. Quella morte che era avvenuta prima del matrimonio sembrava aver lasciato la sua ombra su quella casa. L’aria era pesante e opprimente; le stanze erano buie; una profonda oscurità riempiva ogni angolo. Sul focolare, come un presagio infausto, sedeva il vecchio impiegato, con lo sguardo fisso su alcuni rami secchi nel camino. Si alzò e la guardò.

“Eccoti qua, signor Chuff,” disse Jonas con noncuranza, mentre puliva i suoi stivali; “ancora nel regno dei vivi, eh?”

“Ancora nel regno dei vivi, signore,” ribatté la signora Gamp. “E il signor Chuffey può ringraziarvi per questo, perché molte volte gliel’ho detto.”

Il signor Jonas non era di buon umore; si limitò a dire, guardandosi intorno: “Non abbiamo più bisogno di voi, signora Gamp.”

“Me ne vado subito, signora,” rispose la infermiera; “a meno che non ci sia nulla che io possa fare per voi. Non c’è niente, vero?” disse la signora Gamp con un tono molto dolce, continuando intanto a frugare nella sua tasca; “Non c’è davvero nulla che io possa fare per voi, mio piccolo angelo?”

“No,” disse Merry, quasi in lacrime. “È meglio che tu vada via, per favore!”

Con uno sguardo che mescolava dolcezza e astuzia; con un occhio rivolto al futuro, l’altro alla sposa, e un’espressione sul viso che era in parte spirituale, in parte maliziosa, ma soprattutto professionale e tipica della sua arte; la signora Gamp frugò di nuovo nella tasca e ne tirò fuori una cartolina stampata, su cui c’era un’iscrizione tratta dal suo cartello.

“Potresti essere così gentile, mia cara e adorabile giovane signora sposata, ”, osservò la signora Gamp a bassa voce, “da metterlo da qualche parte dove possa ricordartelo? Molte signore mi conoscono bene; questo è il mio biglietto da visita. Il mio nome è Gamp. Vivo in una zona molto comoda, quindi oso venire di tanto in tanto a chiedere come stai, mia cara!”

E con innumerevoli sguardi maliziosi, occhiate, colpi di tosse, cenni del capo, sorrisi e riverenze, tutto ciò contribuì a stabilire un’intesa misteriosa e confidenziale tra lei e la sposa, la signora Gamp, che invocò una benedizione sulla casa prima di uscire dalla stanza con lo stesso atteggiamento.

“Ma devo dire,” osservò la signora Gamp sottovoce giù per le scale, “che in questo momento particolare non sembra affatto una persona allegra, ”

“Ah! Aspetta solo di sentirla ridere!” disse Bailey.

“Ehm!”, esclamò la signora Gamp con un sorta di gemito. “Lo farò, bambino.”

Nella casa non si disse più nulla; la signora Gamp indossò il suo cappello, il signor Sweedlepipe prese la sua scatola, e il signor Bailey li accompagnò verso Kingsgate Street, raccontando lungo la strada alla signora Gamp l’origine e lo sviluppo della sua conoscenza con la signora Chuzzlewit e sua sorella. Fu un esempio piacevole della precocità di questo giovane: lui credeva che la signora Gamp provasse per lui una certa tenerezza, e ne rideva molto di questa sua affezione mal riposta.

Non appena la porta si chiuse con un tonfo alle loro spalle, la signora Jonas si sedette su una sedia e sentì un freddo strano invaderla mentre guardava intorno nella stanza. Era più o meno come l’aveva sempre conosciuta, ma sembrava più desolata. Si aspettava che fosse stata allestita in modo più accogliente per il suo arrivo.

“Non è abbastanza buono per te, immagino, ”, disse Jonas, osservando il suo sguardo.

“Beh, è davvero noioso,” disse Merry, cercando di essere se stessa.

“Diventerà ancora più noioso quando avrai finito,” ribatté Jonas, “se inizi a comportarti in quel modo presuntuoso. Sei davvero un bel tipo, per metterti di cattivo umore appena tornato a casa! Ehi, una volta avevi abbastanza energia da tormentarmi. Quella ragazza è al piano di sotto; suona il campanello per la cena, mentre io mi tolgo le scarpe!”

Si riprese dallo stato di preoccupazione in cui era mentre lui lasciava la stanza per fare ciò che desiderava; quando il vecchio Chuffey le posò dolcemente una mano sul braccio.

“Non sei sposato?”, chiese con impazienza. “Non sposato?”

“Sì. Un mese fa. Mio Dio, che cosa è successo?”

Rispose che non c’era nulla di cui preoccuparsi; poi si allontanò da lei. Ma, nel suo terrore e nella sua meraviglia, anche lei si girò e lo vide alzare le mani tremanti sopra la testa, e lo sentì dire:

“Ohimè, ohimè, ohimè, su questa malvagia casa!”

Era il suo benvenuto a casa.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

SHOWING THAT OLD FRIENDS MAY NOT ONLY APPEAR WITH NEW FACES, BUT IN FALSE COLOURS. THAT PEOPLE ARE PRONE TO BITE, AND THAT BITERS MAY SOMETIMES BE BITTEN.

Mr Bailey, Junior—for the sporting character, whilom of general utility at Todgers’s, had now regularly set up in life under that name, without troubling himself to obtain from the legislature a direct licence in the form of a Private Bill, which of all kinds and classes of bills is without exception the most unreasonable in its charges—Mr Bailey, Junior, just tall enough to be seen by an inquiring eye, gazing indolently at society from beneath the apron of his master’s cab, drove slowly up and down Pall Mall, about the hour of noon, in waiting for his ‘Governor.’ The horse of distinguished family, who had Capricorn for his nephew, and Cauliflower for his brother, showed himself worthy of his high relations by champing at the bit until his chest was white with foam, and rearing like a horse in heraldry; the plated harness and the patent leather glittered in the sun; pedestrians admired; Mr Bailey was complacent, but unmoved. He seemed to say, ‘A barrow, good people, a mere barrow; nothing to what we could do, if we chose!’ and on he went, squaring his short green arms outside the apron, as if he were hooked on to it by his armpits.

Mr Bailey had a great opinion of Brother to Cauliflower, and estimated his powers highly. But he never told him so. On the contrary, it was his practice, in driving that animal, to assail him with disrespectful, if not injurious, expressions, as, ‘Ah! would you!’ ‘Did you think it, then?’ ‘Where are you going to now?’ ‘No, you won’t, my lad!’ and similar fragmentary remarks. These being usually accompanied by a jerk of the rein, or a crack of the whip, led to many trials of strength between them, and to many contentions for the upper-hand, terminating, now and then, in china-shops, and other unusual goals, as Mr Bailey had already hinted to his friend Poll Sweedlepipe.

On the present occasion Mr Bailey, being in spirits, was more than commonly hard upon his charge; in consequence of which that fiery animal confined himself almost entirely to his hind legs in displaying his paces, and constantly got himself into positions with reference to the cabriolet that very much amazed the passengers in the street. But Mr Bailey, not at all disturbed, had still a shower of pleasantries to bestow on any one who crossed his path; as, calling to a full-grown coal-heaver in a wagon, who for a moment blocked the way, ‘Now, young ‘un, who trusted YOU with a cart?’ inquiring of elderly ladies who wanted to cross, and ran back again, ‘Why they didn’t go to the workhouse and get an order to be buried?’ tempting boys, with friendly words, to get up behind, and immediately afterwards cutting them down; and the like flashes of a cheerful humour, which he would occasionally relieve by going round St. James’s Square at a hand gallop, and coming slowly into Pall Mall by another entry, as if, in the interval, his pace had been a perfect crawl.

It was not until these amusements had been very often repeated, and the apple-stall at the corner had sustained so many miraculous escapes as to appear impregnable, that Mr Bailey was summoned to the door of a certain house in Pall Mall, and turning short, obeyed the call and jumped out. It was not until he had held the bridle for some minutes longer, every jerk of Cauliflower’s brother’s head, and every twitch of Cauliflower’s brother’s nostril, taking him off his legs in the meanwhile, that two persons entered the vehicle, one of whom took the reins and drove rapidly off. Nor was it until Mr Bailey had run after it some hundreds of yards in vain, that he managed to lift his short leg into the iron step, and finally to get his boots upon the little footboard behind. Then, indeed, he became a sight to see; and—standing now on one foot and now upon the other, now trying to look round the cab on this side, now on that, and now endeavouring to peep over the top of it, as it went dashing in among the carts and coaches—was from head to heel Newmarket.

The appearance of Mr Bailey’s governor as he drove along fully justified that enthusiastic youth’s description of him to the wondering Poll. He had a world of jet-black shining hair upon his head, upon his cheeks, upon his chin, upon his upper lip. His clothes, symmetrically made, were of the newest fashion and the costliest kind. Flowers of gold and blue, and green and blushing red, were on his waistcoat; precious chains and jewels sparkled on his breast; his fingers, clogged with brilliant rings, were as unwieldly as summer flies but newly rescued from a honey-pot. The daylight mantled in his gleaming hat and boots as in a polished glass. And yet, though changed his name, and changed his outward surface, it was Tigg. Though turned and twisted upside down, and inside out, as great men have been sometimes known to be; though no longer Montague Tigg, but Tigg Montague; still it was Tigg; the same Satanic, gallant, military Tigg. The brass was burnished, lacquered, newly stamped; yet it was the true Tigg metal notwithstanding.

Beside him sat a smiling gentleman, of less pretensions and of business looks, whom he addressed as David. Surely not the David of the—how shall it be phrased?—the triumvirate of golden balls? Not David, tapster at the Lombards’ Arms? Yes. The very man.

‘The secretary’s salary, David,’ said Mr Montague, ‘the office being now established, is eight hundred pounds per annum, with his house-rent, coals, and candles free. His five-and-twenty shares he holds, of course. Is that enough?’

David smiled and nodded, and coughed behind a little locked portfolio which he carried; with an air that proclaimed him to be the secretary in question.

‘If that’s enough,’ said Montague, ‘I will propose it at the Board to-day, in my capacity as chairman.’

CAPITOLO VENTISETTE

Questo dimostra che gli vecchi amici non solo possono apparire con nuovi volti, ma anche con false sembianze. Che le persone hanno la tendenza a mordere, e che coloro che mordono a volte vengono a loro volta morsi.

Il signor Bailey, Junior – per il suo carattere sportivo e la sua utilità generale presso la scuola Todgers’s – aveva ormai stabilito regolarmente la propria vita con quel nome, senza nemmeno prendersi la briga di ottenere dal parlamento una licenza ufficiale sotto forma di disegno di legge privato. Tra tutti i tipi di disegni di legge, questi rappresentano senza eccezione quelli più ingiustificati per quanto riguarda le spese richieste. Il signor Bailey, Junior, abbastanza alto da essere visto da chi lo osservava attentamente, guardava con indolenza la gente dall’alto del mantice della carrozza del suo padrone, guidando lentamente su e giù per Pall Mall, intorno all’ora di mezzogiorno, in attesa del proprio “padrone”. Il cavallo di famiglia nobile – il cui nipote era il Capricorno e il cui fratello il Cavolfiore – dimostrava di essere degno delle sue nobili origini mordendo con forza la briglia fino a far schiumare il pelo sul suo petto, e si alzava sulle zampe posteriori come un cavallo raffigurato negli stemmi araldici; la bardatura lucida e il cuoio verniciato brillavano al sole; i passanti lo ammiravano. Il signor Bailey era compiaciuto, ma indifferente. Sembrava dire: “Una semplice carriola, buona gente. Niente in confronto a ciò che potremmo fare, se solo lo volessimo!” E così continuava ad andare avanti, tenendo i suoi bracci corti e verdi fuori dal mantice della carrozza, come se fossero attaccati alle sue ascelle.

Il signor Bailey aveva un’ottima opinione del fratello di Cauliflower e stimava molto le sue capacità. Ma non glielo diceva mai apertamente. Al contrario, quando guidava quell’animale, aveva l’abitudine di rivolgergli espressioni irrispettose, se non addirittura offensive: “Ah! Davvero pensavi di farcela?” “Allora ci credevi davvero?” “Dove stai andando ora?” “No, non ce la farai, ragazzo mio!” e simili frasi. Queste parole, solitamente accompagnate da uno strappo alle redini o da un colpo di frusta, scatenavano spesso liti e lotte per il dominio; a volte questi scontri finivano in negozi di porcellane o in altri luoghi insoliti, come aveva già accennato il signor Bailey al suo amico Poll Sweedlepipe.

In questa occasione, il signor Bailey, essendo di buon umore, fu particolarmente severo con il suo “carico”; di conseguenza, quell’animale “infuocato” si limitò quasi esclusivamente ad utilizzare le zampe posteriori per mostrare la sua velocità, finendo spesso in posizioni davvero sorprendenti rispetto al cabriolet, che lasciava esterrefatti i passanti per strada. Ma il signor Bailey, del tutto indifferente a queste reazioni, continuava comunque a rivolgere battute piacevoli a chiunque gli capitasse davanti: chiamava un giovane carrettiere che per un momento bloccava la strada, chiedeva alle signore anziane che volevano attraversare, e poi tornava indietro con altre domande sarcastiche. Tentava anche i ragazzi con parole amichevoli, invitandoli a salire dietro al carro, per poi subito dopo rimproverarli; insomma, alternava momenti di allegro umorismo a improvvisi scatti di severità, e ogni tanto si divertiva a girare intorno a St. James’s Square al galoppo, per poi entrare lentamente in Pall Mall da un’altra entrata, come se nel frattempo avesse rallentato drasticamente la sua andatura.

Solo dopo che questi scherzi furono ripetuti molte volte, e che il chiosco delle mele all’angolo aveva subito così tante “fughe miracolose” da sembrare praticamente inespugnabile, il signor Bailey fu chiamato alla porta di una certa casa in Pall Mall. Obbedendo all’appello, saltò fuori. Ma solo dopo aver tenuto le redini per alcuni minuti ancora, sopportando ogni movimento improvviso della testa e delle narici del cavallo, riuscì finalmente ad entrare nel veicolo: una persona prese le redini e partì rapidamente. Il signor Bailey corse dietro di loro per centinaia di metri invano, prima di riuscire a salire sul carro. Allora, beh, era davvero uno spettacolo da vedere: in piedi su un piede solo, cercando di guardare intorno dal lato destro o sinistro del veicolo, che si muoveva velocemente tra carri e cocchi. Era letteralmente “Newmarket” dalla testa ai piedi.

L’aspetto del governatore di Mr Bailey, mentre guidava, giustificava appieno la descrizione che quel giovane entusiasta aveva fatto di lui a Poll, piena di meraviglia. Aveva i capelli neri lucidi dappertutto: sulla testa, sulle guance, sul mento, sul labbro superiore. I suoi abiti, confezionati in modo impeccabile, seguivano la moda più recente e erano dei materiali più costosi. Sul gilet erano applicate fioriture dorate, blu, verdi e rosse; preziose catene e gioielli brillavano sul suo petto; le sue dita, ingombre di anelli scintillanti, sembravano goffe come mosche estive appena uscite da un vaso di miele. La luce del giorno si rifletteva nel suo cappello e nelle sue scarpe, come in uno specchio lucidato. Eppure, anche se aveva cambiato nome e aspetto esteriore, era ancora Tigg. Anche se era stato capovolto e rivoltato dentro fuori, come talvolta accade ai grandi uomini; anche se non era più Montague Tigg, ma Tigg Montague. Era sempre lo stesso: quel Tigg satanico, galante e militare. Il metallo di cui era fatto sembrava lucido e nuovo, ma in realtà era sempre lo stesso vero metallo di Tigg.

Accanto a lui sedeva un gentiluomo sorridente, meno presuntuoso e dall’aspetto più serio, al quale si rivolse chiamandolo David. Sicuramente non il David del, come dirlo?, del triumvirato delle palle dorate. Non il David che lavorava come cameriere al Lombards’ Arms. Sì, proprio lui.

“Lo stipendio del segretario, David,” disse il signor Montague, “adesso che l’ufficio è stato istituito, ammonta a ottocento sterline all’anno; inoltre, gli vengono rimborsati gratuitamente l’affitto della casa, il carbone e le candele. Naturalmente, non dimentichiamo le sue cinquantadue azioni. È sufficiente?”

David sorrise e annuì, poi tossì dietro una piccola cartella chiusa a chiave che portava con sé; il suo atteggiamento dichiarava chiaramente che era proprio lui il segretario in questione.

“Se questo basta,” disse Montague, “lo proporrò oggi in consiglio, nella mia veste di presidente.”

The secretary smiled again; laughed, indeed, this time; and said, rubbing his nose slily with one end of the portfolio:

‘It was a capital thought, wasn’t it?’

‘What was a capital thought, David?’ Mr Montague inquired.

‘The Anglo-Bengalee,’ tittered the secretary.

‘The Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company is rather a capital concern, I hope, David,’ said Montague.

‘Capital indeed!’ cried the secretary, with another laugh—’ in one sense.’

‘In the only important one,’ observed the chairman; ‘which is number one, David.’

‘What,’ asked the secretary, bursting into another laugh, ‘what will be the paid up capital, according to the next prospectus?’

‘A figure of two, and as many oughts after it as the printer can get into the same line,’ replied his friend. ‘Ha, ha!’

At this they both laughed; the secretary so vehemently, that in kicking up his feet, he kicked the apron open, and nearly started Cauliflower’s brother into an oyster shop; not to mention Mr Bailey’s receiving such a sudden swing, that he held on for a moment quite a young Fame, by one strap and no legs.

‘What a chap you are!’ exclaimed David admiringly, when this little alarm had subsided.

‘Say, genius, David, genius.’

‘Well, upon my soul, you ARE a genius then,’ said David. ‘I always knew you had the gift of the gab, of course; but I never believed you were half the man you are. How could I?’

‘I rise with circumstances, David. That’s a point of genius in itself,’ said Tigg. ‘If you were to lose a hundred pound wager to me at this minute David, and were to pay it (which is most confoundedly improbable), I should rise, in a mental point of view, directly.’

It is due to Mr Tigg to say that he had really risen with his opportunities; and, peculating on a grander scale, he had become a grander man altogether.

‘Ha, ha,’ cried the secretary, laying his hand, with growing familiarity, upon the chairman’s arm. ‘When I look at you, and think of your property in Bengal being—ha, ha, ha!—’

The half-expressed idea seemed no less ludicrous to Mr Tigg than to his friend, for he laughed too, heartily.

‘—Being,’ resumed David, ‘being amenable—your property in Bengal being amenable—to all claims upon the company; when I look at you and think of that, you might tickle me into fits by waving the feather of a pen at me. Upon my soul you might!’

‘It a devilish fine property,’ said Tigg Montague, ‘to be amenable to any claims. The preserve of tigers alone is worth a mint of money, David.’

David could only reply in the intervals of his laughter, ‘Oh, what a chap you are!’ and so continued to laugh, and hold his sides, and wipe his eyes, for some time, without offering any other observation.

‘A capital idea?’ said Tigg, returning after a time to his companion’s first remark; ‘no doubt it was a capital idea. It was my idea.’

‘No, no. It was my idea,’ said David. ‘Hang it, let a man have some credit. Didn’t I say to you that I’d saved a few pounds?—’

‘You said! Didn’t I say to you,’ interposed Tigg, ‘that I had come into a few pounds?’

‘Certainly you did,’ returned David, warmly, ‘but that’s not the idea. Who said, that if we put the money together we could furnish an office, and make a show?’

‘And who said,’ retorted Mr Tigg, ‘that, provided we did it on a sufficiently large scale, we could furnish an office and make a show, without any money at all? Be rational, and just, and calm, and tell me whose idea was that.’

‘Why, there,’ David was obliged to confess, ‘you had the advantage of me, I admit. But I don’t put myself on a level with you. I only want a little credit in the business.’

‘All the credit you deserve to have,’ said Tigg.

‘The plain work of the company, David—figures, books, circulars, advertisements, pen, ink, and paper, sealing-wax and wafers—is admirably done by you. You are a first-rate groveller. I don’t dispute it. But the ornamental department, David; the inventive and poetical department—’

‘Is entirely yours,’ said his friend. ‘No question of it. But with such a swell turnout as this, and all the handsome things you’ve got about you, and the life you lead, I mean to say it’s a precious comfortable department too.’

‘Does it gain the purpose? Is it Anglo-Bengalee?’ asked Tigg.

‘Yes,’ said David.

‘Could you undertake it yourself?’ demanded Tigg.

‘No,’ said David.

‘Ha, ha!’ laughed Tigg. ‘Then be contented with your station and your profits, David, my fine fellow, and bless the day that made us acquainted across the counter of our common uncle, for it was a golden day to you.’

It will have been already gathered from the conversation of these worthies, that they were embarked in an enterprise of some magnitude, in which they addressed the public in general from the strong position of having everything to gain and nothing at all to lose; and which, based upon this great principle, was thriving pretty comfortably.

The Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company started into existence one morning, not an Infant Institution, but a Grown-up Company running alone at a great pace, and doing business right and left: with a ‘branch’ in a first floor over a tailor’s at the west-end of the town, and main offices in a new street in the City, comprising the upper part of a spacious house resplendent in stucco and plate-glass, with wire-blinds in all the windows, and ‘Anglo-Bengalee’ worked into the pattern of every one of them. On the doorpost was painted again in large letters, ‘offices of the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company,’ and on the door was a large brass plate with the same inscription; always kept very bright, as courting inquiry; staring the City out of countenance after office hours on working days, and all day long on Sundays; and looking bolder than the Bank. Within, the offices were newly plastered, newly painted, newly papered, newly countered, newly floor-clothed, newly tabled, newly chaired, newly fitted up in every way, with goods that were substantial and expensive, and designed (like the company) to last. Business! Look at the green ledgers with red backs, like strong cricket-balls beaten flat; the court-guides directories, day-books, almanacks, letter-boxes, weighing-machines for letters, rows of fire-buckets for dashing out a conflagration in its first spark, and saving the immense wealth in notes and bonds belonging to the company; look at the iron safes, the clock, the office seal—in its capacious self, security for anything. Solidity! Look at the massive blocks of marble in the chimney-pieces, and the gorgeous parapet on the top of the house! Publicity! Why, Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance company is painted on the very coal-scuttles. It is repeated at every turn until the eyes are dazzled with it, and the head is giddy. It is engraved upon the top of all the letter paper, and it makes a scroll-work round the seal, and it shines out of the porter’s buttons, and it is repeated twenty times in every circular and public notice wherein one David Crimple, Esquire, Secretary and resident Director, takes the liberty of inviting your attention to the accompanying statement of the advantages offered by the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company; and fully proves to you that any connection on your part with that establishment must result in a perpetual Christmas Box and constantly increasing Bonus to yourself, and that nobody can run any risk by the transaction except the office, which, in its great liberality is pretty sure to lose. And this, David Crimple, Esquire, submits to you (and the odds are heavy you believe him), is the best guarantee that can reasonably be suggested by the Board of Management for its permanence and stability.

Il segretario sorrise di nuovo; anzi, questa volta rise davvero; e disse, strofinandosi il naso con un angolo della cartella:

“È stata davvero un’idea geniale, non è vero?”

“Che pensiero straordinario, David, ”, chiese il signor Montague.

“L’Anglo-Bengalese, ”, ridacchiò il segretario.

“La Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company è piuttosto un’impresa di capitale, spero, David,” disse Montague.

“Capitale davvero!”, esclamò il segretario, ridendo di nuovo, “in un certo senso”.

“Nel solo aspetto davvero importante”, osservò il presidente; “ovvero nel numero uno, David.”

“Cosa?”, chiese il segretario, scoppiando di nuovo a ridere, “quanto sarà il capitale versato, secondo il prossimo prospectus?”

“Due cifre, e poi quante ‘dovrebbe’ ci siano possibile far stare nello stesso rigo, a seconda di quanto spazio abbia il tipografo,” rispose il suo amico. “Ahah!”

A questo punto entrambi risero; il segretario così forte che, alzando i piedi in aria, fece aprire l’grembiule di Cauliflower e per poco non fece finire suo fratello in un negozio di ostriche. Per non parlare del signor Bailey, che ricevette uno scatto così improvviso da doversi aggrappare, per un momento, a una giovane “Fama” tenendola soltanto per una cinghia e senza lasciarle le gambe.

“Che bravo ragazzo sei!” esclamò David con ammirazione, quando quel piccolo allarme si era placato.

“Dai, genio. David, genio.”

“Beh, per la mia anima, allora sei davvero un genio,” disse David. “Lo sapevo sempre che avevi il dono della parola, ovviamente; ma non avrei mai creduto che fossi così bravo. Come avrei potuto?”

“Mi adatto alle circostanze, David. Questo è di per sé un segno di genio,” disse Tigg. “Se in questo stesso momento dovessi perdere una scommessa da cento sterline con me e fossi costretto a pagarla (il che è estremamente improbabile), mentalmente parlando, mi adatterei immediatamente.”

È merito del signor Tigg dire che aveva davvero fatto carriera grazie alle sue opportunità; e, approfittando di situazioni ancora più vantaggiose, era diventato una persona davvero importante.

“Ahahah,” esclamò il segretario, posando la mano, con sempre maggiore familiarità, sul braccio del presidente. “Quando ti guardo e penso alla tua proprietà nel Bengala che è, ahahah, ”

Quell’idea appena abbozzata sembrava altrettanto assurda sia al signor Tigg che al suo amico, tanto che anche lui rise di cuore.

“–L’essere – continuò David – l’essere suscettibile di essere influenzato. La tua proprietà in Bengala è infatti soggetta a tutte le richieste avanzate contro la compagnia; quando ti guardo e penso a questo, potresti persino farmi ridere fino alle lacrime agitando semplicemente una penna davanti a me. Sul mio ‘anima, sì!”

“È davvero una proprietà meravigliosa,” disse Tigg Montague, “poiché può essere sottoposta a qualsiasi tipo di richiesta legale. Solo la riserva dei tigri vale un sacco di soldi, David.”

David riusciva solo a rispondere tra una risata e l’altra: “Oh, che tipo strano sei!” E continuò a ridere, tenendosi la pancia e asciugandosi gli occhi per un po’, senza aggiungere altro.

“Un’idea geniale?” disse Tigg, tornando dopo un po’ sul primo commento del suo compagno; “nessun >dubbio: era davvero un’idea geniale. Era stata mia.”

“No, no. È stata mia l’idea,” disse David. “Lasciate che un uomo abbia almeno un po’ di merito. Non vi avevo detto che avevo risparmiato qualche sterlina?”

“L’avevo detto, no?”, intervenne Tigg, “che avevo messo su qualche chilo, vero?”

“Certo che sì,” rispose David con calore, “ma non è quello il punto. Chi ha detto che, se mettessimo insieme i soldi, potremmo arredare un ufficio e organizzare una mostra?”

“E chi ha detto,” ribatté il signor Tigg, “che, se lo facessimo su una scala abbastanza ampia, potremmo allestire un ufficio e organizzare uno spettacolo senza spendere nemmeno un centesimo? Sii razionale, giusto e calmo, e dimmi chi ha avuto questa idea.”

“Beh, sì,” dovette ammettere David, “devo riconoscere che tu avevi un vantaggio su di me. Ma non mi considero allo stesso livello tuo; voglio solo avere un po’ di merito in questa faccenda.”

“Tutto il merito che ti spetta,” disse Tigg.

“Il lavoro di routine dell’azienda, David – cifre, libri, circolari, annunci, penne, inchiostro e carta, cera da sigillare e foglioline di carta – viene svolto in modo eccellente da te. Sei davvero un professionista di prim’ordine. Non lo nego. Ma il reparto decorativo, David, il reparto creativo e poetico, ”

“È interamente tuo,” disse il suo amico. “Senza dubbio. Ma con una partecipazione così numerosa, e tutte le cose belle che hai intorno a te, nonché la vita che conduci, voglio dire, è anche un ambiente davvero confortevole e piacevole.”

“Raggiunge lo scopo desiderato? È un testo anglo-bengalese?” chiese Tigg.

“Sì,” disse David.

“Potresti occupartene tu stesso?” chiese Tigg.

“No,” disse David.

“Ah ah!” rise Tigg. “Allora accontentati della tua posizione e dei tuoi profitti, David, mio caro amico. E ringrazia il cielo per il giorno in cui ci siamo conosciuti dietro al bancone del nostro comune zio: per te è stato davvero un giorno meraviglioso.”

Dalla conversazione di questi valorosi deve essere già emerso che si erano impegnati in un’impresa di notevole portata, nella quale si rivolgevano al pubblico nel complesso dalla posizione vantaggiosa di avere tutto da guadagnare e nulla da perdere; e che, basandosi su questo fondamentale principio, l’impresa procedeva abbastanza bene.

La Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company nacque una mattina; non era certo un’istituzione appena fondata, ma un’azienda solida e ben avviata, che operava con grande efficienza in tutti i settori. Aveva una “filiale” al primo piano di un negozio di sartoria nella parte ovest della città, mentre la sede principale si trovava in una nuova strada del centro, in un’ampia casa decorata con stucchi e vetro laminato; tutte le finestre erano dotate di tende metalliche su cui era inciso il nome dell’azienda. Sulla porta era dipinto a grandi lettere “Uffici della Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company”, e sulla porta stessa c’era una grande targa di bronzo con la stessa iscrizione; questa veniva sempre tenuta pulita e ben visibile, per attirare l’attenzione dei clienti. Fuori orario lavorativo, soprattutto nei giorni feriali, l’insegna brillava intensamente; anche di domenica era sempre ben visibile, e sembrava più imponente persino delle banche della zona. All’interno, gli uffici erano completamente rinnovati: pareti intonacate di nuovo, dipinte di nuovo, tappezzate di nuovo, arredati con mobili nuovi e di buona qualità. Si vedevano registri verdi con copertine rosse, guide commerciali, libri contabili, cassette per la posta, macchine per pesare le lettere, file di secchi per spegnere eventuali incendi all’istante. Insomma, tutto ciò che serviva per garantire l’efficienza e la sicurezza delle operazioni aziendali. C’erano anche casseforti di ferro, un orologio, un sigillo ufficiale. La solidità dell’azienda era evidente in ogni dettaglio. I marmi utilizzati per le strutture interne erano di ottima qualità, e il parapetto sulla sommità della casa era davvero imponente. Inoltre, il nome dell’azienda era stampato ovunque: sui secchi del carbone, sugli oggetti di uso quotidiano. Insomma, veniva promosso in ogni modo possibile. La Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company si presentava come un’azienda affidabile e solida; chi vi aderiva poteva aspettarsi benefici costanti e aumenti regolari dei propri guadagni. E nessuno rischiava nulla, tranne forse l’ufficio stesso, che, con la sua grande generosità, era destinato probabilmente a perdere denaro. Ed ecco, signori, la migliore garanzia che il consiglio di amministrazione possa offrire riguardo alla permanenza e alla stabilità dell’azienda.

This gentleman’s name, by the way, had been originally Crimp; but as the word was susceptible of an awkward construction and might be misrepresented, he had altered it to Crimple.

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

Rival offices had endeavoured to lure him away; Lombard Street itself had beckoned to him; rich companies had whispered ‘Be a Beadle!’ but he still continued faithful to the Anglo-Bengalee. Whether he was a deep rogue, or a stately simpleton, it was impossible to make out, but he appeared to believe in the Anglo-Bengalee. He was grave with imaginary cares of office; and having nothing whatever to do, and something less to take care of, would look as if the pressure of his numerous duties, and a sense of the treasure in the company’s strong-room, made him a solemn and a thoughtful man.

As the cabriolet drove up to the door, this officer appeared bare-headed on the pavement, crying aloud ‘Room for the chairman, room for the chairman, if you please!’ much to the admiration of the bystanders, who, it is needless to say, had their attention directed to the Anglo-Bengalee Company thenceforth, by that means. Mr Tigg leaped gracefully out, followed by the Managing Director (who was by this time very distant and respectful), and ascended the stairs, still preceded by the porter, who cried as he went, ‘By your leave there! by your leave! The Chairman of the Board, Gentle—MEN! In like manner, but in a still more stentorian voice, he ushered the chairman through the public office, where some humble clients were transacting business, into an awful chamber, labelled Board-room; the door of which sanctuary immediately closed, and screened the great capitalist from vulgar eyes.

The board-room had a Turkey carpet in it, a sideboard, a portrait of Tigg Montague, Esquire, as chairman; a very imposing chair of office, garnished with an ivory hammer and a little hand-bell; and a long table, set out at intervals with sheets of blotting-paper, foolscap, clean pens, and inkstands. The chairman having taken his seat with great solemnity, the secretary supported him on his right hand, and the porter stood bolt upright behind them, forming a warm background of waistcoat. This was the board: everything else being a light-hearted little fiction.

‘Bullamy!’ said Mr Tigg.

‘Sir!’ replied the porter.

‘Let the Medical Officer know, with my compliments, that I wish to see him.’

Bullamy cleared his throat, and bustled out into the office, crying ‘The Chairman of the Board wishes to see the Medical Officer. By your leave there! By your leave!’ He soon returned with the gentleman in question; and at both openings of the board-room door—at his coming in and at his going out—simple clients were seen to stretch their necks and stand upon their toes, thirsting to catch the slightest glimpse of that mysterious chamber.

‘Jobling, my dear friend!’ said Mr Tigg, ‘how are you? Bullamy, wait outside. Crimple, don’t leave us. Jobling, my good fellow, I am glad to see you.’

‘And how are you, Mr Montague, eh?’ said the Medical Officer, throwing himself luxuriously into an easy-chair (they were all easy-chairs in the board-room), and taking a handsome gold snuff-box from the pocket of his black satin waistcoat. ‘How are you? A little worn with business, eh? If so, rest. A little feverish from wine, humph? If so, water. Nothing at all the matter, and quite comfortable? Then take some lunch. A very wholesome thing at this time of day to strengthen the gastric juices with lunch, Mr Montague.’

The Medical Officer (he was the same medical officer who had followed poor old Anthony Chuzzlewit to the grave, and who had attended Mrs Gamp’s patient at the Bull) smiled in saying these words; and casually added, as he brushed some grains of snuff from his shirt-frill, ‘I always take it myself about this time of day, do you know!’

‘Bullamy!’ said the Chairman, ringing the little bell.

‘Sir!’

‘Lunch.’

‘Not on my account, I hope?’ said the doctor. ‘You are very good. Thank you. I’m quite ashamed. Ha, ha! if I had been a sharp practitioner, Mr Montague, I shouldn’t have mentioned it without a fee; for you may depend upon it, my dear sir, that if you don’t make a point of taking lunch, you’ll very soon come under my hands. Allow me to illustrate this. In Mr Crimple’s leg—’

Il nome di questo gentiluomo, a proposito, era originariamente “Crimp”; ma poiché quella parola poteva essere interpretata in modo imbarazzante o fraintesa, egli l’aveva modificata in “Crimple”.

Per evitare che, di fronte a tutte queste prove e conferme, qualcuno potesse nutrire sospetti riguardo alla Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company; per impedire che si dubitasse della credibilità di figure come Tigg Montague, Esquire (di Pall Mall e del Bengala), o di qualsiasi altro nome figurante nell’elenco dei dirigenti, c’era un portiere in quei locali: una creatura davvero straordinaria, con un enorme gilet rosso e un cappotto corto a righe bianche e nere. La sua presenza aveva più effetto nel convincere i scettici di tutto l’intero staff della compagnia messo insieme. Non esisteva alcun legame tra lui e la direzione; nessuno sapeva dove avesse lavorato in precedenza; non era stato richiesto né fornito alcun dettaglio sulla sua persona o sul suo passato. Nessuna domanda era stata posta da nessuna delle due parti. Quest’essere misterioso, affidandosi esclusivamente al proprio aspetto esteriore, aveva ottenuto quel lavoro e vi era stato immediatamente assunto secondo le sue condizioni. Le mansioni che ricopriva erano di alto rilievo; ma lui sapeva bene che nessun altro avrebbe potuto indossare un gilet così largo. E ne comprendeva appieno il valore per quell’istituzione. Quando si sedeva in un angolo dell’ufficio, con il cappello lucido appeso a un chiodino sopra la testa, era impossibile dubitare della rispettabilità della compagnia. Il suo aspetto, con quel gilet rosso che sembrava raddoppiarsi ad ogni movimento, creava un’impressione davvero imponente. Si erano verificati casi in cui persone chiedevano di assicurare la propria vita per mille sterline, e, dopo averlo visto, supplicavano che l’importo dell’assicurazione venisse aumentato a duemila! Eppure non era affatto un gigante: il suo cappotto era anzi piuttosto piccolo. L’intera “magia” risiedeva nel suo gilet. Rispettabilità, competenza, proprietà in Bengala o altrove, ogni aspetto legato alla credibilità della compagnia che lo impiegava veniva espresso attraverso quel singolo indumento.

Uffici rivali avevano cercato di attirarlo via; persino Lombard Street stessa lo aveva invitato ad unirsi a loro; ricche compagnie gli avevano sussurrato “Diventa un Beadle!”, ma lui rimase fedele all’Anglo-Bengalee. Che fosse un vero furfante o semplicemente un ingenuo, era impossibile capirlo; tuttavia sembrava davvero credere nelle promesse dell’Anglo-Bengalee. Era molto serio, preoccupato da immaginarie responsabilità lavorative; e poiché non aveva nulla da fare, e ancor meno di cui occuparsi, dava l’impressione che il peso delle sue numerose mansioni, insieme alla consapevolezza del “tesoro” nascosto nelle stanze segrete della compagnia, lo rendessero una persona solenne e riflessiva.

Mentre il cabriolet si avvicinava alla porta, un ufficiale apparve a testa scoperta sul marciapiede, gridando ad alta voce: “Posto per il presidente, per favore! Posto per il presidente!” A questo, gli spettatori non poterono fare a meno di ammirarlo; da quel momento in poi, l’attenzione di tutti fu rivolta alla Anglo-Bengalee Company. Il signor Tigg scese con grazia dal veicolo, seguito dal direttore generale (che ormai si comportava con grande rispetto), e salì le scale, sempre preceduto dal portiere, il quale continuava a gridare: “Per favore! Il presidente del consiglio di amministrazione. Signori!” Con voce ancora più tonante, accompagnò il presidente nella sala riunioni; la porta si chiuse immediatamente, nascondendo così quel grande capitalista agli occhi dei comuni mortali.

La sala riunioni era rivestita con un tappeto turco, c’era un comodino, un ritratto di Tigg Montague, Esquire, in qualità di presidente; una sedia da ufficio molto imponente, decorata con un martello d’avorio e una piccola campanella a mano; e un lungo tavolo, sul quale erano disposti, a intervalli regolari, fogli di carta assorbente, carta bianca, penne pulite e calamaie. Dopo che il presidente si fu seduto con grande solennità, il segretario gli tenne il braccio destro, mentre il portiere stava in piedi dritto dietro di loro, formando così uno “sfondo” composto da gilet. Questo era il vero ambiente della riunione: tutto il resto non era che una leggera finzione.

“Bullamy!”, disse il signor Tigg.

“Signore!”, rispose il portiere.

“Faccia sapere al medico, con i miei saluti, che desidero vederlo.”

Bullamy si schiarì la gola e corse nell’ufficio, gridando: “Il Presidente del Consiglio desidera vedere il Medico di bordo. Con il vostro permesso, eccolo qui! Con il vostro permesso, ” Tornò presto con l’uomo in questione; e in entrambe le occasioni in cui la porta dell’ufficio del consiglio si aprì – quando lui entrò e quando uscì – si vedeva che i clienti comuni allungavano il collo e si alzavano in punta di piedi, desiderosi di intravedere anche solo per un attimo quella misteriosa stanza.

“Jobling, mio caro amico!” disse il signor Tigg, “come stai? Bullamy, aspetta fuori. Crimple, non lasciarci. Jobling, mio buon amico, sono felice di rivederti.”

“E come va, signor Montague?” disse il medico, accomodandosi con noncuranza in una poltrona (nella sala riunioni c’erano solo poltrone di questo tipo) e tirando fuori dalla tasca del suo gilet di seta nera un bellissimo portasnoffo d’oro. “Come va? Un po’ stanco per via del lavoro, eh? In tal caso, riposatevi. Forse avete un po’ di febbre a causa del vino. In quel caso, bevete dell’acqua. Niente di grave, vero? Allora mangiate qualcosa a pranzo. È un pasto molto salutare a quest’ora della giornata: aiuterà a rafforzare i succhi gastrici, signor Montague.”

Il Medico – lo stesso che aveva accompagnato il povero vecchio Anthony Chuzzlewit alla tomba e che aveva curato la paziente della signora Gamp al Bull – sorrise mentre pronunciava queste parole; poi aggiunse, con noncuranza, mentre si puliva alcuni granelli di tabacco dalla piega del colletto: “Io personalmente lo assumo sempre a questa Timeora del giorno. Lo sapevi?”

“Bullamy!”, disse il Presidente, suonando la piccola campanella.

“Signore!”

“Pranzo.”

“Assolutamente no, per quanto mi riguarda, ”, disse il dottore. “Siete davvero molto gentile. Grazie. Mi vergogno un po’. Ahah! Se fossi stato un medico esperto, signor Montague, non avrei mai menzionato questa possibilità senza chiedere un compenso; potete esserne certo: se non vi decidete a pranzare con me, molto presto finirete sotto le mie cure. Lasciate che vi spieghi meglio. Nel caso del signor Crimple, ”

The resident Director gave an involuntary start, for the doctor, in the heat of his demonstration, caught it up and laid it across his own, as if he were going to take it off, then and there.

‘In Mr Crimple’s leg, you’ll observe,’ pursued the doctor, turning back his cuffs and spanning the limb with both hands, ‘where Mr Crimple’s knee fits into the socket, here, there is—that is to say, between the bone and the socket—a certain quantity of animal oil.’

‘What do you pick MY leg out for?’ said Mr Crimple, looking with something of an anxious expression at his limb. ‘It’s the same with other legs, ain’t it?’

‘Never you mind, my good sir,’ returned the doctor, shaking his head, ‘whether it is the same with other legs, or not the same.’

‘But I do mind,’ said David.

‘I take a particular case, Mr Montague,’ returned the doctor, ‘as illustrating my remark, you observe. In this portion of Mr Crimple’s leg, sir, there is a certain amount of animal oil. In every one of Mr Crimple’s joints, sir, there is more or less of the same deposit. Very good. If Mr Crimple neglects his meals, or fails to take his proper quantity of rest, that oil wanes, and becomes exhausted. What is the consequence? Mr Crimple’s bones sink down into their sockets, sir, and Mr Crimple becomes a weazen, puny, stunted, miserable man!’

The doctor let Mr Crimple’s leg fall suddenly, as if he were already in that agreeable condition; turned down his wristbands again, and looked triumphantly at the chairman.

‘We know a few secrets of nature in our profession, sir,’ said the doctor. ‘Of course we do. We study for that; we pass the Hall and the College for that; and we take our station in society BY that. It’s extraordinary how little is known on these subjects generally. Where do you suppose, now’—the doctor closed one eye, as he leaned back smilingly in his chair, and formed a triangle with his hands, of which his two thumbs composed the base—‘where do you suppose Mr Crimple’s stomach is?’

Mr Crimple, more agitated than before, clapped his hand immediately below his waistcoat.

‘Not at all,’ cried the doctor; ‘not at all. Quite a popular mistake! My good sir, you’re altogether deceived.’

‘I feel it there, when it’s out of order; that’s all I know,’ said Crimple.

‘You think you do,’ replied the doctor; ‘but science knows better. There was a patient of mine once,’ touching one of the many mourning rings upon his fingers, and slightly bowing his head, ‘a gentleman who did me the honour to make a very handsome mention of me in his will—“in testimony,” as he was pleased to say, “of the unremitting zeal, talent, and attention of my friend and medical attendant, John Jobling, Esquire, M.R.C.S.,”—who was so overcome by the idea of having all his life laboured under an erroneous view of the locality of this important organ, that when I assured him on my professional reputation, he was mistaken, he burst into tears, put out his hand, and said, “Jobling, God bless you!” Immediately afterwards he became speechless, and was ultimately buried at Brixton.’

‘By your leave there!’ cried Bullamy, without. ‘By your leave! Refreshment for the Board-room!’

‘Ha!’ said the doctor, jocularly, as he rubbed his hands, and drew his chair nearer to the table. ‘The true Life Assurance, Mr Montague. The best Policy in the world, my dear sir. We should be provident, and eat and drink whenever we can. Eh, Mr Crimple?’

The resident Director acquiesced rather sulkily, as if the gratification of replenishing his stomach had been impaired by the unsettlement of his preconceived opinions in reference to its situation. But the appearance of the porter and under-porter with a tray covered with a snow-white cloth, which, being thrown back, displayed a pair of cold roast fowls, flanked by some potted meats and a cool salad, quickly restored his good humour. It was enhanced still further by the arrival of a bottle of excellent madeira, and another of champagne; and he soon attacked the repast with an appetite scarcely inferior to that of the medical officer.

The lunch was handsomely served, with a profusion of rich glass plate, and china; which seemed to denote that eating and drinking on a showy scale formed no unimportant item in the business of the Anglo-Bengalee Directorship. As it proceeded, the Medical Officer grew more and more joyous and red-faced, insomuch that every mouthful he ate, and every drop of wine he swallowed, seemed to impart new lustre to his eyes, and to light up new sparks in his nose and forehead.

In certain quarters of the City and its neighbourhood, Mr Jobling was, as we have already seen in some measure, a very popular character. He had a portentously sagacious chin, and a pompous voice, with a rich huskiness in some of its tones that went directly to the heart, like a ray of light shining through the ruddy medium of choice old burgundy. His neckerchief and shirt-frill were ever of the whitest, his clothes of the blackest and sleekest, his gold watch-chain of the heaviest, and his seals of the largest. His boots, which were always of the brightest, creaked as he walked. Perhaps he could shake his head, rub his hands, or warm himself before a fire, better than any man alive; and he had a peculiar way of smacking his lips and saying, ‘Ah!’ at intervals while patients detailed their symptoms, which inspired great confidence. It seemed to express, ‘I know what you’re going to say better than you do; but go on, go on.’ As he talked on all occasions whether he had anything to say or not, it was unanimously observed of him that he was ‘full of anecdote;’ and his experience and profit from it were considered, for the same reason, to be something much too extensive for description. His female patients could never praise him too highly; and the coldest of his male admirers would always say this for him to their friends, ‘that whatever Jobling’s professional skill might be (and it could not be denied that he had a very high reputation), he was one of the most comfortable fellows you ever saw in your life!’

Il direttore residente ebbe un sussulto involontario: il dottore, nel fervore della sua dimostrazione, aveva preso quel pezzo di stoffa e lo aveva posato sul proprio corpo, come se volesse toglierselo lì su due piedi.

“Nella gamba del signor Crimple,” proseguì il dottore, girando di nuovo le maniche della sua camicia e tenendo la gamba con entrambe le mani, “lì dove il ginocchio del signor Crimple si inserisce nella cavità articolare, c’è, voglio dire, tra l’osso e la cavità, una certa quantità di olio animale.”

“Perché hai scelto proprio la mia gamba?”, disse il signor Crimple, guardando la propria gamba con un’espressione ansiosa. “Anche le altre gambe sono uguali, no?”

“Non importa affatto, mio caro signore,” rispose il dottore scuotendo la testa, “se anche le altre gambe siano nella stessa situazione o meno.”

“Ma a me dispiace,” disse David.

“Prendo un caso particolare in esempio, signor Montague,” rispose il dottore, “per illustrare quanto ho detto. In questa parte della gamba del signor Crimple c’è una certa quantità di olio animale; in ogni articolazione del signor Crimple si trova, più o meno, lo stesso deposito. Molto bene. Se il signor Crimple trascura i pasti o non riposa a sufficienza, quell’olio diminuisce e finisce per esaurirsi. Qual è la conseguenza? Le ossa del signor Crimple si abbassano nelle loro cavità, e lui diventa un uomo magro, debole, stentato, e miserabile!”

Il dottore lasciò cadere improvvisamente la gamba del signor Crimple, come se già si trovasse in quella condizione favorevole; riabbassò di nuovo i laccetti ai polsi e guardò il presidente con aria trionfante.

“Conosciamo alcune segreti della >natura nel nostro lavoro, signore,” disse il dottore. “Certo che sì. Lo studiamo apposta; superiamo gli esami necessari per questo scopo; ed è proprio grazie a ciò che occupiamo un posto nella società. È straordinario quanto poco si sappia in generale su questi argomenti. Dove pensate che sia, ora, ” Il dottore chiuse un occhio, appoggiandosi sorridendo allo schienale della sedia e formando con le mani un triangolo, i cui due pollici costituivano la base, “Dove pensate che si trovi lo stomaco del signor Crimple?”

Il signor Crimple, ancora più agitato di prima, batté immediatamente la mano proprio sotto il gilet.

“Assolutamente no,” gridò il dottore; “assolutamente no. È un errore molto comune. Mio caro signore, lei è completamente ingannato.”

“Lo sento quando qualcosa non funziona; è tutto ciò che so,” disse Crimple.

“Pensi di sì,” rispose il dottore; “ma la scienza sa meglio. Una volta ho avuto un paziente, ” toccando uno dei tanti anelli di lutto che portava sulle dita e chinando leggermente la testa, “un gentiluomo che mi fece l’onore di menzionarmi molto favorevolmente nel suo testamento, ‘Come testimonianza,’ diceva lui stesso, ‘dell’impegno instancabile, del talento e dell’attenzione del mio amico e assistente medico, John Jobling, Esquire, M.R.C.S.’” Quest’ultimo era così sopraffatto dall’idea di aver trascorso tutta la vita credendo erroneamente nella posizione di questo importante organo nel corpo umano, che quando gli assicurai della mia reputazione professionale, scoprendo che si sbagliava, scoppiò in lacrime, mi tese la mano e disse: “Jobling. Dio ti benedica!” Subito dopo perse la parola e fu sepolto a Brixton.

“Con il vostro permesso!” gridò Bullamy. “Con il vostro permesso. Rinfreschi per la sala riunioni!”

“Ha!” disse il dottore, scherzando, mentre si strofinava le mani e avvicinava la sedia al tavolo. “L’assicurazione sulla vera vita, signor Montague. La migliore polizza al mondo, caro signore. Dovremmo essere previdenti e mangiare e bere ogni volta che ne abbiamo l’opportunità. Eh, signor Crimple?”

Il direttore residente acconsentì con aria piuttosto malinconica, come se il piacere di riempirsi lo stomaco fosse stato compromesso dall’incertezza delle sue opinioni preconcette riguardo alla situazione in questione. Tuttavia, l’apparizione del portiere e del suo aiutante con un vassoio coperto da un panno bianco come la neve – che, quando sollevato, rivelò due polli arrostiti freddi, accompagnati da alcuni piatti di carne in scatola e una fresca insalata – gli restituì rapidamente il buon umore. Il suo stato d’animo migliorò ancora di più con l’arrivo di una bottiglia di eccellente madeira e un’altra di champagne; presto iniziò a mangiare con un appetito quasi paragonabile a quello dell’ufficiale medico.

Il pranzo fu servito con grande magnificenza, utilizzando abbondanti piatti di vetro e porcellana; ciò sembrava indicare che il mangiare e bere in modo sfarzoso rappresentassero un aspetto non trascurabile nell’attività della direzione anglo-bengalese. Man mano che il pranzo proseguiva, l’ufficiale medico diventava sempre più felice e arrossito; ogni boccone che mangiava e ogni goccia di vino che inghiottiva sembravano donargli nuovo splendore negli occhi e accendere nuove scintille sul suo naso e sulla sua fronte.

In certi quartieri della >Città e delle sue vicinanze, il signor Jobling era, come abbiamo già visto in qualche misura, una figura molto popolare. Aveva un mento straordinariamente sagace e una voce pomposa; alcune delle sue intonazioni avevano un timbro profondo e incisivo che andava dritto al cuore, come un raggio di luce che penetra attraverso il rosso vino vecchio di qualità superiore. Il suo fazzoletto da collo e i bordi della sua camicia erano sempre i più bianchi; i suoi abiti i più neri e lucidi; la catena dell’orologio d’oro la più pesante, e i suoi sigilli i più grandi. I suoi stivali, sempre i più brillanti, scricchiolavano ad ogni passo. Forse era in grado di scuotere la testa, strofinarsi le mani o riscaldarsi davanti a un >focolare meglio di qualsiasi altro uomo vivente; inoltre aveva l’abitudine di schioccarsi le labbra e dire “Ah!” di tanto in tanto mentre i pazienti descrivevano i loro sintomi, il che suscitava grande fiducia in lui. Quel gesto sembrava esprimere: “So meglio di voi cosa state per dire; ma continuate pure”. Poiché parlava sempre, indipendentemente dal fatto che avesse qualcosa da dire o meno, tutti concordavano nel ritenere che fosse “ricco di aneddoti”; inoltre, la sua esperienza e i risultati ottenuti grazie a essa venivano considerati, per lo stesso motivo, estremamente vasti e difficili da descrivere. Le sue pazienti donne non potevano mai lodarlo abbastanza; anche i suoi più freddi ammiratori maschi dicevano sempre ai loro amici: “Qualunque sia la competenza professionale del signor Jobling (e non si può negare che avesse una reputazione molto alta), è senz’altro uno degli uomini più piacevoli da incontrare nella vita!”

Jobling was for many reasons, and not last in the list because his connection lay principally among tradesmen and their families, exactly the sort of person whom the Anglo-Bengalee Company wanted for a medical officer. But Jobling was far too knowing to connect himself with the company in any closer ties than as a paid (and well paid) functionary, or to allow his connection to be misunderstood abroad, if he could help it. Hence he always stated the case to an inquiring patient, after this manner:

‘Why, my dear sir, with regard to the Anglo-Bengalee, my information, you see, is limited; very limited. I am the medical officer, in consideration of a certain monthly payment. The labourer is worthy of his hire; BIS DAT QUI CITO DAT’—[‘classical scholar, Jobling!’ thinks the patient, ‘well-read man!’)—‘and I receive it regularly. Therefore I am bound, so far as my own knowledge goes, to speak well of the establishment.’ [‘Nothing can be fairer than Jobling’s conduct,’ thinks the patient, who has just paid Jobling’s bill himself.) ‘If you put any question to me, my dear friend,’ says the doctor, ‘touching the responsibility or capital of the company, there I am at fault; for I have no head for figures, and not being a shareholder, am delicate of showing any curiosity whatever on the subject. Delicacy—your amiable lady will agree with me I am sure—should be one of the first characteristics of a medical man.’ [‘Nothing can be finer or more gentlemanly than Jobling’s feeling,’ thinks the patient.) ‘Very good, my dear sir, so the matter stands. You don’t know Mr Montague? I’m sorry for it. A remarkably handsome man, and quite the gentleman in every respect. Property, I am told, in India. House and everything belonging to him, beautiful. Costly furniture on the most elegant and lavish scale. And pictures, which, even in an anatomical point of view, are perfection. In case you should ever think of doing anything with the company, I’ll pass you, you may depend upon it. I can conscientiously report you a healthy subject. If I understand any man’s constitution, it is yours; and this little indisposition has done him more good, ma’am,’ says the doctor, turning to the patient’s wife, ‘than if he had swallowed the contents of half the nonsensical bottles in my surgery. For they ARE nonsense—to tell the honest truth, one half of them are nonsense—compared with such a constitution as his!’ [‘Jobling is the most friendly creature I ever met with in my life,’ thinks the patient; ‘and upon my word and honour, I’ll consider of it!’)

‘Commission to you, doctor, on four new policies, and a loan this morning, eh?’ said Crimple, looking, when they had finished lunch, over some papers brought in by the porter. ‘Well done!’

‘Jobling, my dear friend,’ said Tigg, ‘long life to you.’

‘No, no. Nonsense. Upon my word I’ve no right to draw the commission,’ said the doctor, ‘I haven’t really. It’s picking your pocket. I don’t recommend anybody here. I only say what I know. My patients ask me what I know, and I tell ‘em what I know. Nothing else. Caution is my weak side, that’s the truth; and always was from a boy. That is,’ said the doctor, filling his glass, ‘caution in behalf of other people. Whether I would repose confidence in this company myself, if I had not been paying money elsewhere for many years—that’s quite another question.’

He tried to look as if there were no doubt about it; but feeling that he did it but indifferently, changed the theme and praised the wine.

‘Talking of wine,’ said the doctor, ‘reminds me of one of the finest glasses of light old port I ever drank in my life; and that was at a funeral. You have not seen anything of—of THAT party, Mr Montague, have you?’ handing him a card.

‘He is not buried, I hope?’ said Tigg, as he took it. ‘The honour of his company is not requested if he is.’

‘Ha, ha!’ laughed the doctor. ‘No; not quite. He was honourably connected with that very occasion though.’

‘Oh!’ said Tigg, smoothing his moustache, as he cast his eyes upon the name. ‘I recollect. No. He has not been here.’

The words were on his lips, when Bullamy entered, and presented a card to the Medical Officer.

‘Talk of the what’s his name—’ observed the doctor rising.

‘And he’s sure to appear, eh?’ said Tigg.

‘Why, no, Mr Montague, no,’ returned the doctor. ‘We will not say that in the present case, for this gentleman is very far from it.’

‘So much the better,’ retorted Tigg. ‘So much the more adaptable to the Anglo-Bengalee. Bullamy, clear the table and take the things out by the other door. Mr Crimple, business.’

‘Shall I introduce him?’ asked Jobling.

‘I shall be eternally delighted,’ answered Tigg, kissing his hand and smiling sweetly.

The doctor disappeared into the outer office, and immediately returned with Jonas Chuzzlewit.

‘Mr Montague,’ said Jobling. ‘Allow me. My friend Mr Chuzzlewit. My dear friend—our chairman. Now do you know,’ he added checking himself with infinite policy, and looking round with a smile; ‘that’s a very singular instance of the force of example. It really is a very remarkable instance of the force of example. I say OUR chairman. Why do I say our chairman? Because he is not MY chairman, you know. I have no connection with the company, farther than giving them, for a certain fee and reward, my poor opinion as a medical man, precisely as I may give it any day to Jack Noakes or Tom Styles. Then why do I say our chairman? Simply because I hear the phrase constantly repeated about me. Such is the involuntary operation of the mental faculty in the imitative biped man. Mr Crimple, I believe you never take snuff? Injudicious. You should.’

Pending these remarks on the part of the doctor, and the lengthened and sonorous pinch with which he followed them up, Jonas took a seat at the board; as ungainly a man as ever he has been within the reader’s knowledge. It is too common with all of us, but it is especially in the nature of a mean mind, to be overawed by fine clothes and fine furniture. They had a very decided influence on Jonas.

Per molti motivi, e soprattutto perché i suoi legami si concentravano principalmente tra artigiani e le loro famiglie – esattamente il tipo di persona che la Anglo-Bengalee Company cercava per ricoprire incarichi medici – Jobling era l’uomo giusto. Tuttavia, era troppo astuto per stabilire legami più stretti con l’azienda se non in qualità di funzionario retribuito (e ben retribuito), né permetteva che i suoi rapporti venissero fraintesi all’estero, se poteva evitarlo. Pertanto, quando un paziente gli faceva domande al riguardo, lui rispondeva sempre in questo modo:

“Ma caro signore, riguardo all’Anglo-Bengalee, le mie informazioni, beh, sono limitate; molto limitate. Sono l’ufficiale medico, e in cambio ricevo un certo stipendio mensile. Il lavoratore merita il suo compenso; BIS DAT QUI CITO DAT’ – [‘Uno studioso classico, Jobling!’, pensa il paziente, ‘un uomo molto colto!’] – ‘e io lo ricevo regolarmente. Pertanto, per quanto riguarda le mie conoscenze personali, sono obbligato a parlare bene di quell’istituto.” [‘Niente può essere più onesto del comportamento di Jobling’, pensa il paziente, che ha appena pagato lui stesso il conto di Jobling.] “Se mi ponete domande riguardanti la responsabilità o i fondi della compagnia, beh, in quel caso mi trovo in difficoltà; non ho dimestichezza con i numeri, e non essendo azionista, preferisco evitare qualsiasi curiosità al riguardo. La delicatezza, ne sono sicuro, anche la vostra gentile signora sarà d’accordo, dovrebbe essere una delle prime qualità di un medico.” [‘Niente può essere più fine o più gentiluomo del modo in cui si comporta Jobling’, pensa il paziente.] “Benissimo, caro signore; quindi la situazione è questa. Non conoscete il signor Montague? Mi dispiace. Un uomo davvero molto attraente, e un vero gentiluomo sotto ogni aspetto. Si dice che possieda proprietà in India. Una casa bellissima, arredi di lusso estremo. E quadri, che, anche dal punto di vista anatomico, sono davvero perfetti. Se mai pensaste di investire nella compagnia, vi farò da intermediario, state tranquilli. Posso garantirvi che si tratta di una persona in ottima salute. Se c’è qualcuno la cui costituzione fisica conosca bene, è senz’altro la vostra. E questa piccola indisposizione, signora, gli ha fatto più bene di quanto avrebbero potuto fargli metà delle medicine assurde presenti nel mio studio. Perché, onestamente parlando, la maggior parte di quelle medicine sono inutili, rispetto a una costituzione come la sua!” [‘Jobling è davvero la persona più gentile che abbia mai incontrato nella mia vita’, pensa il paziente; ‘e vi assicuro che ci penserò seriamente!’]

“Commissione per lei, dottore: quattro nuove politiche e un prestito questa mattina, eh?”, disse Crimple, guardando alcuni documenti portati dal portiere dopo pranzo. “Ben fatto!”

“Jobling, mio caro amico,” disse Tigg, “lunga vita a te.”

“No, no. Assurdità. Giuro su quanto ho di più caro che non ho alcun diritto di ricevere quella commissione,” disse il dottore. “In realtà, non ne ho alcuno. È come derubare le persone. Non consiglio nessuno qui; dico soltanto ciò che so. I miei pazienti mi chiedono cosa so, e io glielo dico. Nient’altro. La prudenza è il mio punto debole. Questa è la verità; lo è sempre stata fin da quando ero ragazzo. Voglio dire,” aggiunse il dottore riempiendo il proprio bicchiere, “la prudenza nei confronti degli altri. Se anch’io potessi fidarmi di questa compagnia, beh, se non avessi pagato soldi altrove per molti anni, quella sarebbe un’altra questione.”

Cercò di sembrare sicuro al riguardo; ma sentendo che lo faceva in modo indifferente, cambiò argomento e iniziò a lodare il vino.

“Parlando di vino,” disse il dottore, “mi viene in mente uno dei migliori bicchieri di vecchio porto che abbia mai assaggiato in vita mia. E questo è avvenuto durante un funerale. Non ha mai visto nulla di, di quella festa, signor Montague, vero?” Gli porse una carta.

“Non è sepolto, spero, ”, disse Tigg mentre lo prendeva in mano. “Se così fosse, non ci sarebbe alcun bisogno di onorarlo con una cerimonia, ”

“Ah ah!” rise il dottore. “No, non esattamente. Tuttavia, era in qualche modo collegato a quell’evento.”

“Oh!”, disse Tigg, lisciandosi la barba mentre fissava quel nome. “Me ne ricordo. No, non è mai stato qui.”

Le parole erano già sulle sue labbra quando Bullamy entrò e porse una carta all’Ufficiale Medico.

“Parliamo di quel tizio, come si chiama, ” osservò il dottore alzandosi in piedi.

“E sicuramente apparirà, vero?” disse Tigg.

“No, assolutamente no, signor Montague,” rispose il dottore. “Non possiamo dire una cosa del genere in questo caso, perché questo gentiluomo è lontano mille miglia da tale situazione.”

“Meglio così,” ribatté Tigg. “Così possiamo adattarci meglio alle esigenze dell’Anglo-Bengalee. Bullamy, sparecchia la tavola e porta via le cose dalla porta opposta. Signor Crimple, veniamo al dunque.”

“Dovrei presentarvelo?” chiese Jobling.

“Sarò per sempre felice,” rispose Tigg, baciandole la mano e sorridendo dolcemente.

Il dottore scomparve nell’ufficio esterno e tornò immediatamente con Jonas Chuzzlewit.

“Signor Montague,” disse Jobling, “permettetemi di presentarvi il mio amico, il signor Chuzzlewit. Il mio caro amico, il nostro presidente.” Poi aggiunse, controllandosi con infinita astuzia e guardandosi intorno con un sorriso: “Vedete? Questo è davvero un esempio straordinario del potere dell’esempio. Dico ‘il nostro presidente’: perché non è il mio presidente, capite? Non ho alcun legame con la compagnia, se non quello di fornire, in cambio di una certa retribuzione, la mia modesta opinione come medico. Proprio come potrei farlo con chiunque altro. Allora, perché dico ‘il nostro presidente’? Semplicemente perché sento questa espressione ripetuta costantemente su di me. Ecco come funziona involontariamente la facoltà mentale nell’uomo imitativo, ” “Signor Crimple,” proseguì, “credo che non siate mai abituato a prendere il tabacco. Non è saggio. Dovreste farlo.”

In attesa di queste osservazioni da parte del dottore, e dell’insistenza prolungata e sonora con cui le espresse, Jonas si sedette al tavolo; un uomo quanto mai goffo, come lo è sempre stato ai occhi del lettore. È una cosa troppo comune per tutti noi, ma soprattutto nelle persone dal carattere meschino, essere intimiditi da abiti eleganti e arredi raffinati. Questi elementi ebbero un’influenza decisiva su Jonas.

‘Now you two gentlemen have business to discuss, I know,’ said the doctor, ‘and your time is precious. So is mine; for several lives are waiting for me in the next room, and I have a round of visits to make after—after I have taken ‘em. Having had the happiness to introduce you to each other, I may go about my business. Good-bye. But allow me, Mr Montague, before I go, to say this of my friend who sits beside you: That gentleman has done more, sir,’ rapping his snuff-box solemnly, ‘to reconcile me to human nature, than any man alive or dead. Good-bye!’

With these words Jobling bolted abruptly out of the room, and proceeded in his own official department, to impress the lives in waiting with a sense of his keen conscientiousness in the discharge of his duty, and the great difficulty of getting into the Anglo-Bengalee; by feeling their pulses, looking at their tongues, listening at their ribs, poking them in the chest, and so forth; though, if he didn’t well know beforehand that whatever kind of lives they were, the Anglo-Bengalee would accept them readily, he was far from being the Jobling that his friend considered him; and was not the original Jobling, but a spurious imitation.

Mr Crimple also departed on the business of the morning; and Jonas Chuzzlewit and Tigg were left alone.

‘I learn from our friend,’ said Tigg, drawing his chair towards Jonas with a winning ease of manner, ‘that you have been thinking—’

‘Oh! Ecod then he’d no right to say so,’ cried Jonas, interrupting. ‘I didn’t tell HIM my thoughts. If he took it into his head that I was coming here for such or such a purpose, why, that’s his lookout. I don’t stand committed by that.’

Jonas said this offensively enough; for over and above the habitual distrust of his character, it was in his nature to seek to revenge himself on the fine clothes and the fine furniture, in exact proportion as he had been unable to withstand their influence.

‘If I come here to ask a question or two, and get a document or two to consider of, I don’t bind myself to anything. Let’s understand that, you know,’ said Jonas.

‘My dear fellow!’ cried Tigg, clapping him on the shoulder, ‘I applaud your frankness. If men like you and I speak openly at first, all possible misunderstanding is avoided. Why should I disguise what you know so well, but what the crowd never dream of? We companies are all birds of prey; mere birds of prey. The only question is, whether in serving our own turn, we can serve yours too; whether in double-lining our own nest, we can put a single living into yours. Oh, you’re in our secret. You’re behind the scenes. We’ll make a merit of dealing plainly with you, when we know we can’t help it.’

It was remarked, on the first introduction of Mr Jonas into these pages, that there is a simplicity of cunning no less than a simplicity of innocence, and that in all matters involving a faith in knavery, he was the most credulous of men. If Mr Tigg had preferred any claim to high and honourable dealing, Jonas would have suspected him though he had been a very model of probity; but when he gave utterance to Jonas’s own thoughts of everything and everybody, Jonas began to feel that he was a pleasant fellow, and one to be talked to freely.

He changed his position in the chair, not for a less awkward, but for a more boastful attitude; and smiling in his miserable conceit rejoined:

‘You an’t a bad man of business, Mr Montague. You know how to set about it, I WILL say.’

‘Tut, tut,’ said Tigg, nodding confidentially, and showing his white teeth; ‘we are not children, Mr Chuzzlewit; we are grown men, I hope.’

Jonas assented, and said after a short silence, first spreading out his legs, and sticking one arm akimbo to show how perfectly at home he was,

‘The truth is—’

‘Don’t say, the truth,’ interposed Tigg, with another grin. ‘It’s so like humbug.’

Greatly charmed by this, Jonas began again.

‘The long and the short of it is—’

‘Better,’ muttered Tigg. ‘Much better!’

‘—That I didn’t consider myself very well used by one or two of the old companies in some negotiations I have had with ‘em—once had, I mean. They started objections they had no right to start, and put questions they had no right to put, and carried things much too high for my taste.’

As he made these observations he cast down his eyes, and looked curiously at the carpet. Mr Tigg looked curiously at him.

He made so long a pause, that Tigg came to the rescue, and said, in his pleasantest manner:

‘Take a glass of wine.’

‘No, no,’ returned Jonas, with a cunning shake of the head; ‘none of that, thankee. No wine over business. All very well for you, but it wouldn’t do for me.’

‘What an old hand you are, Mr Chuzzlewit!’ said Tigg, leaning back in his chair, and leering at him through his half-shut eyes.

Jonas shook his head again, as much as to say, ‘You’re right there;’ And then resumed, jocosely:

‘Not such an old hand, either, but that I’ve been and got married. That’s rather green, you’ll say. Perhaps it is, especially as she’s young. But one never knows what may happen to these women, so I’m thinking of insuring her life. It is but fair, you know, that a man should secure some consolation in case of meeting with such a loss.’

‘If anything can console him under such heart-breaking circumstances,’ murmured Tigg, with his eyes shut up as before.

‘Exactly,’ returned Jonas; ‘if anything can. Now, supposing I did it here, I should do it cheap, I know, and easy, without bothering her about it; which I’d much rather not do, for it’s just in a woman’s way to take it into her head, if you talk to her about such things, that she’s going to die directly.’

‘So it is,’ cried Tigg, kissing his hand in honour of the sex. ‘You’re quite right. Sweet, silly, fluttering little simpletons!’

“Ora che voi due signori avete delle questioni da discutere, lo so,” disse il dottore, “e il vostro tempo è prezioso. Lo stesso vale per il mio; infatti diverse persone mi stanno aspettando nella stanza accanto, e devo fare ancora alcune visite dopo averle visitate. Essendo stato felice di presentarvi l’uno all’altro, posso andare a svolgere i miei compiti. Addio. Ma permettetemi, signor Montague, prima di andarmene, di dire qualcosa riguardo al mio amico che è seduto accanto a voi: quell’uomo ha fatto più di chiunque altro, per riconciliarmi con la natura umana, sia vivente che defunto. Addio!”

Con queste parole, Jobling uscì improvvisamente dalla stanza e si recò nel suo ufficio, dove fece impressione sui funzionari in attesa dimostrando di essere estremamente coscienzioso nell’adempimento dei propri doveri, nonché di quanto fosse difficile ottenere il certificato Anglo-Bengalee. Per farlo, misurava loro il polso, esaminava la lingua, ascoltava i rumori prodotti dai polmoni e li toccava addosso. Tuttavia, se non avesse già saputo con certezza che qualsiasi tipo di condizioni fisiche avessero, l’Anglo-Bengalee le avrebbe comunque accettate senza problemi, allora lui non sarebbe stato affatto il Jobling che suo amico credeva; non sarebbe stato il vero Jobling, ma una sua falsa imitazione.

Anche il signor Crimple se ne andò per affari quella mattina; così Jonas Chuzzlewit e Tigg rimasero soli.

“Imparo dal nostro amico,” disse Tigg, avvicinando la sua sedia a quella di Jonas con un’aria disinvolta e affabile, “che hai riflettuto su, ”

“Oh! Allora non aveva il diritto di dire così,” esclamò Jonas, interrompendo.
“Non gli ho detto i miei pensieri. Se lui ha deciso che sono venuto qui per un certo motivo, beh, quella è una sua interpretazione. Non sono obbligato ad accettarla.”

Jonas lo disse in modo abbastanza offensivo; oltre alla diffidenza abituale verso il suo carattere, era proprio nella sua natura cercare di vendicarsi su quei vestiti eleganti e quei mobili raffinati, esattamente nella misura in cui non era stato in grado di resistere al loro influsso.

“Se vengo qui per fare una o due domande e per ottenere uno o due documenti da esaminare, non mi impegno in nulla. Dovremmo capirlo bene, sai,” disse Jonas.

“Mio caro amico!”, esclamò Tigg dandogli una pacca sulla spalla, “Apprezzo la tua franchezza. Se persone come te e me parlano apertamente fin dall’inizio, si possono evitare tutti i possibili malintesi. Perché dovrei nascondere ciò che tu conosci così bene, ma di cui la gente comune nemmeno sospetta? Noi, delle nostre compagnie, siamo tutti uccelli da preda, semplicemente uccelli da preda. L’unica domanda è: nel perseguire i nostri interessi, possiamo anche aiutare i tuoi; nel costruirci il nostro nido, possiamo anche contribuire al tuo? Oh, tu conosci i nostri segreti, sei alle nostre spalle. Farò del mio meglio per trattarti onestamente, quando saprò di non poter fare altrimenti.”

Al momento della prima introduzione del signor Jonas in queste pagine, si osservò che possedeva una semplicità astuta, non meno significativa di una semplicità d’innocenza; inoltre, in tutte le questioni legate alla fiducia nell’inganno, era l’uomo più credulone che esistesse. Se il signor Tigg avesse espresso desideri diversi da quelli legati a un comportamento nobile e onorevole, Jonas lo avrebbe sospettato, anche se fosse stato un modello di integrità; ma quando il signor Tigg esprimeva esattamente i pensieri stessi di Jonas su ogni cosa e su tutte le persone, quest’ultimo iniziava a considerarlo una persona piacevole, con cui si poteva parlare liberamente.

Cambiò posizione sulla sedia, non per diventare meno goffo, ma per assumere un atteggiamento ancora più presuntuoso; e sorridendo nella sua misera vanità, riprese a dire:

“Non è certo un cattivo uomo d’affari, signor Montague. Sa davvero come procedere, devo ammetterlo.”

“Tut, tut,” disse Tigg, annuendo in modo confidenziale e mostrando i suoi denti bianchi; “non siamo più bambini, signor Chuzzlewit; siamo uomini ormai, spero.”

Jonas acconsentì e, dopo un breve silenzio, allargò prima le gambe e poi mise un braccio dietro la schiena per dimostrare quanto si sentisse a proprio agio in quel luogo.

“La Truthverità è–”

“Non dire la verità”, intervenne Tigg, con un altro sorriso. “È proprio come una bugia.”

Profondamente affascinato da questo, Jonas iniziò di nuovo.

“In breve, ”

“Migliore,” mormorò Tigg. “Molto migliore!”

‘–In alcune trattative che ho avuto con quelle vecchie compagnie, non mi sono sentito affatto valorizzato, anzi, al contrario. Hanno iniziato a sollevare obiezioni senza alcun diritto di farlo, hanno posto domande che non avevano il diritto di porre, e hanno portato le cose su un livello decisamente troppo elevato per i miei gusti.’

Mentre faceva queste osservazioni, abbassò lo sguardo e guardò con curiosità il tappeto. Il signor Tigg lo fissò a sua volta con curiosità.

Fece una pausa così lunga che Tigg intervenne per aiutarlo, dicendo con il suo modo più gentile:

“Bevi un bicchiere di vino.”

“No, no,” rispose Jonas, scuotendo la testa con astuzia; “niente del genere, grazie. Niente vino quando si parla di affari. Tutto molto bene per te, ma non andrebbe bene per me.”

“Che vecchio esperto siete davvero, signor Chuzzlewit!”, disse Tigg, appoggiandosi allo schienale della sedia e guardandolo con occhi semichiusi.

Jonas scosse di nuovo la testa, come per dire: “Hai ragione”; poi continuò, in tono scherzoso:

“Nemmeno io sono una vecchia esperta in queste cose, ma ho già avuto un matrimonio. Forse è un po’ troppo presto, dirai. Magari sì, soprattutto considerando che lei è ancora giovane. Ma non si sa mai cosa possa accadere a queste donne, quindi sto pensando di assicurarle la vita. È giusto, sai. Che un uomo abbia almeno un po’ di conforto in caso di una simile perdita.”

“Se c’è qualcosa che possa consolarlo in circostanze così dolorose, ”, mormorò Tigg, con gli occhi chiusi come prima.

“Esattamente,” rispose Jonas; “se c’è qualcosa che si può fare. Ora, supponiamo che lo facessi qui, dovrebbe essere fatto a buon mercato, e facilmente, senza disturbarla con la questione; ma preferirei di gran lunga non farlo. Perché è proprio tipico delle donne: se ne prendono un’idea in testa, soprattutto quando si parla di queste cose, pensano subito che moriranno.”

“Lo so,” esclamò Tigg, baciandole la mano in segno di rispetto per quel sesso. “Hai assolutamente ragione. Delicati, sciocchi, impulsivi piccoli semplicioni!”

‘Well,’ said Jonas, ‘on that account, you know, and because offence has been given me in other quarters, I wouldn’t mind patronizing this Company. But I want to know what sort of security there is for the Company’s going on. That’s the—’

‘Not the truth?’ cried Tigg, holding up his jewelled hand. ‘Don’t use that Sunday School expression, please!’

‘The long and the short of it,’ said Jonas. ‘The long and the short of it is, what’s the security?’

‘The paid-up capital, my dear sir,’ said Tigg, referring to some papers on the table, ‘is, at this present moment—’

‘Oh! I understand all about paid-up capitals, you know,’ said Jonas.

‘You do?’ cried Tigg, stopping short.

‘I should hope so.’

He turned the papers down again, and moving nearer to him, said in his ear:

‘I know you do. I know you do. Look at me!’

It was not much in Jonas’s way to look straight at anybody; but thus requested, he made shift to take a tolerable survey of the chairman’s features. The chairman fell back a little, to give him the better opportunity.

‘You know me?’ he inquired, elevating his eyebrows. ‘You recollect? You’ve seen me before?’

‘Why, I thought I remembered your face when I first came in,’ said Jonas, gazing at it; ‘but I couldn’t call to mind where I had seen it. No. I don’t remember, even now. Was it in the street?’

‘Was it in Pecksniff’s parlour?’ said Tigg

‘In Pecksniff’s parlour!’ echoed Jonas, fetching a long breath. ‘You don’t mean when—’

‘Yes,’ cried Tigg, ‘when there was a very charming and delightful little family party, at which yourself and your respected father assisted.’

‘Well, never mind HIM,’ said Jonas. ‘He’s dead, and there’s no help for it.’

‘Dead, is he!’ cried Tigg, ‘Venerable old gentleman, is he dead! You’re very like him.’

Jonas received this compliment with anything but a good grace, perhaps because of his own private sentiments in reference to the personal appearance of his deceased parent; perhaps because he was not best pleased to find that Montague and Tigg were one. That gentleman perceived it, and tapping him familiarly on the sleeve, beckoned him to the window. From this moment, Mr Montague’s jocularity and flow of spirits were remarkable.

‘Do you find me at all changed since that time?’ he asked. ‘Speak plainly.’

Jonas looked hard at his waistcoat and jewels; and said ‘Rather, ecod!’

‘Was I at all seedy in those days?’ asked Montague.

‘Precious seedy,’ said Jonas.

Mr Montague pointed down into the street, where Bailey and the cab were in attendance.

‘Neat; perhaps dashing. Do you know whose it is?’

‘No.’

‘Mine. Do you like this room?’

‘It must have cost a lot of money,’ said Jonas.

‘You’re right. Mine too. Why don’t you’—he whispered this, and nudged him in the side with his elbow—‘why don’t you take premiums, instead of paying ‘em? That’s what a man like you should do. Join us!’

Jonas stared at him in amazement.

‘Is that a crowded street?’ asked Montague, calling his attention to the multitude without.

‘Very,’ said Jonas, only glancing at it, and immediately afterwards looking at him again.

‘There are printed calculations,’ said his companion, ‘which will tell you pretty nearly how many people will pass up and down that thoroughfare in the course of a day. I can tell you how many of ‘em will come in here, merely because they find this office here; knowing no more about it than they do of the Pyramids. Ha, ha! Join us. You shall come in cheap.’

Jonas looked at him harder and harder.

‘I can tell you,’ said Tigg in his ear, ‘how many of ‘em will buy annuities, effect insurances, bring us their money in a hundred shapes and ways, force it upon us, trust us as if we were the Mint; yet know no more about us than you do of that crossing-sweeper at the corner. Not so much. Ha, ha!’

Jonas gradually broke into a smile.

‘Yah!’ said Montague, giving him a pleasant thrust in the breast; ‘you’re too deep for us, you dog, or I wouldn’t have told you. Dine with me to-morrow, in Pall Mall!’

‘I will’ said Jonas.

‘Done!’ cried Montague. ‘Wait a bit. Take these papers with you and look ‘em over. See,’ he said, snatching some printed forms from the table. ‘B is a little tradesman, clerk, parson, artist, author, any common thing you like.’

‘Yes,’ said Jonas, looking greedily over his shoulder. ‘Well!’

‘B wants a loan. Say fifty or a hundred pound; perhaps more; no matter. B proposes self and two securities. B is accepted. Two securities give a bond. B assures his own life for double the amount, and brings two friends’ lives also—just to patronize the office. Ha ha, ha! Is that a good notion?’

‘Ecod, that’s a capital notion!’ cried Jonas. ‘But does he really do it?’

‘Do it!’ repeated the chairman. ‘B’s hard up, my good fellow, and will do anything. Don’t you see? It’s my idea.’

‘It does you honour. I’m blest if it don’t,’ said Jonas.

‘I think it does,’ replied the chairman, ‘and I’m proud to hear you say so. B pays the highest lawful interest—’

‘That an’t much,’ interrupted Jonas.

‘Right! quite right!’ retorted Tigg. ‘And hard it is upon the part of the law that it should be so confoundedly down upon us unfortunate victims; when it takes such amazing good interest for itself from all its clients. But charity begins at home, and justice begins next door. Well! The law being hard upon us, we’re not exactly soft upon B; for besides charging B the regular interest, we get B’s premium, and B’s friends’ premiums, and we charge B for the bond, and, whether we accept him or not, we charge B for “inquiries” (we keep a man, at a pound a week, to make ‘em), and we charge B a trifle for the secretary; and in short, my good fellow, we stick it into B, up hill and down dale, and make a devilish comfortable little property out of him. Ha, ha, ha! I drive B, in point of fact,’ said Tigg, pointing to the cabriolet, ‘and a thoroughbred horse he is. Ha, ha, ha!’

‘Beh,’ disse Jonas, ‘per quel motivo, e perché sono stato offeso anche in altri ambiti, non mi dispiacerebbe sostenere questa Compagnia. Ma voglio sapere quale tipo di sicurezze ci siano per il suo funzionamento. Questo è ciò che conta.’

“Non è la verità?” gridò Tigg, alzando la sua mano incastonata di gioielli. “Per favore, non usare quell’espressione da scuola domenicale, ”

“In breve,” disse Jonas, “la domanda fondamentale è: qual è la garanzia?”

“Il capitale versato, mio caro signore,” disse Tigg, indicando alcuni documenti sul tavolo, “è, in questo momento, ”

“Ah! Ora capisco tutto riguardo ai capitali versati in contanti, sai, ” disse Jonas.

“Davvero?” esclamò Tigg, fermandosi di colpo.

“Dovrei sperarlo.”

“Rifiutò di nuovo quei documenti e, avvicinandosi a lui, gli sussurrò all’orecchio, ”

“Lo so che lo sai. Lo so che lo sai. Guardami!”

Non rappresentava alcun problema per Jonas guardare direttamente qualcuno; ma poiché gli era stato chiesto, riuscì comunque a osservare in modo più dettagliato i tratti del presidente. Il presidente si allontanò leggermente, per dargli maggiori opportunità di osservazione.

“Mi conosci?” chiese, alzando le sopracciglia. “Ti ricordi? Mi hai già visto prima?”

“Perché, pensavo di ricordarmi il tuo viso quando sono entrato per la prima volta,” disse Jonas, fissandolo; “ma non riuscivo a ricordare dove l’avessi visto. No, nemmeno ora me lo ricordo. Forse in strada?”

“È stato nel salotto di Pecksniff?”, disse Tigg.

“Nella stanza di Pecksniff!”, echeggiò Jonas, prendendo un lungo respiro. “Non intendi dire quando, ”

“Sì,” gridò Tigg, “quando si tenne quella deliziosa e incantevole piccola festa di famiglia, a cui partecipaste voi stesso e vostro rispettabile padre.”

“Beh, lasciamo stare LUI,” disse Jonas. “È morto, e non c’è nulla che si possa fare al riguardo.”

“Morto, è morto!” esclamò Tigg. “Quel rispettabile vecchio signore, è davvero morto? Assomigli molto a lui.”

Jonas accolse questo complimento con tutt’altro che gratitudine; forse a causa dei suoi sentimenti personali riguardo all’aspetto del genitore defunto, o forse perché non gli piaceva affatto scoprire che Montague e Tigg fossero la stessa persona. Quel gentiluomo se ne accorse e, dandogli una pacca amichevole sul braccio, lo invitò verso la finestra. Da quel momento in poi, l’umorismo e lo spirito allegro di Monsieur Montague furono davvero notevoli.

“Credi che io sia cambiato in qualche modo da quel momento?”, chiese. “Parla chiaramente.”

“Jonas osservò attentamente il suo gilet e i suoi gioielli, poi disse: ‘Meglio così, ecco!’”

“Ero davvero un tipo losco in quei tempi?”, chiese Montague.

“Prezioso ma un po’ trasandato,” disse Jonas.

Il signor Montague indicò verso la strada, dove Bailey e il taxi erano in attesa.

“Carino, forse anche affascinante. Sai a chi appartiene?”

‘No.’

“Mio. Ti piace questa stanza?”

“Deve essere costato molto denaro,” disse Jonas.

“Hai ragione. Anche il mio è così. Perché non, ” sussurrò, dandogli una spallata con il gomito, “Perché non prendi tu le quote, invece di pagarle? È quello che un uomo come te dovrebbe fare. Unisciti a noi!”

Jonas lo fissava, stupito.

“È una strada molto affollata?” chiese Montague, attirando la sua attenzione sulla folla che c’era fuori.

“Molto bene,” disse Jonas, dando solo un’occhiata al risultato, per poi guardarlo di nuovo subito dopo.

“Ci sono calcoli stampati,” disse il suo compagno, “che vi diranno con precisione quante persone passeranno su e giù per quel viale in un giorno. Posso anche dirvi quanti di loro entreranno qui, semplicemente perché troveranno questo ufficio; senza sapere nulla in merito, proprio come non sanno nulla sulle Piramidi. Ahah! Unitevi a noi: entrerete a prezzi convenienti.”

Jonas lo guardava sempre più attentamente.

“Posso dirtelo,” sussurrò Tigg all’orecchio, “quanti di loro acquisteranno polizze di assicurazione, stipuleranno contratti di mutuo soccorso, ci porteranno i loro soldi in mille modi diversi, ce li imporranno, confideranno in noi come se fossimo la Zecca. Eppure non sanno di noi più di quanto tu sappia di quel netturbino all’angolo della strada. Anzi, meno ancora. Ahah!”

Jonas iniziò gradualmente a sorridere.

“Yah!”, disse Montague, dandogli una leggera spinta al petto; “sei troppo importante per noi, tu cane. Altrimenti non te lo avrei detto. Vieni a cena con me domani, a Pall Mall!”

“Lo farò”, disse Jonas.

“Fatto!”, esclamò Montague. “Aspetta un attimo. Prendi questi documenti e studiali attentamente. Vedi”, aggiunse, afferrando alcuni fogli stampati dal tavolo. “‘B’ può essere un piccolo commerciante, un impiegato, un prete, un artista, uno scrittore, qualsiasi professione comune tu preferisca.”

“Sì,” disse Jonas, guardando con avidità oltre la spalla. “Che bello!”

‘B vuole un prestito. Diciamo cinquanta o cento sterline; forse di più; non importa. B propone se stesso e due garanzie. Viene accettato. Le due garanzie costituiscono una forma di sicurezza. B garantisce la propria vita per il doppio dell’importo richiesto, e porta anche in garanzia la vita di due amici. Solo per poter usufruire dei servizi di quell’ufficio. Ha ha, ha! È davvero una buona idea?’

“Ecod, che idea geniale!”, esclamò Jonas. “Ma lo fa davvero?”

“Fallo!” ripeté il presidente. “I B sono in difficoltà, amico mio, e sono disposti a fare qualsiasi cosa. Non capisci? È stata una mia idea.”

“Ti porta onore. Sarei fortunato se non fosse così,” disse Jonas.

“Credo di sì,” rispose il presidente, “e sono orgoglioso di sentirti dire così. B paga gli interessi più alti consentiti dalla legge, ”

“Non è molto,” intervenne Jonas.

“Esatto! Assolutamente esatto!” ribatté Tigg. “Ed è davvero difficile per la legge trattarci così ingiustamente, noi sfortunati vittime, quando invece tutti i suoi ‘clienti’ ne traggono enormi benefici. Ma la carità inizia a casa propria, e la giustizia, beh, comincia proprio accanto a casa nostra. Quindi, dato che la legge è crudele con noi, non siamo certo teneri con B: oltre ad addebitargli gli interessi regolamentari, prendiamo anche il ‘premio’ di B, e quello degli amici di B. Gli chiediamo anche il denaro per l’obbligazione, e indipendentemente dal fatto che accettiamo o meno la sua proposta, gli addebitiamo pure le spese per le ‘indagini’ (teniamo addirittura una persona a cui paghiamo una sterlina a settimana solo per farle, ) e anche una piccola somma per il lavoro del segretario. In breve, amico mio, lo sfruttiamo completamente, fino all’ultima possibilità. E ne facciamo un vero e proprio ‘piccolo patrimonio’ molto redditizio. Ahahah! In realtà, sono io a ‘guidare’ B, ” disse Tigg, indicando il cabriolet. “E è davvero un cavallo di razza. Ahahah!”

Jonas enjoyed this joke very much indeed. It was quite in his peculiar vein of humour.

‘Then,’ said Tigg Montague, ‘we grant annuities on the very lowest and most advantageous terms known in the money market; and the old ladies and gentlemen down in the country buy ‘em. Ha, ha, ha! And we pay ‘em too—perhaps. Ha, ha, ha!’

‘But there’s responsibility in that,’ said Jonas, looking doubtful.

‘I take it all myself,’ said Tigg Montague. ‘Here I am responsible for everything. The only responsible person in the establishment! Ha, ha, ha! Then there are the Life Assurances without loans; the common policies. Very profitable, very comfortable. Money down, you know; repeated every year; capital fun!’

‘But when they begin to fall in,’ observed Jonas. ‘It’s all very well, while the office is young, but when the policies begin to die—that’s what I am thinking of.’

‘At the first start, my dear fellow,’ said Montague, ‘to show you how correct your judgment is, we had a couple of unlucky deaths that brought us down to a grand piano.’

‘Brought you down where?’ cried Jonas.

‘I give you my sacred word of honour,’ said Tigg Montague, ‘that I raised money on every other individual piece of property, and was left alone in the world with a grand piano. And it was an upright-grand too, so that I couldn’t even sit upon it. But, my dear fellow, we got over it. We granted a great many new policies that week (liberal allowance to solicitors, by the bye), and got over it in no time. Whenever they should chance to fall in heavily, as you very justly observe they may, one of these days; then—’ he finished the sentence in so low a whisper, that only one disconnected word was audible, and that imperfectly. But it sounded like ‘Bolt.’

‘Why, you’re as bold as brass!’ said Jonas, in the utmost admiration.

‘A man can well afford to be as bold as brass, my good fellow, when he gets gold in exchange!’ cried the chairman, with a laugh that shook him from head to foot. ‘You’ll dine with me to-morrow?’

‘At what time?’ asked Jonas.

‘Seven. Here’s my card. Take the documents. I see you’ll join us!’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Jonas. ‘There’s a good deal to be looked into first.’

‘You shall look,’ said Montague, slapping him on the back, ‘into anything and everything you please. But you’ll join us, I am convinced. You were made for it. Bullamy!’

Obedient to the summons and the little bell, the waistcoat appeared. Being charged to show Jonas out, it went before; and the voice within it cried, as usual, ‘By your leave there, by your leave! Gentleman from the board-room, by your leave!’

Mr Montague being left alone, pondered for some moments, and then said, raising his voice:

‘Is Nadgett in the office there?’

‘Here he is, sir.’ And he promptly entered; shutting the board-room door after him, as carefully as if he were about to plot a murder.

He was the man at a pound a week who made the inquiries. It was no virtue or merit in Nadgett that he transacted all his Anglo-Bengalee business secretly and in the closest confidence; for he was born to be a secret. He was a short, dried-up, withered old man, who seemed to have secreted his very blood; for nobody would have given him credit for the possession of six ounces of it in his whole body. How he lived was a secret; where he lived was a secret; and even what he was, was a secret. In his musty old pocket-book he carried contradictory cards, in some of which he called himself a coal-merchant, in others a wine-merchant, in others a commission-agent, in others a collector, in others an accountant; as if he really didn’t know the secret himself. He was always keeping appointments in the City, and the other man never seemed to come. He would sit on ‘Change for hours, looking at everybody who walked in and out, and would do the like at Garraway’s, and in other business coffee-rooms, in some of which he would be occasionally seen drying a very damp pocket-handkerchief before the fire, and still looking over his shoulder for the man who never appeared. He was mildewed, threadbare, shabby; always had flue upon his legs and back; and kept his linen so secretly buttoning up and wrapping over, that he might have had none—perhaps he hadn’t. He carried one stained beaver glove, which he dangled before him by the forefinger as he walked or sat; but even its fellow was a secret. Some people said he had been a bankrupt, others that he had gone an infant into an ancient Chancery suit which was still depending, but it was all a secret. He carried bits of sealing-wax and a hieroglyphical old copper seal in his pocket, and often secretly indited letters in corner boxes of the trysting-places before mentioned; but they never appeared to go to anybody, for he would put them into a secret place in his coat, and deliver them to himself weeks afterwards, very much to his own surprise, quite yellow. He was that sort of man that if he had died worth a million of money, or had died worth twopence halfpenny, everybody would have been perfectly satisfied, and would have said it was just as they expected. And yet he belonged to a class; a race peculiar to the City; who are secrets as profound to one another, as they are to the rest of mankind.

‘Mr Nadgett,’ said Montague, copying Jonas Chuzzlewit’s address upon a piece of paper, from the card which was still lying on the table, ‘any information about this name, I shall be glad to have myself. Don’t you mind what it is. Any you can scrape together, bring me. Bring it to me, Mr Nadgett.’

Nadgett put on his spectacles, and read the name attentively; then looked at the chairman over his glasses, and bowed; then took them off, and put them in their case; and then put the case in his pocket. When he had done so, he looked, without his spectacles, at the paper as it lay before him, and at the same time produced his pocket-book from somewhere about the middle of his spine. Large as it was, it was very full of documents, but he found a place for this one; and having clasped it carefully, passed it by a kind of solemn legerdemain into the same region as before.

He withdrew with another bow and without a word; opening the door no wider than was sufficient for his passage out; and shutting it as carefully as before. The chairman of the board employed the rest of the morning in affixing his sign-manual of gracious acceptance to various new proposals of annuity-purchase and assurance. The Company was looking up, for they flowed in gayly.

A Jonas piacque molto questa barzelletta; era proprio nel suo stile peculiare di umorismo.

“Allora,” disse Tigg Montague, “offriamo rendite annue con i termini più bassi e vantaggiosi conosciuti nel mercato finanziario; e le vecchie signore e i gentiluomini di campagna le comprano. Ahahah! E noi anche, forse. Ahahah!”

“Ma ci sono delle responsabilità in questo”, disse Jonas, con un tono scettico.

“Me ne occupo io di tutto,” disse Tigg Montague. “Io sono l’unica persona responsabile in questa istituzione. Ahahah! Poi ci sono le assicurazioni sulla vita senza mutui, quelle polizze ordinarie. Molto redditizie, molto comode. Si paga in contanti, capite? Si rinnovano ogni anno. Un vero affare!”

“Ma quando queste politiche iniziano a decadere, ”, osservò Jonas. “Tutto sembra ancora andare bene, finché l’ufficio è ancora giovane; ma quando le politiche stesse iniziano ad avere effetti negativi. Ecco a cosa penso.”

“Al nostro primo tentativo, caro amico,” disse Montague, “per farti vedere quanto sia corretta la tua valutazione, si sono verificati alcuni incidenti sfortunati che ci hanno costretti ad utilizzare un pianoforte grande.”

“Vi ho portati giù, dove?” gridò Jonas.

“Vi do la mia sacra parola d’onore”, disse Tigg Montague, “che ho raccolto fondi con ogni singola proprietà che possedevo, e alla fine sono rimasto solo al mondo, con solo un grande pianoforte. E per di più era un pianoforte a coda, quindi non potevo nemmeno sedermici sopra. Ma, caro amico, ce la siamo cavata. Quella settimana abbiamo approvato molte nuove politiche (tra cui un generoso sussidio per gli avvocati, tra l’altro), e ce la siamo cavata in poco tempo. Se mai dovessero trovarsi di nuovo in grosse difficoltà, come giustamente osservate voi, beh, allora, ” concluse sussurrando così piano che si riuscì a sentire solo una parola, e anche quella in modo poco chiaro. Ma sembrava “Bolton”.

“Ma allora sei davvero audace!” disse Jonas, con grande ammirazione.

“Un uomo può ben permettersi di essere così audace quando riceve dell’oro in cambio, mio caro amico!” esclamò il presidente, ridendo fino a tremare dalla testa ai piedi. “Verrai a cena da me domani?”

“Alle quali ore?” chiese Jonas.

“Sette. Ecco la mia carta. Prendi i documenti: vedo che ti unirai a noi!”

“Non ne sono sicuro,” disse Jonas. “C’è molta roba da esaminare prima.”

“Potrai guardare tutto ciò che desideri,” disse Montague dandogli una pacca sulla schiena, “ma sono convinto che ti unirai a noi. Sei fatto per questo. Bullamy!”

Obbediente alla chiamata e al suono della campanellina, il gilet apparve. Incaricato di accompagnare Jonas fuori, lo precedette; e la voce che si trovava all’interno gridò, come al solito: “Con il vostro permesso, con il vostro permesso! Signore della sala da pranzo, con il vostro permesso!”

Il signor Montague, rimasto solo, rifletté per alcuni momenti e poi disse, alzando la voce:

“Nadgett è nell’ufficio, lì?”

“Eccolo qui, signore.” E subito entrò, chiudendo la porta della sala riunioni dietro di sé con la stessa cura con cui avrebbe potuto pianificare un omicidio.

Era quell’uomo che, per un guadagno di una sterlina a settimana, svolgeva tutte le sue indagini in segreto. Non era certo una virtù o un merito da parte di Nadgett il fatto che gestisse tutti i suoi affari anglo-bengalesi in modo riservato e con la massima discrezione; infatti, sembrava essere nato per vivere nell’ombra. Era un uomo basso, secco, avvizzito, che pareva aver “secreto” persino il proprio sangue; nessuno avrebbe mai creduto che possedesse anche solo sei once di esso in tutto il suo -corpo. Il modo in cui viveva era un segreto; il luogo in cui abitava era un segreto; persino la sua identità era un segreto. Nel suo vecchio portafoglio muffito teneva documenti contraddittori: in alcuni si definiva commerciante di carbone, in altri commerciante di vini, in altri agente di commissione, come se davvero non conoscesse la verità su sé stesso. Sempre fissava appuntamenti nella >Città, ma l’altro uomo sembrava mai presentarsi. Passava ore seduto nei luoghi di ritrovo, osservando chiunque entrasse e uscisse; faceva lo stesso anche in altri locali simili, dove a volte si vedeva asciugare un fazzoletto molto umido davanti al >focolare, continuando comunque a guardarsi intorno alla ricerca di quell’uomo che non arrivava mai. Era trasandato, logoro, in condizioni pessime; aveva sempre i pantaloni e la schiena pieni di fuliggine, e teneva i propri indumenti così ben nascosti che forse non ne possedeva affatto. Forse non ne possedeva davvero. Portava con sé un guanto di castoro macchiato, che dondolava davanti al dito indice mentre camminava o sedeva; ma anche l’altro guanto era un segreto. Alcuni dicevano che fosse stato fallito, altri che avesse iniziato un vecchio processo legale ancora in corso. Ma tutto era un segreto. Nel suo portafoglio teneva pezzetti di cera da sigillare e un vecchio sigillo di rame; spesso scriveva lettere in angoli nascosti di quei luoghi di incontro, ma queste lettere sembravano non arrivare mai a destinazione. Le nascondeva infatti in posti segreti del suo cappotto e le ritrovava settimane dopo, ormai completamente ingiallite. Era quel tipo di uomo per cui, anche se fosse morto con un milione di sterline in eredità o soltanto con due penny e mezzo, tutti sarebbero stati perfettamente soddisfatti. E avrebbero detto che era esattamente ciò che si aspettavano. Eppure apparteneva a una certa classe, a una razza particolare della >Città, persone le cui segrete sono profonde tanto tra loro quanto lo sono rispetto al resto dell’umanità.

“Signor Nadgett,” disse Montague, trascrivendo l’indirizzo di Jonas Chuzzlewit su un pezzo di carta, quello che ancora giaceva sul tavolo, “qualsiasi informazione riguardo a questo nome mi sarebbe molto utile. Non importa cosa sia. Qualsiasi cosa riusciate a reperire, portatemela. Portatela qui, signor Nadgett.”

Nadgett si mise gli occhiali e lesse attentamente il nome; poi guardò il presidente attraverso le lenti degli occhiali e fece un inchino; dopo se li tolse, li mise nella custodia e infine la custodia nella tasca. Una volta fatto ciò, senza gli occhiali, osservò il foglio che aveva davanti a sé e, allo stesso tempo, tirò fuori il portafogli da qualche parte, probabilmente dalla zona centrale della sua schiena. Nonostante fosse piuttosto grande, era pieno zeppo di documenti; trovò comunque spazio per quello che stava cercando, lo afferrò con cura e, con un gesto solenne, lo ripose nella stessa tasca di prima.

Si ritirò con un altro inchino e senza dire una parola; aprì la porta appena quanto bastava per farci passare, e la chiuse con la stessa cura di prima. Il presidente del consiglio trascorse il resto della mattina firmando le varie proposte relative all’acquisto di rendite vitalizie e a altre forme di assicurazione. L’azienda stava andando bene, poiché tali proposte continuavano ad arrivare in gran numero.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

MR MONTAGUE AT HOME. AND MR JONAS CHUZZLEWIT AT HOME

There were many powerful reasons for Jonas Chuzzlewit being strongly prepossessed in favour of the scheme which its great originator had so boldly laid open to him; but three among them stood prominently forward. Firstly, there was money to be made by it. Secondly, the money had the peculiar charm of being sagaciously obtained at other people’s cost. Thirdly, it involved much outward show of homage and distinction: a board being an awful institution in its own sphere, and a director a mighty man. ‘To make a swingeing profit, have a lot of chaps to order about, and get into regular good society by one and the same means, and them so easy to one’s hand, ain’t such a bad look-out,’ thought Jonas. The latter considerations were only second to his avarice; for, conscious that there was nothing in his person, conduct, character, or accomplishments, to command respect, he was greedy of power, and was, in his heart, as much a tyrant as any laureled conqueror on record.

But he determined to proceed with cunning and caution, and to be very keen on his observation of the gentility of Mr Montague’s private establishment. For it no more occurred to this shallow knave that Montague wanted him to be so, or he wouldn’t have invited him while his decision was yet in abeyance, than the possibility of that genius being able to overreach him in any way, pierced through his self-deceit by the inlet of a needle’s point. He had said, in the outset, that Jonas was too sharp for him; and Jonas, who would have been sharp enough to believe him in nothing else, though he had solemnly sworn it, believed him in that, instantly.

It was with a faltering hand, and yet with an imbecile attempt at a swagger, that he knocked at his new friend’s door in Pall Mall when the appointed hour arrived. Mr Bailey quickly answered to the summons. He was not proud and was kindly disposed to take notice of Jonas; but Jonas had forgotten him.

‘Mr Montague at home?’

‘I should hope he wos at home, and waiting dinner, too,’ said Bailey, with the ease of an old acquaintance. ‘Will you take your hat up along with you, or leave it here?’

Mr Jonas preferred leaving it there.

‘The hold name, I suppose?’ said Bailey, with a grin.

Mr Jonas stared at him in mute indignation.

‘What, don’t you remember hold mother Todgers’s?’ said Mr Bailey, with his favourite action of the knees and boots. ‘Don’t you remember my taking your name up to the young ladies, when you came a-courting there? A reg’lar scaly old shop, warn’t it? Times is changed ain’t they. I say how you’ve growed!’

Without pausing for any acknowledgement of this compliment, he ushered the visitor upstairs, and having announced him, retired with a private wink.

The lower story of the house was occupied by a wealthy tradesman, but Mr Montague had all the upper portion, and splendid lodging it was. The room in which he received Jonas was a spacious and elegant apartment, furnished with extreme magnificence; decorated with pictures, copies from the antique in alabaster and marble, china vases, lofty mirrors, crimson hangings of the richest silk, gilded carvings, luxurious couches, glistening cabinets inlaid with precious woods; costly toys of every sort in negligent abundance. The only guests besides Jonas were the doctor, the resident Director, and two other gentlemen, whom Montague presented in due form.

‘My dear friend, I am delighted to see you. Jobling you know, I believe?’

‘I think so,’ said the doctor pleasantly, as he stepped out of the circle to shake hands. ‘I trust I have the honour. I hope so. My dear sir, I see you well. Quite well? THAT’S well!’

‘Mr Wolf,’ said Montague, as soon as the doctor would allow him to introduce the two others, ‘Mr Chuzzlewit. Mr Pip, Mr Chuzzlewit.’

Both gentlemen were exceedingly happy to have the honour of making Mr Chuzzlewit’s acquaintance. The doctor drew Jonas a little apart, and whispered behind his hand:

‘Men of the world, my dear sir—men of the world. Hem! Mr Wolf—literary character—you needn’t mention it—remarkably clever weekly paper—oh, remarkably clever! Mr Pip—theatrical man—capital man to know—oh, capital man!’

‘Well!’ said Wolf, folding his arms and resuming a conversation which the arrival of Jonas had interrupted. ‘And what did Lord Nobley say to that?’

‘Why,’ returned Pip, with an oath. ‘He didn’t know what to say. Same, sir, if he wasn’t as mute as a poker. But you know what a good fellow Nobley is!’

‘The best fellow in the world!’ cried Wolf. ‘It as only last week that Nobley said to me, “By Gad, Wolf, I’ve got a living to bestow, and if you had but been brought up at the University, strike me blind if I wouldn’t have made a parson of you!”’

‘Just like him,’ said Pip with another oath. ‘And he’d have done it!’

‘Not a doubt of it,’ said Wolf. ‘But you were going to tell us—’

‘Oh, yes!’ cried Pip. ‘To be sure. So I was. At first he was dumb—sewn up, dead, sir—but after a minute he said to the Duke, “Here’s Pip. Ask Pip. Pip’s our mutual friend. Ask Pip. He knows.” “Damme!” said the Duke, “I appeal to Pip then. Come, Pip. Bandy or not bandy? Speak out!” “Bandy, your Grace, by the Lord Harry!” said I. “Ha, ha!” laughed the Duke. “To be sure she is. Bravo, Pip. Well said Pip. I wish I may die if you’re not a trump, Pip. Pop me down among your fashionable visitors whenever I’m in town, Pip.” And so I do, to this day.’

The conclusion of this story gave immense satisfaction, which was in no degree lessened by the announcement of dinner. Jonas repaired to the dining room, along with his distinguished host, and took his seat at the board between that individual and his friend the doctor. The rest fell into their places like men who were well accustomed to the house; and dinner was done full justice to, by all parties.

CAPITOLO VENTI OTTO

Il signor Montague a casa. E il signor Jonas Chuzzlewit anch’egli a casa.

C’erano molte ragioni valide per cui Jonas Chuzzlewit fosse così fortemente incline a sostenere quel progetto che il suo grande ideatore gli aveva presentato con tanta audacia; ma tre di queste ragioni spiccavano in particolare. Prima di tutto, ci sarebbe stato denaro da guadagnare. In secondo luogo, quel denaro possedeva il fascino particolare di essere ottenuto, in modo astuto, a scapito altrui. Terzo, il progetto comportava un notevole apparato di rispetto e distinzione sociale: dopotutto, un consiglio di amministrazione rappresenta un’istituzione molto influente nel suo ambito, e un direttore è una figura di grande potere. “Guadagnare enormi profitti, avere molte persone sotto il proprio controllo e entrare in società elevata con lo stesso mezzo, non è poi una cattiva opportunità”, pensava Jonas. Queste ultime considerazioni venivano però secondate soltanto dalla sua avidità; poiché si rendeva conto di non possedere nulla, né nella persona, né nel comportamento, né nel carattere, che potesse meritare rispetto, anelava al potere e, nel profondo del cuore, era un tiranno tanto quanto qualsiasi conquistatore insignito di onori.

Ma decise di procedere con astuzia e cautela, e di osservare attentamente le abitudini della casa privata del signor Montague. A quel volgare individuo non venne mai in mente che fosse proprio Montague a volerlo così; altrimenti non lo avrebbe invitato mentre la sua decisione era ancora in sospeso. Non gli passò nemmeno per la testa l’idea che quel genio potesse in qualche modo superarlo, poiché la sua autodifesa era così fragile da essere facilmente penetrata da qualsiasi attacco. All’inizio aveva detto che Jonas era troppo astuto per lui; e Jonas, che avrebbe creduto a qualsiasi cosa lui dicesse, anche se fosse stata una menzogna, gli credette immediatamente su questo punto.

Con una mano tremante, eppure con un goffo tentativo di atteggiarsi con nonchalance, bussò alla porta del suo nuovo amico a Pall Mall quando arrivò l’ora concordata. Il signor Bailey rispose subito alla chiamata. Non era orgoglioso e era disposto ad accorgersi di Jonas; ma Jonas lo aveva dimenticato.

“Il signor Montague a casa?”

“Spero che sia a casa e stia aspettando la cena,” disse Bailey, con l’affabilità di una vecchia conoscenza. “Prenderai il cappello con te, o lo lascerai qui?”

Il signor Jonas preferì lasciarle lì.

“Quel nome in codice, immagino?” disse Bailey, sorridendo.

Il signor Jonas lo fissò con muta indignazione.

“Che cosa? Non ti ricordi più di quando lavoravi da madre Todgers?” disse il signor Bailey, con quel suo gesto caratteristico delle ginocchia e degli stivali. “Non ti ricordi che io presentai il tuo nome alle giovani signore quando venisti lì a corteggiare? Era davvero un negozio vecchio e squallido, vero? I tempi cambiano, eh. Che crescita incredibile hai fatto!”

Senza attendere alcuna risposta a quel complimento, accompagnò il visitatore al piano di sopra e, dopo averlo presentato, si ritirò con un cenno d’intesa.

Il piano inferiore della casa era occupato da un ricco commerciante, ma il signor Montague possedeva l’intero piano superiore, che era davvero una residenza splendida. La stanza in cui riceveva Jonas era un appartamento spazioso ed elegante, arredato con estrema magnificenza: decorato con quadri, copie di opere antiche realizzate in alabastro e marmo, vasi di porcellana, specchi alti, tende rosse fatte di seta pregiata, sculture dorate, divani lussuosi, armadi lucidi intarsiati con legni pregiati; inoltre, c’erano giocattoli costosi di ogni tipo, disposti in abbondanza. Gli unici ospiti, oltre a Jonas, erano il dottore, il direttore residente e altri due gentiluomini, che Montague presentò con tutte le formalità del caso.

“Mio caro amico, sono molto felice di vederti. Lavori saltuariamente, giusto?”

“Credo di sì,” disse il dottore in tono cordiale, uscendo dal cerchio per stringergli la mano. “Spero di avere l’onore. Lo spero davvero. Caro signore, vedo che sta molto bene. Davvero molto bene? Questo è davvero positivo!”

“Signor Lupo,” disse Montague non appena il dottore gli permise di presentare gli altri due, “il signor Chuzzlewit. Il signor Pip, il signor Chuzzlewit.”

Entrambi i signori erano estremamente felici di avere l’onore di conoscere il signor Chuzzlewit. Il dottore portò Jonas un po’ in disparte e sussurrò alle sue spalle:

“Uomini di mondo, mio caro signore, uomini di mondo. Ehm! Il signor Wolf, una figura letteraria, non c’è bisogno di dirlo, un settimanale straordinariamente intelligente, oh, davvero straordinario! Il signor Pip, un uomo del teatro, una persona molto utile da conoscere, oh, davvero molto utile!”

“Beh!”, disse Wolf, incrociando le braccia e riprendendo la conversazione che l’arrivo di Jonas aveva interrotto. “E cosa ha detto Lord Nobley a riguardo?”

“Perché,” rispose Pip, imprecando, “non sapeva cosa dire. Lo stesso vale, signore, anche se non fosse così muto come un pezzo di legno. Ma sapete bene quanto sia una brava persona Nobley!”

“Il miglior ragazzo del mondo!” esclamò Wolf. “Solo la scorsa settimana Nobley mi ha detto: ‘Per tutti i santi, Wolf, ho un incarico da affidarti. Se solo fossi stato educato all’università, ti avrei fatto diventare un prete senza esitazione!’”

“Proprio come lui,” disse Pip, imprecando di nuovo. “E lui l’avrebbe fatto davvero!”

“Nessun dubbio al riguardo,” disse Wolf. “Ma volevi dirci–”

“Oh, sì!” esclamò Pip. “Certo che lo sono stato. All’inizio era muto, come se fosse morto, ma dopo un minuto disse al Duca: ‘Ecco Pip. Chiedete a Pip. Pip è il nostro amico comune. Lui sa.’ ‘Maledizione!’ disse il Duca. ‘Allora mi affido a Pip. Vieni, Pip. Che tu sia legato o no, parla!’ ‘Legato, Vostra Grazia, per Lord Harry!’ dissi io. ‘Ahah!’ rise il Duca. ‘Certo che lo è. Bravo, Pip! Vorrei morire se non fossi davvero importante. Fai venire me tra i tuoi ospiti eleganti ogni volta che sono in città, Pip.’ E così faccio ancora oggi.”

La conclusione di questa storia procurò un immenso soddisfazione, che non diminuì affatto con l’annuncio del pasto. Jonas si recò in sala da pranzo insieme al suo ospite d’onore e prese posto a tavola tra quest’ultimo e il suo amico, il dottore. Gli altri occuparono i loro posti come persone ben abituate a quella casa; e tutti apprezzarono molto la cena.

It was a good a one as money (or credit, no matter which) could produce. The dishes, wines, and fruits were of the choicest kind. Everything was elegantly served. The plate was gorgeous. Mr Jonas was in the midst of a calculation of the value of this item alone, when his host disturbed him.

‘A glass of wine?’

‘Oh!’ said Jonas, who had had several glasses already. ‘As much of that as you like! It’s too good to refuse.’

‘Well said, Mr Chuzzlewit!’ cried Wolf.

‘Tom Gag, upon my soul!’ said Pip.

‘Positively, you know, that’s—ha, ha, ha!’ observed the doctor, laying down his knife and fork for one instant, and then going to work again, pell-mell—‘that’s epigrammatic; quite!’

‘You’re tolerably comfortable, I hope?’ said Tigg, apart to Jonas.

‘Oh! You needn’t trouble your head about ME,’ he replied, ‘Famous!’

‘I thought it best not to have a party,’ said Tigg. ‘You feel that?’

‘Why, what do you call this?’ retorted Jonas. ‘You don’t mean to say you do this every day, do you?’

‘My dear fellow,’ said Montague, shrugging his shoulders, ‘every day of my life, when I dine at home. This is my common style. It was of no use having anything uncommon for you. You’d have seen through it. “You’ll have a party?” said Crimple. “No, I won’t,” I said, “he shall take us in the rough!”

‘And pretty smooth, too, ecod!’ said Jonas, glancing round the table. ‘This don’t cost a trifle.’

‘Why, to be candid with you, it does not,’ returned the other. ‘But I like this sort of thing. It’s the way I spend my money.’

Jonas thrust his tongue into his cheek, and said, ‘Was it?’

‘When you join us, you won’t get rid of your share of the profits in the same way?’ said Tigg.

‘Quite different,’ retorted Jonas.

‘Well, and you’re right,’ said Tigg, with friendly candour. ‘You needn’t. It’s not necessary. One of a Company must do it to hold the connection together; but, as I take a pleasure in it, that’s my department. You don’t mind dining expensively at another man’s expense, I hope?’

‘Not a bit,’ said Jonas.

‘Then I hope you’ll often dine with me?’

‘Ah!’ said Jonas, ‘I don’t mind. On the contrary.’

‘And I’ll never attempt to talk business to you over wine, I take my oath,’ said Tigg. ‘Oh deep, deep, deep of you this morning! I must tell ‘em that. They’re the very men to enjoy it. Pip, my good fellow, I’ve a splendid little trait to tell you of my friend Chuzzlewit who is the deepest dog I know; I give you my sacred word of honour he is the deepest dog I know, Pip!’

Pip swore a frightful oath that he was sure of it already; and the anecdote, being told, was received with loud applause, as an incontestable proof of Mr Jonas’s greatness. Pip, in a natural spirit of emulation, then related some instances of his own depth; and Wolf not to be left behind-hand, recited the leading points of one or two vastly humorous articles he was then preparing. These lucubrations being of what he called ‘a warm complexion,’ were highly approved; and all the company agreed that they were full of point.

‘Men of the world, my dear sir,’ Jobling whispered to Jonas; ‘thorough men of the world! To a professional person like myself it’s quite refreshing to come into this kind of society. It’s not only agreeable—and nothing CAN be more agreeable—but it’s philosophically improving. It’s character, my dear sir; character!’

It is so pleasant to find real merit appreciated, whatever its particular walk in life may be, that the general harmony of the company was doubtless much promoted by their knowing that the two men of the world were held in great esteem by the upper classes of society, and by the gallant defenders of their country in the army and navy, but particularly the former. The least of their stories had a colonel in it; lords were as plentiful as oaths; and even the Blood Royal ran in the muddy channel of their personal recollections.

‘Mr Chuzzlewit didn’t know him, I’m afraid,’ said Wolf, in reference to a certain personage of illustrious descent, who had previously figured in a reminiscence.

‘No,’ said Tigg. ‘But we must bring him into contact with this sort of fellows.’

‘He was very fond of literature,’ observed Wolf.

‘Was he?’ said Tigg.

‘Oh, yes; he took my paper regularly for many years. Do you know he said some good things now and then? He asked a certain Viscount, who’s a friend of mine—Pip knows him—“What’s the editor’s name, what’s the editor’s name?” “Wolf.” “Wolf, eh? Sharp biter, Wolf. We must keep the Wolf from the door, as the proverb says.” It was very well. And being complimentary, I printed it.’

‘But the Viscount’s the boy!’ cried Pip, who invented a new oath for the introduction of everything he said. ‘The Viscount’s the boy! He came into our place one night to take Her home; rather slued, but not much; and said, “Where’s Pip? I want to see Pip. Produce Pip!”—“What’s the row, my lord?”—“Shakspeare’s an infernal humbug, Pip! What’s the good of Shakspeare, Pip? I never read him. What the devil is it all about, Pip? There’s a lot of feet in Shakspeare’s verse, but there an’t any legs worth mentioning in Shakspeare’s plays, are there, Pip? Juliet, Desdemona, Lady Macbeth, and all the rest of ‘em, whatever their names are, might as well have no legs at all, for anything the audience know about it, Pip. Why, in that respect they’re all Miss Biffins to the audience, Pip. I’ll tell you what it is. What the people call dramatic poetry is a collection of sermons. Do I go to the theatre to be lectured? No, Pip. If I wanted that, I’d go to church. What’s the legitimate object of the drama, Pip? Human nature. What are legs? Human nature. Then let us have plenty of leg pieces, Pip, and I’ll stand by you, my buck!” and I am proud to say,’ added Pip, ‘that he DID stand by me, handsomely.’

The conversation now becoming general, Mr Jonas’s opinion was requested on this subject; and as it was in full accordance with the sentiments of Mr Pip, that gentleman was extremely gratified. Indeed, both himself and Wolf had so much in common with Jonas, that they became very amicable; and between their increasing friendship and the fumes of wine, Jonas grew talkative.

Era un piatto davvero eccezionale, di quel livello che solo il denaro (o il credito, non importa) può permettersi. I piatti, i vini e la frutta erano dei tipi più selezionati; tutto era servito con grande eleganza. Il piatto stesso era davvero magnifico. Il signor Jonas stava appunto calcolando il valore di quel singolo piatto quando il suo ospite lo interruppe.

“Un bicchiere di vino?”

“Ooh!” disse Jonas, che aveva già bevuto diversi bicchieri. “Quanto ne vuoi! È troppo buono per rifiutarlo.”

“Ben detto, signor Chuzzlewit!”, esclamò Wolf.

“Tom Gag, per la mia ‘anima!” disse Pip.

“Positivamente, sai, ahahah!” osservò il dottore, mettendo da parte per un momento coltello e forchetta, per poi riprendere a lavorare freneticamente. “È davvero epigrammatico, proprio così!”

“Spero che tu sia abbastanza a tuo agio, ”, disse Tigg sottovoce a Jonas.

“Ah, non c’è bisogno che vi preoccupiate per me,” rispose lui, “Famoso, eh!”

“Ho pensato fosse meglio non organizzare una festa,” disse Tigg. “Anche tu la pensi così?”

“Ma che cos’è questo?” ribatté Jonas. “Non vorrai dire che lo fai tutti i giorni, vero?”

“Mio caro amico,” disse Montague, scrollando le spalle, “ogni giorno della mia vita, quando mangio a >casa. Questo è il mio modo abituale di fare. Non avrebbe avuto senso preparare qualcosa di insolito per te: tu l’avresti comunque capito subito. ‘Organizzerai una festa?’ chiese Crimple. ‘No, non lo farò,’ risposi, ‘lui ci porterà semplicemente da lui!’”

“E inoltre molto fluido, eh, ecod!”, disse Jonas, guardandosi intorno al tavolo. “Questo non costa certo poco, ”

“Beh, a dire il vero, no,” rispose l’altro. “Ma a me piace questo genere di cose. È così che spendo i miei soldi.”

“Jonas si infilò la lingua nella guancia e disse: ‘Davvero?’”

“Quando ti unirai a noi, non potrai più liberarti della tua parte dei profitti, giusto?” disse Tigg.

“Del tutto diverso,” ribatté Jonas.

“Beh, hai ragione,” disse Tigg con sincera amicizia. “Non era necessario. È compito di uno del gruppo mantenere unita la rete; ma poiché mi diverte farlo, è proprio questo il mio compito. Spero che non ti dispiaccia spendere soldi per i pasti a spese degli altri, ”

“Nemmeno un po’,” disse Jonas.

“Allora spero che tu venga a cena da me spesso, vero?”

“Ah!”, disse Jonas, “Non mi dispiace affatto. Anzi, al contrario.”

“E giuro su tutto che non proverò mai a parlare di affari con te mentre beviamo vino,” disse Tigg. “Oh, che nobile gesto da parte tua stamattina! Devo assolutamente raccontarglielo. Sono proprio le persone adatte per apprezzarlo. Pip, mio caro amico, ho una cosa meravigliosa da dirti riguardo al mio amico Chuzzlewit: è davvero la persona più sincera che conosca. Te lo giuro sul mio onore, Pip!”

Pip fece un giuramento terribile, affermando di esserne già certo; e quando l’aneddoto fu raccontato, fu accolto con grandi applausi, considerato una prova incontestabile della grandezza del signor Jonas. Pip, spinto da un naturale spirito di emulazione, raccontò allora alcuni episodi simili riguardanti se stesso; e Wolf, per non essere da meno, recitò i punti principali di uno o due articoli molto umoristici che stava preparando in quel momento. Queste riflessioni, dal tono piuttosto “caldo” e ironico, furono molto apprezzate; e tutti presenti concordarono sul fatto che fossero davvero pieni di arguzia.

“Uomini di mondo, mio caro signore,” sussurrò Jobling a Jonas; “veri uomini di mondo! Per una persona professionista come me è davvero rinfrescante entrare in questo tipo di società. Non solo è piacevole – e non c’è niente di più piacevole – ma anche proficuo dal punto di vista filosofico. È questione di carattere, mio caro signore; di carattere!”

È davvero piacevole vedere che i veri meriti vengano apprezzati, indipendentemente dal ruolo specifico che una persona svolge nella vita; senza dubbio, questa consapevolezza contribuiva notevolmente all’armonia generale del gruppo. Entrambi questi uomini erano infatti molto stimati dalle classi sociali più elevate, nonché dai valorosi difensori della loro nazione nell’esercito e nella marina, soprattutto dai primi. Ogni loro racconto includeva almeno un colonnello; i nobili erano presenti in abbondanza. E persino il sangue reale faceva parte delle loro personali storie.

“Purtroppo, il signor Chuzzlewit non lo conosceva,” disse Wolf, riferendosi a una certa persona di illustre origine che era già apparsa in una precedente conversazione.

“No,” disse Tigg. “Ma dobbiamo farlo incontrare con questo tipo di persone.”

“Era molto appassionato di letteratura,” osservò Wolf.

“Lo era davvero?” disse Tigg.

‘Oh, sì; per molti anni ha continuato a prendere regolarmente il mio giornale. Sai che di tanto in tanto diceva anche cose positive? Chiese a un certo visconte, che è un mio amico. Pip lo conosce, “Come si chiama l’editore?” “Wolf.” “Wolf, eh? Un tipo tagliente, quel Wolf. Dobbiamo tenere Wolf lontano dalla porta, come dice il proverbio.” Fu molto carino. E poiché era un complimento, l’ho pubblicato.’

“Ma il Visconte è un ragazzo!”, gridò Pip, inventando ogni volta un nuovo giuramento per accompagnare le sue parole. “Il Visconte è un ragazzo. È venuto a casa nostra una notte per portare via Lei. Era un po’ sporco, ma non molto; e ha detto: ‘Dov’è Pip? Voglio vedere Pip. Fatemi incontrare Pip!’ ‘Che c’è, mio signore?’ ‘Shakespeare è un bugiardo maledetto. A che serve Shakespeare, Pip? Non l’ho mai letto. Di cosa diavolo tratta tutto questo, Pip? Nelle sue poesie ci sono tante parole, ma nelle sue opere teatrali non ci sono affatto personaggi con delle vere gambe, vero, Pip? Giulietta, Desdemona, Lady Macbeth, e tutte le altre, per quel che ne sa il pubblico, potrebbero anche non avere gambe affatto. Per quanto riguarda il pubblico, sono tutte semplicemente ‘Miss Biffins’. Vi dico cosa penso: quella che la gente chiama poesia drammatica non è altro che una serie di prediche. Vado al teatro per ascoltare sermoni? No, Pip. Se volessi farlo, andrei in chiesa. Qual è lo scopo legittimo del teatro, Pip? La natura umana. E cosa sono le gambe? La natura umana. Allora diamo spazio alla vera essenza della natura umana, Pip. E io sarò al vostro fianco, amici miei!” E sono orgoglioso di dire, aggiunse Pip, “che lui è davvero stato al mio fianco, con grande generosità.”

La conversazione divenne ora più generale, e si chiese l’opinione del signor Jonas su questo argomento; poiché essa era in totale accordo con i sentimenti del signor Pip, quest’ultimo ne fu estremamente soddisfatto. Infatti, sia lui che Wolf avevano così tante cose in comune con Jonas che divennero molto amici; e grazie alla loro sempre più stretta amicizia e ai effetti del vino, Jonas diventò molto loquace.

It does not follow in the case of such a person that the more talkative he becomes, the more agreeable he is; on the contrary, his merits show to most advantage, perhaps, in silence. Having no means, as he thought, of putting himself on an equality with the rest, but by the assertion of that depth and sharpness on which he had been complimented, Jonas exhibited that faculty to the utmost; and was so deep and sharp that he lost himself in his own profundity, and cut his fingers with his own edge-tools.

It was especially in his way and character to exhibit his quality at his entertainer’s expense; and while he drank of his sparkling wines, and partook of his monstrous profusion, to ridicule the extravagance which had set such costly fare before him. Even at such a wanton board, and in such more than doubtful company, this might have proved a disagreeable experiment, but that Tigg and Crimple, studying to understand their man thoroughly, gave him what license he chose: knowing that the more he took, the better for their purpose. And thus while the blundering cheat—gull that he was, for all his cunning—thought himself rolled up hedgehog fashion, with his sharpest points towards them, he was, in fact, betraying all his vulnerable parts to their unwinking watchfulness.

Whether the two gentlemen who contributed so much to the doctor’s philosophical knowledge (by the way, the doctor slipped off quietly, after swallowing his usual amount of wine) had had their cue distinctly from the host, or took it from what they saw and heard, they acted their parts very well. They solicited the honour of Jonas’s better acquaintance; trusted that they would have the pleasure of introducing him into that elevated society in which he was so well qualified to shine; and informed him, in the most friendly manner that the advantages of their respective establishments were entirely at his control. In a word, they said ‘Be one of us!’ And Jonas said he was infinitely obliged to them, and he would be; adding within himself, that so long as they ‘stood treat,’ there was nothing he would like better.

After coffee, which was served in the drawing-room, there was a short interval (mainly sustained by Pip and Wolf) of conversation; rather highly spiced and strongly seasoned. When it flagged, Jonas took it up and showed considerable humour in appraising the furniture; inquiring whether such an article was paid for; what it had originally cost, and the like. In all of this, he was, as he considered, desperately hard on Montague, and very demonstrative of his own brilliant parts.

Some Champagne Punch gave a new though temporary fillip to the entertainments of the evening. For after leading to some noisy proceedings, which were not intelligible, it ended in the unsteady departure of the two gentlemen of the world, and the slumber of Mr Jonas upon one of the sofas.

As he could not be made to understand where he was, Mr Bailey received orders to call a hackney-coach, and take him home; which that young gentleman roused himself from an uneasy sleep in the hall to do. It being now almost three o’clock in the morning.

‘Is he hooked, do you think?’ whispered Crimple, as himself and partner stood in a distant part of the room observing him as he lay.

‘Aye!’ said Tigg, in the same tone. ‘With a strong iron, perhaps. Has Nadgett been here to-night?’

‘Yes. I went out to him. Hearing you had company, he went away.’

‘Why did he do that?’

‘He said he would come back early in the morning, before you were out of bed.’

‘Tell them to be sure and send him up to my bedside. Hush! Here’s the boy! Now Mr Bailey, take this gentleman home, and see him safely in. Hallo, here! Why Chuzzlewit, halloa!’

They got him upright with some difficulty, and assisted him downstairs, where they put his hat upon his head, and tumbled him into the coach. Mr Bailey, having shut him in, mounted the box beside the coachman, and smoked his cigar with an air of particular satisfaction; the undertaking in which he was engaged having a free and sporting character about it, which was quite congenial to his taste.

Arriving in due time at the house in the City, Mr Bailey jumped down, and expressed the lively nature of his feelings in a knock the like of which had probably not been heard in that quarter since the great fire of London. Going out into the road to observe the effect of this feat, he saw that a dim light, previously visible at an upper window, had been already removed and was travelling downstairs. To obtain a foreknowledge of the bearer of this taper, Mr Bailey skipped back to the door again, and put his eye to the keyhole.

It was the merry one herself. But sadly, strangely altered! So careworn and dejected, so faltering and full of fear; so fallen, humbled, broken; that to have seen her quiet in her coffin would have been a less surprise.

She set the light upon a bracket in the hall, and laid her hand upon her heart; upon her eyes; upon her burning head. Then she came on towards the door with such a wild and hurried step that Mr Bailey lost his self-possession, and still had his eye where the keyhole had been, when she opened it.

‘Aha!’ said Mr Bailey, with an effort. ‘There you are, are you? What’s the matter? Ain’t you well, though?’

In the midst of her astonishment as she recognized him in his altered dress, so much of her old smile came back to her face that Bailey was glad. But next moment he was sorry again, for he saw tears standing in her poor dim eyes.

‘Don’t be frightened,’ said Bailey. ‘There ain’t nothing the matter. I’ve brought home Mr Chuzzlewit. He ain’t ill. He’s only a little swipey, you know.’ Mr Bailey reeled in his boots, to express intoxication.

‘Have you come from Mrs Todgers’s?’ asked Merry, trembling.

‘Todgers’s, bless you! No!’ cried Mr Bailey. ‘I haven’t got nothin, to do with Todgers’s. I cut that connection long ago. He’s been a-dining with my governor at the west-end. Didn’t you know he was a-coming to see us?’

Non è vero che, nel caso di una persona del genere, più diventa loquace, più diventa gradevole; al contrario, i suoi meriti si evidenziano forse meglio nel silenzio. Non avendo, secondo lui, altri mezzi per mettersi sullo stesso piano degli altri se non sottolineando quella profondità e acutezza di cui era stato lodato, Jonas esibì al massimo questa qualità; ma fu così profondo e acuto che finì per perdersi nella propria stessa profondità, e si ferì persino con le sue stesse lame affilate.

Era proprio nel suo modo di comportarsi e nella sua natura esprimere le sue qualità a scapito degli altri; e mentre beveva i suoi vini spumanti e si abbuffava della loro enorme abbondanza, rideva dell’eleganza e del lusso che gli venivano offerti. Anche in un simile ambiente dissoluto, e in compagnia così poco affidabile, tutto questo avrebbe potuto rivelarsi un’esperienza sgradevole. Ma Tigg e Crimple, cercando di comprendere appieno il loro uomo, gli lasciavano fare ciò che voleva: sapevano infatti che più ne approfittava, meglio andava per i loro scopi. E così, mentre quel truffatore ingenuo – nonostante tutta la sua astuzia – pensava di essersi messo al sicuro, con le sue “punte più affilate” rivolte contro di loro, in realtà stava rivelando tutte le sue debolezze alla loro attenta osservazione.

Che i due signori che hanno contribuito così tanto alla conoscenza filosofica del dottore (del resto, il dottore se ne andò silenziosamente, dopo aver bevuto la solita quantità di vino) avessero ricevuto indicazioni chiare dal padrone di casa, o le avessero tratte da ciò che avevano visto e sentito, fatto sta che hanno svolto il loro ruolo molto bene. Chiesero l’onore di essere presentati agli amici più intimi di Jonas; erano convinti di avere la possibilità di fargli conoscere quella società elevata in cui lui era così qualificato per brillare; e gli comunicarono, nel modo più cordiale possibile, che i vantaggi delle rispettive strutture erano completamente a sua disposizione. In altre parole, gli dissero: “Diventa uno di noi!” E Jonas rispose che era loro infinitamente grato e che lo avrebbe fatto; aggiungendo tra sé che, finché loro “offrivano da bere”, non c’era nulla che desiderasse di più.

Dopo il caffè, servito nel salotto, seguì un breve intervallo di conversazione, principalmente condotta da Pip e Wolf; una conversazione piuttosto vivace e ricca di argomenti “piccanti”. Quando l’entusiasmo iniziò a scemare, Jonas prese il sopravvento e dimostrò un notevole senso dell’umorismo nel commentare i mobili presenti nella stanza: chiedeva se quegli oggetti venissero pagati, quanto fossero costati in origine, e simili cose. In tutto ciò, secondo lui, era estremamente severo nei confronti di Montague e metteva in evidenza i propri pregi.

Un po’ di Champagne Punch diede una nuova, sebbene temporanea, nota di vivacità agli intrattenimenti della serata. Dopo aver scatenato alcuni comportamenti rumorosi e incomprensibili, la situazione si concluse con l’allontanamento incerto dei due gentiluomini, e con il sonnellino del signor Jonas su uno dei divani.

Poiché non era possibile far capire a quel giovane dove si trovava, al signor Bailey fu ordinato di chiamare una vettura e di portarlo a casa; il giovane gentiluomo si alzò dal suo sonno inquieto nell’atrio per eseguire quell’ordine. Erano ormai quasi le tre del mattino.

“Pensi che sia dipendente da quella roba?”, sussurrò Crimple mentre lui e il suo compagno lo osservavano sdraiato in un angolo lontano della stanza.

“Sì!”, disse Tigg, con lo stesso tono. “Forse con un ferro robusto. È stato Nadgett qui stasera?”

“Sì. Sono andata da lui. Sentendo che avevi compagnia, se n’è andato.”

“Perché l’ha fatto?”

“Ha detto che sarebbe tornato presto la mattina, prima che tu ti alzassi dal letto.”

“Dite loro di portarlo sicuramente al mio capezzale. Zitta! Ecco il ragazzo! Ora, signor Bailey, accompagni questo gentiluomo a casa e assicuratevi che arrivi sano e salvo. Ehi, qui! Ma perché, Chuzzlewit, ehi!”

Riuscirono a farlo alzare con qualche difficoltà e lo aiutarono a scendere le scale; gli misero il cappello in testa e lo spinsero dentro la carrozza. Il signor Bailey, dopo averlo chiuso dentro, salì sul sedile accanto al cocchiere e iniziò a fumare il suo sigaro con un’aria di particolare soddisfazione: l’impresa in cui era impegnato aveva un carattere spensierato e sportivo, che gli piaceva molto.

Arrivato in due momenti diversi alla casa nella città, il signor Bailey scese di corsa e esprimette con forza i suoi sentimenti battendo alla porta in un modo che probabilmente non si era più sentito in quella zona da quando era scoppiato il grande incendio a Londra. Uscendo in strada per osservare l’effetto di questo suo gesto, vide che una debole luce, precedentemente visibile in una finestra al piano superiore, era ormai scomparsa e stava scendendo le scale. Per scoprire chi portasse quella candela, il signor Bailey tornò indietro alla porta e guardò attraverso la serratura.

Era proprio lei, quella allegra di sempre. Ma purtroppo, cambiata in modo strano! Così stanca e depressa, così incerta e piena di paura; così caduta in rovina, umiliata, distrutta. Che vederla tranquilla nella sua bara sarebbe stato persino meno sorprendente.

Posò la lampada su un supporto nel corridoio e mise la mano sul proprio cuore, sugli occhi, sulla testa che le bruciava. Poi si avvicinò alla porta con passi così frenetici e disordinati che il signor Bailey perse il controllo di sé; continuò a fissare il punto in cui si trovava la serratura quando lei la aprì.

“Ahah!”, disse il signor Bailey con sforzo. “Eccola qui, vero? Che c’è? Non ti senti bene, per caso?”

Nel mezzo del suo stupore nel riconoscerlo con quel vestito diverso, gran parte del suo vecchio sorriso tornò sul suo viso, e Bailey ne fu felice. Ma subito dopo si dispiacque di nuovo, perché vide delle lacrime nei suoi poveri occhi tristi.

“Non avere paura,” disse Bailey. “Non c’è nulla di grave. Ho portato a casa il signor Chuzzlewit. Non è malato. È solo un po’ ubriaco, capisci.” Il signor Bailey si sistemò le scarpe per indicare che era sotto l’effetto dell’alcol.

“Sei venuto dalla signora Todgers?” chiese Merry, tremando.

“Todgers’s, per favore! No!” gridò il signor Bailey. “Non ho nulla a che fare con Todgers’s. Ho tagliato ogni legame con lui da molto tempo. Lui pranza sempre con il mio governatore nell’Ovest End. Non sapevi che sarebbe venuto a trovarci?”

‘No,’ she said, faintly.

‘Oh yes! We’re heavy swells too, and so I tell you. Don’t you come out, a-catching cold in your head. I’ll wake him!’ Mr Bailey expressing in his demeanour a perfect confidence that he could carry him in with ease, if necessary, opened the coach door, let down the steps, and giving Jonas a shake, cried ‘We’ve got home, my flower! Tumble up, then!’

He was so far recovered as to be able to respond to this appeal, and to come stumbling out of the coach in a heap, to the great hazard of Mr Bailey’s person. When he got upon the pavement, Mr Bailey first butted at him in front, and then dexterously propped him up behind; and having steadied him by these means, he assisted him into the house.

‘You go up first with the light,’ said Bailey to Mr Jonas, ‘and we’ll foller. Don’t tremble so. He won’t hurt you. When I’ve had a drop too much, I’m full of good natur myself.’

She went on before; and her husband and Bailey, by dint of tumbling over each other, and knocking themselves about, got at last into the sitting-room above stairs, where Jonas staggered into a seat.

‘There!’ said Mr Bailey. ‘He’s all right now. You ain’t got nothing to cry for, bless you! He’s righter than a trivet!’

The ill-favoured brute, with dress awry, and sodden face, and rumpled hair, sat blinking and drooping, and rolling his idiotic eyes about, until, becoming conscious by degrees, he recognized his wife, and shook his fist at her.

‘Ah!’ cried Mr Bailey, squaring his arms with a sudden emotion. ‘What, you’re wicious, are you? Would you though! You’d better not!’

‘Pray, go away!’ said Merry. ‘Bailey, my good boy, go home. Jonas!’ she said; timidly laying her hand upon his shoulder, and bending her head down over him. ‘Jonas!’

‘Look at her!’ cried Jonas, pushing her off with his extended arm. ‘Look here! Look at her! Here’s a bargain for a man!’

‘Dear Jonas!’

‘Dear Devil!’ he replied, with a fierce gesture. ‘You’re a pretty clog to be tied to a man for life, you mewling, white-faced cat! Get out of my sight!’

‘I know you don’t mean it, Jonas. You wouldn’t say it if you were sober.’

With affected gayety she gave Bailey a piece of money, and again implored him to be gone. Her entreaty was so earnest, that the boy had not the heart to stay there. But he stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and listened.

‘I wouldn’t say it if I was sober!’ retorted Jonas. ‘You know better. Have I never said it when I was sober?’

‘Often, indeed!’ she answered through her tears.

‘Hark ye!’ cried Jonas, stamping his foot upon the ground. ‘You made me bear your pretty humours once, and ecod I’ll make you bear mine now. I always promised myself I would. I married you that I might. I’ll know who’s master, and who’s slave!’

‘Heaven knows I am obedient!’ said the sobbing girl. ‘Much more so than I ever thought to be!’

Jonas laughed in his drunken exultation. ‘What! you’re finding it out, are you! Patience, and you will in time! Griffins have claws, my girl. There’s not a pretty slight you ever put upon me, nor a pretty trick you ever played me, nor a pretty insolence you ever showed me, that I won’t pay back a hundred-fold. What else did I marry you for? YOU, too!’ he said, with coarse contempt.

It might have softened him—indeed it might—to hear her turn a little fragment of a song he used to say he liked; trying, with a heart so full, to win him back.

‘Oho!’ he said, ‘you’re deaf, are you? You don’t hear me, eh? So much the better for you. I hate you. I hate myself, for having, been fool enough to strap a pack upon my back for the pleasure of treading on it whenever I choose. Why, things have opened to me, now, so that I might marry almost where I liked. But I wouldn’t; I’d keep single. I ought to be single, among the friends I know. Instead of that, here I am, tied like a log to you. Pah! Why do you show your pale face when I come home? Am I never to forget you?’

‘How late it is!’ she said cheerfully, opening the shutter after an interval of silence. ‘Broad day, Jonas!’

‘Broad day or black night, what do I care!’ was the kind rejoinder.

‘The night passed quickly, too. I don’t mind sitting up, at all.’

‘Sit up for me again, if you dare!’ growled Jonas.

‘I was reading,’ she proceeded, ‘all night long. I began when you went out, and read till you came home again. The strangest story, Jonas! And true, the book says. I’ll tell it you to-morrow.’

‘True, was it?’ said Jonas, doggedly.

‘So the book says.’

‘Was there anything in it, about a man’s being determined to conquer his wife, break her spirit, bend her temper, crush all her humours like so many nut-shells—kill her, for aught I know?’ said Jonas.

‘No. Not a word,’ she answered quickly.

‘Oh!’ he returned. ‘That’ll be a true story though, before long; for all the book says nothing about it. It’s a lying book, I see. A fit book for a lying reader. But you’re deaf. I forgot that.’

There was another interval of silence; and the boy was stealing away, when he heard her footstep on the floor, and stopped. She went up to him, as it seemed, and spoke lovingly; saying that she would defer to him in everything and would consult his wishes and obey them, and they might be very happy if he would be gentle with her. He answered with an imprecation, and—

Not with a blow? Yes. Stern truth against the base-souled villain; with a blow.

No angry cries; no loud reproaches. Even her weeping and her sobs were stifled by her clinging round him. She only said, repeating it in agony of heart, how could he, could he, could he—and lost utterance in tears.

Oh woman, God beloved in old Jerusalem! The best among us need deal lightly with thy faults, if only for the punishment thy nature will endure, in bearing heavy evidence against us, on the Day of Judgment!

“No,” disse lei, con voce debole.

“Oh sì! Anche noi siamo persone importanti, quindi vi dico: non uscite fuori, rischiereste di prendervi un raffreddore. Io lo sveglierò!” Il signor Bailey, con un atteggiamento pieno di fiducia, aprì la porta del vagone, fece scendere le scale e, scuotendo Jonas, esclamò: “Siamo arrivati a casa, mio caro! Vieni su!”

Era già abbastanza ripreso da poter rispondere a questo appello; barcollando, uscì dal carro in un mucchio di stracci, mettendo seriamente a rischio la sicurezza del signor Bailey. Quando fu sul marciapiede, il signor Bailey prima lo urtò davanti e poi, con abilità, lo aiutò a rialzarsi; una volta che lo ebbe stabilizzato in questo modo, lo accompagnò fino alla casa.

“Tu vai avanti per primo con la lampada,” disse Bailey al signor Jonas, “e noi ti seguiremo. Non tremare così. Lui non ti farà del male. Anche quando bevo un po’ troppo, anch’io divento molto gentile.”

Continuò ad avanzare; suo marito e Bailey, dopo essersi rotolati l’uno addosso all’altro e aver fatto un gran baccano, riuscirono finalmente ad entrare nel salotto al piano di sopra, dove Jonas si lasciò cadere su una sedia.

“Eccolo lì!” disse il signor Bailey. “Ora sta bene. Non c’è motivo di piangere, davvero! È più sano che mai!”

Quel brutto individuo sfortunato, con i vestiti in disordine, il viso bagnato e i capelli arruffati, sedeva sbattendo le palpebre e con lo sguardo vacuo; dopo un po’, riprendendosi gradualmente, riconobbe sua moglie e le mostrò il pugno.

“Ah!” esclamò il signor Bailey, aprendo le braccia in un gesto di improvvisa emozione. “Che cosa, siete davvero malvagio, vero? Non osate farlo! È meglio che non lo facciate!”

“Prega e vattene!” disse Merry. “Bailey, mio caro ragazzo, vai a casa. Jonas!” disse, posando timidamente la mano sulla sua spalla e chinando il capo verso di lui. “Jonas, ”

“Guardatela!” gridò Jonas, spingendola via con il braccio teso. “Guardate qui! Guardatela. Questa è davvero una buona opportunità per un uomo!”

“Caro Jonas!”

“Caro Diavolo!” rispose lui con un gesto furioso. “Sei davvero un ostacolo insormontabile essere legati a un uomo per tutta la vita, tu, gatta piagnucolante e dal viso pallido! Vattene dalla mia vista!”

“So che non lo dici sul serio, Jonas. Non lo diresti se fossi sobrio.”

Con una falsa allegria gli diede qualche moneta e ancora una volta lo supplicò di andarsene. Il suo tono era così sincero che il ragazzo non ebbe il cuore di rimanere lì. Ma si fermò in fondo alle scale e ascoltò.

“Non lo direi se fossi sobrio!”, ribatté Jonas. “Lo sai bene. Non te l’ho mai detto quando ero sobrio?”

“Spesso, davvero!” rispose lei tra le sue lacrime.

“Ascoltate!” gridò Jonas, battendo il piede a terra. “Una volta mi avete costretto ad sopportare le vostre stranezze. Ora sarò io a farvi sopportare le mie. Me lo ero sempre promesso. Vi ho sposata proprio per questo. Vedremo chi è il padrone e chi la schiava!”

“Dio sa quanto io sia obbediente!”, disse la ragazza che piangeva. “Molto più di quanto avessi mai pensato di essere!”

Jonas rise, esultante per l’effetto del vino. “Che cosa! Finalmente lo stai scoprendo, vero? Pazienza, e prima o poi lo scoprirai! I grifoni hanno artigli, mia ragazza. Nessuna offesa che tu mi abbia fatto, nessun trucco che tu abbia usato contro di me, nessuna insolenza che tu mi abbia mostrato, non c’è niente che io non possa ripagare cento volte di più. E per quale altro motivo ti avrei sposata, allora? TE!” disse, con un disprezzo volgare.

Forse avrebbe potuto addolcirlo, davvero, forse sì, sentirla cantare quel piccolo frammento di una canzone che lui stesso diceva di amare; cercare, con un cuore così pieno d’amore, di riconquistarlo.

‘Oh!’ disse, ‘sei sordo, forse? Non mi senti, eh? Meglio così per te. Ti odio. Odio anche me stesso, per essere stato abbastanza stupido da caricarmi questo fardello sulle spalle, solo per il piacere di calpestarlo ogni volta che voglio. Ora le opportunità si sono aperte davanti a me: potrei sposarmi quasi dove desidero. Ma non lo farò. Preferisco rimanere single. Dovrei restare single, tra gli amici che conosco. Invece eccomi qui, legato a te come un tronco. Bah! Perché mostri quel viso pallido ogni volta che torno a casa? Non dovrò mai dimenticarti, vero?’

“Che ora tarda è!” disse allegramente, aprendo lo sportello dopo un intervallo di silenzio. “È già giorno, Jonas!”

“Che sia di giorno o di notte, a me che importa!” era il tipo di risposta che si dava in quei casi.

Anche quella notte passò in fretta. Non mi dispiace affatto stare sveglio.

“Alzati di nuovo per me, se osi!” ringhiò Jonas.

“Stavo leggendo,” proseguì lei, “per tutta la notte. Ho iniziato quando sei uscito e ho continuato fino al tuo ritorno a casa. Una storia davvero strana, Jonas. E vera, dice il libro. Te la racconterò domani.”

“Davvero, è così?” disse Jonas, con ostinazione.

“Così dice il libro.”

“C’era qualcosa riguardo al fatto che un uomo fosse determinato a conquistare sua moglie, a spezzarne lo spirito, a domare il suo carattere, a schiacciare tutti i suoi umori come tante gusci di noci. Forse addirittura a ucciderla, chissà?” disse Jonas.

“No. Nessuna parola,” rispose velocemente.

“Oh!”, rispose lui. “Ma quella diventerà una vera storia, molto presto. Perché nel libro non si parla affatto di questo argomento. È un libro bugiardo, capisco. Adatto a un lettore bugiardo. Ma tu sei sordo. Me n’ero dimenticato.”

Ci fu un altro intervallo di silenzio; il ragazzo stava scappando via quando sentì i suoi passi sul pavimento e si fermò. Lei gli si avvicinò e parlò con tenerezza, dicendo che avrebbe fatto tutto ciò che lui desiderava, che avrebbe ascoltato e obbedito alle sue volontà, e che sarebbero stati molto felici se lui fosse stato gentile con lei. Lui rispose con un’imprecazione, e poi.

Non con un colpo? Sì. La dura verità contro il malvagio dal cuore corrotto; con un solo colpo.

Nessun grido di rabbia; nessuna accusa forte. Anche i suoi pianti e i suoi singhiozzi venivano soffocati dal suo abbraccio stretto intorno a lui. Lei ripeteva solo, con angoscia nel cuore: “Come avrebbe potuto, come avrebbe potuto, ”, fino a quando non perse la capacità di parlare, sommersa dalle lacrime.

Oh donna, Dio amato nell’antica Gerusalemme! Quelli tra noi che sono i migliori dovrebbero trattare con indulgenza i tuoi difetti, anche solo per la punizione che la tua natura dovrà subire nel Giorno del Giudizio, quando porterà pesanti prove contro di noi!

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

IN WHICH SOME PEOPLE ARE PRECOCIOUS, OTHERS PROFESSIONAL, AND OTHERS MYSTERIOUS; ALL IN THEIR SEVERAL WAYS

It may have been the restless remembrance of what he had seen and heard overnight, or it may have been no deeper mental operation than the discovery that he had nothing to do, which caused Mr Bailey, on the following afternoon, to feel particularly disposed for agreeable society, and prompted him to pay a visit to his friend Poll Sweedlepipe.

On the little bell giving clamorous notice of a visitor’s approach (for Mr Bailey came in at the door with a lunge, to get as much sound out of the bell as possible), Poll Sweedlepipe desisted from the contemplation of a favourite owl, and gave his young friend hearty welcome.

‘Why, you look smarter by day,’ said Poll, ‘than you do by candle-light. I never see such a tight young dasher.’

‘Reether so, Polly. How’s our fair friend, Sairah?’

‘Oh, she’s pretty well,’ said Poll. ‘She’s at home.’

‘There’s the remains of a fine woman about Sairah, Poll,’ observed Mr Bailey, with genteel indifference.

‘Oh!’ thought Poll, ‘he’s old. He must be very old!’

‘Too much crumb, you know,’ said Mr Bailey; ‘too fat, Poll. But there’s many worse at her time of life.’

‘The very owl’s a-opening his eyes!’ thought Poll. ‘I don’t wonder at it in a bird of his opinions.’

He happened to have been sharpening his razors, which were lying open in a row, while a huge strop dangled from the wall. Glancing at these preparations, Mr Bailey stroked his chin, and a thought appeared to occur to him.

‘Poll,’ he said, ‘I ain’t as neat as I could wish about the gills. Being here, I may as well have a shave, and get trimmed close.’

The barber stood aghast; but Mr Bailey divested himself of his neck-cloth, and sat down in the easy shaving chair with all the dignity and confidence in life. There was no resisting his manner. The evidence of sight and touch became as nothing. His chin was as smooth as a new-laid egg or a scraped Dutch cheese; but Poll Sweedlepipe wouldn’t have ventured to deny, on affidavit, that he had the beard of a Jewish rabbi.

‘Go WITH the grain, Poll, all round, please,’ said Mr Bailey, screwing up his face for the reception of the lather. ‘You may do wot you like with the bits of whisker. I don’t care for ‘em.’

The meek little barber stood gazing at him with the brush and soap-dish in his hand, stirring them round and round in a ludicrous uncertainty, as if he were disabled by some fascination from beginning. At last he made a dash at Mr Bailey’s cheek. Then he stopped again, as if the ghost of a beard had suddenly receded from his touch; but receiving mild encouragement from Mr Bailey, in the form of an adjuration to ‘Go in and win,’ he lathered him bountifully. Mr Bailey smiled through the suds in his satisfaction. ‘Gently over the stones, Poll. Go a tip-toe over the pimples!’

Poll Sweedlepipe obeyed, and scraped the lather off again with particular care. Mr Bailey squinted at every successive dab, as it was deposited on a cloth on his left shoulder, and seemed, with a microscopic eye, to detect some bristles in it; for he murmured more than once ‘Reether redder than I could wish, Poll.’ The operation being concluded, Poll fell back and stared at him again, while Mr Bailey, wiping his face on the jack-towel, remarked, ‘that arter late hours nothing freshened up a man so much as a easy shave.’

He was in the act of tying his cravat at the glass, without his coat, and Poll had wiped his razor, ready for the next customer, when Mrs Gamp, coming downstairs, looked in at the shop-door to give the barber neighbourly good day. Feeling for her unfortunate situation, in having conceived a regard for himself which it was not in the nature of things that he could return, Mr Bailey hastened to soothe her with words of kindness.

‘Hallo!’ he said, ‘Sairah! I needn’t ask you how you’ve been this long time, for you’re in full bloom. All a-blowin and a-growin; ain’t she, Polly?’

‘Why, drat the Bragian boldness of that boy!’ cried Mrs Gamp, though not displeased. ‘What a imperent young sparrow it is! I wouldn’t be that creetur’s mother not for fifty pound!’

Mr Bailey regarded this as a delicate confession of her attachment, and a hint that no pecuniary gain could recompense her for its being rendered hopeless. He felt flattered. Disinterested affection is always flattering.

‘Ah, dear!’ moaned Mrs Gamp, sinking into the shaving chair, ‘that there blessed Bull, Mr Sweedlepipe, has done his wery best to conker me. Of all the trying inwalieges in this walley of the shadder, that one beats ‘em black and blue.’

It was the practice of Mrs Gamp and her friends in the profession, to say this of all the easy customers; as having at once the effect of discouraging competitors for office, and accounting for the necessity of high living on the part of the nurses.

‘Talk of constitooshun!’ Mrs Gamp observed. ‘A person’s constitooshun need be made of bricks to stand it. Mrs Harris jestly says to me, but t’other day, “Oh! Sairey Gamp,” she says, “how is it done?” “Mrs Harris, ma’am,” I says to her, “we gives no trust ourselves, and puts a deal o’trust elsevere; these is our religious feelins, and we finds ‘em answer.” “Sairey,” says Mrs Harris, “sech is life. Vich likeways is the hend of all things!”’

The barber gave a soft murmur, as much as to say that Mrs Harris’s remark, though perhaps not quite so intelligible as could be desired from such an authority, did equal honour to her head and to her heart.

‘And here,’ continued Mrs Gamp, ‘and here am I a-goin twenty mile in distant, on as wentersome a chance as ever any one as monthlied ever run, I do believe. Says Mrs Harris, with a woman’s and a mother’s art a-beatin in her human breast, she says to me, “You’re not a-goin, Sairey, Lord forgive you!” “Why am I not a-goin, Mrs Harris?” I replies. “Mrs Gill,” I says, “wos never wrong with six; and is it likely, ma’am—I ast you as a mother—that she will begin to be unreg’lar now? Often and often have I heerd him say,” I says to Mrs Harris, meaning Mr Gill, “that he would back his wife agen Moore’s almanack, to name the very day and hour, for ninepence farden. IS it likely, ma’am,” I says, “as she will fail this once?” Says Mrs Harris “No, ma’am, not in the course of natur. But,” she says, the tears a-fillin in her eyes, “you knows much betterer than me, with your experienge, how little puts us out. A Punch’s show,” she says, “a chimbley sweep, a newfundlan dog, or a drunkin man a-comin round the corner sharp may do it.” So it may, Mr Sweedlepipes,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘there’s no deniging of it; and though my books is clear for a full week, I takes a anxious art along with me, I do assure you, sir.’

CAPITOLO VENTINOVE

In cui alcune persone sono precoci, altre professionali, e altre misteriose; ognuna a suo modo.

Forse fu il ricordo inquieto di ciò che aveva visto e sentito durante la notte, o forse semplicemente il rendersi conto di non avere nulla da fare. Comunque sia, il giorno seguente, il signor Bailey si trovò particolarmente incline ad apprezzare la compagnia altrui e decise di andare a far visita al suo amico Poll Sweedlepipe.

Quando il piccolo campanello suonò fragorosamente per annunciare l’arrivo di un visitatore (poiché il signor Bailey entrò di corsa, cercando di far suonare il campanello il più possibile), Poll Sweedlepipe smise di osservare la sua aquila preferita e accolse con calore il suo giovane amico.

“Ma guarda, di giorno sembri più intelligente, di quando c’è la luce delle candele,” disse Poll. “Non ho mai visto un giovane così agile.”

“Reether, vero, Polly? E come sta la nostra cara amica Sairah?”

“Oh, è davvero molto carina,” disse Poll. “È a casa.”

“C’è qualcosa di una vera signora in Sairah, Poll,” osservò il signor Bailey con distaccata gentilezza.

“Oh!”, pensò Poll, “è vecchio. Deve essere molto vecchio!”

“Troppi crostini, sai,” disse il signor Bailey; “troppo grassa, Poll. Ma ci sono molte donne peggiori alla sua età.”

“Quel gufo sta proprio aprendo gli occhi!”, pensò Poll. “Non mi sorprende affatto, considerando le sue abitudini, ”

Per caso stava affilando le sue rasie, che erano disposte in fila sul pavimento, mentre un enorme strigile pendeva dal muro. Dopo aver dato un’occhiata a queste preparazioni, il signor Bailey si accarezzò il mento e sembrò avere un’idea.

“Poll,” disse, “non sono abbastanza curato riguardo alle branchie. Dato che sono qui, tanto vale radermi completamente e sistemarmi bene.”

Il barbiere rimase sbalordito; ma il signor Bailey si tolse la sciarpa e si sedette nella sedia da rasatura con tutta la dignità e la fiducia in sé stesso che caratterizzavano la sua natura. Non c’era modo di resistere al suo atteggiamento: le prove offerte dalla vista e dal tatto sembravano non avere alcun valore. Il suo mento era liscio come un uovo appena deposto o come una fetta di formaggio olandese grattugiato. Ma nemmeno Poll Sweedlepipe avrebbe osato negare, sotto giuramento, che quel signore avesse la barba di un rabbino ebreo.

“Taglia seguendo la direzione del pelo, Poll, per favore,” disse il signor Bailey, facendo una smorfia mentre si applicava il sapone schiumoso. “Per quanto riguarda quei pezzetti di baffo, fai pure ciò che vuoi; a me non interessano.”

Il timido e piccolo barbiere stava lì a fissarlo, con la spazzola e il piattino del sapone in mano, mescolandoli continuamente in un gesto goffo e incerto, come se fosse paralizzato da qualche sorta di fascinazione. Alla fine provò ad applicare il sapone sul viso di Mr Bailey. Poi si fermò di nuovo, come se l’“ombra” di una barba si fosse improvvisamente allontanata al suo tocco; ma ricevuto un lieve incoraggiamento da parte di Mr Bailey – sotto forma di un’esortazione a “procedere con decisione” – iniziò ad insaponarlo abbondantemente. Mr Bailey sorrise, soddisfatto, attraverso la schiuma. “Con delicatezza, Poll. Passa attentamente sopra quelle brufole, ”

Poll Sweedlepipe obbedì e raschiò via di nuovo il sapone da barba con particolare cura. Il signor Bailey osservava attentamente ogni movimento del pennello mentre il sapone veniva spalmato su un panno posizionato sulla sua spalla sinistra; sembrava che, con uno sguardo estremamente attento, riuscisse a individuare qualche peluzzo nel sapone stesso, poiché più volte mormorò: “Il rasoio è più rosso di quanto desiderassi, Poll”. Una volta terminata l’operazione, Poll si appoggiò allo schienale della sedia e lo fissò di nuovo, mentre il signor Bailey, asciugandosi il viso con l’asciugamano, commentò: “Dopo le ore tarde, niente rinfresca davvero un uomo quanto una rasatura accurata”.

Stava legandosi la cravatta davanti allo specchio, senza il cappotto addosso; Poll aveva già pulito la rasoietta, pronta per il prossimo cliente, quando la signora Gamp, scendendo le scale, guardò dentro il negozio per salutare cordialmente il barbiere. Sentendo compassione per la sua sfortunata situazione – essendo lei venuta a provare per lui un sentimento che, secondo la natura delle cose, non avrebbe mai potuto ricambiare – il signor Bailey si affrettò a consolarla con parole gentili.

“Salve!” disse, “Sairah! Non c’è bisogno che ti chieda come te la sei passata in tutto questo tempo, perché sei davvero in piena fioritura. Sei rigogliosa e in crescita, vero, Polly?”

“Ma che audacia sfacciata da parte di quel ragazzo!” esclamò la signora Gamp, anche se in realtà non era affatto dispiaciuta. “Che giovane impertinente. Non vorrei essere la madre di una creatura del genere nemmeno per cinquanta sterline!”

Il signor Bailey considerò questa una delicata ammissione del suo attaccamento, e un indizio che nessun guadagno materiale avrebbe potuto compensarla per il fatto che quel sentimento fosse ormai senza speranza. Si sentì lusingato. Un affetto disinteressato è sempre lusinghiero.

“Ah, poverina!” gemette la signora Gamp, lasciandosi cadere sulla sedia da rasatura, “quel benedetto Mr Sweedlepipe ha davvero fatto del suo meglio per rovinarmi. Di tutte le difficoltà che si possono incontrare in questo posto maledetto, questa è senz’altro la peggiore.”

Era prassi comune per la signora Gamp e le sue amiche nel loro mestiere dire queste cose di tutti i clienti facili da servire; in questo modo si scoraggiavano contemporaneamente i concorrenti nel settore, e si giustificava anche l’esigenza di uno stile di vita costoso da parte delle infermiere.

“Parlare di costituzione, ”, osservò la signora Gamp. “La costituzione di una persona dovrebbe essere fatta di mattoni per reggere a tutto. La signora Harris, scherzando, mi chiese l’altro giorno: ‘Oh, Sairey Gamp, come si fa?’ Io le risposi: ‘Signora Harris, noi stessi non ci fidiamo completamente, ma affidiamo la nostra fede ad altre cose; queste sono le nostre convinzioni religiose, e le riteniamo sufficienti.’ ‘Sairey’, disse la signora Harris, ‘la vita è proprio così. In questo modo finiscono tutte le cose.’”

Il barbiere mormorò dolcemente, come per dire che il commento della signora Harris, anche se forse non del tutto comprensibile come si sarebbe potuto desiderare da una persona di tale autorità, le conferiva comunque grande onore sia per la sua intelligenza che per il suo cuore.

“E eccomi qui,” continuò la signora Gamp, “ecco che mi sto dirigendo verso una località distante venti miglia, per un’impresa altrettanto avventurosa di qualsiasi altra abbia mai intrapreso in vita mia. La signora Harris, con l’intuito tipico di una donna e di una madre, mi disse: ‘Non andrà, Sairey. Perdono, Signore!’ ‘Perché non dovrei andare, signora Harris?’ le risposi. ‘La signora Gill,’ aggiunsi, ‘non ha mai avuto problemi con i suoi sei figli; è davvero possibile, signora, vi chiedo come madre, che ora inizi ad avere difficoltà?’ Spesso ho sentito il signor Gill dire,” continuai riferendomi al marito della signora Gill, “che sarebbe disposto a scommettere tutto ciò che possiede sul giorno e l’ora esatti in cui qualcosa accadrà. Per nove pence, nientemeno! È davvero possibile, signora, che questa volta fallisca?’ La signora Harris rispose: ‘No, signora. Non è nella natura delle cose. Ma, ’, aggiunse con le lacrime agli occhi, ‘voi, con la vostra esperienza, sapete meglio di me quanto poco possano bastare a rovinarci la vita. Uno spettacolo di Punch, una pulizia del camino, un cane nuovo, o anche un ubriaco che appare all’angolo della strada, possono bastare.’ ‘È vero,’ disse il signor Sweedlepipes, ‘non si può negarlo. E anche se i miei conti sono in ordine per tutta la settimana, devo comunque portare con me qualcosa che mi preoccupa molto, ve lo assicuro.’”

‘You’re so full of zeal, you see!’ said Poll. ‘You worrit yourself so.’

‘Worrit myself!’ cried Mrs Gamp, raising her hands and turning up her eyes. ‘You speak truth in that, sir, if you never speaks no more ‘twixt this and when two Sundays jines together. I feels the sufferins of other people more than I feels my own, though no one mayn’t suppoge it. The families I’ve had,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘if all was knowd and credit done where credit’s doo, would take a week to chris’en at Saint Polge’s fontin!’

‘Where’s the patient goin?’ asked Sweedlepipe.

‘Into Har’fordshire, which is his native air. But native airs nor native graces neither,’ Mrs Gamp observed, ‘won’t bring HIM round.’

‘So bad as that?’ inquired the wistful barber. ‘Indeed!’

Mrs Gamp shook her head mysteriously, and pursed up her lips. ‘There’s fevers of the mind,’ she said, ‘as well as body. You may take your slime drafts till you flies into the air with efferwescence; but you won’t cure that.’

‘Ah!’ said the barber, opening his eyes, and putting on his raven aspect; ‘Lor!’

‘No. You may make yourself as light as any gash balloon,’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘But talk, when you’re wrong in your head and when you’re in your sleep, of certain things; and you’ll be heavy in your mind.’

‘Of what kind of things now?’ inquired Poll, greedily biting his nails in his great interest. ‘Ghosts?’

Mrs Gamp, who perhaps had been already tempted further than she had intended to go, by the barber’s stimulating curiosity, gave a sniff of uncommon significance, and said, it didn’t signify.

‘I’m a-goin down with my patient in the coach this arternoon,’ she proceeded. ‘I’m a-goin to stop with him a day or so, till he gets a country nuss (drat them country nusses, much the orkard hussies knows about their bis’ness); and then I’m a-comin back; and that’s my trouble, Mr Sweedlepipes. But I hope that everythink’ll only go on right and comfortable as long as I’m away; perwisin which, as Mrs Harris says, Mrs Gill is welcome to choose her own time; all times of the day and night bein’ equally the same to me.’

During the progress of the foregoing remarks, which Mrs Gamp had addressed exclusively to the barber, Mr Bailey had been tying his cravat, getting on his coat, and making hideous faces at himself in the glass. Being now personally addressed by Mrs Gamp, he turned round, and mingled in the conversation.

‘You ain’t been in the City, I suppose, sir, since we was all three there together,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘at Mr Chuzzlewit’s?’

‘Yes, I have, Sairah. I was there last night.’

‘Last night!’ cried the barber.

‘Yes, Poll, reether so. You can call it this morning, if you like to be particular. He dined with us.’

‘Who does that young Limb mean by “hus?”’ said Mrs Gamp, with most impatient emphasis.

‘Me and my Governor, Sairah. He dined at our house. We wos very merry, Sairah. So much so, that I was obliged to see him home in a hackney coach at three o’clock in the morning.’ It was on the tip of the boy’s tongue to relate what had followed; but remembering how easily it might be carried to his master’s ears, and the repeated cautions he had had from Mr Crimple ‘not to chatter,’ he checked himself; adding, only, ‘She was sitting up, expecting him.’

‘And all things considered,’ said Mrs Gamp sharply, ‘she might have know’d better than to go a-tirin herself out, by doin’ anythink of the sort. Did they seem pretty pleasant together, sir?’

‘Oh, yes,’ answered Bailey, ‘pleasant enough.’

‘I’m glad on it,’ said Mrs Gamp, with a second sniff of significance.

‘They haven’t been married so long,’ observed Poll, rubbing his hands, ‘that they need be anything but pleasant yet awhile.’

‘No,’ said Mrs Gamp, with a third significant signal.

‘Especially,’ pursued the barber, ‘when the gentleman bears such a character as you gave him.’

‘I speak; as I find, Mr Sweedlepipes,’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘Forbid it should be otherways! But we never knows wot’s hidden in each other’s hearts; and if we had glass winders there, we’d need keep the shetters up, some on us, I do assure you!’

‘But you don’t mean to say—’ Poll Sweedlepipe began.

‘No,’ said Mrs Gamp, cutting him very short, ‘I don’t. Don’t think I do. The torters of the Imposition shouldn’t make me own I did. All I says is,’ added the good woman, rising and folding her shawl about her, ‘that the Bull’s a-waitin, and the precious moments is a-flyin’ fast.’

The little barber having in his eager curiosity a great desire to see Mrs Gamp’s patient, proposed to Mr Bailey that they should accompany her to the Bull, and witness the departure of the coach. That young gentleman assenting, they all went out together.

Arriving at the tavern, Mrs Gamp (who was full-dressed for the journey, in her latest suit of mourning) left her friends to entertain themselves in the yard, while she ascended to the sick room, where her fellow-labourer Mrs Prig was dressing the invalid.

He was so wasted, that it seemed as if his bones would rattle when they moved him. His cheeks were sunken, and his eyes unnaturally large. He lay back in the easy-chair like one more dead than living; and rolled his languid eyes towards the door when Mrs Gamp appeared, as painfully as if their weight alone were burdensome to move.

‘And how are we by this time?’ Mrs Gamp observed. ‘We looks charming.’

‘We looks a deal charminger than we are, then,’ returned Mrs Prig, a little chafed in her temper. ‘We got out of bed back’ards, I think, for we’re as cross as two sticks. I never see sich a man. He wouldn’t have been washed, if he’d had his own way.’

‘She put the soap in my mouth,’ said the unfortunate patient feebly.

‘Couldn’t you keep it shut then?’ retorted Mrs Prig. ‘Who do you think’s to wash one feater, and miss another, and wear one’s eyes out with all manner of fine work of that description, for half-a-crown a day! If you wants to be tittivated, you must pay accordin’.’

“Sei davvero pieno di zelo, vedi!” disse Poll. “Ti preoccupi troppo.”

“Mi preoccupo troppo!”, esclamò la signora Gamp alzando le mani e girando gli occhi al cielo. “Dite la verità, signore, se mai smetterete di parlare, da ora fino a quando non passano due domeniche consecutive. Percepisco i dolori degli altri molto più intensamente dei miei propri, anche se nessuno lo potrebbe credere. Le famiglie che ho avuto”, continuò la signora Gamp, “se tutte le loro storie venissero conosciute e il merito ricevesse il riconoscimento che merita, ci vorrebbe una settimana intera per celebrarle alla fontana di San Polge!”

“Dove sta andando il paziente?” chiese Sweedlepipe.

“Nel Dorset, dove ha trascorso la sua infanzia. Ma né l’ambiente natale né le grazie innate potranno farlo cambiare idea,” osservò la signora Gamp.

“Così grave davvero?” chiese con rammarico il barbiere. “Assolutamente!”

La signora Gamp scosse la testa in modo misterioso e serrò le labbra. “Ci sono febbri dell’anima, proprio come quelle del corpo,” disse. “Potete continuare a preparare quei vostri decotti fino a quando non volerete via per aria tra fumo e scintille, ma non guarirà mai niente.”

“Ah!”, esclamò il barbiere, aprendo gli occhi e assumendo quell’aspetto cupo e tenebroso; “Oh mio Dio!”

“No. Puoi renderti leggero come qualsiasi palloncino gonfiabile,” disse la signora Gamp.
“Ma quando pensieri cose sbagliate o quando sei addormentato, parli di certe cose, e allora il tuo cervello diventa pesante.”

“Di che tipo di cose si tratta ora?”, chiese Poll, mordendosi avidamente le unghie per la grande curiosità che provava. “Fantasmi?”

La signora Gamp, che forse era già stata tentata più di quanto avesse intenzione di fare dalla curiosità stimolante del barbiere, fece un “sniff” dal significato insolito e disse: “Non significa nulla”.

“Questo pomeriggio accompagnerò il mio paziente in carrozza,” proseguì. “Resterò con lui per un giorno o due, finché non riceverà le cure necessarie (quei maledetti medici di campagna, che ne sanno loro davvero delle loro faccende); dopodiché tornerò indietro. E questo è il mio problema, signor Sweedlepipes. Ma spero che tutto vada per il meglio mentre sarò via; comunque, come dice la signora Harris, la signora Gill può scegliere lei stessa l’orario in cui venire. Per me, tutti gli orari della giornata e della notte sono uguali.”

Durante il corso di quelle osservazioni che la signora Gamp aveva rivolto esclusivamente al barbiere, il signor Bailey si stava allacciando la cravatta, indossando il cappotto e facendo delle smorfie orribili davanti allo specchio. Ora che la signora Gamp gli aveva rivolto direttamente la parola, si girò e si unì alla conversazione.

“Immagino che lei non sia più stato nella Città da quando eravamo tutti e tre insieme lì,” disse la signora Gamp, “da quando siamo stati da Mr Chuzzlewit, vero?”

“Sì, l’ho fatto, Sairah. Ero lì la scorsa notte.”

“L’ultima notte!” gridò il barbiere.

“Sì, Poll, esatto. Puoi chiamare stamattina, se vuoi essere precisa. Ha pranzato con noi.”

“Chi intende quel giovane Limb con ‘hus’?”, disse la signora Gamp, con estrema impazienza.

“Me e la mia governante, Sairah. È venuto a cena a casa nostra. Siamo stati molto felici, Sairah. Così felici che, alle tre di notte, ho dovuto accompagnarlo a casa in una carrozza a noleggio.” Il ragazzo stava per raccontare ciò che era successo dopo; ma ricordando quanto facilmente quelle parole potessero arrivare alle orecchie del suo padrone, e le ripetute raccomandazioni di Mr Crimple di “non chiacchierare”, si trattenne, aggiungendo soltanto: “Lei era ancora sveglia, in attesa che tornasse.”

“E considerando tutto,” disse la signora Gamp in tono deciso, “avrebbe potuto fare di meglio che mettersi in pericolo facendo una cosa del genere. Sembravano davvero felici insieme, signore?”

“Ah sì,” rispose Bailey, “abbastanza piacevole.”

“Sono contenta per questo,” disse la signora Gamp, con un altro sospiro significativo.

“Non sono sposati da molto tempo,” osservò Poll, strofinandosi le mani, “quindi è normale che non si sentano ancora a loro agio insieme.”

“No,” disse la signora Gamp, con un terzo segnale significativo.

“Soprattutto,” continuò il barbiere, “quando il gentiluomo ha un carattere come quello che avete descritto.”

“Parlo come penso, signor Sweedlepipes,” disse la signora Gamp. “Non potrebbe essere altrimenti! Ma non si sa mai cosa si nasconde nel cuore degli altri; e se avessimo delle finestre con vetri trasparenti, dovremmo tenere sempre le persiane chiuse, su di noi, vi assicuro!”

“Ma non vuoi dire che, ” iniziò Poll Sweedlepipe.

“No,” disse la signora Gamp, interrompendolo bruscamente, “non lo penso affatto. Non credere che lo pensi. I responsabili di quell’imposta non dovrebbero costringermi ad ammettere di averlo fatto. Tutto quello che dico,” aggiunse la buona donna alzandosi e avvolgendo il suo scialle intorno a sé, “è che il momento giusto sta per arrivare, e i preziosi istanti passano velocemente.”

Il piccolo barbiere, spinto da una grande curiosità, desiderava ardentemente vedere la paziente della signora Gamp; così propose al signor Bailey di accompagnarla al Bull per assistere alla partenza della carrozza. Dopo che il giovane gentiluomo acconsentì, uscirono tutti insieme.

Arrivata alla taverna, la signora Gamp – che era vestita completamente per il viaggio, con il suo ultimo abito da lutto – lasciò i suoi amici a divertirsi nel cortile, mentre salì nella stanza del malato, dove la sua collega lavoratrice, la signora Prig, stava curando il paziente.

Era così ubriaco che sembrava che le sue ossa facessero rumore ogni volta che si muoveva. Le guance erano incavate e gli occhi insolitamente grandi. Giaceva nella poltrona, come se fosse più morto che vivo; quando apparve la signora Gamp, girò i suoi occhi stanchi verso la porta, con tale difficoltà che sembrava che il solo peso di quegli occhi rappresentasse un fardello insopportabile da portare.

“E allora, come stiamo a quest’ora?” osservò la signora Gamp. “Sembriamo davvero incantevoli.”

“Allora sembriamo più attraenti di quanto in realtà siamo,” rispose la signora Prig, un po’ irritata. “Ci siamo alzate dal letto nel modo più sbagliato. Siamo davvero molto irritate. Non ho mai visto un uomo del genere. Se avesse potuto fare a modo suo, non si sarebbe nemmeno lavato.”

“Mi ha messo il sapone in bocca,” disse debolmente il sfortunato paziente.

“Allora non potevi tenere la bocca chiusa?” ribatté la signora Prig. “Chi pensi che sia costretto a lavare un piede e trascurare l’altro, e a rovinarsi gli occhi con tutti quei lavori delicati per soltanto mezza corona al giorno! Se vuoi divertirti, devi pagare di conseguenza.”

‘Oh dear me!’ cried the patient, ‘oh dear, dear!’

‘There!’ said Mrs Prig, ‘that’s the way he’s been a-conductin of himself, Sarah, ever since I got him out of bed, if you’ll believe it.’

‘Instead of being grateful,’ Mrs Gamp observed, ‘for all our little ways. Oh, fie for shame, sir, fie for shame!’

Here Mrs Prig seized the patient by the chin, and began to rasp his unhappy head with a hair-brush.

‘I suppose you don’t like that, neither!’ she observed, stopping to look at him.

It was just possible that he didn’t for the brush was a specimen of the hardest kind of instrument producible by modern art; and his very eyelids were red with the friction. Mrs Prig was gratified to observe the correctness of her supposition, and said triumphantly ‘she know’d as much.’

When his hair was smoothed down comfortably into his eyes, Mrs Prig and Mrs Gamp put on his neckerchief; adjusting his shirt collar with great nicety, so that the starched points should also invade those organs, and afflict them with an artificial ophthalmia. His waistcoat and coat were next arranged; and as every button was wrenched into a wrong button-hole, and the order of his boots was reversed, he presented on the whole rather a melancholy appearance.

‘I don’t think it’s right,’ said the poor weak invalid. ‘I feel as if I was in somebody else’s clothes. I’m all on one side; and you’ve made one of my legs shorter than the other. There’s a bottle in my pocket too. What do you make me sit upon a bottle for?’

‘Deuce take the man!’ cried Mrs Gamp, drawing it forth. ‘If he ain’t been and got my night-bottle here. I made a little cupboard of his coat when it hung behind the door, and quite forgot it, Betsey. You’ll find a ingun or two, and a little tea and sugar in his t’other pocket, my dear, if you’ll just be good enough to take ‘em out.’

Betsey produced the property in question, together with some other articles of general chandlery; and Mrs Gamp transferred them to her own pocket, which was a species of nankeen pannier. Refreshment then arrived in the form of chops and strong ale for the ladies, and a basin of beef-tea for the patient; which refection was barely at an end when John Westlock appeared.

‘Up and dressed!’ cried John, sitting down beside him. ‘That’s brave. How do you feel?’

‘Much better. But very weak.’

‘No wonder. You have had a hard bout of it. But country air, and change of scene,’ said John, ‘will make another man of you! Why, Mrs Gamp,’ he added, laughing, as he kindly arranged the sick man’s garments, ‘you have odd notions of a gentleman’s dress!’

‘Mr Lewsome an’t a easy gent to get into his clothes, sir,’ Mrs Gamp replied with dignity; ‘as me and Betsey Prig can certify afore the Lord Mayor and Uncommon Counsellors, if needful!’

John at that moment was standing close in front of the sick man, in the act of releasing him from the torture of the collars before mentioned, when he said in a whisper:

‘Mr Westlock! I don’t wish to be overheard. I have something very particular and strange to say to you; something that has been a dreadful weight on my mind, through this long illness.’

Quick in all his motions, John was turning round to desire the women to leave the room; when the sick man held him by the sleeve.

‘Not now. I’ve not the strength. I’ve not the courage. May I tell it when I have? May I write it, if I find that easier and better?’

‘May you!’ cried John. ‘Why, Lewsome, what is this!’

‘Don’t ask me what it is. It’s unnatural and cruel. Frightful to think of. Frightful to tell. Frightful to know. Frightful to have helped in. Let me kiss your hand for all your goodness to me. Be kinder still, and don’t ask me what it is!’

At first, John gazed at him in great surprise; but remembering how very much reduced he was, and how recently his brain had been on fire with fever, believed that he was labouring under some imaginary horror or despondent fancy. For farther information on this point, he took an opportunity of drawing Mrs Gamp aside, while Betsey Prig was wrapping him in cloaks and shawls, and asked her whether he was quite collected in his mind.

‘Oh bless you, no!’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘He hates his nusses to this hour. They always does it, sir. It’s a certain sign. If you could have heerd the poor dear soul a-findin fault with me and Betsey Prig, not half an hour ago, you would have wondered how it is we don’t get fretted to the tomb.’

This almost confirmed John in his suspicion; so, not taking what had passed into any serious account, he resumed his former cheerful manner, and assisted by Mrs Gamp and Betsey Prig, conducted Lewsome downstairs to the coach; just then upon the point of starting. Poll Sweedlepipe was at the door with his arms tight folded and his eyes wide open, and looked on with absorbing interest, while the sick man was slowly moved into the vehicle. His bony hands and haggard face impressed Poll wonderfully; and he informed Mr Bailey in confidence, that he wouldn’t have missed seeing him for a pound. Mr Bailey, who was of a different constitution, remarked that he would have stayed away for five shillings.

It was a troublesome matter to adjust Mrs Gamp’s luggage to her satisfaction; for every package belonging to that lady had the inconvenient property of requiring to be put in a boot by itself, and to have no other luggage near it, on pain of actions at law for heavy damages against the proprietors of the coach. The umbrella with the circular patch was particularly hard to be got rid of, and several times thrust out its battered brass nozzle from improper crevices and chinks, to the great terror of the other passengers. Indeed, in her intense anxiety to find a haven of refuge for this chattel, Mrs Gamp so often moved it, in the course of five minutes, that it seemed not one umbrella but fifty. At length it was lost, or said to be; and for the next five minutes she was face to face with the coachman, go wherever he might, protesting that it should be ‘made good,’ though she took the question to the House of Commons.

“Oddio mio!” esclamò il paziente, “davvero, davvero, ”

“Ecco!” disse la signora Prig, “è proprio così che si è comportato da allora che l’ho fatto alzare dal letto, se vuoi credermi.”

“Invece di essere grati,” osservò la signora Gamp, “per tutti i nostri piccoli gesti. Oh, che vergogna, signore, che vergogna!”

In quel momento, la signora Prig afferrò il paziente per il mento e iniziò a strofinargli la testa con una spazzola per capelli.

“Immagino che nemmeno a te piaccia, ” osservò, fermandosi per guardarlo.

Era davvero possibile che non lo facesse, perché quella penna era un esempio dell’instrumento più resistente che l’arte moderna potesse produrre; inoltre, le sue stesse palpebre erano rosse a causa dello sfregamento. La signora Prig fu soddisfatta di constatare la correttezza della sua supposizione e disse trionfalmente: “Lo sapevo già”.

Quando i suoi capelli furono sistemati in modo da coprirgli comodamente gli occhi, la signora Prig e la signora Gamp gli misero il fazzoletto al collo; sistemarono con grande cura il colletto della camicia, in modo che anche le punte inamidate raggiungessero quegli “organi” e li affliggessero con un’“oftalmia artificiale”. Poi sistemarono il gilet e il cappotto; ma poiché ogni bottone fu infilato nel foro sbagliato e l’ordine delle sue scarpe fu invertito, nel complesso presentava un aspetto piuttosto melancolico.

“Non credo che sia giusto,” disse il povero e debole invalido. “Mi sento come se indossassi i vestiti di qualcun altro. Sono tutto storto da un lato, e inoltre avete reso una delle mie gambe più corta dell’altra. C’è anche una bottiglia nella mia tasca. Perché mi fate sedere su una bottiglia?”

“Maledetto uomo!” esclamò la signora Gamp, tirandolo fuori. “Se non è venuto a prendere la mia bottiglia per la notte. Ho fatto un piccolo armadietto con il suo cappotto che era appeso dietro la porta, e me ne sono completamente dimenticata, Betsey. Troverai una o due bottiglie, un po’ di tè e zucchero nell’altra tasca. Se solo fossi così gentile da prenderli.”

Betsey produsse l’oggetto in questione, insieme ad altri articoli di merceria generale; la signora Gamp li trasferì quindi nel proprio “taschino”, che consisteva in una sorta di borsa di tela. Poi arrivò il rinfresco: costolette e birra forte per le signore, e una ciotola di tè al manzo per il paziente; appena quel pasto fu terminato, comparve John Westlock.

“Alzati e vestiti!”, esclamò John sedendosi accanto a lui. “Bravo. Come ti senti?”

“Molto meglio, ma ancora molto debole.”

“Nessun stupore. Hai passato momenti difficili. Ma l’aria di campagna e il cambiamento di ambiente,” disse John, “ti faranno tornare in te stesso! Diamine, signora Gamp,” aggiunse ridendo mentre sistemava con cura i vestiti del malato, “hai davvero strane idee riguardo all’abbigliamento di un gentiluomo!”

“Il signor Lewsome non è certo un uomo facile da convincere a vestirsi, signore,” rispose la signora Gamp con dignità; “come io e Betsey Prig possiamo testimoniare davanti al sindaco e al consiglio comunale, se necessario!”

In quel momento, John si trovava proprio davanti all’uomo malato, nel momento in cui lo stava liberando dal tormento dei collari menzionati prima; allora sussurrò:

‘Signor Westlock! Non vorrei che qualcuno ci ascoltasse. Ho qualcosa di molto particolare e strano da dirvi; qualcosa che rappresenta un terribile peso per me durante questa lunga malattia.’

Veloce in ogni suo movimento, John stava per girarsi e chiedere alle donne di lasciare la stanza; quando l’uomo malato lo afferrò per la manica.

“Non ora. Non ho la forza. Non ho il coraggio necessario. Posso raccontarlo quando ne avrò l’occasione? Posso scriverlo, se mi sembra più facile e meglio?”

“Che tu possa farlo!”, esclamò John. “Ma Lewsome, cos’è questo?”

“Non chiedermi di cosa si tratti. È innaturale e crudele. Terribile da pensare, terribile da raccontare, terribile da conoscere. E ancora più terribile avervi aiutato in questo. Lascia che baci la tua mano per tutta la tua gentilezza verso di me. Sii ancora più gentile. E non chiedermi di cosa si tratti.”

All’inizio, John lo guardò con grande sorpresa; ma ricordando quanto fosse molto indebolito e quanto di recente il suo cervello fosse stato colpito dalla febbre, pensò che stesse soffrendo a causa di qualche orrore immaginario o di un’idea disperata. Per ottenere maggiori informazioni al riguardo, approfittò di un momento in cui Betsey Prig lo stava avvolgendo in mantelli e sciarpe per prendere da parte la signora Gamp e chiederle se fosse davvero in grado di ragionare con lucidità.

“Oh, grazie al cielo, no!” disse la signora Gamp. “Fin ad ora odia le sue zie. Fanno sempre così, signore; è un segno certo. Se solo aveste potuto sentire quella povera cara ‘anima rimproverare me e Betsey Prig, meno di mezz’ora fa. Vi sareste chiesti come facciamo a non impazzire.”

Questo quasi confermò i sospetti di John; quindi, senza dare alcuna importanza a quanto era accaduto, riprese il suo solito atteggiamento allegro e, con l’aiuto della signora Gamp e di Betsey Prig, accompagnò Lewsome al piano di sotto, dove il carro stava per partire. Poll Sweedlepipe si trovava alla porta, con le braccia incrociate e gli occhi spalancati, osservando con grande interesse mentre l’uomo malato veniva lentamente trasportato sul veicolo. Le sue mani ossute e il suo volto emaciato colpirono profondamente Poll, che confidò al signor Bailey di non aver perso l’occasione di vederlo nemmeno per una sterlina. Il signor Bailey, invece, di indole diversa, commentò che avrebbe preferito tenersi alla larga anche per cinque scellini.

Fu un problema davvero complicato sistemare i bagagli della signora Gamp in modo che lei fosse soddisfatta; infatti, ogni pacchetto appartenente a quella signora presentava l’inconveniente di dover essere messo da solo all’interno di una borsa da viaggio, senza che altri bagagli gli stessero vicini, altrimenti si rischiavano gravi azioni legali contro i proprietari della carrozza. In particolare, l’ombrello con la toppa circolare risultava estremamente difficile da gestire: più volte la sua impugnatura di ottone logora spuntava fuori da fessure o crepe improprie, causando grande panico tra gli altri passeggeri. Nella sua frenetica ansia di trovare un “rifugio” per quel bagaglio, la signora Gamp lo spostava continuamente; in soli cinque minuti, sembrava che non si trattasse più di un solo ombrello, ma di cinquanta. Alla fine, l’ombrello scomparve, o almeno così si disse; per i successivi cinque minuti, lei rimase davanti al cocchiere, a qualunque direzione stesse andando, protestando che quel bagaglio dovesse essere “ripristinato”, anche se aveva portato la questione fino alla Casa dei Comuni.

At last, her bundle, and her pattens, and her basket, and everything else, being disposed of, she took a friendly leave of Poll and Mr Bailey, dropped a curtsey to John Westlock, and parted as from a cherished member of the sisterhood with Betsey Prig.

‘Wishin you lots of sickness, my darlin creetur,’ Mrs Gamp observed, ‘and good places. It won’t be long, I hope, afore we works together, off and on, again, Betsey; and may our next meetin’ be at a large family’s, where they all takes it reg’lar, one from another, turn and turn about, and has it business-like.’

‘I don’t care how soon it is,’ said Mrs Prig; ‘nor how many weeks it lasts.’

Mrs Gamp with a reply in a congenial spirit was backing to the coach, when she came in contact with a lady and gentleman who were passing along the footway.

‘Take care, take care here!’ cried the gentleman. ‘Halloo! My dear! Why, it’s Mrs Gamp!’

‘What, Mr Mould!’ exclaimed the nurse. ‘And Mrs Mould! who would have thought as we should ever have a meetin’ here, I’m sure!’

‘Going out of town, Mrs Gamp?’ cried Mould. ‘That’s unusual, isn’t it?’

‘It IS unusual, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘But only for a day or two at most. The gent,’ she whispered, ‘as I spoke about.’

‘What, in the coach!’ cried Mould. ‘The one you thought of recommending? Very odd. My dear, this will interest you. The gentleman that Mrs Gamp thought likely to suit us is in the coach, my love.’

Mrs Mould was greatly interested.

‘Here, my dear. You can stand upon the door-step,’ said Mould, ‘and take a look at him. Ha! There he is. Where’s my glass? Oh! all right. I’ve got it. Do you see him, my dear?’

‘Quite plain,’ said Mrs Mould.

‘Upon my life, you know, this is a very singular circumstance,’ said Mould, quite delighted. ‘This is the sort of thing, my dear, I wouldn’t have missed on any account. It tickles one. It’s interesting. It’s almost a little play, you know. Ah! There he is! To be sure. Looks poorly, Mrs M., don’t he?’

Mrs Mould assented.

‘He’s coming our way, perhaps, after all,’ said Mould. ‘Who knows! I feel as if I ought to show him some little attention, really. He don’t seem a stranger to me. I’m very much inclined to move my hat, my dear.’

‘He’s looking hard this way,’ said Mrs Mould.

‘Then I will!’ cried Mould. ‘How d’ye do, sir! I wish you good day. Ha! He bows too. Very gentlemanly. Mrs Gamp has the cards in her pocket, I have no doubt. This is very singular, my dear—and very pleasant. I am not superstitious, but it really seems as if one was destined to pay him those little melancholy civilities which belong to our peculiar line of business. There can be no kind of objection to your kissing your hand to him, my dear.’

Mrs Mould did so.

‘Ha!’ said Mould. ‘He’s evidently gratified. Poor fellow! I am quite glad you did it, my love. Bye bye, Mrs Gamp!’ waving his hand. ‘There he goes; there he goes!’

So he did; for the coach rolled off as the words were spoken. Mr and Mrs Mould, in high good humour, went their merry way. Mr Bailey retired with Poll Sweedlepipe as soon as possible; but some little time elapsed before he could remove his friend from the ground, owing to the impression wrought upon the barber’s nerves by Mrs Prig, whom he pronounced, in admiration of her beard, to be a woman of transcendent charms.

When the light cloud of bustle hanging round the coach was thus dispersed, Nadgett was seen in the darkest box of the Bull coffee-room, looking wistfully up at the clock—as if the man who never appeared were a little behind his time.

Finalmente, dopo aver sistemato tutto il suo bagaglio, i suoi pattini, la sua cesta e ogni altra cosa, si congedò cordialmente da Poll e dal signor Bailey, fece un breve inchino a John Westlock e se ne andò, come se stesse lasciando un membro molto caro della loro comunità, insieme a Betsey Prig.

“Voglio che tu soffra molto, mio caro piccolo,” osservò la signora Gamp, “e che finisca in posti orribili. Non passerà molto tempo, spero, prima che possiamo lavorare di nuovo insieme, Betsey. E che il nostro prossimo incontro avvenga in una grande famiglia, dove tutti prendano questa pratica sul serio, uno dopo l’altro, in modo sistematico.”

“Non mi interessa quanto tempo ci vorrà,” disse la signora Prig; “né quante settimane durerà.”

La signora Gamp, pronta a rispondere con gentilezza, stava tornando verso il carro quando incrociò una signora e un signore che passavano lungo il marciapiede.

“Attenti, attenti qui!” gridò il gentiluomo. “Ehi! Cara mia. Ma è la signora Gamp!”

“Che cosa. Signor Mould!” esclamò la infermiera. “E anche la signora Mould! Chi avrebbe mai pensato che ci saremmo incontrati qui, ”

“Viene via dalla città, signora Gamp?”, esclamò Mould. “È insolito, non è vero?”

“È davvero insolito, signore,” disse la signora Gamp. “Ma solo per un giorno o due al massimo. Quel gentiluomo,” sussurrò, “di cui parlavo.”

“Ma che cosa, nell’ carrozza!” esclamò Mould. “Quello che avevi pensato di raccomandare? Molto strano. Cara, questo ti interesserà sicuramente. Il signore che la signora Gamp riteneva potesse essere adatto a noi si trova proprio nell’ carrozza, mio amore.”

La signora Mould era molto interessata.

“Ecco qui, cara mia. Puoi metterti sul gradino della porta e dare un’occhiata a lui. Ecco. Lì è. Dov’è il mio bicchiere? Ah! Bene, l’ho trovato. Lo vedi, cara mia?”

“Piuttosto semplice,” disse la signora Mould.

“Per la mia vita, sapete, questa è davvero una circostanza molto particolare,” disse Mould, molto compiaciuto. “Questo genere di cose, cara mia, non le avrei mai perse per nulla al mondo. È divertente. È interessante. È quasi come un piccolo gioco, capite? Ah! Ecco lui! Proprio così. Sembra malato, vero, signora M?”

La signora Mould acconsentì.

“Sta venendo verso di noi, forse dopotutto,” disse Mould. “Chi lo sa! Mi sembra davvero che dovrei prestargli un po’ di attenzione. Non mi sembra affatto uno sconosciuto. Sono molto propenso a togliermi il cappello, cara.”

“Sta guardando proprio verso di noi,” disse la signora Mould.

“Allora lo farò!” esclamò Mould. “Come state, signore! Vi auguro una buona giornata. Ah! Anche lui si inchina. Molto gentiluomo. Non ho alcun dubbio che sia la signora Gamp ad avere il controllo della situazione. È molto strano, e anche molto piacevole. Non sono superstizioso, ma sembra davvero che siamo destinati a compiere quelle piccole cortesie “melanconiche” tipiche del nostro mestiere. Non c’è alcun motivo per cui non possiate baciargli la mano, cara.”

La signora Mould lo fece.

“Ha!” disse Mould. “È evidente che sia soddisfatto. Povero ragazzo! Sono davvero felice che tu l’abbia fatto, mio amore. Addio, signora Gamp!” disse agitando la mano. “Eccolo che se ne va, ”

So che lo fece; infatti il treno partì non appena quelle parole furono pronunciate. Il signor e la signora Mould, nel massimo dell’buon umore, continuarono per la loro strada felice. Il signor Bailey si ritirò insieme a Poll Sweedlepipe il prima possibile; ma trascorse ancora un po’ di tempo prima che riuscisse a portare via il suo amico dal posto in cui si trovava, a causa dell’impressione negativa che la signora Prig aveva avuto sui nervi del barbiere. Il quale, ammirando la sua barba, dichiarò che lei era una donna di straordinari fascini.

Quando la nuvola di movimento che circondava il vagone si dissipò, Nadgett fu visto nella cabina più buia del bar Bull, mentre guardava con malinconia l’orologio, come se quell’uomo che mai compariva fosse leggermente in ritardo rispetto al suo tempo previsto.

CHAPTER THIRTY

PROVES THAT CHANGES MAY BE RUNG IN THE BEST-REGULATED FAMILIES, AND THAT MR PECKNIFF WAS A SPECIAL HAND AT A TRIPLE-BOB-MAJOR

As the surgeon’s first care after amputating a limb, is to take up the arteries the cruel knife has severed, so it is the duty of this history, which in its remorseless course has cut from the Pecksniffian trunk its right arm, Mercy, to look to the parent stem, and see how in all its various ramifications it got on without her.

And first of Mr Pecksniff it may be observed, that having provided for his youngest daughter that choicest of blessings, a tender and indulgent husband; and having gratified the dearest wish of his parental heart by establishing her in life so happily; he renewed his youth, and spreading the plumage of his own bright conscience, felt himself equal to all kinds of flights. It is customary with fathers in stage-plays, after giving their daughters to the men of their hearts, to congratulate themselves on having no other business on their hands but to die immediately; though it is rarely found that they are in a hurry to do it. Mr Pecksniff, being a father of a more sage and practical class, appeared to think that his immediate business was to live; and having deprived himself of one comfort, to surround himself with others.

But however much inclined the good man was to be jocose and playful, and in the garden of his fancy to disport himself (if one may say so) like an architectural kitten, he had one impediment constantly opposed to him. The gentle Cherry, stung by a sense of slight and injury, which far from softening down or wearing out, rankled and festered in her heart—the gentle Cherry was in flat rebellion. She waged fierce war against her dear papa, she led her parent what is usually called, for want of a better figure of speech, the life of a dog. But never did that dog live, in kennel, stable-yard, or house, whose life was half as hard as Mr Pecksniff’s with his gentle child.

The father and daughter were sitting at their breakfast. Tom had retired, and they were alone. Mr Pecksniff frowned at first; but having cleared his brow, looked stealthily at his child. Her nose was very red indeed, and screwed up tight, with hostile preparation.

‘Cherry,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, ‘what is amiss between us? My child, why are we disunited?’

Miss Pecksniff’s answer was scarcely a response to this gush of affection, for it was simply, ‘Bother, Pa!’

‘Bother!’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, in a tone of anguish.

‘Oh! ‘tis too late, Pa,’ said his daughter, calmly ‘to talk to me like this. I know what it means, and what its value is.’

‘This is hard!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, addressing his breakfast-cup. ‘This is very hard! She is my child. I carried her in my arms when she wore shapeless worsted shoes—I might say, mufflers—many years ago!’

‘You needn’t taunt me with that, Pa,’ retorted Cherry, with a spiteful look. ‘I am not so many years older than my sister, either, though she IS married to your friend!’

‘Ah, human nature, human nature! Poor human nature!’ said Mr Pecksniff, shaking his head at human nature, as if he didn’t belong to it. ‘To think that this discord should arise from such a cause! oh dear, oh dear!’

‘From such a cause indeed!’ cried Cherry. ‘State the real cause, Pa, or I’ll state it myself. Mind! I will!’

Perhaps the energy with which she said this was infectious. However that may be, Mr Pecksniff changed his tone and the expression of his face for one of anger, if not downright violence, when he said:

‘You will! you have. You did yesterday. You do always. You have no decency; you make no secret of your temper; you have exposed yourself to Mr Chuzzlewit a hundred times.’

‘Myself!’ cried Cherry, with a bitter smile. ‘Oh indeed! I don’t mind that.’

‘Me, too, then,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

His daughter answered with a scornful laugh.

‘And since we have come to an explanation, Charity,’ said Mr Pecksniff, rolling his head portentously, ‘let me tell you that I won’t allow it. None of your nonsense, Miss! I won’t permit it to be done.’

‘I shall do,’ said Charity, rocking her chair backwards and forwards, and raising her voice to a high pitch, ‘I shall do, Pa, what I please and what I have done. I am not going to be crushed in everything, depend upon it. I’ve been more shamefully used than anybody ever was in this world,’ here she began to cry and sob, ‘and may expect the worse treatment from you, I know. But I don’t care for that. No, I don’t!’

Mr Pecksniff was made so desperate by the loud tone in which she spoke, that, after looking about him in frantic uncertainty for some means of softening it, he rose and shook her until the ornamental bow of hair upon her head nodded like a plume. She was so very much astonished by this assault, that it really had the desired effect.

‘I’ll do it again!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, as he resumed his seat and fetched his breath, ‘if you dare to talk in that loud manner. How do you mean about being shamefully used? If Mr Jonas chose your sister in preference to you, who could help it, I should wish to know? What have I to do with it?’

‘Wasn’t I made a convenience of? Weren’t my feelings trifled with? Didn’t he address himself to me first?’ sobbed Cherry, clasping her hands; ‘and oh, good gracious, that I should live to be shook!’

‘You’ll live to be shaken again,’ returned her parent, ‘if you drive me to that means of maintaining the decorum of this humble roof. You surprise me. I wonder you have not more spirit. If Mr Jonas didn’t care for you, how could you wish to have him?’

‘I wish to have him!’ exclaimed Cherry. ‘I wish to have him, Pa!’

‘Then what are you making all this piece of work for,’ retorted her father, ‘if you didn’t wish to have him?’

‘Because I was treated with duplicity,’ said Cherry; ‘and because my own sister and my own father conspired against me. I am not angry with HER,’ said Cherry; looking much more angry than ever. ‘I pity her. I’m sorry for her. I know the fate that’s in store for her, with that Wretch.’

CAPITOLO TRENTA

Questo dimostra che i cambiamenti possono avvenire anche nelle famiglie più regolamentate, e che il signor Pecksniff era davvero un esperto in materia di contratti tripli.

Come la prima cura di un chirurgo dopo l’amputazione di un arto è riparare le arterie recise dal coltello crudele, così è dovere di questa storia, che nel suo corso spietato ha tagliato via il braccio destro di Pecksniff, ovvero la Miseria, di guardare al tronco originale e vedere come, nonostante tutte le sue ramificazioni, essa sia riuscita a esistere senza di esso.

E innanzitutto, riguardo al signor Pecksniff, si può osservare che, avendo fornito alla sua figlia minore la più preziosa delle benedizioni, un marito tenero e indulgente; e avendo realizzato il desiderio più caro del suo cuore di padre, sistemandola così felicemente nella vita, egli rinnovò la propria “juventù” e, con la coscienza pulita e luminosa, si sentì in grado di affrontare qualsiasi sfida. Nelle commedie teatrali, è consuetudine che i padri, dopo aver dato le loro figlie agli uomini dei loro cuori, si congratulino con se stessi per non avere altro da fare se non morire immediatamente; anche se raramente si verifica che siano davvero così desiderosi di farlo. Il signor Pecksniff, essendo un padre di una natura più saggia e pragmatica, sembrava ritenere che il suo compito immediato fosse vivere; e, dopo essersi privato di un certo conforto, cercò di circondarsi di altri.

Ma per quanto quell’uomo buono fosse incline al gioco e alla scherzosità, e nel “giardino” della sua fantasia si divertisse (se così si può dire) come un gattino giocoso, c’era sempre un ostacolo che gli si opponeva. La gentile Cherry, offesa da un senso di umiliazione e dolore che non accennava affatto a diminuire o svanire, continuava a soffrire nel suo cuore. La gentile Cherry era in aperta ribellione. Condusse una guerra feroce contro il suo caro papà, facendogli vivere, per mancanza di un’espressione migliore, una vita davvero difficile. Ma nessun cane, né in canile né in stalla, né in casa, avrebbe mai vissuto una vita altrettanto dura di quella del signor Pecksniff con la sua gentile figlia.

Il padre e la figlia erano seduti a colazione. Tom si era ritirato, e loro erano soli. All’inizio il signor Pecksniff fece una smorfia; ma dopo essersi rasserenato, guardò di nascosto sua figlia. Il suo naso era davvero molto rosso, e stretto con forza, come se fosse pronto a reagire in modo ostile.

“Cherry,” gridò il signor Pecksniff, “che cosa c’è che non va tra di noi? Mio figlio, perché siamo divisi?”

La risposta di Miss Pecksniff non era affatto una reazione a queste parole piene di affetto; si limitò semplicemente a dire: “Lascia perdere, papà!”

“Che noia!”, ripeté il signor Pecksniff con tono angosciato.

“Oh! È troppo tardi, papà,” disse sua figlia con calma, “per parlarmi in questo modo. So cosa significa e quale ne è il valore.”

“È troppo difficile!” esclamò il signor Pecksniff, rivolgendosi alla sua tazza di caffè del mattino. “È davvero molto difficile. Lei è mia figlia. L’ho tenuta in braccio quando indossava scarpe di lana informi. Potrei dire che erano quasi dei colletti, molti anni fa!”

“Non c’è bisogno che mi prendi in giro per questo, papà,” ribatté Cherry con uno sguardo pieno di rancore. “Anch’io non sono molto più vecchia di mia sorella, anche se lei è sposata con il tuo amico!”

‘Ah, la natura umana, povera natura umana!’ disse il signor Pecksniff, scuotendo la testa di fronte alla natura umana, come se non ne facesse parte. ‘Pensare che tutto questo disaccordo possa derivare da una causa del genere, oh mio Dio, oh mio Dio!’

“Davvero per un motivo del genere!” esclamò Cherry. “Dite la vera ragione, papà, altrimenti la dirò io stessa. State attento: lo farò davvero!”

Forse l’energia con cui lo disse era contagiosa. Comunque fosse, il signor Pecksniff cambiò tono e espressione del viso, assumendo un atteggiamento di rabbia, se non addirittura di violenza, quando disse:

“Lo farai! L’hai già fatto. L’hai fatto ieri. Lo fai sempre. Non hai alcuna decenza; non nascondi mai il tuo carattere; ti sei esposta centinaia di volte al signor Chuzzlewit.”

“Me stessa!” esclamò Cherry con un sorriso amaro. “Oh sì. Non mi dispiace affatto.”

“Allora anch’io,” disse il signor Pecksniff.

Sua figlia rispose con una risata sprezzante.

“E poiché abbiamo trovato una spiegazione, Carità,” disse il signor Pecksniff, scuotendo la testa in modo minaccioso, “lasciate che vi dica che non lo permetterò. Nessuna delle vostre sciocchezze, signorina! Non permetterò che ciò avvenga.”

“Lo farò,” disse Charity, dondolando la sedia avanti e indietro e alzando la voce fino a un tono acuto, “lo farò, papà. Farò ciò che desidero e ciò che ho sempre fatto. Non permetterò che mi schiaccino in tutto; non dipenderò più da nessuno. Sono stata usata in modo ancora più vergognoso di chiunque altro in questo mondo,” e qui iniziò a piangere e singhiozzare, “e so che posso aspettarmi trattamenti ancora peggiori da parte tua. Ma non mi interessa. No, assolutamente no!”

Il signor Pecksniff fu così disperato dal tono deciso con cui lei parlava che, dopo aver cercato freneticamente un modo per addolcirlo, si alzò in piedi e la scosse fino a quando l’acconciatura ornamentale sui suoi capelli non iniziò a muoversi come una piuma. Lei fu così sorpresa da questa reazione che, in effetti, ottenne l’effetto desiderato.

“Lo farò di nuovo!” gridò il signor Pecksniff, riprendendo posto e riprendendo fiato. “Se osate parlare a quel modo così ad alto. Cosa intendete dire con ‘essere vergognosamente sfruttati’? Se il signor Jonas ha scelto vostra sorella invece di voi, chi può farci nulla? Vorrei proprio sapere. Che c’entro io in tutto questo?”

“Non sono stata forse usata a suo piacimento? I miei sentimenti non sono stati forse presi in giro? Non si è rivolto prima a me?” singhiozzò Cherry, stringendo le mani; “E oh, mio Dio, come posso ancora vivere dopo tutto questo, ”

“Vivrai abbastanza a lungo per essere di nuovo sconvolta,” le rispose suo padre, “se mi costringi a ricorrere a mezzi del genere pur di mantenere il decoro di questa umile dimora. Mi sorprendi. Mi chiedo come tu possa non avere più spirito. Se il signor Jonas non ti desiderasse, perché mai vorresti averlo?”

“Voglio che sia mio!”, esclamò Cherry. “Voglio che sia mio, papà!”

“Allora perché stai facendo tutto questo sforzo,” ribatté suo padre, “se non vuoi tenerlo?”

“Perché sono stata trattata con doppiezza,” disse Cherry; “e perché mia sorella e mio padre hanno complottato contro di me. Non sono arrabbiata CON LEI,” aggiunse Cherry, sembrando più arrabbiata che mai. “La compiango. Mi dispiace per lei. So quale destino la aspetta con quel Maledetto.”

‘Mr Jonas will survive your calling him a wretch, my child, I dare say,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with returning resignation; ‘but call him what you like and make an end of it.’

‘Not an end, Pa,’ said Charity. ‘No, not an end. That’s not the only point on which we’re not agreed. I won’t submit to it. It’s better you should know that at once. No; I won’t submit to it indeed, Pa! I am not quite a fool, and I am not blind. All I have got to say is, I won’t submit to it.’

Whatever she meant, she shook Mr Pecksniff now; for his lame attempt to seem composed was melancholy in the last degree. His anger changed to meekness, and his words were mild and fawning.

‘My dear,’ he said; ‘if in the short excitement of an angry moment I resorted to an unjustifiable means of suppressing a little outbreak calculated to injure you as well as myself—it’s possible I may have done so; perhaps I did—I ask your pardon. A father asking pardon of his child,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘is, I believe, a spectacle to soften the most rugged nature.’

But it didn’t at all soften Miss Pecksniff; perhaps because her nature was not rugged enough. On the contrary, she persisted in saying, over and over again, that she wasn’t quite a fool, and wasn’t blind, and wouldn’t submit to it.

‘You labour under some mistake, my child!’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘but I will not ask you what it is; I don’t desire to know. No, pray!’ he added, holding out his hand and colouring again, ‘let us avoid the subject, my dear, whatever it is!’

‘It’s quite right that the subject should be avoided between us, sir,’ said Cherry. ‘But I wish to be able to avoid it altogether, and consequently must beg you to provide me with a home.’

Mr Pecksniff looked about the room, and said, ‘A home, my child!’

‘Another home, papa,’ said Cherry, with increasing stateliness ‘Place me at Mrs Todgers’s or somewhere, on an independent footing; but I will not live here, if such is to be the case.’

It is possible that Miss Pecksniff saw in Mrs Todgers’s a vision of enthusiastic men, pining to fall in adoration at her feet. It is possible that Mr Pecksniff, in his new-born juvenility, saw, in the suggestion of that same establishment, an easy means of relieving himself from an irksome charge in the way of temper and watchfulness. It is undoubtedly a fact that in the attentive ears of Mr Pecksniff, the proposition did not sound quite like the dismal knell of all his hopes.

But he was a man of great feeling and acute sensibility; and he squeezed his pocket-handkerchief against his eyes with both hands—as such men always do, especially when they are observed. ‘One of my birds,’ Mr Pecksniff said, ‘has left me for the stranger’s breast; the other would take wing to Todgers’s! Well, well, what am I? I don’t know what I am, exactly. Never mind!’

Even this remark, made more pathetic perhaps by his breaking down in the middle of it, had no effect upon Charity. She was grim, rigid, and inflexible.

‘But I have ever,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘sacrificed my children’s happiness to my own—I mean my own happiness to my children’s—and I will not begin to regulate my life by other rules of conduct now. If you can be happier at Mrs Todgers’s than in your father’s house, my dear, go to Mrs Todgers’s! Do not think of me, my girl!’ said Mr Pecksniff with emotion; ‘I shall get on pretty well, no doubt.’

Miss Charity, who knew he had a secret pleasure in the contemplation of the proposed change, suppressed her own, and went on to negotiate the terms. His views upon this subject were at first so very limited that another difference, involving possibly another shaking, threatened to ensue; but by degrees they came to something like an understanding, and the storm blew over. Indeed, Miss Charity’s idea was so agreeable to both, that it would have been strange if they had not come to an amicable agreement. It was soon arranged between them that the project should be tried, and that immediately; and that Cherry’s not being well, and needing change of scene, and wishing to be near her sister, should form the excuse for her departure to Mr Chuzzlewit and Mary, to both of whom she had pleaded indisposition for some time past. These premises agreed on, Mr Pecksniff gave her his blessing, with all the dignity of a self-denying man who had made a hard sacrifice, but comforted himself with the reflection that virtue is its own reward. Thus they were reconciled for the first time since that not easily forgiven night, when Mr Jonas, repudiating the elder, had confessed his passion for the younger sister, and Mr Pecksniff had abetted him on moral grounds.

But how happened it—in the name of an unexpected addition to that small family, the Seven Wonders of the World, whatever and wherever they may be, how happened it—that Mr Pecksniff and his daughter were about to part? How happened it that their mutual relations were so greatly altered? Why was Miss Pecksniff so clamorous to have it understood that she was neither blind nor foolish, and she wouldn’t bear it? It is not possible that Mr Pecksniff had any thoughts of marrying again; or that his daughter, with the sharp eye of a single woman, fathomed his design!

Let us inquire into this.

Mr Pecksniff, as a man without reproach, from whom the breath of slander passed like common breath from any other polished surface, could afford to do what common men could not. He knew the purity of his own motives; and when he had a motive worked at it as only a very good man (or a very bad one) can. Did he set before himself any strong and palpable motives for taking a second wife? Yes; and not one or two of them, but a combination of very many.

Old Martin Chuzzlewit had gradually undergone an important change. Even upon the night when he made such an ill-timed arrival at Mr Pecksniff’s house, he was comparatively subdued and easy to deal with. This Mr Pecksniff attributed, at the time, to the effect his brother’s death had had upon him. But from that hour his character seemed to have modified by regular degrees, and to have softened down into a dull indifference for almost every one but Mr Pecksniff. His looks were much the same as ever, but his mind was singularly altered. It was not that this or that passion stood out in brighter or in dimmer hues; but that the colour of the whole man was faded. As one trait disappeared, no other trait sprung up to take its place. His senses dwindled too. He was less keen of sight; was deaf sometimes; took little notice of what passed before him; and would be profoundly taciturn for days together. The process of this alteration was so easy that almost as soon as it began to be observed it was complete. But Mr Pecksniff saw it first, and having Anthony Chuzzlewit fresh in his recollection, saw in his brother Martin the same process of decay.

“Signor Jonas sopravviverà anche se lo chiamerete un miserabile, mio bambino,” disse il signor Pecksniff con una nuova dose di rassegnazione; “ma chiamatelo come volete e mettiamoci fine a questa storia.”

“Non è la fine, papà,” disse Charity. “No, non è la fine. Non è l’unica questione su cui non siamo d’accordo. Non mi arrenderò. È meglio che tu lo sappia subito. No, davvero non mi arrenderò, papà! Non sono del tutto una stupida, e non sono cieca. Tutto quello che ho da dire è: non mi arrenderò.”

Qualunque cosa intendesse dire, ora scuoteva il signor Pecksniff; perché il suo vano tentativo di apparire composto era estremamente melanconico. La sua rabbia si trasformò in umiltà, e le sue parole divennero dolci e lusinghieri.

“Mia cara,” disse lui, “se nell’impeto di un momento di rabbia ho ricorso a mezzi ingiustificabili per reprimere una piccola manifestazione di irritazione che avrebbe potuto ferirti tanto quanto me, è possibile che l’abbia fatto; forse l’ho fatto davvero, ti chiedo scusa. Un padre che chiede perdono al proprio figlio”, aggiunse il signor Pecksniff, “è, credo, uno spettacolo in grado di addolcire anche la natura più dura.”

Ma questo non fece affatto ammorbidire la signorina Pecksniff; forse perché la sua natura non era abbastanza robusta. Al contrario, continuò a ripetere più e più volte che non era proprio una stupida, che non era cieca, e che non avrebbe accettato una cosa del genere.

“Stai commettendo un errore, mio caro bambino!” disse il signor Pecksniff, “ma non ti chiederò di cosa si tratti; non desidero saperlo. No, per favore!” aggiunse, tendendogli la mano e arrossendo di nuovo, “evitiamo questo argomento, caro mio, qualunque esso sia!”

“È del tutto giusto che questo argomento venga evitato tra di noi, signore,” disse Cherry. “Ma vorrei poterlo evitare completamente, e per questo devo chiedervi di fornirmi una casa.”

Il signor Pecksniff guardò intorno nella stanza e disse: “Una vera casa, mio Childfigliolo!”

“Un’altra casa, papà,” disse Cherry con sempre maggiore dignità, “mettimi a casa della signora Todgers o da qualche altra parte, in modo indipendente; ma non vivrò qui, se è così che devono andare le cose.”

È possibile che la signorina Pecksniff vedesse nella signora Todgers l’immagine di uomini entusiasti, desiderosi di prostrarsi ai suoi piedi in adorazione. È possibile anche che il signor Pecksniff, nella sua improvvisa “giovinezza”, considerasse quella stessa istituzione un mezzo semplice per liberarsi da un onere fastidioso legato al proprio carattere e alla necessità di stare sempre all’erta. Indubbiamente, alle orecchie attente del signor Pecksniff, quell’offerta non suonava affatto come il sinistro segnale della fine di tutte le sue speranze.

Ma era un uomo dal grande cuore e dalla sensibilità acuta; strinse il fazzoletto nel pugno contro i propri occhi con entrambe le mani – come fanno sempre queste persone, soprattutto quando sono osservate. “Uno dei miei ‘uccellini’”, disse il signor Pecksniff, “mi ha abbandonato per il petto di uno sconosciuto; l’altro invece volerebbe verso Todgers. Beh, beh, che cosa sono io? Non so esattamente chi sia. Lasciamo perdere!”

Anche questo commento, forse reso ancora più patetico dal suo crollo emotivo mentre lo pronunciava, non ebbe alcun effetto su Carità. Era rigida, inflessibile e impenetrabile.

“Ma io ho sempre,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “sacrificato la felicità dei miei figli per la mia, voglio dire, per la mia stessa felicità, e ora non intendo certo regolarmi nella vita secondo altre regole di condotta. Se puoi essere più felice a casa della signora Todgers che in quella di tuo padre, cara, vai pure da lei! Non pensare a me, mia ragazza, ” disse il signor Pecksniff con emozione; “Me la caverò abbastanza bene, ne sono certo.”

La signorina Charity, che sapeva che lui provava un piacere segreto nel contemplare il cambiamento proposto, rese conto dei propri desideri e continuò a negoziare i termini dell’accordo. Inizialmente le sue opinioni in merito erano così limitate che sembrava potesse sorgere un’altra divergenza; ma gradualmente riuscirono ad arrivare a un’intesa, e la “tempesta” si placò. Infatti, l’idea della signorina Charity era così gradita a entrambi che sarebbe stato strano se non fossero giunti a un accordo amichevole. Presto concordarono sul fatto che il progetto dovesse essere immediatamente messo in atto; inoltre, il fatto che Cherry non si sentisse bene, avesse bisogno di cambiare ambiente e desiderasse stare vicina a sua sorella, sarebbe stato l’scusa perfetta per la sua partenza da parte del signor Chuzzlewit e di Mary, ai quali aveva già dichiarato di non sentirsi bene in passato. Una volta concordate queste condizioni, il signor Pecksniff le diede la sua benedizione, con tutta la dignità di un uomo che si era imposto grandi sacrifici, ma si consolava pensando che la virtù sia già di per sé una ricompensa. Così, furono riconciliati per la prima volta da quella notte difficile in cui il signor Jonas, abbandonando la sorella maggiore, aveva confessato il proprio amore per la più giovane, e il signor Pecksniff lo aveva incoraggiato su basi morali.

Ma come è potuto accadere. In nome di quell’aggiunta inaspettata a quella piccola “famiglia”: le Sette Meraviglie del Mondo, qualunque cosa siano e dove si trovino. Come è potuto succedere che il signor Pecksniff e sua figlia stessero per separarsi? Perché i loro rapporti reciproci sono cambiati così radicalmente? Perché la signorina Pecksniff insisteva tanto nel far capire a tutti che non era né cieca né sciocca, e che non avrebbe tollerato una cosa del genere? Non è possibile che il signor Pecksniff avesse intenzioni di sposarsi di nuovo. O che sua figlia, con l’acuta perspicacia tipica delle donne, avesse intuito i suoi piani!

Diamo un’occhiata più da vicino a questa questione.

Il signor Pecksniff, essendo un uomo senza macchie, da cui il respiro della calunnia usciva come un respiro normale da qualsiasi altra superficie levigata, poteva permettersi di fare ciò che gli uomini comuni non avrebbero potuto. Conosceva la purezza dei propri motivi; e quando agiva, lo faceva con l’intenzione che solo un uomo molto buono (o molto cattivo) può avere. Si era posto davanti degli obiettivi chiari e concreti per prendersi una seconda moglie? Sì; non uno o due soltanto, ma una combinazione di moltissimi motivi.

Vecchio Martin Chuzzlewit aveva gradualmente subito un importante cambiamento. Anche quella notte in cui arrivò in modo così inopportuno a casa del signor Pecksniff, era relativamente calmo e facile da gestire. Il signor Pecksniff attribuì questo comportamento, all’epoca, all’effetto che la morte di suo fratello aveva avuto su di lui. Ma da quel momento in poi, il suo carattere sembrò modificarsi gradualmente, trasformandosi in una sorta di indifferenza apatica verso quasi tutti, tranne il signor Pecksniff stesso. L’aspetto esteriore rimase più o meno lo stesso, ma il suo modo di pensare era profondamente cambiato. Non si trattava di emozioni particolari che diventassero più intense o più deboli; piuttosto, l’intera personalità di Martin sembrava essersi “scolorita”. Man mano che un tratto del suo carattere scompariva, nessun altro ne prendeva il posto. Anche i suoi sensi si indebolivano: la vista gli diventava meno acuta, a volte diventava sordo, prestava poca attenzione a ciò che lo circondava e spesso rimaneva in silenzio per intere giornate. Il processo di questo cambiamento fu così graduale che, quasi non appena iniziò ad essere notato, era già completato. Ma il signor Pecksniff fu il primo a osservarlo; ricordando ancora vividamente Anthony Chuzzlewit, riconobbe nel fratello Martin lo stesso processo di degradazione.

To a gentleman of Mr Pecksniff’s tenderness, this was a very mournful sight. He could not but foresee the probability of his respected relative being made the victim of designing persons, and of his riches falling into worthless hands. It gave him so much pain that he resolved to secure the property to himself; to keep bad testamentary suitors at a distance; to wall up the old gentleman, as it were, for his own use. By little and little, therefore, he began to try whether Mr Chuzzlewit gave any promise of becoming an instrument in his hands, and finding that he did, and indeed that he was very supple in his plastic fingers, he made it the business of his life—kind soul!—to establish an ascendancy over him; and every little test he durst apply meeting with a success beyond his hopes, he began to think he heard old Martin’s cash already chinking in his own unworldly pockets.

But when Mr Pecksniff pondered on this subject (as, in his zealous way, he often did), and thought with an uplifted heart of the train of circumstances which had delivered the old gentleman into his hands for the confusion of evil-doers and the triumph of a righteous nature, he always felt that Mary Graham was his stumbling-block. Let the old man say what he would, Mr Pecksniff knew he had a strong affection for her. He knew that he showed it in a thousand little ways; that he liked to have her near him, and was never quite at ease when she was absent long. That he had ever really sworn to leave her nothing in his will, Mr Pecksniff greatly doubted. That even if he had, there were many ways by which he could evade the oath and satisfy his conscience, Mr Pecksniff knew. That her unprotected state was no light burden on the old man’s mind, he also knew, for Mr Chuzzlewit had plainly told him so. ‘Then,’ said Mr Pecksniff ‘what if I married her! What,’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, sticking up his hair and glancing at his bust by Spoker; ‘what if, making sure of his approval first—he is nearly imbecile, poor gentleman—I married her!’

Mr Pecksniff had a lively sense of the Beautiful; especially in women. His manner towards the sex was remarkable for its insinuating character. It is recorded of him in another part of these pages, that he embraced Mrs Todgers on the smallest provocation; and it was a way he had; it was a part of the gentle placidity of his disposition. Before any thought of matrimony was in his mind, he had bestowed on Mary many little tokens of his spiritual admiration. They had been indignantly received, but that was nothing. True, as the idea expanded within him, these had become too ardent to escape the piercing eye of Cherry, who read his scheme at once; but he had always felt the power of Mary’s charms. So Interest and Inclination made a pair, and drew the curricle of Mr Pecksniff’s plan.

As to any thought of revenging himself on young Martin for his insolent expressions when they parted, and of shutting him out still more effectually from any hope of reconciliation with his grandfather, Mr Pecksniff was much too meek and forgiving to be suspected of harbouring it. As to being refused by Mary, Mr Pecksniff was quite satisfied that in her position she could never hold out if he and Mr Chuzzlewit were both against her. As to consulting the wishes of her heart in such a case, it formed no part of Mr Pecksniff’s moral code; for he knew what a good man he was, and what a blessing he must be to anybody. His daughter having broken the ice, and the murder being out between them, Mr Pecksniff had now only to pursue his design as cleverly as he could, and by the craftiest approaches.

‘Well, my good sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, meeting old Martin in the garden, for it was his habit to walk in and out by that way, as the fancy took him; ‘and how is my dear friend this delicious morning?’

‘Do you mean me?’ asked the old man.

‘Ah!’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘one of his deaf days, I see. Could I mean any one else, my dear sir?’

‘You might have meant Mary,’ said the old man.

‘Indeed I might. Quite true. I might speak of her as a dear, dear friend, I hope?’ observed Mr Pecksniff.

‘I hope so,’ returned old Martin. ‘I think she deserves it.’

‘Think!’ cried Pecksniff, ‘think, Mr Chuzzlewit!’

‘You are speaking, I know,’ returned Martin, ‘but I don’t catch what you say. Speak up!’

‘He’s getting deafer than a flint,’ said Pecksniff. ‘I was saying, my dear sir, that I am afraid I must make up my mind to part with Cherry.’

‘What has SHE been doing?’ asked the old man.

‘He puts the most ridiculous questions I ever heard!’ muttered Mr Pecksniff. ‘He’s a child to-day.’ After which he added, in a mild roar: ‘She hasn’t been doing anything, my dear friend.’

‘What are you going to part with her for?’ demanded Martin.

‘She hasn’t her health by any means,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘She misses her sister, my dear sir; they doted on each other from the cradle. And I think of giving her a run in London for a change. A good long run, sir, if I find she likes it.’

‘Quite right,’ cried Martin. ‘It’s judicious.’

‘I am glad to hear you say so. I hope you mean to bear me company in this dull part, while she’s away?’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘I have no intention of removing from it,’ was Martin’s answer.

‘Then why,’ said Mr Pecksniff, taking the old man’s arm in his, and walking slowly on; ‘Why, my good sir, can’t you come and stay with me? I am sure I could surround you with more comforts—lowly as is my Cot—than you can obtain at a village house of entertainment. And pardon me, Mr Chuzzlewit, pardon me if I say that such a place as the Dragon, however well-conducted (and, as far as I know, Mrs Lupin is one of the worthiest creatures in this county), is hardly a home for Miss Graham.’

Martin mused a moment; and then said, as he shook him by the hand:

‘No. You’re quite right; it is not.’

‘The very sight of skittles,’ Mr Pecksniff eloquently pursued, ‘is far from being congenial to a delicate mind.’

Per un gentiluomo dalla sensibilità di Mr Pecksniff, questa era una scena davvero tragica. Non poteva fare a meno di prevedere che il suo rispettabile parente potesse diventare vittima di individui malintenzionati e che le sue ricchezze finissero in mani inadeguate. Questo pensiero gli causava un tale dolore che decise di assicurarsi personalmente quella proprietà, di tenere a distanza tutti coloro che cercavano di ottenerla con mezzi disonesti, e di “chiudere” il vecchio gentiluomo in una sorta di isolamento, per poterne disporre a piacimento. Così, poco a poco, iniziò a verificare se Mr Chuzzlewit potesse diventare uno strumento al suo servizio; e scoprendo che effettivamente lo era, anzi che era molto disponibile ad assecondare i suoi desideri, fece di questo il proprio obiettivo principale nella vita, con la migliore delle intenzioni, naturalmente. Ogni piccolo tentativo che intraprendeva riusciva meglio del previsto, e iniziò a pensare che già sentisse i soldi del vecchio Martin tintinnare nelle sue tasche.

Ma quando il signor Pecksniff rifletteva su questo argomento (come faceva spesso, con la sua zelosità), e pensava con un cuore pieno di gratitudine a tutte le circostanze che avevano portato quel vecchio gentiluomo nelle sue mani, al fine di confondere i malviventi e celebrare la vittoria della giustizia e della natura onesta, si rendeva sempre conto che Mary Graham rappresentava un ostacolo per lui. Che il vecchio dicesse pure ciò che voleva, il signor Pecksniff sapeva di provare per lei un forte affetto; sapeva di manifestarlo in mille modi diversi: gli piaceva averla vicina a sé e non si sentiva mai del tutto tranquillo quando lei era assente per molto tempo. E dubitava fortemente che avesse davvero giurato di lasciarle nulla nel proprio testamento; sapeva anche che, anche se l’avesse fatto, esistevano molti modi per eludere quel giuramento e soddisfare la propria coscienza. Sapeva inoltre che lo stato di indigenza in cui lei si trovava rappresentava un peso non da poco per il vecchio gentiluomo, poiché il signor Chuzzlewit glielo aveva detto chiaramente. “Allora,” pensò il signor Pecksniff, “e se la sposassi? Che cosa succederebbe, ”, ripeté, alzandosi i capelli e guardando il proprio busto appeso accanto a Spoker; “che cosa succederebbe se, prima di tutto ottenendo il suo consenso – povero gentiluomo, è quasi imbecile – la sposassi?”

Il signor Pecksniff possedeva un vivo senso del Bello, soprattutto nelle donne. Il suo modo di comportarsi verso il sesso femminile era notevole per la sua natura insinuante. In un’altra parte di queste pagine si racconta che abbracciava la signora Todgers al minimo pretesto; era una sua abitudine, parte della dolcezza e della tranquillità del suo carattere. Prima ancora che l’idea del matrimonio gli venisse in mente, aveva già dato a Mary molti piccoli segni del suo apprezzamento. Questi erano stati accettati con indignazione, ma questo non contava nulla. Certo, man mano che tale idea si faceva strada nella sua mente, questi gesti divennero sempre più appassionati, al punto da non sfuggire all’acuta osservazione di Cherry, che intuì immediatamente i suoi piani; tuttavia, il signor Pecksniff aveva sempre percepito il potere del fascino di Mary. Così, interesse e inclinazione si unirono, guidando il corso dei suoi progetti.

Per quanto riguarda l’idea di vendicarsi del giovane Martin per le sue espressioni insolenti al momento della loro separazione, o di impedirgli ancora di più qualsiasi >speranza di )riconciliazione con suo nonno, il signor Pecksniff era troppo mite e indulgente per essere sospettato di nutrire simili pensieri. Per quanto riguardava il rifiuto da parte di Mary, il signor Pecksniff era assolutamente convinto che, data la sua posizione, lei non avrebbe mai potuto opporsi se sia lui che il signor Chuzzlewit fossero stati contro di lei. Quanto al considerare i desideri del suo cuore in una situazione del genere, questo non faceva parte dei principi morali del signor Pecksniff; infatti, egli era convinto di essere un uomo buono e di rappresentare una vera benedizione per chiunque. Ora che sua figlia aveva rotto il ghiaccio e i loro rapporti erano migliorati, al signor Pecksniff restava solo da perseguire i suoi piani con la massima astuzia e attraverso gli approcci più ingegnosi possibili.

“Beh, mio caro signore,” disse il signor Pecksniff incontrando il vecchio Martin nel giardino, poiché era sua abitudine passeggiare da quella parte quando gli veniva in mente; “e come sta il mio caro amico questa deliziosa mattina?”

“Intendi dire me?”, chiese l’uomo anziano.

“Ah!”, disse il signor Pecksniff, “vedo che è uno di quei suoi giorni in cui non sente nulla. Potrei forse riferirmi a qualcun altro, mio caro signore?”

“Forse volevi dire Mary,” disse l’uomo anziano.

“Certo che potrei. Proprio vero. Potrei definirla una cara, cara amica, spero, ” osservò il signor Pecksniff.

“Spero proprio di sì,” rispose il vecchio Martin. “Penso che se lo meriti.”

“Pensa!” gridò Pecksniff, “pensa, signor Chuzzlewit!”

“Stai parlando, lo so”, rispose Martin, “ma non capisco cosa dici. Parla più chiaramente!”

“Sta diventando sempre più sordo,” disse Pecksniff. “Stavo dicendo, mio caro signore, che temo di dover prendere la decisione di separarmi da Cherry.”

“Cosa starà facendo lei?” chiese l’uomo anziano.

“Pone le domande più assurde che abbia mai sentito!” mormorò il signor Pecksniff. “Oggi è ancora un bambino, ” Poi aggiunse, con un tono leggermente minaccioso: “Non ha fatto nulla, mio caro amico.”

“Perché vuoi separarti da lei?” chiese Martin.

“Assolutamente non è in buona salute,” disse il signor Pecksniff. “Le manca sua sorella, caro signore; si volevano molto bene fin da piccole. E penso di farle fare un viaggio a Londra per cambiare ambiente. Un lungo viaggio, se le piacerà.”

“Assolutamente giusto,” esclamò Martin. “È una decisione saggia.”

“Sono felice di sentirti dire questo. Spero che tu intenda accompagnarmi in questa fase noiosa, mentre lei non c’è”, disse il signor Pecksniff.

“Non ho alcuna intenzione di rimuoverlo”, fu la risposta di Martin.

“Allora perché,” disse il signor Pecksniff, prendendo sottobraccio l’uomo anziano e camminando lentamente; “Perché, mio buon signore, non potreste venire a stare da me? Sono sicuro che potrei offrirvi molte più comodità, anche se la mia casa è modesta, di quante ne possiate trovare in una locanda di campagna. E perdonatemi, signor Chuzzlewit, perdonatemi se dico che un posto come il Dragon, per quanto ben gestito (e, per quel che so, la signora Lupin è una delle persone più meritevoli di questa contea), difficilmente può essere considerato un vero e proprio “casa” per la signorina Graham.”

“Martin rifletté per un momento; poi, stringendogli la mano, disse, ”

“No. Hai perfettamente ragione; non lo è.”

“Solo il pensiero di dover giocare a skittles,” proseguì con eloquenza il signor Pecksniff, “è già qualcosa che non si addice affatto a una mente delicata.”

‘It’s an amusement of the vulgar,’ said old Martin, ‘certainly.’

‘Of the very vulgar,’ Mr Pecksniff answered. ‘Then why not bring Miss Graham here, sir? Here is the house. Here am I alone in it, for Thomas Pinch I do not count as any one. Our lovely friend shall occupy my daughter’s chamber; you shall choose your own; we shall not quarrel, I hope!’

‘We are not likely to do that,’ said Martin.

Mr Pecksniff pressed his hand. ‘We understand each other, my dear sir, I see!—I can wind him,’ he thought, with exultation, ‘round my little finger.’

‘You leave the recompense to me?’ said the old man, after a minute’s silence.

‘Oh! do not speak of recompense!’ cried Pecksniff.

‘I say,’ repeated Martin, with a glimmer of his old obstinacy, ‘you leave the recompense to me. Do you?’

‘Since you desire it, my good sir.’

‘I always desire it,’ said the old man. ‘You know I always desire it. I wish to pay as I go, even when I buy of you. Not that I do not leave a balance to be settled one day, Pecksniff.’

The architect was too much overcome to speak. He tried to drop a tear upon his patron’s hand, but couldn’t find one in his dry distillery.

‘May that day be very distant!’ was his pious exclamation. ‘Ah, sir! If I could say how deep an interest I have in you and yours! I allude to our beautiful young friend.’

‘True,’ he answered. ‘True. She need have some one interested in her. I did her wrong to train her as I did. Orphan though she was, she would have found some one to protect her whom she might have loved again. When she was a child, I pleased myself with the thought that in gratifying my whim of placing her between me and false-hearted knaves, I had done her a kindness. Now she is a woman, I have no such comfort. She has no protector but herself. I have put her at such odds with the world, that any dog may bark or fawn upon her at his pleasure. Indeed she stands in need of delicate consideration. Yes; indeed she does!’

‘If her position could be altered and defined, sir?’ Mr Pecksniff hinted.

‘How can that be done? Should I make a seamstress of her, or a governess?’

‘Heaven forbid!’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘My dear sir, there are other ways. There are indeed. But I am much excited and embarrassed at present, and would rather not pursue the subject. I scarcely know what I mean. Permit me to resume it at another time.’

‘You are not unwell?’ asked Martin anxiously.

‘No, no!’ cried Pecksniff. ‘No. Permit me to resume it at another time. I’ll walk a little. Bless you!’

Old Martin blessed him in return, and squeezed his hand. As he turned away, and slowly walked towards the house, Mr Pecksniff stood gazing after him; being pretty well recovered from his late emotion, which, in any other man, one might have thought had been assumed as a machinery for feeling Martin’s pulse. The change in the old man found such a slight expression in his figure, that Mr Pecksniff, looking after him, could not help saying to himself:

‘And I can wind him round my little finger! Only think!’

Old Martin happening to turn his head, saluted him affectionately. Mr Pecksniff returned the gesture.

‘Why, the time was,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘and not long ago, when he wouldn’t look at me! How soothing is this change. Such is the delicate texture of the human heart; so complicated is the process of its being softened! Externally he looks the same, and I can wind him round my little finger. Only think!’

In sober truth, there did appear to be nothing on which Mr Pecksniff might not have ventured with Martin Chuzzlewit; for whatever Mr Pecksniff said or did was right, and whatever he advised was done. Martin had escaped so many snares from needy fortune-hunters, and had withered in the shell of his suspicion and distrust for so many years, but to become the good man’s tool and plaything. With the happiness of this conviction painted on his face, the architect went forth upon his morning walk.

The summer weather in his bosom was reflected in the breast of Nature. Through deep green vistas where the boughs arched overhead, and showed the sunlight flashing in the beautiful perspective; through dewy fern from which the startled hares leaped up, and fled at his approach; by mantled pools, and fallen trees, and down in hollow places, rustling among last year’s leaves whose scent woke memory of the past; the placid Pecksniff strolled. By meadow gates and hedges fragrant with wild roses; and by thatched-roof cottages whose inmates humbly bowed before him as a man both good and wise; the worthy Pecksniff walked in tranquil meditation. The bee passed onward, humming of the work he had to do; the idle gnats for ever going round and round in one contracting and expanding ring, yet always going on as fast as he, danced merrily before him; the colour of the long grass came and went, as if the light clouds made it timid as they floated through the distant air. The birds, so many Pecksniff consciences, sang gayly upon every branch; and Mr Pecksniff paid HIS homage to the day by ruminating on his projects as he walked along.

Chancing to trip, in his abstraction, over the spreading root of an old tree, he raised his pious eyes to take a survey of the ground before him. It startled him to see the embodied image of his thoughts not far ahead. Mary herself. And alone.

At first Mr Pecksniff stopped as if with the intention of avoiding her; but his next impulse was to advance, which he did at a brisk pace; caroling as he went so sweetly and with so much innocence that he only wanted feathers and wings to be a bird.

Hearing notes behind her, not belonging to the songsters of the grove, she looked round. Mr Pecksniff kissed his hand, and was at her side immediately.

‘Communing with nature?’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘So am I.’

“È un passatempo da volgari,” disse il vecchio Martin, “certamente.”

“Di quelle persone molto volgari,” rispose il signor Pecksniff. “Allora perché non portare qui la signorina Graham, signore? Ecco la >casa; sono io qui da >solo, perché Thomas Pinch non lo considero affatto una persona importante. La nostra cara amica potrà occupare la stanza di mia figlia; voi potrete scegliere quella che preferite; non ci scontreremo, spero!”

“Probabilmente non lo faremo,” disse Martin.

Il signor Pecksniff gli strinse la mano. “Ci capiamo a vicenda, mio caro signore. Vedo! Posso manipolarlo facilmente,” pensò con esultanza, “come se fosse un filo attorno al mio dito mignolo.”

“Lasci che sia io ad occuparmi della ricompensa?” disse l’uomo anziano, dopo un minuto di silenzio.

“Oh, non parlate di ricompensa!” gridò Pecksniff.

“Dico io,” ripeté Martin, con un barlume della sua vecchia testardaggine, “lascia che sia io a decidere sulla ricompensa. D’accordo?”

“Poiché lo desiderate voi, mio buon signore.”

“Lo desidero sempre,” disse l’uomo anziano. “Voi sapete che lo desidero sempre. Vorrei pagare man mano che compro, anche quando acquisto da voi. Non è che non lasci un saldo da saldare un giorno, Pecksniff, ”

L’architetto era troppo commosso per riuscire a parlare. Tentò di lasciare una lacrima sulla mano del suo mecenate, ma non ne trovò nemmeno una nei suoi occhi asciutti.

“Che quel giorno sia molto lontano!” fu la sua esclamazione devota. “Ah, signore! Se solo potessi esprimere quanto profondo sia il mio interesse per voi e per ciò che vi appartiene. Intendo parlare della nostra bella giovane amica.”

“Vero,” rispose. “Vero. Ha bisogno di qualcuno che si prenda cura di lei. L’ho trattata male addestrandola in quel modo. Anche se era un’orfana, avrebbe sicuramente trovato qualcuno che la proteggesse e che forse avrebbe potuto amare di nuovo. Quando era una >bambina, mi consolavo pensando che, accontentando il mio capriccio di metterla tra me e degli individui senza cuore, le stessi facendo un favore. Ora che è diventata donna, non ho più questa consolazione. Non ha nessuno che la protegga se non sé stessa. L’ho messa in una situazione così difficile rispetto al mondo esterno, che qualsiasi persona può trattarla con disprezzo o affetto, a seconda dei suoi desideri. Davvero, ha bisogno di molta attenzione e cura, ”

“Se fosse possibile modificare e definire meglio la sua posizione, signore?” suggerì il signor Pecksniff.

“Come può essere fatto? Dovrei farne una sarta o un’insegnante?”

“Dio non voglia!” disse il signor Pecksniff. “Mio caro signore, ci sono altri modi. Certo che ci sono. Ma al momento sono molto agitato e imbarazzato, e preferirei non approfondire l’argomento. Non so nemmeno bene cosa intenda dire. Permettetemi di riprenderne discorso un’altra volta.”

“Non sei malato?” chiese Martin con ansia.

“No, no!” gridò Pecksniff. “No. Permettetemi di riprenderlo un’altra volta. Farò una piccola passeggiata. Beneditemi!”

Il vecchio Martin lo benedisse in cambio e strinse la sua mano. Mentre si allontanava, camminando lentamente verso la casa, il signor Pecksniff rimase a guardarlo; essendo ormai completamente ripreso dalla sua recente emozione – che, in un altro uomo, si sarebbe potuta considerare una sorta di “meccanismo” per percepire i sentimenti del vecchio Martin – quel cambiamento nel suo comportamento si rifletté in un’espressione così lieve sul volto del signor Pecksniff, che non poté fare a meno di dirsi.

“E posso farlo girare attorno al mio mignolo. Pensateci solo!”

Il vecchio Martin, girando casualmente la testa, lo salutò affettuosamente. Il signor Pecksniff ricambiò il gesto.

“Ma guarda che tempo, ”, disse il signor Pecksniff; “e non molto tempo fa, lui nemmeno voleva guardarmi! Che cambiamento meraviglioso. La natura umana è davvero delicata; il processo per rendere il cuore più gentile è estremamente complesso. Esteriormente sembra lo stesso di prima, e posso ancora ‘avvolgerlo’ attorno al mio mignolo. Pensateci solo!”

In tutta onestà, sembrava proprio non esserci nulla in cui il signor Pecksniff non avrebbe potuto intraprendere qualcosa insieme a Martin Chuzzlewit; perché qualsiasi cosa il signor Pecksniff dicesse o facesse era giusta, e qualsiasi consiglio desse veniva sempre seguito. Martin aveva evitato così tante trappole tendute da individui avidi di arricchirsi rapidamente; per anni si era tenuto alla larga da tutti, vittima della propria sospettosità e diffidenza. Ma ora sarebbe diventato lo strumento e il giocattolo di quel buon uomo. Con un’espressione di felicità sul viso, l’architetto uscì per la sua passeggiata mattutina.

Il clima estivo nel suo cuore si rifletteva nel petto della >Natura. Attraverso viste di un verde intenso, dove i rami si arcuavano sopra la sua testa e il sole lampeggiava in quella bellissima prospettiva; attraverso felci ricoperte di rugiada da cui i conigli spaventati balzavano su e fuggivano al suo avvicinarsi; accanto a stagni coperti di foglie e alberi caduti, che frusciavano tra le foglie dell’anno precedente il cui profumo risvegliava ricordi del passato. Il tranquillo Pecksniff camminava lentamente. Lungo i cancelli dei prati e gli arbusti profumati di rose selvatiche; accanto alle capanne con tetti di paglia, le cui abitanti si inchinavano umilmente davanti a lui come davanti a un uomo buono e saggio. Il nobile Pecksniff procedeva in tranquilla meditazione. La ape continuava il suo lavoro, ronzando; le zanzare oziose volavano in cerchio, sempre veloci, danzando gioiosamente davanti a lui; il colore dell’erba cambiava continuamente, come se le nuvole leggere la rendessero timida mentre fluttuavano nell’aria lontana. Gli uccelli, tante “coscienze” di Pecksniff, cantavano allegramente su ogni ramo; e il signor Pecksniff rendeva omaggio a quella giornata riflettendo sui suoi progetti mentre camminava.

Incidentalmente, nella sua distrazione, inciampò nella radice espansa di un vecchio albero; alzò quindi lo sguardo per esaminare il terreno davanti a sé. Fu sorpreso nel vedere l’immagine concreta dei suoi pensieri poco più avanti. Maria stessa. E sola.

All’inizio, il signor Pecksniff si fermò come se avesse intenzione di evitarla; ma subito dopo decise di avvicinarsi, e lo fece a passo svelto, cantando mentre camminava in modo così dolce e con tanta innocenza che sembrava gli mancassero solo piume e ali per diventare un uccello.

Sentendo delle voci alle sue spalle, voci che non appartenevano ai cantanti del bosco, si guardò intorno. Il signor Pecksniff le baciò la mano e subito fu al suo fianco.

“Comunicare con la >natura?”, disse il signor Pecksniff. “Anch’io lo faccio.”

She said the morning was so beautiful that she had walked further than she intended, and would return. Mr Pecksniff said it was exactly his case, and he would return with her.

‘Take my arm, sweet girl,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

Mary declined it, and walked so very fast that he remonstrated. ‘You were loitering when I came upon you,’ Mr Pecksniff said. ‘Why be so cruel as to hurry now? You would not shun me, would you?’

‘Yes, I would,’ she answered, turning her glowing cheek indignantly upon him, ‘you know I would. Release me, Mr Pecksniff. Your touch is disagreeable to me.’

His touch! What? That chaste patriarchal touch which Mrs Todgers—surely a discreet lady—had endured, not only without complaint, but with apparent satisfaction! This was positively wrong. Mr Pecksniff was sorry to hear her say it.

‘If you have not observed,’ said Mary, ‘that it is so, pray take assurance from my lips, and do not, as you are a gentleman, continue to offend me.’

‘Well, well!’ said Mr Pecksniff, mildly, ‘I feel that I might consider this becoming in a daughter of my own, and why should I object to it in one so beautiful! It’s harsh. It cuts me to the soul,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘but I cannot quarrel with you, Mary.’

She tried to say she was sorry to hear it, but burst into tears. Mr Pecksniff now repeated the Todgers performance on a comfortable scale, as if he intended it to last some time; and in his disengaged hand, catching hers, employed himself in separating the fingers with his own, and sometimes kissing them, as he pursued the conversation thus:

‘I am glad we met. I am very glad we met. I am able now to ease my bosom of a heavy load, and speak to you in confidence. Mary,’ said Mr Pecksniff in his tenderest tones, indeed they were so very tender that he almost squeaked: ‘My soul! I love you!’

A fantastic thing, that maiden affectation! She made believe to shudder.

‘I love you,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘my gentle life, with a devotion which is quite surprising, even to myself. I did suppose that the sensation was buried in the silent tomb of a lady, only second to you in qualities of the mind and form; but I find I am mistaken.’

She tried to disengage her hand, but might as well have tried to free herself from the embrace of an affectionate boa-constrictor; if anything so wily may be brought into comparison with Pecksniff.

‘Although I am a widower,’ said Mr Pecksniff, examining the rings upon her fingers, and tracing the course of one delicate blue vein with his fat thumb, ‘a widower with two daughters, still I am not encumbered, my love. One of them, as you know, is married. The other, by her own desire, but with a view, I will confess—why not?—to my altering my condition, is about to leave her father’s house. I have a character, I hope. People are pleased to speak well of me, I think. My person and manner are not absolutely those of a monster, I trust. Ah! naughty Hand!’ said Mr Pecksniff, apostrophizing the reluctant prize, ‘why did you take me prisoner? Go, go!’

He slapped the hand to punish it; but relenting, folded it in his waistcoat to comfort it again.

‘Blessed in each other, and in the society of our venerable friend, my darling,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘we shall be happy. When he is wafted to a haven of rest, we will console each other. My pretty primrose, what do you say?’

‘It is possible,’ Mary answered, in a hurried manner, ‘that I ought to feel grateful for this mark of your confidence. I cannot say that I do, but I am willing to suppose you may deserve my thanks. Take them; and pray leave me, Mr Pecksniff.’

The good man smiled a greasy smile; and drew her closer to him.

‘Pray, pray release me, Mr Pecksniff. I cannot listen to your proposal. I cannot receive it. There are many to whom it may be acceptable, but it is not so to me. As an act of kindness and an act of pity, leave me!’

Mr Pecksniff walked on with his arm round her waist, and her hand in his, as contentedly as if they had been all in all to each other, and were joined in the bonds of truest love.

‘If you force me by your superior strength,’ said Mary, who finding that good words had not the least effect upon him, made no further effort to suppress her indignation; ‘if you force me by your superior strength to accompany you back, and to be the subject of your insolence upon the way, you cannot constrain the expression of my thoughts. I hold you in the deepest abhorrence. I know your real nature and despise it.’

‘No, no,’ said Mr Pecksniff, sweetly. ‘No, no, no!’

‘By what arts or unhappy chances you have gained your influence over Mr Chuzzlewit, I do not know,’ said Mary; ‘it may be strong enough to soften even this, but he shall know of this, trust me, sir.’

Mr Pecksniff raised his heavy eyelids languidly, and let them fall again. It was saying with perfect coolness, ‘Aye, aye! Indeed!’

‘Is it not enough,’ said Mary, ‘that you warp and change his nature, adapt his every prejudice to your bad ends, and harden a heart naturally kind by shutting out the truth and allowing none but false and distorted views to reach it; is it not enough that you have the power of doing this, and that you exercise it, but must you also be so coarse, so cruel, and so cowardly to me?’

Still Mr Pecksniff led her calmly on, and looked as mild as any lamb that ever pastured in the fields.

‘Will nothing move you, sir?’ cried Mary.

‘My dear,’ observed Mr Pecksniff, with a placid leer, ‘a habit of self-examination, and the practice of—shall I say of virtue?’

‘Of hypocrisy,’ said Mary.

‘No, no,’ resumed Mr Pecksniff, chafing the captive hand reproachfully, ‘of virtue—have enabled me to set such guards upon myself, that it is really difficult to ruffle me. It is a curious fact, but it is difficult, do you know, for any one to ruffle me. And did she think,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a playful tightening of his grasp ‘that SHE could! How little did she know his heart!’

Disse che la mattina era così bella che aveva camminato più di quanto avesse intenzionato e che sarebbe tornata indietro. Il signor Pecksniff disse che era esattamente lo stesso per lui e che l’avrebbe accompagnata nel suo ritorno.

“Prendi il mio braccio, cara ragazza,” disse il signor Pecksniff.

Mary rifiutò e camminò così velocemente che lui protestò: “Stavi gironzolando quando ti ho incontrata,” disse il signor Pecksniff. “Perché essere così crudele da affrettarti ora? Non mi eviteresti mica, vero?”

“Sì, lo farei,” rispose lei, girando verso di lui il suo viso arrossato con indignazione, “lo sai che lo farei. Lasciami andare, signor Pecksniff. Il tuo tocco mi è sgradevole.”

Il suo tocco. Che cosa? Quel tocco puro e patriarcale che la signora Todgers – sicuramente una donna discreta – aveva sopportato, non solo senza lamentarsi, ma addirittura con evidente soddisfazione! Era assolutamente sbagliato. Al signor Pecksniff dispiacque molto sentirla dire così.

“Se non avete ancora notato che è così,” disse Mary, “vi prego di credermi sulla parola e di smettere, visto che siete un gentiluomo, di offendermi ulteriormente.”

‘Beh, beh!’ disse gentilmente il signor Pecksniff, ‘Penso che possa essere appropriato per una mia figlia. E perché dovrei oppormi a qualcosa di così bello in una ragazza del genere? È crudele. Mi ferisce profondamente nell’anima,’ aggiunse; ‘ma non posso discutere con te, Mary.’

Cercò di dire che le dispiacesse molto sentirlo, ma scoppiò in lacrime. Ora il signor Pecksniff ripeteva la stessa scena di prima, con maggiore tranquillità, come se intendesse farla durare per un po’; nella sua mano, che sembrava non essere impegnata in nulla altro, afferrò quella della ragazza e iniziò a separarne le dita una per una, baciandole di tanto in tanto mentre proseguiva la conversazione.

“Sono felice che ci siamo incontrati. Molto felice. Ora posso liberarmi di un peso opprimente e parlarti con fiducia, Mary,” disse il signor Pecksniff con i toni più teneri possibile; anzi, erano così teneri che quasi stridette: “La mia ‘anima. Ti amo!”

Una cosa fantastica. Quella falsa timidezza da fanciulla! Fingeva di tremare.

“Ti amo,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “mia cara vita, con un affetto che è davvero sorprendente, persino per me stesso. Pensavo che quel sentimento fosse sepolto nella silenziosa tomba di una signora, seconda solo a te per qualità intellettuali e fisiche; ma mi rendo conto di essermi sbagliato.”

Cercò di liberare la sua mano, ma sarebbe stato lo stesso che provare a sfuggire dall’abbraccio di un affettuoso boa constrictore. Se c’è qualcuno che possa essere paragonato a Pecksniff, è proprio lui.

“Anche se sono un vedovo,” disse il signor Pecksniff, esaminando gli anelli sulle sue dita e seguendo con il suo grosso pollice la traiettoria di una sottile vena blu, “un vedovo con due figlie, comunque non sono gravato da alcun obbligo, mia cara. Una di loro, come sai, è sposata; l’altra, per sua stessa volontà – e devo ammetterlo: perché no? – al fine di migliorare la mia situazione economica, sta per lasciare la casa di suo padre. Ho un certo carattere, spero che la gente parli bene di me. La mia persona e i miei modi, credo, non siano affatto quelli di un mostro. Ah! Maledetta mano!” disse il signor Pecksniff, rivolgendosi alla “preda” riluttante, “perché mi hai catturato? Vai via, vai via!”

Lo schiaffeggiò per punirlo; ma poi, pentendosi, lo ripose nel suo gilet per consolarlo di nuovo.

“Benedetti l’uno dall’altro, e nella compagnia del nostro venerabile amico, mio caro,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “sarremo felici. Quando lui sarà portato in un luogo di pace eterna, ci consoleremo a vicenda. Mia bella primula, che ne pensi?”

“È possibile,” rispose Mary in fretta, “che io debba essere grata per questo segno della tua fiducia in me. Non posso dire di esserlo, ma sono disposta ad ammettere che forse meriti le mie ringraziamenti. Accettale, e per favore lasciami andare, signor Pecksniff.”

L’uomo buono sorrise con un sorriso untuoso e la tirò più vicina a sé.

“Pregate, pregate. Lasciatemi andare, signor Pecksniff. Non posso ascoltare la vostra proposta. Non posso accettarla. Forse è accettabile per molte persone, ma non lo è per me. Per favore, come atto di gentilezza e compassione, lasciatemi andare!”

Il signor Pecksniff proseguì il cammino tenendola per la vita e con la sua mano nella propria, con tale soddisfazione, come se fossero davvero l’uno tutto dell’altro e uniti dai legami dell’amore più vero.

“Se mi costringi con la tua forza superiore,” disse Mary, che, vedendo che le parole gentili non avevano alcun effetto su di lui, smise di cercare di reprimere la sua indignazione; “se mi costringi con la tua forza superiore ad accompagnarti indietro e a subire le tue insolenze lungo la strada, non potrai impedirmi di esprimere i miei pensieri. Ti disprezzo profondamente. Conosco la tua vera natura e la disprezzo.”

“No, no,” disse il signor Pecksniff, dolcemente. “No, no, no!”

“Con quali mezzi o sfortunate coincidenze abbiate ottenuto questo ascendente su Mr Chuzzlewit, non lo so,” disse Mary; “forse è abbastanza forte da poter anche questa volta mitigare la situazione, ma lui ne verrà a conoscenza, credetemi, signore.”

Il signor Pecksniff sollevò lentamente le sue pesanti palpebre e le lasciò ricadere di nuovo. Con perfetta indifferenza, stava dicendo: “Sì, sì. Certo!”

“Non è forse sufficiente,” disse Mary, “che tu distorca e alteri la sua natura, che adatti ogni suo pregiudizio ai tuoi scopi malvagi, e che renda duro un cuore naturalmente gentile, escludendo la .verità e permettendo solo opinioni false e distorte di raggiungerlo? Non è forse sufficiente che tu abbia il potere di farlo e che lo eserciti. Ma devi proprio essere così crudele, così spietato e così codardo nei miei confronti?”

Eppure il signor Pecksniff continuò a guidarla con calma, e sembrava tanto mite quanto qualsiasi agnello che avesse mai pascolato nei campi.

“Niente vi commuove, signore?” gridò Mary.

“Mia cara,” osservò il signor Pecksniff con un sorriso sereno, “l’abitudine di esaminarsi continuamente e la pratica, dovrei dire della virtù?”

“Dell’ipocrisia,” disse Mary.

“No, no,” riprese il signor Pecksniff, strofinando con rimprovero la mano della prigioniera, “la virtù, mi ha permesso di mettermi delle difese così efficaci che è davvero difficile turbarmi. È un fatto curioso, ma, è davvero difficile, capite, per chiunque riuscire a turbarmi. E lei pensava,” disse il signor Pecksniff, stringendo la mano della prigioniera con aria scherzosa, “che LEI potesse farlo? Quanto poco conosceva il suo cuore, ”

Little, indeed! Her mind was so strangely constituted that she would have preferred the caresses of a toad, an adder, or a serpent—nay, the hug of a bear—to the endearments of Mr Pecksniff.

‘Come, come,’ said that good gentleman, ‘a word or two will set this matter right, and establish a pleasant understanding between us. I am not angry, my love.’

‘YOU angry!’

‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘I am not. I say so. Neither are you.’

There was a beating heart beneath his hand that told another story though.

‘I am sure you are not,’ said Mr Pecksniff: ‘and I will tell you why. There are two Martin Chuzzlewits, my dear; and your carrying your anger to one might have a serious effect—who knows!—upon the other. You wouldn’t wish to hurt him, would you?’

She trembled violently, and looked at him with such a proud disdain that he turned his eyes away. No doubt lest he should be offended with her in spite of his better self.

‘A passive quarrel, my love,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘may be changed into an active one, remember. It would be sad to blight even a disinherited young man in his already blighted prospects; but how easy to do it. Ah, how easy! HAVE I influence with our venerable friend, do you think? Well, perhaps I have. Perhaps I have.’

He raised his eyes to hers; and nodded with an air of banter that was charming.

‘No,’ he continued, thoughtfully. ‘Upon the whole, my sweet, if I were you I’d keep my secret to myself. I am not at all sure—very far from it—that it would surprise our friend in any way, for he and I have had some conversation together only this morning, and he is anxious, very anxious, to establish you in some more settled manner. But whether he was surprised or not surprised, the consequence of your imparting it might be the same. Martin junior might suffer severely. I’d have compassion on Martin junior, do you know?’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a persuasive smile. ‘Yes. He don’t deserve it, but I would.’

She wept so bitterly now, and was so much distressed, that he thought it prudent to unclasp her waist, and hold her only by the hand.

‘As to our own share in the precious little mystery,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘we will keep it to ourselves, and talk of it between ourselves, and you shall think it over. You will consent, my love; you will consent, I know. Whatever you may think; you will. I seem to remember to have heard—I really don’t know where, or how’—he added, with bewitching frankness, ‘that you and Martin junior, when you were children, had a sort of childish fondness for each other. When we are married, you shall have the satisfaction of thinking that it didn’t last to ruin him, but passed away to do him good; for we’ll see then what we can do to put some trifling help in Martin junior’s way. HAVE I any influence with our venerable friend? Well! Perhaps I have. Perhaps I have.’

The outlet from the wood in which these tender passages occurred, was close to Mr Pecksniff’s house. They were now so near it that he stopped, and holding up her little finger, said in playful accents, as a parting fancy:

‘Shall I bite it?’

Receiving no reply he kissed it instead; and then stooping down, inclined his flabby face to hers—he had a flabby face, although he WAS a good man—and with a blessing, which from such a source was quite enough to set her up in life, and prosper her from that time forth permitted her to leave him.

Gallantry in its true sense is supposed to ennoble and dignify a man; and love has shed refinements on innumerable Cymons. But Mr Pecksniff—perhaps because to one of his exalted nature these were mere grossnesses—certainly did not appear to any unusual advantage, now that he was left alone. On the contrary, he seemed to be shrunk and reduced; to be trying to hide himself within himself; and to be wretched at not having the power to do it. His shoes looked too large; his sleeve looked too long; his hair looked too limp; his features looked too mean; his exposed throat looked as if a halter would have done it good. For a minute or two, in fact, he was hot, and pale, and mean, and shy, and slinking, and consequently not at all Pecksniffian. But after that, he recovered himself, and went home with as beneficent an air as if he had been the High Priest of the summer weather.

‘I have arranged to go, Papa,’ said Charity, ‘to-morrow.’

‘So soon, my child!’

‘I can’t go too soon,’ said Charity, ‘under the circumstances. I have written to Mrs Todgers to propose an arrangement, and have requested her to meet me at the coach, at all events. You’ll be quite your own master now, Mr Pinch!’

Mr Pecksniff had just gone out of the room, and Tom had just come into it.

‘My own master!’ repeated Tom.

‘Yes, you’ll have nobody to interfere with you,’ said Charity. ‘At least I hope you won’t. Hem! It’s a changing world.’

‘What! are YOU going to be married, Miss Pecksniff?’ asked Tom in great surprise.

‘Not exactly,’ faltered Cherry. ‘I haven’t made up my mind to be. I believe I could be, if I chose, Mr Pinch.’

‘Of course you could!’ said Tom. And he said it in perfect good faith. He believed it from the bottom of his heart.

‘No,’ said Cherry, ‘I am not going to be married. Nobody is, that I know of. Hem! But I am not going to live with Papa. I have my reasons, but it’s all a secret. I shall always feel very kindly towards you, I assure you, for the boldness you showed that night. As to you and me, Mr Pinch, WE part the best friends possible!’

Tom thanked her for her confidence, and for her friendship, but there was a mystery in the former which perfectly bewildered him. In his extravagant devotion to the family, he had felt the loss of Merry more than any one but those who knew that for all the slights he underwent he thought his own demerits were to blame, could possibly have understood. He had scarcely reconciled himself to that when here was Charity about to leave them. She had grown up, as it were, under Tom’s eye. The sisters were a part of Pecksniff, and a part of Tom; items in Pecksniff’s goodness, and in Tom’s service. He couldn’t bear it; not two hours’ sleep had Tom that night, through dwelling in his bed upon these dreadful changes.

When morning dawned he thought he must have dreamed this piece of ambiguity; but no, on going downstairs he found them packing trunks and cording boxes, and making other preparations for Miss Charity’s departure, which lasted all day long. In good time for the evening coach, Miss Charity deposited her housekeeping keys with much ceremony upon the parlour table; took a gracious leave of all the house; and quitted her paternal roof—a blessing for which the Pecksniffian servant was observed by some profane persons to be particularly active in the thanksgiving at church next Sunday.

Davvero poco! La sua mente era così stranamente formata che avrebbe preferito le carezze di una rana, di un serpente, anzi, l’abbraccio di un orso, piuttosto che gli affetti del signor Pecksniff.

“Ma come, ma come,” disse quel gentile signore, “una parola o due basteranno per risolvere questa questione e stabilire un rapporto cordiale tra di noi. Non sono arrabbiato, mia amata.”

“Sei arrabbiato!”

“No,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “io no. Lo dico chiaro e tondo. E nemmeno tu.”

C’era un cuore che batteva sotto la sua mano, che raccontava un’altra storia.

“Sono sicuro che non lo sia,” disse il signor Pecksniff: “e vi spiegherò il perché. Esistono due Martin Chuzzlewits, caro mio; e se portaste la vostra rabbia verso uno di loro, potrebbe avere conseguenze gravi, chi lo sa! Non vorreste certo fargli del male, vero?”

Tremava violentemente e lo guardava con un disprezzo così orgoglioso che lui distolse lo sguardo. Non aveva alcun dubbio che lei potesse offenderlo, nonostante la sua natura più nobile.

“Una lite passiva, mia amata”, disse il signor Pecksniff, “può trasformarsi in una lite attiva, ricorda. Sarebbe triste rovinare anche le già compromesse prospettive di un giovane privato di eredità; ma è così facile farlo. Ah, quanto facile! Penso di avere influenza su nostro venerabile amico, non credi? Forse sì. Forse sì.”

Alzò lo sguardo verso il suo; poi annuì con un tono scherzoso che era davvero affascinante.

“No,” continuò lui, pensieroso. “In fondo, cara mia, se fossi al tuo posto, terrei il mio segreto per me. Non sono affatto sicuro, anzi, molto lontano dal esserlo, che questo segreto possa sorprendere il nostro amico; infatti, questa mattina stesso abbiamo avuto una conversazione insieme, e lui è molto ansioso di sistemarti in modo più stabile. Ma che sia rimasto sorpreso o meno, le conseguenze della tua rivelazione potrebbero essere uguali. Martin junior potrebbe soffrire molto. Avrei pietà per Martin junior, capisci?” disse il signor Pecksniff, con un sorriso persuasivo. “Sì. Lui non se lo merita, ma io sì.”

Ora piangeva così amaramente e era così angosciata che lui pensò fosse saggio allentare la presa attorno alla sua vita e tenerla soltanto per la mano.

“Per quanto riguarda la nostra parte in questo prezioso mistero,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “la terremo per noi stessi e ne parleremo solo tra di noi; tu ci penserai bene. Accetterai, mia cara; lo so che accetterai. Qualunque cosa tu possa pensare, lo farai. Mi pare di ricordare, davvero non so dove o come, ” aggiunse con una franchezza incantevole, “che tu e Martin junior, da bambini, avevate un certo affetto reciproco. Quando ci sposeremo, potrai essere soddisfatta nel pensare che quel sentimento non lo abbia rovinato, ma invece gli sia stato d’aiuto. Perché allora vedremo cosa possiamo fare per aiutare Martin junior in qualche modo. Ho un ascendente su questo nostro venerabile amico? Beh. Forse sì. Forse sì.”

L’uscita dal tronco d’albero dove si trovavano questi teneri passaggi era vicina alla casa del signor Pecksniff. Ora erano così vicini che lui si fermò, prese il suo mignolo e, con tono scherzoso, disse come una battuta d’addio:

“Devo morderlo?”

Non ricevendo alcuna risposta, la baciò invece; poi si chinò, avvicinando il proprio viso flaccido al suo – aveva un viso flaccido, anche se era un uomo buono – e con una benedizione, che proveniva da una fonte del genere ed era più che sufficiente per assicurarle una vita prospera a partire da quel momento, le permise di lasciarlo.

La galanteria, nel suo vero senso, dovrebbe onorare e dignitizzare un uomo; e l’amore ha donato raffinatezza a innumerevoli individui. Ma il signor Pecksniff – forse perché, per la sua natura elevata, queste cose rappresentavano soltanto volgarità – certamente non ne traeva alcun vantaggio, ora che era rimasto solo. Al contrario, sembrava essersi rimpicciolito e ridotto; cercava di nascondersi in se stesso e soffriva per non avere la forza di farlo. I suoi scarpi sembravano troppo grandi; la sua manica troppo lunga; i suoi capelli troppo lisci; i suoi tratti del viso troppo meschini; il suo collo esposto, come se un collare potesse aiutarlo in qualche modo. Per un minuto o due, infatti, sembrò caldo, pallido, meschino, timido e furtivo, insomma, assolutamente non da Pecksniff. Ma poi si riprese e tornò a casa con un’aria così benevola, come se fosse stato il Sommo Sacerdote del clima estivo.

“Ho organizzato di andare, Papà,” disse Charity, “domani.”

“Così presto, mio bambino!”

“Non posso andarmene troppo presto,” disse Charity, “dati questi circostanze. Ho scritto a Mrs Todgers per proporle un accordo e le ho chiesto di incontrarmi alla stazione delle diligenze, in ogni caso. Ora potrete fare ciò che desiderate, signor Pinch!”

Il signor Pecksniff era appena uscito dalla stanza, e Tom era appena entrato.

“Il mio padrone!” ripeté Tom.

“Sì, non avrai nessuno che ti interferisca,” disse Charity. “Almeno lo spero. Ehm! Il mondo sta cambiando.”

“Cosa? Tu ti sposi, signorina Pecksniff?” chiese Tom, molto sorpreso.

“Non esattamente,” balbettò Cherry. “Non ho ancora deciso se lo sarò o meno. Credo che potrei esserlo, se lo scegliessi, signor Pinch.”

“Certo che puoi farlo!” disse Tom. E lo disse con la massima buona fede. Lo credeva davvero, dal profondo del suo cuore.

“No,” disse Cherry, “non mi sposerò. Nessuno lo farà, per quel che ne so. Ehm. Ma non vivrò con papà. Ho le mie ragioni, ma sono tutte segrete. Vi assicuro che vi sarò sempre molto grata per il coraggio che avete dimostrato quella notte. Per quanto riguarda me e voi, signor Pinch. SIAMO i migliori amici possibili!”

Tom le ringraziò per la sua fiducia e per la sua amicizia, ma c’era un mistero nella prima cosa che lo confondeva completamente. Nella sua estrema devozione verso la famiglia, aveva provato la perdita di Merry più di chiunque altro, tranne coloro che sapevano che, nonostante tutti gli insulti subiti, lui attribuiva la colpa ai propri difetti. A malapena si era rassegnato a questa realtà quando, ora, Charity stava per lasciarli. Lei era cresciuta, in un certo senso, sotto i suoi occhi; le sorelle facevano parte di Pecksniff e quindi anche di Tom: erano elementi fondamentali della bontà di Pecksniff e del servizio che Tom rendeva a quella famiglia. Non riusciva a sopportarlo. Quella notte, non aveva dormito nemmeno due ore, perché continuava a riflettere su questi terribili cambiamenti.

Quando spuntò l’alba, pensò che quell’ambiguità dovesse essere frutto di un sogno; ma no: scendendo al piano di sotto, li trovò mentre imballavano valigie e scatole, preparandosi per la partenza di Miss Charity, una procedura che durò tutta la giornata. Proprio in tempo per la carrozza serale, Miss Charity depose con grande solennità le chiavi della casa sul tavolo del salotto; si congedò affettuosamente da tutti i membri della famiglia e lasciò la dimora di suo padre. Una benedizione per cui il servitore Pecksniffian, secondo alcune persone profane, fu particolarmente diligente durante le preghiere di ringraziamento in chiesa il seguente domenica.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

MR PINCH IS DISCHARGED OF A DUTY WHICH HE NEVER OWED TO ANYBODY, AND MR PECKSNIFF DISCHARGES A DUTY WHICH HE OWES TO SOCIETY

The closing words of the last chapter lead naturally to the commencement of this, its successor; for it has to do with a church. With the church, so often mentioned heretofore, in which Tom Pinch played the organ for nothing.

One sultry afternoon, about a week after Miss Charity’s departure for London, Mr Pecksniff being out walking by himself, took it into his head to stray into the churchyard. As he was lingering among the tombstones, endeavouring to extract an available sentiment or two from the epitaphs—for he never lost an opportunity of making up a few moral crackers, to be let off as occasion served—Tom Pinch began to practice. Tom could run down to the church and do so whenever he had time to spare; for it was a simple little organ, provided with wind by the action of the musician’s feet; and he was independent, even of a bellows-blower. Though if Tom had wanted one at any time, there was not a man or boy in all the village, and away to the turnpike (tollman included), but would have blown away for him till he was black in the face.

Mr Pecksniff had no objection to music; not the least. He was tolerant of everything; he often said so. He considered it a vagabond kind of trifling, in general, just suited to Tom’s capacity. But in regard to Tom’s performance upon this same organ, he was remarkably lenient, singularly amiable; for when Tom played it on Sundays, Mr Pecksniff in his unbounded sympathy felt as if he played it himself, and were a benefactor to the congregation. So whenever it was impossible to devise any other means of taking the value of Tom’s wages out of him, Mr Pecksniff gave him leave to cultivate this instrument. For which mark of his consideration Tom was very grateful.

The afternoon was remarkably warm, and Mr Pecksniff had been strolling a long way. He had not what may be called a fine ear for music, but he knew when it had a tranquilizing influence on his soul; and that was the case now, for it sounded to him like a melodious snore. He approached the church, and looking through the diamond lattice of a window near the porch, saw Tom, with the curtains in the loft drawn back, playing away with great expression and tenderness.

The church had an inviting air of coolness. The old oak roof supported by cross-beams, the hoary walls, the marble tablets, and the cracked stone pavement, were refreshing to look at. There were leaves of ivy tapping gently at the opposite windows; and the sun poured in through only one; leaving the body of the church in tempting shade. But the most tempting spot of all, was one red-curtained and soft-cushioned pew, wherein the official dignitaries of the place (of whom Mr Pecksniff was the head and chief) enshrined themselves on Sundays. Mr Pecksniff’s seat was in the corner; a remarkably comfortable corner; where his very large Prayer-Book was at that minute making the most of its quarto self upon the desk. He determined to go in and rest.

He entered very softly; in part because it was a church; in part because his tread was always soft; in part because Tom played a solemn tune; in part because he thought he would surprise him when he stopped. Unbolting the door of the high pew of state, he glided in and shut it after him; then sitting in his usual place, and stretching out his legs upon the hassocks, he composed himself to listen to the music.

It is an unaccountable circumstance that he should have felt drowsy there, where the force of association might surely have been enough to keep him wide awake; but he did. He had not been in the snug little corner five minutes before he began to nod. He had not recovered himself one minute before he began to nod again. In the very act of opening his eyes indolently, he nodded again. In the very act of shutting them, he nodded again. So he fell out of one nod into another until at last he ceased to nod at all, and was as fast as the church itself.

He had a consciousness of the organ, long after he fell asleep, though as to its being an organ he had no more idea of that than he had of its being a bull. After a while he began to have at intervals the same dreamy impressions of voices; and awakening to an indolent curiosity upon the subject, opened his eyes.

He was so indolent, that after glancing at the hassocks and the pew, he was already half-way off to sleep again, when it occurred to him that there really were voices in the church; low voices, talking earnestly hard by; while the echoes seemed to mutter responses. He roused himself, and listened.

Before he had listened half a dozen seconds, he became as broad awake as ever he had been in all his life. With eyes, and ears, and mouth, wide open, he moved himself a very little with the utmost caution, and gathering the curtain in his hand, peeped out.

Tom Pinch and Mary. Of course. He had recognized their voices, and already knew the topic they discussed. Looking like the small end of a guillotined man, with his chin on a level with the top of the pew, so that he might duck down immediately in case of either of them turning round, he listened. Listened with such concentrated eagerness, that his very hair and shirt-collar stood bristling up to help him.

‘No,’ cried Tom. ‘No letters have ever reached me, except that one from New York. But don’t be uneasy on that account, for it’s very likely they have gone away to some far-off place, where the posts are neither regular nor frequent. He said in that very letter that it might be so, even in that city to which they thought of travelling—Eden, you know.’

‘It is a great weight upon my mind,’ said Mary.

‘Oh, but you mustn’t let it be,’ said Tom. ‘There’s a true saying that nothing travels so fast as ill news; and if the slightest harm had happened to Martin, you may be sure you would have heard of it long ago. I have often wished to say this to you,’ Tom continued with an embarrassment that became him very well, ‘but you have never given me an opportunity.’

CAPITOLO TRENTUNO

Il signor Pinch viene esonerato da un dovere che non ha mai avuto nei confronti di nessuno, e il signor Pecksniff viene anch’egli esonerato da un dovere che invece ha verso la società.

Le ultime parole dell’ultimo capitolo portano naturalmente all’inizio di questo, il suo successore; poiché entrambi riguardano una chiesa. Quella chiesa, così spesso menzionata finora, nella quale Tom Pinch suonò l’organo senza alcun compenso.

Un caldo pomeriggio, circa una settimana dopo la partenza di Miss Charity per Londra, il signor Pecksniff, mentre passeggiava da solo, decise di entrare nel cimitero. Mentre si aggirava tra le lapidi, cercava di estrarre qualche pensiero significativo dalle iscrizioni funebri, poiché non perdeva mai l’occasione di formulare qualche “sentenza morale” da pronunciare al momento giusto. In quel mentre, Tom Pinch iniziò a suonare l’organo del cimitero. Tom poteva andarci ogni volta che aveva un po’ di tempo libero; si trattava infatti di un semplice organetto azionato dal movimento dei piedi del musicista, e lui era addirittura indipendente, senza bisogno di nessuno che soffiasse nei mantici. Anche se, se ne fosse avuto bisogno in qualsiasi momento, non c’era uomo o ragazzo nel villaggio – né tantomeno il guardiano del pedaggio – che non avesse soffiato per lui fino a quando non si fosse scurito tutto il viso.

Il signor Pecksniff non aveva alcuna obiezione alla musica; anzi, ne era tollerante verso tutto. Lo diceva spesso. Considerava la musica una sorta di frivolezza adatta soltanto alle capacità di Tom. Tuttavia, riguardo alle esibizioni di Tom su quell’organo, era straordinariamente indulgente e particolarmente gentile: quando Tom lo suonava la domenica, il signor Pecksniff, nella sua infinita compassione, si sentiva come se fosse lui stesso a suonarlo, e quindi come se stesse facendo un favore alla congregazione. Quindi, ogni volta che non si trovava alcun altro modo per sottrarre valore al salario di Tom, il signor Pecksniff gli permetteva di continuare a coltivare questa passione per la musica. Per questo gesto di considerazione, Tom era molto grato.

Quel pomeriggio faceva un caldo insolito, e il signor Pecksniff aveva camminato per una lunga distanza. Non possedeva certo un orecchio particolarmente sensibile alla musica, ma sapeva riconoscere quando essa aveva un effetto tranquillizzante sulla sua ‘anima; ed era proprio il caso in quel momento, poiché gli sembrava il suono di un russare melodioso. Si avvicinò alla chiesa e, guardando attraverso la griglia di ferro di una finestra vicino all’ingresso, vide Tom: le tende del soppalco erano state tirate indietro, e lui suonava con grande espressione e delicatezza.

La chiesa aveva un’atmosfera fresca e accogliente. Il vecchio tetto di quercia, sostenuto da travi a croce, le pareti ingrigite, le lastre di marmo e il pavimento in pietra crepata erano davvero rinfrescanti da guardare. C’erano foglie di edera che sfioravano delicatamente le finestre opposte; e il sole entrava soltanto attraverso una di esse, lasciando il corpo della chiesa avvolto in un’ombra invitante. Ma il posto più attraente di tutti era quel banco rivestito di tende rosse e imbottito di cuscini morbidi, dove i dignitari locali (di cui il signor Pecksniff era il capo principale) si recavano ogni domenica per pregare. Il posto del signor Pecksniff si trovava nell’angolo; un angolo davvero confortevole. In quel momento, il suo enorme libro di preghiere occupava tutto lo spazio disponibile sul tavolo. Decise quindi di entrare e riposarsi lì dentro.

Entrò molto silenziosamente; in parte perché si trattava di una chiesa; in parte perché i suoi passi erano sempre delicati; in parte perché Tom stava suonando una melodia solenne; in parte perché pensava di sorprendere qualcuno quando si sarebbe fermato. Sciolse i cardini della pesante panca reale, entrò silenziosamente e la chiuse dietro di sé; poi si sedette nel suo solito posto, allungò le gambe sui cuscini e si preparò ad ascoltare la musica.

È una circostanza inspiegabile il fatto che abbia provato sonnolenza proprio lì, dove l’effetto dell’ambiente circostante avrebbe sicuramente dovuto essere sufficiente a tenerlo completamente sveglio; ma invece così fu. Non era nemmeno trascorso un minuto da quando si era sistemato in quel piccolo angolo confortevole che aveva già iniziato ad appisolarsi. Non si era ancora ripreso che aveva già ricominciato a sonnecchiare. Nel momento stesso in cui apriva pigramente gli occhi, li richiudeva già assonnato; e nel momento stesso in cui li chiudeva, li riapriva di nuovo con lo stesso stato d’animo. Così continuò, passando da un sonnellino all’altro, fino a quando alla fine smise del tutto di addormentarsi e divenne sveglio come il resto della gente.

Aveva consapevolezza di quell’organo, molto tempo dopo essersi addormentato, anche se non aveva la minima idea che si trattasse di un organo, proprio come non sapeva che fosse un toro. Dopo un po’, iniziò a sognare, di tanto in tanto, voci strane; svegliandosi con una curiosità pigra riguardo al sogno, aprì gli occhi.

Era così pigro che, dopo aver dato un’occhiata ai cuscini e alle panche della chiesa, era già mezzo addormentato quando gli venne in mente che effettivamente c’erano voci nella chiesa: voci basse, che parlavano seriamente nelle vicinanze; mentre gli echi sembravano mormorare risposte. Si riscosse e ascoltò attentamente.

Prima ancora di aver ascoltato per sei secondi, si svegliò completamente, come non gli era mai successo in tutta la sua vita. Con occhi, orecchie e bocca spalancati, si mosse molto lentamente, con estrema cautela, e afferrando la tenda con la mano, sbirciò fuori.

Tom Pinch e Mary. Certo. Aveva riconosciuto le loro voci e sapeva già di cosa stavano parlando. Con il viso quasi a livello del bordo della panca, pronto a nascondersi all’istante se uno dei due si fosse girato, ascoltava con tale attenzione che anche i suoi capelli e il colletto della camicia sembravano drizzarsi per aiutarlo nell’ascolto.

“No,” gridò Tom. “Non ho mai ricevuto nessuna lettera, tranne quella proveniente da New York. Ma non preoccuparti per questo, perché è molto probabile che siano andati in qualche luogo lontano, dove il servizio postale non è né regolare né frequente. Lui stesso scriveva in quella lettera che poteva essere così, anche in quella >città verso cui pensavano di viaggiare. Eden, lo sai.”

“È un grande peso per la mia mente,” disse Mary.

“Oh, ma non dovete permetterlo,” disse Tom. “C’è un detto che recita: ‘Niente viaggia più velocemente delle cattive notizie’; e se a Martin fosse successo anche il minimo danno, state certi che ne avreste sentito parlare da molto tempo. Spesso ho voluto dirvelo,” continuò Tom con un imbarazzo che gli si addiceva molto, “ma voi non mi avete mai dato l’opportunità di farlo.”

‘I have sometimes been almost afraid,’ said Mary, ‘that you might suppose I hesitated to confide in you, Mr Pinch.’

‘No,’ Tom stammered, ‘I—I am not aware that I ever supposed that. I am sure that if I have, I have checked the thought directly, as an injustice to you. I feel the delicacy of your situation in having to confide in me at all,’ said Tom, ‘but I would risk my life to save you from one day’s uneasiness; indeed I would!’

Poor Tom!

‘I have dreaded sometimes,’ Tom continued, ‘that I might have displeased you by—by having the boldness to try and anticipate your wishes now and then. At other times I have fancied that your kindness prompted you to keep aloof from me.’

‘Indeed!’

‘It was very foolish; very presumptuous and ridiculous, to think so,’ Tom pursued; ‘but I feared you might suppose it possible that I—I—should admire you too much for my own peace; and so denied yourself the slight assistance you would otherwise have accepted from me. If such an idea has ever presented itself to you,’ faltered Tom, ‘pray dismiss it. I am easily made happy; and I shall live contented here long after you and Martin have forgotten me. I am a poor, shy, awkward creature; not at all a man of the world; and you should think no more of me, bless you, than if I were an old friar!’

If friars bear such hearts as thine, Tom, let friars multiply; though they have no such rule in all their stern arithmetic.

‘Dear Mr Pinch!’ said Mary, giving him her hand; ‘I cannot tell you how your kindness moves me. I have never wronged you by the lightest doubt, and have never for an instant ceased to feel that you were all—much more than all—that Martin found you. Without the silent care and friendship I have experienced from you, my life here would have been unhappy. But you have been a good angel to me; filling me with gratitude of heart, hope, and courage.’

‘I am as little like an angel, I am afraid,’ replied Tom, shaking his head, ‘as any stone cherubim among the grave-stones; and I don’t think there are many real angels of THAT pattern. But I should like to know (if you will tell me) why you have been so very silent about Martin.’

‘Because I have been afraid,’ said Mary, ‘of injuring you.’

‘Of injuring me!’ cried Tom.

‘Of doing you an injury with your employer.’

The gentleman in question dived.

‘With Pecksniff!’ rejoined Tom, with cheerful confidence. ‘Oh dear, he’d never think of us! He’s the best of men. The more at ease you were, the happier he would be. Oh dear, you needn’t be afraid of Pecksniff. He is not a spy.’

Many a man in Mr Pecksniff’s place, if he could have dived through the floor of the pew of state and come out at Calcutta or any inhabited region on the other side of the earth, would have done it instantly. Mr Pecksniff sat down upon a hassock, and listening more attentively than ever, smiled.

Mary seemed to have expressed some dissent in the meanwhile, for Tom went on to say, with honest energy:

‘Well, I don’t know how it is, but it always happens, whenever I express myself in this way to anybody almost, that I find they won’t do justice to Pecksniff. It is one of the most extraordinary circumstances that ever came within my knowledge, but it is so. There’s John Westlock, who used to be a pupil here, one of the best-hearted young men in the world, in all other matters—I really believe John would have Pecksniff flogged at the cart’s tail if he could. And John is not a solitary case, for every pupil we have had in my time has gone away with the same inveterate hatred of him. There was Mark Tapley, too, quite in another station of life,’ said Tom; ‘the mockery he used to make of Pecksniff when he was at the Dragon was shocking. Martin too: Martin was worse than any of ‘em. But I forgot. He prepared you to dislike Pecksniff, of course. So you came with a prejudice, you know, Miss Graham, and are not a fair witness.’

Tom triumphed very much in this discovery, and rubbed his hands with great satisfaction.

‘Mr Pinch,’ said Mary, ‘you mistake him.’

‘No, no!’ cried Tom. ‘YOU mistake him. But,’ he added, with a rapid change in his tone, ‘what is the matter? Miss Graham, what is the matter?’

Mr Pecksniff brought up to the top of the pew, by slow degrees, his hair, his forehead, his eyebrow, his eye. She was sitting on a bench beside the door with her hands before her face; and Tom was bending over her.

‘What is the matter?’ cried Tom. ‘Have I said anything to hurt you? Has any one said anything to hurt you? Don’t cry. Pray tell me what it is. I cannot bear to see you so distressed. Mercy on us, I never was so surprised and grieved in all my life!’

Mr Pecksniff kept his eye in the same place. He could have moved it now for nothing short of a gimlet or a red-hot wire.

‘I wouldn’t have told you, Mr Pinch,’ said Mary, ‘if I could have helped it; but your delusion is so absorbing, and it is so necessary that we should be upon our guard; that you should not be compromised; and to that end that you should know by whom I am beset; that no alternative is left me. I came here purposely to tell you, but I think I should have wanted courage if you had not chanced to lead me so directly to the object of my coming.’

Tom gazed at her steadfastly, and seemed to say, ‘What else?’ But he said not a word.

‘That person whom you think the best of men,’ said Mary, looking up, and speaking with a quivering lip and flashing eye.

‘Lord bless me!’ muttered Tom, staggering back. ‘Wait a moment. That person whom I think the best of men! You mean Pecksniff, of course. Yes, I see you mean Pecksniff. Good gracious me, don’t speak without authority. What has he done? If he is not the best of men, what is he?’

‘The worst. The falsest, craftiest, meanest, cruellest, most sordid, most shameless,’ said the trembling girl—trembling with her indignation.

Tom sat down on a seat, and clasped his hands.

‘What is he,’ said Mary, ‘who receiving me in his house as his guest; his unwilling guest; knowing my history, and how defenceless and alone I am, presumes before his daughters to affront me so, that if I had a brother but a child, who saw it, he would instinctively have helped me?’

“A volte ho quasi paura,” disse Mary, “che possiate pensare che io abbia esitato a confidarmi con voi, signor Pinch.”

“No,” balbettò Tom, “io, non ricordo di aver mai pensato una cosa del genere. Sono sicuro che, se l’ho fatto, l’ho subito scartata, considerandola un’ingiustizia verso di te. Capisco quanto sia delicata la tua situazione e quanto sia importante per te confidarti in me,” continuò Tom, “ma sarei disposto a rischiare la mia vita pur di farti evitare anche solo un giorno di disagio. Davvero lo farei!”

Povero Tom!

“A volte ho temuto,” continuò Tom, “di averti offeso per aver avuto l’audacia di cercare di anticipare i tuoi desideri, ora e poi. Altre volte ho pensato che fosse la tua gentilezza a spingerti a mantenere le distanze da me.”

‘Davvero!’

“È stato molto sciocco, molto presuntuoso e ridicolo pensare così,” continuò Tom; “ma temevo che poteste credere che io, che io vi ammirassi troppo, al punto di compromettere la mia pace interiore; per questo ho rifiutato l’aiuto che altrimenti avreste accettato da me. Se mai questa idea vi è venuta in mente,” balbettò Tom, “per favore scacciatela. Sono facilmente felice; vivrò tranquillamente qui, anche dopo che voi e Martin mi avrete dimenticato. Sono una persona povera, timida, goffa, assolutamente non un uomo di mondo; dovreste pensare a me, per favore, come se fossi un vecchio frate!”

Se i frati avessero cuori come il tuo, Tom, che aumentassero pure in numero; anche se nella loro rigida “aritmetica” non esistesse alcuna regola del genere.

“Caro signor Pinch!”, disse Mary porgendogli la mano, “non so come possa esprimervi quanto la vostra gentilezza mi commuova. Non vi ho mai fatto del male nemmeno con il minimo sospetto, e non ho mai smesso un istante di credere che siate davvero tutto, molto di più di ciò che Martin ha trovato in voi. Senza la vostra silenziosa premura e amicizia, la mia vita qui sarebbe stata infelice. Ma voi siete stato come un angelo per me: avete riempito il mio cuore di gratitudine, speranza e coraggio.”

“Temo di non assomigliare affatto a un angelo,” rispose Tom scuotendo la testa, “proprio come qualsiasi cherubino di pietra tra le lapidi del cimitero; e non credo che esistano molti angeli veri con quel tipo di aspetto. Ma mi piacerebbe sapere, (se vuoi dirmelo) perché sei stato così silenzioso riguardo a Martin.”

“Perché avevo paura”, disse Mary, “di farti del male”.

“Di farmi del male!”, gridò Tom.

“Di poter causarti dei problemi con il tuo datore di lavoro.”

Il gentiluomo in questione si tuffò.

“Con Pecksniff!” rispose Tom con gioiosa fiducia. “Oh, mio Dio, non penserebbe mai a noi! È l’uomo migliore. Più vi sentite a vostro agio, più sarà felice. Oh, davvero, non dovete aver paura di Pecksniff. Non è affatto una spia.”

Molti uomini al posto di Mr Pecksniff, se avessero potuto attraversare il pavimento della panca reale e uscire a Calcutta o in qualsiasi altro luogo abitato dall’altra parte della terra, l’avrebbero fatto all’istante. Mr Pecksniff si sedette su un cuscino e, ascoltando più attentamente che mai, sorrise.

Sembrava che Mary avesse espresso qualche disaccordo in quel momento, perché Tom continuò a dire, con sincera energia:

“Beh, non so come mai, ma succede sempre: ogni volta che mi esprimo in questo modo con qualcuno, scopro che non riescono ad apprezzare davvero Pecksniff. È una delle circostanze più straordinarie che io abbia mai incontrato. C’è John Westlock, per esempio: un tempo era uno studente qui, uno dei giovani più buoni di cuore al mondo; in ogni altro senso, credo davvero che John sarebbe stato capace di frustare Pecksniff fino alla morte, se avesse potuto. E non è certo un caso isolato: tutti gli studenti che abbiamo avuto durante il mio periodo qui se ne sono andati con lo stesso odio profondo per lui. C’era anche Mark Tapley, che però proveniva da un ambiente completamente diverso. Le derisioni che faceva su Pecksniff al Dragon erano davvero scioccanti. E poi c’era Martin: era ancora peggio degli altri. Ma mi sono dimenticato di qualcun altro: è stato lui a farvi prendere antipatia per Pecksniff, vero, signorina Graham? Quindi avete un pregiudizio, e non siete certo una testimone imparziale.”

Tom trionfò molto per questa scoperta e si strofinò le mani con grande soddisfazione.

“Signor Pinch,” disse Mary, “lo state confondendo.”

“No, no!” gridò Tom. “Lo state confondendo. Ma,” aggiunse, cambiando rapidamente tono, “che cosa c’è? Signorina Graham, che cosa è successo?”

Il signor Pecksniff, lentamente e gradatamente, fece emergere i suoi capelli, la sua fronte, le sue sopracciglia, il suo occhio dalla posizione in cui si trovavano. Lei era seduta su una panca vicino alla porta, con le mani davanti al viso; Tom si chinava sopra di lei.

“Che cosa c’è?” gridò Tom. “Ho detto qualcosa che ti ha offeso? Qualcuno ha detto qualcosa che ti ha ferito? Non piangere. Per favore, dimmi di cosa si tratta. Non riesco a sopportare di vederti così angosciata. Misericordia. Non sono mai stato così sorpreso e addolorato in tutta la mia vita!”

Il signor Pecksniff teneva lo sguardo fermo nello stesso punto. Ora avrebbe potuto spostarlo, ma solo usando uno strumento apposito o un filo arroventato.

“Non vi avrei detto nulla, signor Pinch,” disse Mary, “se avessi potuto evitarlo; ma la vostra illusione è così coinvolgente, e è così necessario che siamo attenti, che voi non veniate compromesso. E per questo motivo è fondamentale che sappiate da chi sono assediata; non mi resta altra scelta. Sono venuta qui apposta per dirvelo, ma credo che avrei avuto bisogno di più coraggio se voi non foste capitato a condurmi direttamente all’obiettivo della mia visita.”

Tom la guardò fissamente, come se volesse dire: “Cosa altro potrebbe esserci?” Ma non disse una parola.

“Quella persona di cui pensi sia la migliore tra gli uomini,” disse Mary, alzando lo sguardo e parlando con le labbra tremanti e gli occhi scintillanti.

“Signore, beneditemi!” mormorò Tom, barcollando all’indietro. “Aspettate un momento. Quella persona che io considero la migliore tra gli uomini. Intendete sicuramente Pecksniff, vero? Sì, capisco che parlate di Pecksniff. Per l’amor del cielo, non parlate senza autorità! Cosa ha fatto? Se non è la migliore persona al mondo, allora chi lo è?”

“Il peggiore. Il più falso, astuto, malvagio, crudele, spregevole e senza vergogna,” disse la ragazza tremante, tremando per l’indignazione.

Tom si sedette su una sedia e incrociò le mani.

“Chi è quest’uomo,” disse Mary, “che mi accoglie nella sua casa come sua ospite, anzi, come una ospite indesiderata; che conosce la mia storia, e sa quanto io sia indifesa e sola; eppure si permette di trattarmi in questo modo davanti alle sue figlie. Se solo avessi un fratello, anche solo un bambino, che vedesse tutto ciò, lui istintivamente mi aiuterebbe, non è vero?”

‘He is a scoundrel!’ exclaimed Tom. ‘Whoever he may be, he is a scoundrel.’

Mr Pecksniff dived again.

‘What is he,’ said Mary, ‘who, when my only friend—a dear and kind one, too—was in full health of mind, humbled himself before him, but was spurned away (for he knew him then) like a dog. Who, in his forgiving spirit, now that that friend is sunk into a failing state, can crawl about him again, and use the influence he basely gains for every base and wicked purpose, and not for one—not one—that’s true or good?’

‘I say he is a scoundrel!’ answered Tom.

‘But what is he—oh, Mr Pinch, what IS he—who, thinking he could compass these designs the better if I were his wife, assails me with the coward’s argument that if I marry him, Martin, on whom I have brought so much misfortune, shall be restored to something of his former hopes; and if I do not, shall be plunged in deeper ruin? What is he who makes my very constancy to one I love with all my heart a torture to myself and wrong to him; who makes me, do what I will, the instrument to hurt a head I would heap blessings on! What is he who, winding all these cruel snares about me, explains their purpose to me, with a smooth tongue and a smiling face, in the broad light of day; dragging me on, the while, in his embrace, and holding to his lips a hand,’ pursued the agitated girl, extending it, ‘which I would have struck off, if with it I could lose the shame and degradation of his touch?’

‘I say,’ cried Tom, in great excitement, ‘he is a scoundrel and a villain! I don’t care who he is, I say he is a double-dyed and most intolerable villain!’

Covering her face with her hands again, as if the passion which had sustained her through these disclosures lost itself in an overwhelming sense of shame and grief, she abandoned herself to tears.

Any sight of distress was sure to move the tenderness of Tom, but this especially. Tears and sobs from her were arrows in his heart. He tried to comfort her; sat down beside her; expended all his store of homely eloquence; and spoke in words of praise and hope of Martin. Aye, though he loved her from his soul with such a self-denying love as woman seldom wins; he spoke from first to last of Martin. Not the wealth of the rich Indies would have tempted Tom to shirk one mention of her lover’s name.

When she was more composed, she impressed upon Tom that this man she had described, was Pecksniff in his real colours; and word by word and phrase by phrase, as well as she remembered it, related what had passed between them in the wood: which was no doubt a source of high gratification to that gentleman himself, who in his desire to see and his dread of being seen, was constantly diving down into the state pew, and coming up again like the intelligent householder in Punch’s Show, who avoids being knocked on the head with a cudgel. When she had concluded her account, and had besought Tom to be very distant and unconscious in his manner towards her after this explanation, and had thanked him very much, they parted on the alarm of footsteps in the burial-ground; and Tom was left alone in the church again.

And now the full agitation and misery of the disclosure came rushing upon Tom indeed. The star of his whole life from boyhood had become, in a moment, putrid vapour. It was not that Pecksniff, Tom’s Pecksniff, had ceased to exist, but that he never had existed. In his death Tom would have had the comfort of remembering what he used to be, but in this discovery, he had the anguish of recollecting what he never was. For, as Tom’s blindness in this matter had been total and not partial, so was his restored sight. HIS Pecksniff could never have worked the wickedness of which he had just now heard, but any other Pecksniff could; and the Pecksniff who could do that could do anything, and no doubt had been doing anything and everything except the right thing, all through his career. From the lofty height on which poor Tom had placed his idol it was tumbled down headlong, and

Not all the king’s horses, nor all the king’s men, Could have set Mr Pecksniff up again.

Legions of Titans couldn’t have got him out of the mud; and serve him right! But it was not he who suffered; it was Tom. His compass was broken, his chart destroyed, his chronometer had stopped, his masts were gone by the board; his anchor was adrift, ten thousand leagues away.

Mr Pecksniff watched him with a lively interest, for he divined the purpose of Tom’s ruminations, and was curious to see how he conducted himself. For some time, Tom wandered up and down the aisle like a man demented, stopping occasionally to lean against a pew and think it over; then he stood staring at a blank old monument bordered tastefully with skulls and cross-bones, as if it were the finest work of Art he had ever seen, although at other times he held it in unspeakable contempt; then he sat down; then walked to and fro again; then went wandering up into the organ-loft, and touched the keys. But their minstrelsy was changed, their music gone; and sounding one long melancholy chord, Tom drooped his head upon his hands and gave it up as hopeless.

‘I wouldn’t have cared,’ said Tom Pinch, rising from his stool and looking down into the church as if he had been the Clergyman, ‘I wouldn’t have cared for anything he might have done to Me, for I have tried his patience often, and have lived upon his sufferance and have never been the help to him that others could have been. I wouldn’t have minded, Pecksniff,’ Tom continued, little thinking who heard him, ‘if you had done Me any wrong; I could have found plenty of excuses for that; and though you might have hurt me, could have still gone on respecting you. But why did you ever fall so low as this in my esteem! Oh Pecksniff, Pecksniff, there is nothing I would not have given, to have had you deserve my old opinion of you; nothing!’

“È un farabutto!”, esclamò Tom. “Chiunque sia, è senz’altro un farabutto.”

Il signor Pecksniff si tuffò di nuovo.

“Chi è quest’uomo,” disse Mary, “che, quando l’unica mia amica – una persona cara e gentile – era in perfetta salute mentale, si umiliò davanti a lui, ma fu respinta (poiché lo conosceva già allora) come un cane? Chi, con il suo spirito di perdono, ora che quella amica è caduta in uno stato di declino, può tornare ad aggirarsi intorno a lei e utilizzare l’influenza che ha ottenuto in modo meschino per ogni scopo vile e malvagio, e non per uno solo – nemmeno uno – che sia vero o buono?”

“Dico che è un farabutto!” rispose Tom.

“Ma chi è lui, oh, signor Pinch, chi è davvero? Lui, che pensa di poter realizzare i suoi piani meglio se diventassi sua moglie, mi usa l’argomento meschino secondo cui, se lo sposo, Martin, a cui ho causato tanta sfortuna, potrebbe riacquistare almeno in parte le sue speranze; mentre se non lo faccio, finirebbe in rovina ancora più profonda. Chi è lui che trasforma la mia fedeltà verso colui che amo con tutto il cuore in una tortura per me e un’ingiustizia nei suoi confronti? Chi mi costringe, a dispetto di tutto ciò che desidero, ad essere lo strumento per ferire proprio quella persona su cui vorrei riversare benedizioni? Chi, intrecciando tutte queste trappole crudeli attorno a me, ne spiega il motivo con parole dolci e un viso sorridente, sotto la luce del giorno; mentre mi trascina verso di sé, tenendo sulla sua bocca una mano, che io avrei voluto strappargli via, se solo così potessi liberarmi dall’umiliazione e dalla degradazione causate dal suo tocco, ” proseguì la ragazza agitata, tendendo ancora quella mano.

“Dico io,” gridò Tom, eccitato, “che è un farabutto e un malvagio! Non mi importa chi sia; dico che è un individuo spregevole e assolutamente intollerabile!”

Coprendosi di nuovo il viso con le mani, come se la passione che l’aveva sostenuta durante queste rivelazioni si fosse persa in un senso travolgente di vergogna e dolore, si abbandonò alle lacrime.

Qualsiasi segno di sofferenza era sicuramente in grado di commuovere la tenerezza di Tom, ma questo caso ancora di più. Le sue lacrime e i suoi singhiozzi colpivano profondamente il suo cuore. Tentò di consolarla, si sedette accanto a lei, utilizzò tutta la sua eloquenza naturale e parlò di Martin con parole di lode e speranza. Sì, anche se la amava con un amore così totale e disinteressato che poche donne possono ricevere, parlò soltanto di Martin. Nemmeno la ricchezza delle Indie avrebbe potuto indurlo a tralasciare anche solo una menzione del nome dell’uomo che lei amava.

Quando si fu un po’ calmata, fece capire a Tom che quell’uomo di cui aveva parlato era proprio Pecksniff nelle sue vere sembianze; e parola per parola, frase dopo frase, raccontò tutto ciò che era accaduto tra loro nel bosco: il che, senza dubbio, fu una grande soddisfazione per quel gentiluomo stesso, il quale, nel suo desiderio di non essere visto e nella paura di essere scoperto, continuava a nascondersi nell’angolo della chiesa, per poi riemergere come quel “padrone di casa intelligente” del cartone animato di Punch, che cerca sempre di evitare di essere colpito con un bastone. Dopo aver terminato il suo racconto, lo pregò di comportarsi con lei in modo molto distaccato e indifferente, e gli ringraziò molto; poi si separarono all’udire dei passi nel cimitero. E Tom rimase di nuovo solo nella chiesa.

E ora tutta l’agitazione e la miseria derivanti da quella rivelazione si abbatterono su Tom. La stella della sua vita, fin dall’infanzia, era diventata, in un istante, semplice vapore putrido. Non era che Pecksniff, il Pecksniff di Tom, fosse scomparso, ma che non fosse mai esistito davvero. Nella sua morte, almeno, Tom avrebbe potuto ricordare chi era stato; invece, ora doveva affrontare l’angoscia di rendersi conto di ciò che non era mai stato. Poiché la cecità di Tom in questa questione era stata totale, così lo fu anche la sua “riabilitazione”: il Pecksniff che lui aveva conosciuto non avrebbe mai potuto compiere le malvagità di cui aveva appena sentito parlare, ma qualsiasi altro Pecksniff sì; e quel Pecksniff, dopotutto, poteva fare qualsiasi cosa. E nessun >dubbio permetteva di pensare che, nel corso della sua vita, avesse mai fatto qualcosa di sbagliato. Dalla nobile posizione in cui il povero Tom aveva collocato il suo idolo, quest’ultimo era stato rovinosamente gettato a terra.

Né tutti i cavalli del re, né tutti gli uomini del re, avrebbero potuto aiutare il signor Pecksniff a rialzarsi di nuovo.

Legioni di Titani non sarebbero riuscite a tirarlo fuori dal fango. E che gli vada bene! Ma non era lui a soffrire: era Tom. La sua bussola era rotta, la sua mappa distrutta, il suo cronometro si era fermato, i suoi alberi erano andati persi; l’ancora galleggiava lontano, a diecimila leghe di distanza.

Il signor Pecksniff lo osservava con vivo interesse, perché intuiva lo scopo delle riflessioni di Tom e voleva vedere come si sarebbe comportato. Per un po’, Tom camminò avanti e indietro lungo la navata della chiesa come un uomo pazzo, fermandosi di tanto in tanto per appoggiarsi a una panca e riflettere; poi si fermava a fissare un vecchio monumento decorato con teschi e ossa incrociate, come se fosse l’opera d’arte più meravigliosa che avesse mai visto, anche se in altri momenti lo disprezzava profondamente; poi si sedeva, camminava avanti e indietro di nuovo, infine saliva nella cabina dell’organo e toccava le tastiere. Ma il suono dell’organo cambiava completamente; la musica svaniva. Dopo aver suonato una lunga nota melanconica, Tom si abbassò la testa tra le mani, riconoscendo che tutto era senza speranza.

“Non mi sarebbe importato nulla,” disse Tom Pinch, alzandosi dal suo sgabello e guardando verso l’interno della chiesa come se fosse stato il prete, “non mi sarebbe importato nulla di ciò che avrebbe potuto farmi, perché ho spesso messo alla prova la sua pazienza, ho vissuto grazie alle sue sofferenze e non gli sono mai stato d’aiuto nel modo in cui altri avrebbero potuto farlo. Non mi sarebbe importato nulla, Pecksniff,” continuò Tom, senza pensare a chi lo stesse ascoltando, “se tu mi avessi fatto del male; avrei trovato molte scuse per questo. E anche se mi avessi ferito, avrei comunque continuato a rispettarti. Ma perché sei mai sceso così in basso nella mia stima! Oh Pecksniff, Pecksniff. Non ci sarebbe nulla che non avrei dato, pur di farti meritare ancora la mia vecchia opinione su di te. Niente!”

Mr Pecksniff sat upon the hassock pulling up his shirt-collar, while Tom, touched to the quick, delivered this apostrophe. After a pause he heard Tom coming down the stairs, jingling the church keys; and bringing his eye to the top of the pew again, saw him go slowly out and lock the door.

Mr Pecksniff durst not issue from his place of concealment; for through the windows of the church he saw Tom passing on among the graves, and sometimes stopping at a stone, and leaning there as if he were a mourner who had lost a friend. Even when he had left the churchyard, Mr Pecksniff still remained shut up; not being at all secure but that in his restless state of mind Tom might come wandering back. At length he issued forth, and walked with a pleasant countenance into the vestry; where he knew there was a window near the ground, by which he could release himself by merely stepping out.

He was in a curious frame of mind, Mr Pecksniff; being in no hurry to go, but rather inclining to a dilatory trifling with the time, which prompted him to open the vestry cupboard, and look at himself in the parson’s little glass that hung within the door. Seeing that his hair was rumpled, he took the liberty of borrowing the canonical brush and arranging it. He also took the liberty of opening another cupboard; but he shut it up again quickly, being rather startled by the sight of a black and a white surplice dangling against the wall; which had very much the appearance of two curates who had committed suicide by hanging themselves. Remembering that he had seen in the first cupboard a port-wine bottle and some biscuits, he peeped into it again, and helped himself with much deliberation; cogitating all the time though, in a very deep and weighty manner, as if his thoughts were otherwise employed.

He soon made up his mind, if it had ever been in doubt; and putting back the bottle and biscuits, opened the casement. He got out into the churchyard without any difficulty; shut the window after him; and walked straight home.

‘Is Mr Pinch indoors?’ asked Mr Pecksniff of his serving-maid.

‘Just come in, sir.’

‘Just come in, eh?’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, cheerfully. ‘And gone upstairs, I suppose?’

‘Yes sir. Gone upstairs. Shall I call him, sir?’

‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘no. You needn’t call him, Jane. Thank you, Jane. How are your relations, Jane?’

‘Pretty well, I thank you, sir.’

‘I am glad to hear it. Let them know I asked about them, Jane. Is Mr Chuzzlewit in the way, Jane?’

‘Yes, sir. He’s in the parlour, reading.’

‘He’s in the parlour, reading, is he, Jane?’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Very well. Then I think I’ll go and see him, Jane.’

Never had Mr Pecksniff been beheld in a more pleasant humour!

But when he walked into the parlour where the old man was engaged as Jane had said; with pen and ink and paper on a table close at hand (for Mr Pecksniff was always very particular to have him well supplied with writing materials), he became less cheerful. He was not angry, he was not vindictive, he was not cross, he was not moody, but he was grieved; he was sorely grieved. As he sat down by the old man’s side, two tears—not tears like those with which recording angels blot their entries out, but drops so precious that they use them for their ink—stole down his meritorious cheeks.

‘What is the matter?’ asked old Martin. ‘Pecksniff, what ails you, man?’

‘I am sorry to interrupt you, my dear sir, and I am still more sorry for the cause. My good, my worthy friend, I am deceived.’

‘You are deceived!’

‘Ah!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, in an agony, ‘deceived in the tenderest point. Cruelly deceived in that quarter, sir, in which I placed the most unbounded confidence. Deceived, Mr Chuzzlewit, by Thomas Pinch.’

‘Oh! bad, bad, bad!’ said Martin, laying down his book. ‘Very bad! I hope not. Are you certain?’

‘Certain, my good sir! My eyes and ears are witnesses. I wouldn’t have believed it otherwise. I wouldn’t have believed it, Mr Chuzzlewit, if a Fiery Serpent had proclaimed it from the top of Salisbury Cathedral. I would have said,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, ‘that the Serpent lied. Such was my faith in Thomas Pinch, that I would have cast the falsehood back into the Serpent’s teeth, and would have taken Thomas to my heart. But I am not a Serpent, sir, myself, I grieve to say, and no excuse or hope is left me.’

Martin was greatly disturbed to see him so much agitated, and to hear such unexpected news. He begged him to compose himself, and asked upon what subject Mr Pinch’s treachery had been developed.

‘That is almost the worst of all, sir,’ Mr Pecksniff answered, ‘on a subject nearly concerning YOU. Oh! is it not enough,’ said Mr Pecksniff, looking upward, ‘that these blows must fall on me, but must they also hit my friends!’

‘You alarm me,’ cried the old man, changing colour. ‘I am not so strong as I was. You terrify me, Pecksniff!’

‘Cheer up, my noble sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, taking courage, ‘and we will do what is required of us. You shall know all, sir, and shall be righted. But first excuse me, sir, excuse me. I have a duty to discharge, which I owe to society.’

He rang the bell, and Jane appeared. ‘Send Mr Pinch here, if you please, Jane.’

Tom came. Constrained and altered in his manner, downcast and dejected, visibly confused; not liking to look Pecksniff in the face.

The honest man bestowed a glance on Mr Chuzzlewit, as who should say ‘You see!’ and addressed himself to Tom in these terms:

‘Mr Pinch, I have left the vestry-window unfastened. Will you do me the favour to go and secure it; then bring the keys of the sacred edifice to me!’

‘The vestry-window, sir?’ cried Tom.

‘You understand me, Mr Pinch, I think,’ returned his patron. ‘Yes, Mr Pinch, the vestry-window. I grieve to say that sleeping in the church after a fatiguing ramble, I overheard just now some fragments,’ he emphasised that word, ‘of a dialogue between two parties; and one of them locking the church when he went out, I was obliged to leave it myself by the vestry-window. Do me the favour to secure that vestry-window, Mr Pinch, and then come back to me.’

Il signor Pecksniff sedeva sul cuscino, tirandosi su il colletto della camicia, mentre Tom, profondamente commosso, pronunciava quelle parole con un tono particolare. Dopo una pausa, sentì Tom scendere le scale, facendo tintinnare le chiavi della chiesa; poi, alzando di nuovo lo sguardo verso l’alto del banco, lo vide uscire lentamente e chiudere la porta a chiave.

Il signor Pecksniff non osava uscire dal suo nascondiglio; perché attraverso le finestre della chiesa vedeva Tom passare tra le tombe, a volte fermarsi davanti a una pietra e appoggiarvisi come se fosse un lutto che aveva perso un amico. Anche dopo che Tom aveva lasciato il cimitero, il signor Pecksniff rimase chiuso dentro; non era affatto sicuro che, nel suo stato d’animo inquieto, Tom potesse tornare indietro. Alla fine uscì e entrò nella sagrestia con un’espressione serena; sapeva che lì c’era una finestra vicino al suolo, attraverso la quale poteva uscire semplicemente mettendosi fuori.

Era in uno strano stato d’animo, il signor Pecksniff: non aveva alcuna fretta di andarsene, anzi tendeva a trascorrere il tempo in piccole distrazioni. Questo lo spinse ad aprire l’armadio della sacrestia e a guardarsi nello specchietto del parroco appeso all’interno della porta. Vedendo che i suoi capelli erano arruffati, si prese la libertà di usare la spazzola pastorale per sistemarli. Si prese anche la libertà di aprire un altro armadio, ma lo richiuse subito dopo, sorpreso dal vedere appeso al muro un abito da cerimonia nero e bianco; sembrava proprio che ci fossero due curati che si erano suicidati impiccandosi. Ricordando di aver visto nel primo armadio una bottiglia di vino rosso e alcuni biscotti, vi diede un’altra occhiata e si servì con molta calma. Ma tutto il tempo, mentre lo faceva, rifletteva in modo molto profondo e serio, come se i suoi pensieri fossero impegnati in qualcos’altro.

Si decise rapidamente, se mai ne fosse stato il minimo dubbio; rimise quindi la bottiglia e i biscotti al loro posto, aprì la finestra e uscì nel cimitero senza alcuna difficoltà; chiuse la finestra dietro di sé e tornò direttamente a casa.

“Il signor Pinch è in casa?” chiese il signor Pecksniff alla sua cameriera.

“Entri pure, signore.”

“Entra pure, eh?”, ripeté felicemente il signor Pecksniff. “E poi sei andato di sopra, immagino, ”

“Sì signore. È andato di sopra. Devo chiamarlo, signore?”

“No,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “no. Non c’è bisogno di chiamarlo, Jane. Grazie, Jane. Come vanno le tue cose, Jane?”

“Abbastanza bene, grazie signore.”

“Sono felice di saperlo. Dì loro che ho chiesto notizie su di loro, Jane. Il signor Chuzzlewit è nei paraggi, Jane?”

“Sì, signore. È nella sala da lettura, sta leggendo.”

“È in salotto a leggere, vero, Jane?” disse il signor Pecksniff. “Molto bene. Allora penso che andrò a trovarlo, Jane.”

Nessuno aveva mai visto il signor Pecksniff in un umore così piacevole!

Ma quando entrò nella sala dove l’uomo anziano era impegnato nel lavoro, come Jane aveva detto; con penna, inchiostro e carta pronti su un tavolo vicino a lui (poiché il signor Pecksniff era sempre molto attento a fornirgli tutti i materiali da scrivere necessari), il suo umore cambiò. Non era arrabbiato, non era vendicativo, non era di cattivo umore, ma era triste, profondamente triste. Mentre si sedeva accanto all’uomo anziano, due lacrime – non quelle lacrime con cui gli angeli registratori cancellano le loro annotazioni, ma gocce così preziose da essere utilizzate come inchiostro – scesero lungo le sue guance.

“Che cos’è successo?” chiese il vecchio Martin. “Pecksniff, che ti è accaduto?”

“Mi dispiace molto interromperla, mio caro signore, e mi dispiace ancora di più per la ragione della mia interruzione. Mio buon, mio stimato amico, sono stato ingannato.”

“Siete ingannati!”

“Ah!” gridò il signor Pecksniff, in preda all’agonia, “ingannato nel punto più delicato, crudelmente ingannato proprio in quella materia su cui riponevo tutta la mia fiducia. Ingannato, signor Chuzzlewit, da Thomas Pinch.”

“Oh! Molto, molto male!” disse Martin, mettendo giù il libro. “Spero davvero che non sia così. Ne sei sicuro?”

“Certamente, mio buon signore! I miei occhi e le mie orecchie ne sono testimoni. Altrimenti non ci avrei creduto. Non ci avrei creduto, signor Chuzzlewit, nemmeno se un Serpente Infuocato lo avesse proclamato dalla cima della Cattedrale di Salisbury! Avrei detto: ‘Quel Serpente mente’. La mia >fede in Thomas Pinch era tale che avrei respinto quelle menzogne e avrei accolto Thomas nel mio cuore. Ma purtroppo, io non sono un serpente. Non mi rimane alcuna scusa, né alcuna speranza.”

Martin fu molto turbato nel vederlo così agitato e nell’ascoltare notizie così inaspettate. Gli chiese di calmarsi e di spiegargli su quale argomento si fosse basata la tradimento di Mr Pinch.

“Questo è quasi il peggio di tutto, signore,” rispose il signor Pecksniff, “su un argomento che riguarda quasi VOI. Oh! Non basta forse,” aggiunse, alzando lo sguardo, “che queste difficoltà debbano colpirmi io, ma devono anche danneggiare i miei amici?”

“Mi spaventi,” gridò l’uomo anziano, cambiando colore. “Non sono più così forte come una volta. Mi terrorizzi, Pecksniff!”

“Risollevatevi, mio nobile signore,” disse il signor Pecksniff, prendendo coraggio, “e faremo ciò che ci viene richiesto. Saprete tutto, signore, e vi sarà fatta giustizia. Ma prima permettetemi di scusarmi. Ho un dovere da assolvere, un dovere che devo verso la società.”

Chiamò al campanello e Jane apparve. “Per favore, manda qui il signor Pinch, Jane.”

Tom arrivò. Restringendosi e cambiando il proprio modo di comportarsi, con lo sguardo basso e scoraggiato, chiaramente confuso; non voleva nemmeno guardare Pecksniff negli occhi.

L’uomo onesto gettò uno sguardo su Mr Chuzzlewit, come per dire “Vedi!”, e poi si rivolse a Tom con queste parole:

“Signor Pinch, ho lasciato la finestra della sacrestia non chiusa a chiave. Potrebbe gentilmente andare a chiuderla e poi portarmi le chiavi del tempio?”

“La finestra della sagrestia, signore?”, gridò Tom.

“Mi capisce, signor Pinch, penso,” rispose il suo protettore. “Sì, signor Pinch, la finestra della sagrestia. Mi dispiace dirlo, ma dopo una lunga passeggiata stancante, mentre dormivo in chiesa, ho sentito per caso alcuni frammenti di un dialogo tra due persone; uno di loro ha chiuso a chiave la chiesa uscendo, e io sono stato costretto ad andarmene dalla finestra della sagrestia. Le faccio il favore di assicurarsi che quella finestra sia ben chiusa, signor Pinch, poi torni da me.”

No physiognomist that ever dwelt on earth could have construed Tom’s face when he heard these words. Wonder was in it, and a mild look of reproach, but certainly no fear or guilt, although a host of strong emotions struggled to display themselves. He bowed, and without saying one word, good or bad, withdrew.

‘Pecksniff,’ cried Martin, in a tremble, ‘what does all this mean? You are not going to do anything in haste, you may regret!’

‘No, my good sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, firmly, ‘No. But I have a duty to discharge which I owe to society; and it shall be discharged, my friend, at any cost!’

Oh, late-remembered, much-forgotten, mouthing, braggart duty, always owed, and seldom paid in any other coin than punishment and wrath, when will mankind begin to know thee! When will men acknowledge thee in thy neglected cradle, and thy stunted youth, and not begin their recognition in thy sinful manhood and thy desolate old age! Oh, ermined Judge whose duty to society is, now, to doom the ragged criminal to punishment and death, hadst thou never, Man, a duty to discharge in barring up the hundred open gates that wooed him to the felon’s dock, and throwing but ajar the portals to a decent life! Oh, prelate, prelate, whose duty to society it is to mourn in melancholy phrase the sad degeneracy of these bad times in which thy lot of honours has been cast, did nothing go before thy elevation to the lofty seat, from which thou dealest out thy homilies to other tarriers for dead men’s shoes, whose duty to society has not begun! Oh! magistrate, so rare a country gentleman and brave a squire, had you no duty to society, before the ricks were blazing and the mob were mad; or did it spring up, armed and booted from the earth, a corps of yeomanry full-grown!

Mr Pecksniff’s duty to society could not be paid till Tom came back. The interval which preceded the return of that young man, he occupied in a close conference with his friend; so that when Tom did arrive, he found the two quite ready to receive him. Mary was in her own room above, whither Mr Pecksniff, always considerate, had besought old Martin to entreat her to remain some half-hour longer, that her feelings might be spared.

When Tom came back, he found old Martin sitting by the window, and Mr Pecksniff in an imposing attitude at the table. On one side of him was his pocket-handkerchief; and on the other a little heap (a very little heap) of gold and silver, and odd pence. Tom saw, at a glance, that it was his own salary for the current quarter.

‘Have you fastened the vestry-window, Mr Pinch?’ said Pecksniff.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Thank you. Put down the keys if you please, Mr Pinch.’

Tom placed them on the table. He held the bunch by the key of the organ-loft (though it was one of the smallest), and looked hard at it as he laid it down. It had been an old, old friend of Tom’s; a kind companion to him, many and many a day.

‘Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff, shaking his head; ‘oh, Mr Pinch! I wonder you can look me in the face!’

Tom did it though; and notwithstanding that he has been described as stooping generally, he stood as upright then as man could stand.

‘Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff, taking up his handkerchief, as if he felt that he should want it soon, ‘I will not dwell upon the past. I will spare you, and I will spare myself, that pain at least.’

Tom’s was not a very bright eye, but it was a very expressive one when he looked at Mr Pecksniff, and said:

‘Thank you, sir. I am very glad you will not refer to the past.’

‘The present is enough,’ said Mr Pecksniff, dropping a penny, ‘and the sooner THAT is past, the better. Mr Pinch, I will not dismiss you without a word of explanation. Even such a course would be quite justifiable under the circumstances; but it might wear an appearance of hurry, and I will not do it; for I am,’ said Mr Pecksniff, knocking down another penny, ‘perfectly self-possessed. Therefore I will say to you, what I have already said to Mr Chuzzlewit.’

Tom glanced at the old gentleman, who nodded now and then as approving of Mr Pecksniff’s sentences and sentiments, but interposed between them in no other way.

‘From fragments of a conversation which I overheard in the church, just now, Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff, ‘between yourself and Miss Graham—I say fragments, because I was slumbering at a considerable distance from you, when I was roused by your voices—and from what I saw, I ascertained (I would have given a great deal not to have ascertained, Mr Pinch) that you, forgetful of all ties of duty and of honour, sir; regardless of the sacred laws of hospitality, to which you were pledged as an inmate of this house; have presumed to address Miss Graham with unreturned professions of attachment and proposals of love.’

Tom looked at him steadily.

‘Do you deny it, sir?’ asked Mr Pecksniff, dropping one pound two and fourpence, and making a great business of picking it up again.

‘No, sir,’ replied Tom. ‘I do not.’

‘You do not,’ said Mr Pecksniff, glancing at the old gentleman. ‘Oblige me by counting this money, Mr Pinch, and putting your name to this receipt. You do not?’

No, Tom did not. He scorned to deny it. He saw that Mr Pecksniff having overheard his own disgrace, cared not a jot for sinking lower yet in his contempt. He saw that he had devised this fiction as the readiest means of getting rid of him at once, but that it must end in that any way. He saw that Mr Pecksniff reckoned on his not denying it, because his doing so and explaining would incense the old man more than ever against Martin and against Mary; while Pecksniff himself would only have been mistaken in his ‘fragments.’ Deny it! No.

‘You find the amount correct, do you, Mr Pinch?’ said Pecksniff.

‘Quite correct, sir,’ answered Tom.

‘A person is waiting in the kitchen,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘to carry your luggage wherever you please. We part, Mr Pinch, at once, and are strangers from this time.’

Nessun fisiognomo che sia mai vissuto sulla terra avrebbe potuto interpretare l’espressione sul volto di Tom quando udì queste parole. C’era stupore nei suoi occhi, e anche un leggero atteggiamento di rimprovero, ma certamente nessuna paura né colpa; sebbene molte forti emozioni lottassero per manifestarsi. Lui si inchinò e, senza dire una parola, buona o cattiva, se ne andò.

“Pecksniff,” gridò Martin, tremando, “che significato ha tutto questo? Non starai certo agendo in fretta, potresti pentirtene!”

“No, mio buon signore,” disse il signor Pecksniff con fermezza, “no. Ma ho un dovere da assolvere nei confronti della società; e quel dovere verrà adempiuto, amico mio, a qualunque costo!”

Oh, ricordato tardi e dimenticato spesso. Quel dovere vanitoso e mai realmente adempiuto, sempre dovuto ma raramente ripagato con altro che punizione e ira. Quando finalmente l’umanità inizierà a conoscere te? Quando gli uomini riconosceranno il tuo valore nella tua infanzia trascurata, nella tua giovinezza ostacolata, e non soltanto nella tua vita peccaminosa o nella tua vecchiaia desolata? Oh, Giudice. Il cui dovere verso la società è ora quello di condannare i criminali alla punizione e alla morte. Se mai, o Uomo, non hai avuto il dovere di chiudere quelle centinaia di porte aperte che attiravano questi individui verso il banco degli imputati, di tenere solo parzialmente aperti i cancelli di una vita dignitosa! Oh, prelato. Il cui dovere verso la società è quello di lamentarsi con parole melanconiche della triste degenerazione di questi tempi infausti. Se nulla fosse stato fatto prima del tuo elevamento a quella posizione nobile, da dove pronunci le tue omelie a coloro che ostacolano il cammino verso una vita decente. Oh, magistrato. Un vero gentiluomo e un coraggioso cavaliere. Non avevi forse alcun dovere verso la società, prima che i campi iniziassero ad ardere e la folla impazzisse? O forse quel dovere è emerso improvvisamente dalla terra, sotto forma di un esercito di uomini pronti a combattere.

Il dovere di Mr Pecksniff verso la società non poteva essere adempiuto fino al ritorno di Tom. Il periodo che precedette il suo arrivo fu trascorso da lui in una lunga conversazione con il suo amico; così, quando finalmente Tom arrivò, trovò i due completamente pronti ad accoglierlo. Mary si trovava nella sua stanza al piano di sopra; Mr Pecksniff, sempre premuroso, aveva chiesto all’anziano Martin di convincerla a rimanere ancora per mezz’ora, affinché i suoi sentimenti potessero essere risparmiati.

Quando Tom tornò, trovò il vecchio Martin seduto vicino alla finestra, e il signor Pecksniff con un’aria imponente davanti al tavolo. Da un lato c’era il suo fazzoletto da tasca; dall’altro, una piccolissima quantità d’oro, d’argento e di monete varie. Tom capì subito che si trattava del suo stipendio per quel trimestre.

“Ha chiuso a chiave la finestra della sacrestia, signor Pinch?” disse Pecksniff.

“Sì, signore.”

“Grazie. Per favore, metta giù le chiavi, signor Pinch.”

Tom le posò sul tavolo. Tenne il mazzo per la parte che assomigliava alla chiave dell’organo (sebbene fosse uno dei più piccoli), e lo osservò attentamente mentre lo metteva giù. Era un vecchio, caro amico di Tom; un compagno fedele con cui aveva trascorso molti giorni.

“Signor Pinch,” disse Pecksniff scuotendo la testa; “oh, Signor Pinch! Mi chiedo davvero come possiate guardarmi in faccia, ”

È stato Tom a farlo; e nonostante fosse descritto come una persona che si piegava spesso in avanti, in quel momento stava dritto come può stare un uomo.

“Signor Pinch,” disse Pecksniff, prendendo il fazzoletto, come se si aspettasse di averne bisogno presto, “non voglio soffermarmi sul passato. Vi risparmierò, e mi risparmierò anch’io, almeno quella dolore.”

Gli occhi di Tom non erano molto brillanti, ma erano estremamente espressivi quando guardava il signor Pecksniff e diceva:

“Grazie, signore. Sono molto contento che non voglia parlare del passato.”

“Il presente basta,” disse il signor Pecksniff, gettando giù una moneta, “e più presto tutto questo sarà finito, meglio sarà. Signor Pinch, non vi licenzierò senza darvi alcuna spiegazione. Anche un simile comportamento sarebbe del tutto giustificabile in queste circostanze; ma potrebbe sembrare affrettato, e io non lo farò, perché sono,” disse il signor Pecksniff, gettando giù un’altra moneta, “perfettamente padrone di me stesso. Quindi vi dirò ciò che ho già detto al signor Chuzzlewit.”

Tom lanciò un’occhiata al vecchio signore, il quale di tanto in tanto annuiva in segno di approvazione delle frasi e dei sentimenti del signor Pecksniff, ma non intervenne in alcun altro modo nelle loro conversazioni.

“Da frammenti di una conversazione che ho sentito per caso in chiesa, poco fa, signor Pinch,” disse Pecksniff, “tra lei e la signorina Graham. Dico ‘frammenti’, perché stavo dormendo a una certa distanza da voi quando le vostre voci mi hanno svegliato. E da ciò che ho visto, ho capito (avrei dato molto per non averlo scoperto, signor Pinch) che lei, dimenticando ogni dovere e ogni senso di onore, senza rispettare le sacre leggi dell’ospitalità a cui era tenuta in quanto abitante di questa casa, si è permessa di rivolgere alla signorina Graham dichiarazioni d’affetto non ricambiate e proposte d’amore.”

Tom lo guardò fissamente.

“Lo negate, signore?”, chiese il signor Pecksniff, lasciando cadere una sterlina due scellini e quattro pence, per poi fare un grande show nel raccoglierla di nuovo.

“No, signore,” rispose Tom. “Non lo faccio.”

“Non lo farete,” disse il signor Pecksniff, guardando il vecchio gentiluomo. “Per favore, conti questi soldi e scriva il tuo nome su questa ricevuta, signor Pinch. Non lo farai?”

No, Tom non lo fece. Disprezzò l’idea di negarlo. Capì che il signor Pecksniff, avendo sentito della sua stessa umiliazione, non si curava affatto di cadere ancora più in basso nel suo disprezzo per lui. Comprese che Pecksniff aveva inventato quella menzogna come il modo più semplice per sbarazzarsi di lui al più presto, e che comunque tutto sarebbe finito allo stesso modo. Capì anche che Pecksniff si aspettava proprio che lui non la negasse, perché farlo avrebbe solo fatto infuriare ancora di più quell’uomo contro Martin e Mary; mentre Pecksniff stesso si sarebbe semplicemente sbagliato nei suoi “pensieri”. Negarla? No.

“Ritiene che l’importo sia corretto, vero, signor Pinch?” disse Pecksniff.

“Assolutamente corretto, signore,” rispose Tom.

“C’è una persona che aspetta in cucina,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “per portare i vostri bagagli dove desiderate. Partiamo subito, signor Pinch, da questo momento siamo degli estranei.”

Something without a name; compassion, sorrow, old tenderness, mistaken gratitude, habit; none of these, and yet all of them; smote upon Tom’s gentle heart at parting. There was no such soul as Pecksniff’s in that carcase; and yet, though his speaking out had not involved the compromise of one he loved, he couldn’t have denounced the very shape and figure of the man. Not even then.

‘I will not say,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, shedding tears, ‘what a blow this is. I will not say how much it tries me; how it works upon my nature; how it grates upon my feelings. I do not care for that. I can endure as well as another man. But what I have to hope, and what you have to hope, Mr Pinch (otherwise a great responsibility rests upon you), is, that this deception may not alter my ideas of humanity; that it may not impair my freshness, or contract, if I may use the expression, my Pinions. I hope it will not; I don’t think it will. It may be a comfort to you, if not now, at some future time, to know that I shall endeavour not to think the worse of my fellow-creatures in general, for what has passed between us. Farewell!’

Tom had meant to spare him one little puncturation with a lancet, which he had it in his power to administer, but he changed his mind on hearing this, and said:

‘I think you left something in the church, sir.’

‘Thank you, Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff. ‘I am not aware that I did.’

‘This is your double eye-glass, I believe?’ said Tom.

‘Oh!’ cried Pecksniff, with some degree of confusion. ‘I am obliged to you. Put it down, if you please.’

‘I found it,’ said Tom, slowly—‘when I went to bolt the vestry-window—in the pew.’

So he had. Mr Pecksniff had taken it off when he was bobbing up and down, lest it should strike against the panelling; and had forgotten it. Going back to the church with his mind full of having been watched, and wondering very much from what part, Tom’s attention was caught by the door of the state pew standing open. Looking into it he found the glass. And thus he knew, and by returning it gave Mr Pecksniff the information that he knew, where the listener had been; and that instead of overhearing fragments of the conversation, he must have rejoiced in every word of it.

‘I am glad he’s gone,’ said Martin, drawing a long breath when Tom had left the room.

‘It IS a relief,’ assented Mr Pecksniff. ‘It is a great relief. But having discharged—I hope with tolerable firmness—the duty which I owed to society, I will now, my dear sir, if you will give me leave, retire to shed a few tears in the back garden, as an humble individual.’

Tom went upstairs; cleared his shelf of books; packed them up with his music and an old fiddle in his trunk; got out his clothes (they were not so many that they made his head ache); put them on the top of his books; and went into the workroom for his case of instruments. There was a ragged stool there, with the horsehair all sticking out of the top like a wig: a very Beast of a stool in itself; on which he had taken up his daily seat, year after year, during the whole period of his service. They had grown older and shabbier in company. Pupils had served their time; seasons had come and gone. Tom and the worn-out stool had held together through it all. That part of the room was traditionally called ‘Tom’s Corner.’ It had been assigned to him at first because of its being situated in a strong draught, and a great way from the fire; and he had occupied it ever since. There were portraits of him on the walls, with all his weak points monstrously portrayed. Diabolical sentiments, foreign to his character, were represented as issuing from his mouth in fat balloons. Every pupil had added something, even unto fancy portraits of his father with one eye, and of his mother with a disproportionate nose, and especially of his sister; who always being presented as extremely beautiful, made full amends to Tom for any other jokes. Under less uncommon circumstances, it would have cut Tom to the heart to leave these things and think that he saw them for the last time; but it didn’t now. There was no Pecksniff; there never had been a Pecksniff; and all his other griefs were swallowed up in that.

So, when he returned into the bedroom, and, having fastened his box and a carpet-bag, put on his walking gaiters, and his great-coat, and his hat, and taken his stick in his hand, looked round it for the last time. Early on summer mornings, and by the light of private candle-ends on winter nights, he had read himself half blind in this same room. He had tried in this same room to learn the fiddle under the bedclothes, but yielding to objections from the other pupils, had reluctantly abandoned the design. At any other time he would have parted from it with a pang, thinking of all he had learned there, of the many hours he had passed there; for the love of his very dreams. But there was no Pecksniff; there never had been a Pecksniff, and the unreality of Pecksniff extended itself to the chamber, in which, sitting on one particular bed, the thing supposed to be that Great Abstraction had often preached morality with such effect that Tom had felt a moisture in his eyes, while hanging breathless on the words.

The man engaged to bear his box—Tom knew him well: a Dragon man—came stamping up the stairs, and made a roughish bow to Tom (to whom in common times he would have nodded with a grin) as though he were aware of what had happened, and wished him to perceive it made no difference to HIM. It was clumsily done; he was a mere waterer of horses; but Tom liked the man for it, and felt it more than going away.

Tom would have helped him with the box, but he made no more of it, though it was a heavy one, than an elephant would have made of a castle; just swinging it on his back and bowling downstairs as if, being naturally a heavy sort of fellow, he could carry a box infinitely better than he could go alone. Tom took the carpet-bag, and went downstairs along with him. At the outer door stood Jane, crying with all her might; and on the steps was Mrs Lupin, sobbing bitterly, and putting out her hand for Tom to shake.

Qualcosa senza nome, compassione, tristezza, antica tenerezza, gratitudine sbagliata, abitudine. Niente di tutto ciò, eppure tutto insieme; queste emozioni colpirono il gentile cuore di Tom al momento dell’addio. In quel corpo non esisteva una ‘anima come quella di Pecksniff; eppure, anche se le sue parole non avevano comportato alcun compromesso nei confronti di qualcuno che amava, non avrebbe potuto denunciare nemmeno la forma e l’aspetto di quell’uomo. Nemmeno allora.

“Non lo dirò,” gridò il signor Pecksniff, versando lacrime, “quanto sia duro questo colpo. Non dirò quanto mi provi; come influisca sulla mia natura, come ferisca i miei sentimenti. Non m’interessa. Posso sopportarlo altrettanto bene di un altro uomo. Ma ciò che dobbiamo sperare io e voi, signor Pinch (in fondo, una grande responsabilità ricade su di voi), è che questa inganno non alteri la mia concezione dell’umanità. Che non comprometta la mia freschezza d’animo, o, per usare un’espressione appropriata, le mie “ali” spirituali. Spero proprio che non accada; non credo che accadrà. Forse sarà un conforto per voi, anche se non ora, in futuro, sapere che farò del mio meglio per non giudicare male i miei simili, a causa di ciò che è accaduto tra noi. Addio!”

Tom aveva intenzione di infliggergli una piccola puntura con un lanciaio, cosa che avrebbe potuto facilmente fare, ma cambiò idea dopo aver sentito ciò e disse:

“Credo che abbia dimenticato qualcosa nella chiesa, signore.”

“Grazie, signor Pinch,” disse Pecksniff. “Non credo di averlo fatto.”

“Questo è il tuo occhiale doppio, giusto?” disse Tom.

“Oh!” esclamò Pecksniff, con un certo grado di confusione. “Devo ringraziarvi. Mettetela giù, per favore.”

“L’ho trovato,” disse Tom lentamente, “quando sono andato a chiudere la finestra della sacrestia, nel banco.”

Sapeva che l’aveva. Il signor Pecksniff se l’era tolto mentre si muoveva su e giù, per evitare che urtasse le panche; poi se n’era dimenticato. Tornando in chiesa, con la mente piena del pensiero di essere stato osservato e chiedendosi da dove provenisse quell’attenzione, Tom notò che la porta della panca riservata ai funzionari era aperta. Guardandoci dentro, trovò il vetro. E così seppe, e restituendolo fornì al signor Pecksniff l’informazione di cui disponeva: chi aveva ascoltato la conversazione non aveva affatto sentito frammenti di essa, ma aveva sicuramente goduto ogni singola parola.

“Sono contento che se ne sia andato,” disse Martin, tirando un lungo respiro dopo che Tom aveva lasciato la stanza.

“È davvero un sollievo,” convenne il signor Pecksniff. “Un grande sollievo. Ma ora che ho adempiuto – spero con una certa fermezza – al dovere che avevo verso la società, se mi permettete, mio caro signore, mi ritirerò per versare qualche lacrima nel giardino posteriore, da semplice individuo umile.”

Tom salì al piano di sopra, pulì lo scaffale dai libri, li impacchettò insieme alla sua musica e a un vecchio violino nel baule, prese i suoi vestiti (non ce n’erano così tanti da fargli male alla testa) e li mise sopra i libri; poi andò nella stanza dove teneva gli strumenti. Lì c’era uno sgabello logoro, con i peli di cavallo che spuntavano fuori dal sedile come una parrucca: uno sgabello davvero orribile. Su quello si sedeva ogni giorno, anno dopo anno, per tutto il periodo in cui aveva lavorato lì. Quel pezzo della stanza veniva tradizionalmente chiamato “L’Angolo di Tom”. Inizialmente gli era stato assegnato proprio perché si trovava in un punto molto esposto al vento e lontano dal camino; da allora lo aveva occupato sempre. Sulle pareti c’erano i suoi ritratti, nei quali tutti i suoi difetti venivano rappresentati in modo esagerato. Sentimenti malvagi, estranei al suo carattere, erano raffigurati come se uscissero dalla sua bocca sotto forma di palloncini gonfi d’aria. Ogni allievo aveva aggiunto qualcosa: persino ritratti fantasiosi di suo padre con un occhio solo, di sua madre con un naso sproporzionato. E soprattutto di sua sorella, sempre raffigurata come estremamente bella, il che compensava in qualche modo tutte le altre battute offensive. In circostanze meno strane, lasciare quelle cose e pensare che fossero gli ultimi momenti in cui le vedeva avrebbe spezzato il cuore a Tom. Ma ora non era più così. Non c’era più nessun Pecksniff; non c’era mai stato nessun Pecksniff. E tutti gli altri suoi dolori venivano sommersi da quel pensiero.

Quindi, quando tornò nella camera da letto e, dopo aver chiuso la sua valigia e il suo borsone, indossato i gambali da passeggio, il cappotto pesante e il cappello, e preso in mano il bastone, guardò intorno per l’ultima volta. Nei primi mattini d’estate, e alla luce delle candele nelle notti d’inverno, aveva letto fino a quasi non vedere più in quella stessa stanza. Aveva anche provato a imparare a suonare il violino sotto le coperte, ma, di fronte alle obiezioni degli altri studenti, aveva dovuto abbandonare quel progetto a malincuore. In qualsiasi altro momento se ne sarebbe andato con dolore, pensando a tutto ciò che aveva imparato lì, alle molte ore trascorse in quella stanza, per amore dei suoi stessi sogni. Ma Pecksniff non c’era più; Pecksniff non era mai esistito davvero, e quell’illusione riguardo a Pecksniff si estendeva anche a quella stanza, dove, seduto su quel particolare letto, colui che fingeva di essere quella “grande astrazione” aveva spesso predicato la morale con tale efficacia che Tom provava la commozione negli occhi ascoltando quelle parole.

L’uomo incaricato di portare il suo baule – che Tom conosceva molto bene: un uomo dal aspetto “da drago” – arrivò facendo rumore su per le scale e fece un inchino piuttosto goffo a Tom (al quale in tempi normali avrebbe semplicemente fatto un cenno con un sorriso), come se sapesse cosa era accaduto e volesse far capire a Tom che per lui non faceva alcuna differenza. Fu un gesto maldestro; quell’uomo non era altro che un addetto al rifornimento degli cavalli; ma Tom gliene fu grato, molto di più di quanto si aspettasse.

Tom avrebbe potuto aiutarlo con quella scatola, ma non ci fece caso; anche se era molto pesante, la trattò come un elefante tratterebbe un castello: semplicemente se la mise in spalla e la portò giù per le scale, come se, essendo naturalmente una persona robusta, fosse in grado di trasportare quella scatola molto meglio di quanto potesse farlo da solo. Tom prese il borsone di velluto e lo seguì giù. Alla porta d’ingresso c’era Jane, che piangeva a dirotto; sulle scale c’era la signora Lupin, che singhiozzava amaramente e tendeva la mano a Tom perché gliela stringesse.

‘You’re coming to the Dragon, Mr Pinch?’

‘No,’ said Tom, ‘no. I shall walk to Salisbury to-night. I couldn’t stay here. For goodness’ sake, don’t make me so unhappy, Mrs Lupin.’

‘But you’ll come to the Dragon, Mr Pinch. If it’s only for tonight. To see me, you know; not as a traveller.’

‘God bless my soul!’ said Tom, wiping his eyes. ‘The kindness of people is enough to break one’s heart! I mean to go to Salisbury to-night, my dear good creature. If you’ll take care of my box for me till I write for it, I shall consider it the greatest kindness you can do me.’

‘I wish,’ cried Mrs Lupin, ‘there were twenty boxes, Mr Pinch, that I might have ‘em all.’

‘Thank’ee,’ said Tom. ‘It’s like you. Good-bye. Good-bye.’

There were several people, young and old, standing about the door, some of whom cried with Mrs Lupin; while others tried to keep up a stout heart, as Tom did; and others were absorbed in admiration of Mr Pecksniff—a man who could build a church, as one may say, by squinting at a sheet of paper; and others were divided between that feeling and sympathy with Tom. Mr Pecksniff had appeared on the top of the steps, simultaneously with his old pupil, and while Tom was talking with Mrs Lupin kept his hand stretched out, as though he said ‘Go forth!’ When Tom went forth, and had turned the corner Mr Pecksniff shook his head, shut his eyes, and heaving a deep sigh, shut the door. On which, the best of Tom’s supporters said he must have done some dreadful deed, or such a man as Mr Pecksniff never could have felt like that. If it had been a common quarrel (they observed), he would have said something, but when he didn’t, Mr Pinch must have shocked him dreadfully.

Tom was out of hearing of their shrewd opinions, and plodded on as steadily as he could go, until he came within sight of the turnpike where the tollman’s family had cried out ‘Mr Pinch!’ that frosty morning, when he went to meet young Martin. He had got through the village, and this toll-bar was his last trial; but when the infant toll-takers came screeching out, he had half a mind to run for it, and make a bolt across the country.

‘Why, deary Mr Pinch! oh, deary sir!’ cried the tollman’s wife. ‘What an unlikely time for you to be a-going this way with a bag!’

‘I am going to Salisbury,’ said Tom.

‘Why, goodness, where’s the gig, then?’ cried the tollman’s wife, looking down the road, as if she thought Tom might have been upset without observing it.

‘I haven’t got it,’ said Tom. ‘I—’ he couldn’t evade it; he felt she would have him in the next question, if he got over this one. ‘I have left Mr Pecksniff.’

The tollman—a crusty customer, always smoking solitary pipes in a Windsor chair, inside, set artfully between two little windows that looked up and down the road, so that when he saw anything coming up he might hug himself on having toll to take, and when he saw it going down, might hug himself on having taken it—the tollman was out in an instant.

‘Left Mr Pecksniff!’ cried the tollman.

‘Yes,’ said Tom, ‘left him.’

The tollman looked at his wife, uncertain whether to ask her if she had anything to suggest, or to order her to mind the children. Astonishment making him surly, he preferred the latter, and sent her into the toll-house with a flea in her ear.

‘You left Mr Pecksniff!’ cried the tollman, folding his arms, and spreading his legs. ‘I should as soon have thought of his head leaving him.’

‘Aye!’ said Tom, ‘so should I, yesterday. Good night!’

If a heavy drove of oxen hadn’t come by immediately, the tollman would have gone down to the village straight, to inquire into it. As things turned out, he smoked another pipe, and took his wife into his confidence. But their united sagacity could make nothing of it, and they went to bed—metaphorically—in the dark. But several times that night, when a waggon or other vehicle came through, and the driver asked the tollkeeper ‘What news?’ he looked at the man by the light of his lantern, to assure himself that he had an interest in the subject, and then said, wrapping his watch-coat round his legs:

‘You’ve heerd of Mr Pecksniff down yonder?’

‘Ah! sure-ly!’

‘And of his young man Mr Pinch, p’raps?’

‘Ah!’

‘They’ve parted.’

After every one of these disclosures, the tollman plunged into his house again, and was seen no more, while the other side went on in great amazement.

But this was long after Tom was abed, and Tom was now with his face towards Salisbury, doing his best to get there. The evening was beautiful at first, but it became cloudy and dull at sunset, and the rain fell heavily soon afterwards. For ten long miles he plodded on, wet through, until at last the lights appeared, and he came into the welcome precincts of the city.

He went to the inn where he had waited for Martin, and briefly answering their inquiries after Mr Pecksniff, ordered a bed. He had no heart for tea or supper, meat or drink of any kind, but sat by himself before an empty table in the public room while the bed was getting ready, revolving in his mind all that had happened that eventful day, and wondering what he could or should do for the future. It was a great relief when the chambermaid came in, and said the bed was ready.

It was a low four-poster, shelving downward in the centre like a trough, and the room was crowded with impracticable tables and exploded chests of drawers, full of damp linen. A graphic representation in oil of a remarkably fat ox hung over the fireplace, and the portrait of some former landlord (who might have been the ox’s brother, he was so like him) stared roundly in, at the foot of the bed. A variety of queer smells were partially quenched in the prevailing scent of very old lavender; and the window had not been opened for such a long space of time that it pleaded immemorial usage, and wouldn’t come open now.

These were trifles in themselves, but they added to the strangeness of the place, and did not induce Tom to forget his new position. Pecksniff had gone out of the world—had never been in it—and it was as much as Tom could do to say his prayers without him. But he felt happier afterwards, and went to sleep, and dreamed about him as he Never Was.

“Viene dal Drago, signor Pinch?”

“No,” disse Tom, “no. Camminerò fino a Salisbury stanotte. Non posso rimanere qui. Per l’amor del cielo, non rendermi così infelice, signora Lupin.”

“Ma verrà al Drago, signor Pinch. Almeno stasera. Per vedermi, capisce? Non in veste di viaggiatore.”

“Dio benedica la mia ‘anima!” disse Tom asciugandosi gli occhi. “La gentilezza delle persone è davvero sufficiente per spezzare il cuore. Intendo andare a Salisbury stasera, cara mia buona creatura. Se potessi affidarti a te la mia scatola fino a quando non ti scriverò per richiederla indietro, considererei questo il più grande favore che tu possa farmi.”

“Vorrei tanto”, esclamò la signora Lupin, “che ci fossero venti scatole, signor Pinch, così potrei prenderle tutte”.

“Grazie,” disse Tom. “Sei proprio come te. Addio. Addio.”

C’erano diverse persone, giovani e anziane, ferme intorno alla porta: alcune piangevano insieme a Mrs Lupin; altre cercavano di mantenere la calma, come faceva Tom; altre erano completamente assorte nell’ammirazione per Mr Pecksniff – un uomo che, si potrebbe dire, riusciva a costruire una chiesa semplicemente guardando una pagina di carta; ancora altre provavano sia ammirazione che simpatia per Tom. Mr Pecksniff era apparso in cima alle scale, contemporaneamente al suo vecchio allievo; mentre Tom parlava con Mrs Lupin, lui teneva la mano tesa, come se stesse dicendo “Vai via!”. Quando Tom se ne andò e girò l’angolo, Mr Pecksniff scosse la testa, chiuse gli occhi, emise un profondo sospiro e chiuse la porta. A quel punto, i più fedeli sostenitori di Tom pensarono che dovesse aver commesso qualche atto terribile, perché una persona come Mr Pecksniff non avrebbe mai reagito in quel modo. Se si fosse trattato di una semplice lite, avrebbe sicuramente detto qualcosa; ma il fatto che non lo facesse significava che Tom doveva averlo scioccato profondamente.

Tom non sentiva più le loro opinioni sagge e continuava ad avanzare il più regolarmente possibile, fino a quando non raggiunse in vista il casello dove, quella mattina gelida, la famiglia del casellante aveva gridato “Signor Pinch!” quando era andato a incontrare il giovane Martin. Aveva già superato il villaggio e quel casello rappresentava l’ultima prova per lui; ma quando i giovani addetti al casello iniziarono a urlare, ebbe quasi l’impulso di scappare via e mettersi in fuga attraverso la campagna.

“Ma caro signor Pinch! Oh, caro signore!” gridò la moglie del casellante. “Che momento così inaspettato per voi, e con una borsa in mano, per di più!”

“Sto andando a Salisbury,” disse Tom.

“Ma dove diavolo è finita la carovana?” gridò la moglie del casellante, guardando lungo la strada, come se pensasse che Tom potesse essere andato via senza che lei se ne accorgesse.

“Non l’ho,” disse Tom. “Io, ” Non riuscì a evitare la domanda; sentiva che lei lo avrebbe messo alle strette con la prossima domanda, se fosse riuscito a superare questa. “Ho lasciato il signor Pecksniff.”

Il casellante – un cliente burbero, che fumava sempre da solo la sua pipa seduto su una sedia Windsor, posizionata con cura tra due piccole finestre che si affacciavano lungo la strada – in un attimo uscì fuori non appena vide qualcosa avvicinarsi.

“Lasciate andare il signor Pecksniff!” gridò l’uomo incaricato di riscuotere le tasse.

“Sì,” disse Tom, “l’abbiamo lasciato lì.”

Il casellante guardò sua moglie, incerto se chiederle se avesse qualche suggerimento da dare o ordinarle di badare ai bambini. Perché sopraffatto dalla sorpresa, scelse la seconda opzione e la mandò nella casa del casello, con l’ordine di occuparsi immediatamente dei figli.

“Avete lasciato il signor Pecksniff!” gridò l’uomo incaricato di riscuotere le tasse, incrociando le braccia e allargando le gambe. “Avrei dovuto pensare subito che anche la sua testa potesse lasciare il suo corpo, ”

“Sì!” disse Tom, “avrei dovuto farlo ieri. Buona notte!”

Se non fosse passato immediatamente un grosso carico di buoi, il casellante sarebbe andato direttamente nel villaggio per indagare. Invece, fumò un’altra pipa e confidò la cosa a sua moglie. Ma nemmeno la loro combinata saggezza riuscì a capirci nulla, e andarono a letto, metaforicamente parlando, nell’oscurità. Tuttavia, quella notte, più volte, quando passava un carro o qualche altro veicolo e il conducente chiedeva al casellante “Quali novità?”, lui lo guardava alla luce della sua lanterna per assicurarsi che quell’uomo fosse interessato all’argomento, e poi rispondeva, avvolgendo il suo cappotto intorno alle gambe.

“Avete mai sentito parlare di Mr Pecksniff laggiù?”

“Ah! certo!”

“E del suo giovane assistente, il signor Pinch, immagino?”

‘Ah!’

“Si sono separati.”

Dopo ogni una di queste rivelazioni, il casellante si ritirava nuovamente nella sua >casa e non lo si vedeva più; intanto, dall’altra parte, tutti rimanevano estremamente sorpresi.

Ma questo accadde molto dopo che Tom si era coricato; ormai lui aveva il viso rivolto verso Salisbury e faceva del suo meglio per raggiungerla. La sera all’inizio era bella, ma al tramonto il cielo si è rannuvolato e si è fatto cupo; poco dopo ha iniziato a piovere forte. Ha proseguito per dieci lunghi miglia, bagnato fradicio fino alle ossa, finché finalmente sono apparse le luci della città, ed è entrato nei suoi accoglienti confini.

Andò all’ostello dove aveva aspettato Martin e, rispondendo brevemente alle loro domande riguardo al signor Pecksniff, ordinò una camera da letto. Non aveva alcun desiderio di bere tè o cenare, né di mangiare carne o qualsiasi altro cibo; si sedette da solo davanti a un tavolo vuoto nella sala comune, mentre la stanza veniva preparata, ripensando a tutto ciò che era accaduto in quel giorno così importante e chiedendosi cosa potesse o dovesse fare per il futuro. Fu un grande sollievo quando la cameriera entrò e gli disse che la camera era pronta.

Era un letto a baldacchino basso, con i montanti che si incurvavano verso il basso al centro, formando quasi una specie di canale; la stanza era piena di tavoli ingombranti e armadietti traboccanti di cassetti, tutti contenenti lenzuola umide. Sopra il caminetto era appeso un dipinto a olio raffigurante un bue straordinariamente grasso; in fondo al letto, il ritratto di qualche ex proprietario (che forse era il fratello del bue, visto quanto assomigliasse a lui) fissava intorno a sé con sguardo torvo. Una varietà di odori strani veniva in parte mascherata dal profumo persistente di lavanda molto vecchia; la finestra, però, non era stata aperta da così tanto tempo che ormai sembrava aver perso la capacità di aprirsi.

Si trattava di cose insignificanti in sé, ma contribuivano alla stranezza di quel luogo e non facevano dimenticare a Tom la sua nuova situazione. Pecksniff era come se non esistesse più, come se non fosse mai esistito. E per Tom era già un grande sforzo riuscire a pregare senza di lui. Tuttavia, dopo si sentiva più sereno, andò a dormire e sognò di Pecksniff, come se non fosse mai esistito.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

TREATS OF TODGER’S AGAIN; AND OF ANOTHER BLIGHTED PLANT BESIDES THE PLANTS UPON THE LEADS

Early on the day next after that on which she bade adieu to the halls of her youth and the scenes of her childhood, Miss Pecksniff, arriving safely at the coach-office in London, was there received, and conducted to her peaceful home beneath the shadow of the Monument, by Mrs Todgers. M. Todgers looked a little worn by cares of gravy and other such solicitudes arising out of her establishment, but displayed her usual earnestness and warmth of manner.

‘And how, my sweet Miss Pecksniff,’ said she, ‘how is your princely pa?’

Miss Pecksniff signified (in confidence) that he contemplated the introduction of a princely ma; and repeated the sentiment that she wasn’t blind, and wasn’t quite a fool, and wouldn’t bear it.

Mrs Todgers was more shocked by the intelligence than any one could have expected. She was quite bitter. She said there was no truth in man and that the warmer he expressed himself, as a general principle, the falser and more treacherous he was. She foresaw with astonishing clearness that the object of Mr Pecksniff’s attachment was designing, worthless, and wicked; and receiving from Charity the fullest confirmation of these views, protested with tears in her eyes that she loved Miss Pecksniff like a sister, and felt her injuries as if they were her own.

‘Your real darling sister, I have not seen her more than once since her marriage,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘and then I thought her looking poorly. My sweet Miss Pecksniff, I always thought that you was to be the lady?’

‘Oh dear no!’ cried Cherry, shaking her head. ‘Oh no, Mrs Todgers. Thank you. No! not for any consideration he could offer.’

‘I dare say you are right,’ said Mrs Todgers with a sigh. ‘I feared it all along. But the misery we have had from that match, here among ourselves, in this house, my dear Miss Pecksniff, nobody would believe.’

‘Lor, Mrs Todgers!’

‘Awful, awful!’ repeated Mrs Todgers, with strong emphasis. ‘You recollect our youngest gentleman, my dear?’

‘Of course I do,’ said Cherry.

‘You might have observed,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘how he used to watch your sister; and that a kind of stony dumbness came over him whenever she was in company?’

‘I am sure I never saw anything of the sort,’ said Cherry, in a peevish manner. ‘What nonsense, Mrs Todgers!’

‘My dear,’ returned that lady in a hollow voice, ‘I have seen him again and again, sitting over his pie at dinner, with his spoon a perfect fixture in his mouth, looking at your sister. I have seen him standing in a corner of our drawing-room, gazing at her, in such a lonely, melancholy state, that he was more like a Pump than a man, and might have drawed tears.’

‘I never saw it!’ cried Cherry; ‘that’s all I can say.’

‘But when the marriage took place,’ said Mrs Todgers, proceeding with her subject, ‘when it was in the paper, and was read out here at breakfast, I thought he had taken leave of his senses, I did indeed. The violence of that young man, my dear Miss Pecksniff; the frightful opinions he expressed upon the subject of self-destruction; the extraordinary actions he performed with his tea; the clenching way in which he bit his bread and butter; the manner in which he taunted Mr Jinkins; all combined to form a picture never to be forgotten.’

‘It’s a pity he didn’t destroy himself, I think,’ observed Miss Pecksniff.

‘Himself!’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘it took another turn at night. He was for destroying other people then. There was a little chaffing going on—I hope you don’t consider that a low expression, Miss Pecksniff; it is always in our gentlemen’s mouths—a little chaffing going on, my dear, among ‘em, all in good nature, when suddenly he rose up, foaming with his fury, and but for being held by three would have had Mr Jinkins’s life with a bootjack.’

Miss Pecksniff’s face expressed supreme indifference.

‘And now,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘now he is the meekest of men. You can almost bring the tears into his eyes by looking at him. He sits with me the whole day long on Sundays, talking in such a dismal way that I find it next to impossible to keep my spirits up equal to the accommodation of the boarders. His only comfort is in female society. He takes me half-price to the play, to an extent which I sometimes fear is beyond his means; and I see the tears a-standing in his eyes during the whole performance—particularly if it is anything of a comic nature. The turn I experienced only yesterday,’ said Mrs Todgers putting her hand to her side, ‘when the house-maid threw his bedside carpet out of the window of his room, while I was sitting here, no one can imagine. I thought it was him, and that he had done it at last!’

The contempt with which Miss Charity received this pathetic account of the state to which the youngest gentleman in company was reduced, did not say much for her power of sympathising with that unfortunate character. She treated it with great levity, and went on to inform herself, then and afterwards, whether any other changes had occurred in the commercial boarding-house.

Mr Bailey was gone, and had been succeeded (such is the decay of human greatness!) by an old woman whose name was reported to be Tamaroo—which seemed an impossibility. Indeed it appeared in the fullness of time that the jocular boarders had appropriated the word from an English ballad, in which it is supposed to express the bold and fiery nature of a certain hackney coachman; and that it was bestowed upon Mr Bailey’s successor by reason of her having nothing fiery about her, except an occasional attack of that fire which is called St. Anthony’s. This ancient female had been engaged, in fulfillment of a vow, registered by Mrs Todgers, that no more boys should darken the commercial doors; and she was chiefly remarkable for a total absence of all comprehension upon every subject whatever. She was a perfect Tomb for messages and small parcels; and when dispatched to the Post Office with letters, had been frequently seen endeavouring to insinuate them into casual chinks in private doors, under the delusion that any door with a hole in it would answer the purpose. She was a very little old woman, and always wore a very coarse apron with a bib before and a loop behind, together with bandages on her wrists, which appeared to be afflicted with an everlasting sprain. She was on all occasions chary of opening the street door, and ardent to shut it again; and she waited at table in a bonnet.

CAPITOLO TRENTADUE

Trattati sulle piante di Todger, e su un’altra specie maledetta, oltre a quelle menzionate in precedenza

All’alba del giorno seguente a quello in cui aveva detto addio ai saloni della sua giovinezza e alle scene della sua infanzia, la signorina Pecksniff, arrivata sana e salva all’ufficio delle diligenze di Londra, fu accolta lì stesso e accompagnata alla sua tranquilla casa all’ombra del Monumento dalla signora Todgers. La signora Todgers sembrava un po’ stanca a causa delle preoccupazioni legate alle faccende domestiche e ad altre questioni derivanti dalla gestione della sua attività, ma mostrò comunque la solita serietà e cordialità nel suo comportamento.

“E allora, mia cara signorina Pecksniff,” disse lei, “come sta vostro nobile padre?”

La signorina Pecksniff fece capire (in confidenza) che stava considerando l’idea di introdurre una sorta di “ma” principesco; e ripeté più volte che lei non era cieca, né del tutto una stupida, e quindi non avrebbe accettato una cosa del genere.

La signora Todgers fu più scioccata da quella intelligenza di quanto chiunque avesse potuto aspettarsi. Era molto amareggiata; disse che non esisteva alcuna verità nell’uomo e che, in generale, più un uomo si esprimeva con calore, più era falso e traditore. Previde con straordinaria chiarezza che l’interesse del signor Pecksniff per Miss Pecksniff fosse malizioso, privo di valore e perverso; e, ricevuta da Charity la piena conferma di queste opinioni, protestò con le lacrime agli occhi dicendo di amare Miss Pecksniff come una sorella e di considerare i suoi torti come propri.

“Tua vera sorella adorata. Non l’ho vista più di una volta da quando si è sposata,” disse la signora Todgers, “e allora mi è sembrato che stesse male. Mia cara signorina Pecksniff. Ho sempre pensato che tu saresti diventata la padrona di casa, ”

“Oddio, no!” esclamò Cherry scuotendo la testa. “No, signora Todgers. Grazie, ma per nessuna somma di denaro che potesse offrirmi.”

“Oserei dire che hai ragione,” disse la signora Todgers con un sospiro. “Me lo temevo fin dall’inizio. Ma la sofferenza che abbiamo provato a causa di quella scommessa, qui tra noi, in questa casa, mia cara signorina Pecksniff, nessuno ci crederebbe.”

“Ehi, signora Todgers!”

“Terribile, terribile!” ripeteva la signora Todgers con forte enfasi. “Vi ricordate del nostro giovane gentiluomo, cara?”

“Certo che sì,” disse Cherry.

“Avrete forse notato,” disse la signora Todgers, “come lui osservasse sempre vostra sorella; e come gli venisse addosso una sorta di silenzio, di immobilità, ogni volta che lei era in sua compagnia?”

“Sono sicura di non aver mai visto nulla del genere,” disse Cherry in tono irritato. “Che sciocchezze, signora Todgers!”

“Mio caro,” rispose quella signora con voce spenta, “l’ho visto ancora e ancora: seduto a tavola mentre mangiava la sua torta, con il cucchiaio fermo in bocca, fissando tua sorella. L’ho visto anche in un angolo del nostro salotto, che la guardava con tale solitudine, tale melanconia, da sembrare più una statua che un uomo. Avrebbe potuto persino versare lacrime.”

“Non l’ho mai visto!” esclamò Cherry; “è tutto quello che posso dire.”

“Ma quando il matrimonio ebbe luogo,” disse la signora Todgers, proseguendo nel suo racconto, “quando ne fu data notizia sui giornali e venne letta qui a colazione, pensai davvero che avesse perso la ragione. La violenza di quel giovane, cara signorina Pecksniff; le opinioni terribili che espresse sull’argomento della autodistruzione; le azioni straordinarie che compì riguardo al tè; il modo in cui mordeva il pane e il burro con forza; il modo in cui prendeva in giro il signor Jinkins. Tutto ciò insieme formava un quadro che non si dimenticherà mai.”

“È un peccato che non si sia distrutto, penso,” osservò la signorina Pecksniff.

“Lui stesso!”, disse la signora Todgers. “Di notte è successo qualcos’altro: in quel momento voleva davvero distruggere gli altri. C’erano state alcune piccole discussioni. Spero che non consideriate questo un’espressione volgare, signorina Pecksniff; queste cose succedono spesso tra i nostri gentiluomini. Discussioni innocue, si capisce. Ma all’improvviso lui è impazzito di rabbia e, se non fosse stato trattenuto da tre persone, avrebbe ucciso il signor Jinkins con un colpo di scarpa.”

Il viso della signorina Pecksniff esprimeva un’indifferenza assoluta.

“E ora,” disse la signora Todgers, “ora è l’uomo più mite che esista. Basta guardarlo per fargli venire le lacrime agli occhi. La domenica passa tutto il giorno con me, parlando in modo così triste che mi è quasi impossibile mantenere un umore allegro, considerando anche l’atteggiamento degli altri ospiti della pensione. L’unica cosa che lo consola è la compagnia delle donne: mi porta al teatro a metà prezzo, fino al punto che a volte temo che questo gli costi più di quanto possa permettersi; e vedo chiaramente le lacrime nei suoi occhi per tutta la durata dello spettacolo, soprattutto se si tratta di qualcosa di comico. L’episodio che ho vissuto ieri,” continuò la signora Todgers mettendosi una mano sul fianco, “quando la cameriera ha gettato il tappeto da letto dalla finestra della sua stanza mentre ero qui seduta, nessuno può immaginare quanto sia stato terribile. Ho pensato che fosse stato lui stesso a farlo, ”

Il disprezzo con cui la signorina Charity accolse questo patetico resoconto dello stato in cui era caduto il più giovane dei gentiluomini presenti, non diceva molto della sua capacità di provare simpatia per quella sfortunata persona. Lo trattò con grande leggerezza e, sia allora che in seguito, continuò a informarsi se fossero avvenuti altri cambiamenti nella casa di pensione commerciale in questione.

Il signor Bailey se n’era andato, e al suo posto era subentrata una vecchia donna il cui nome, si diceva, fosse Tamaroo, il che sembrava impossibile. In realtà, con il passare del tempo, emerse che quegli ospiti scherzosi avevano preso in prestito quel nome da una ballata inglese, nella quale veniva usato per descrivere la natura audace e appassionata di un certo cocchiere; e quel nome fu attribuito alla successora del signor Bailey semplicemente perché lei non possedeva alcuna traccia di passione, a parte qualche occasionale accesso di quella “fiamma” chiamata San Antonio. Quella vecchia donna era stata assunta, in adempimento di un voto fatto dalla signora Todgers, affinché nessun ragazzo più entrasse nei negozi; e si distingueva soprattutto per l’assoluta mancanza di comprensione su qualsiasi argomento. Era perfetta per portare messaggi o piccoli pacchi; quando veniva mandata all’ufficio postale con le lettere, spesso si vedeva cercare di infilarle nelle fessure delle porte private, convinta che qualsiasi porta con un foro fosse adatta allo scopo. Era una vecchietta molto piccola, che indossava sempre un grembiule molto ruvido, con una sciarpa davanti e una cinghia dietro; inoltre, aveva bende ai polsi, segno probabilmente di una lussazione permanente. In ogni occasione, era molto attenta ad aprire la porta d’ingresso, e altrettanto desiderosa di richiuderla subito dopo; durante i pasti, sedeva sempre con il cappello in testa.

This was the only great change over and above the change which had fallen on the youngest gentleman. As for him, he more than corroborated the account of Mrs Todgers; possessing greater sensibility than even she had given him credit for. He entertained some terrible notions of Destiny, among other matters, and talked much about people’s ‘Missions’; upon which he seemed to have some private information not generally attainable, as he knew it had been poor Merry’s mission to crush him in the bud. He was very frail and tearful; for being aware that a shepherd’s mission was to pipe to his flocks, and that a boatswain’s mission was to pipe all hands, and that one man’s mission was to be a paid piper, and another man’s mission was to pay the piper, so he had got it into his head that his own peculiar mission was to pipe his eye. Which he did perpetually.

He often informed Mrs Todgers that the sun had set upon him; that the billows had rolled over him; that the car of Juggernaut had crushed him, and also that the deadly Upas tree of Java had blighted him. His name was Moddle.

Towards this most unhappy Moddle, Miss Pecksniff conducted herself at first with distant haughtiness, being in no humour to be entertained with dirges in honour of her married sister. The poor young gentleman was additionally crushed by this, and remonstrated with Mrs Todgers on the subject.

‘Even she turns from me, Mrs Todgers,’ said Moddle.

‘Then why don’t you try and be a little bit more cheerful, sir?’ retorted Mrs Todgers.

‘Cheerful, Mrs Todgers! cheerful!’ cried the youngest gentleman; ‘when she reminds me of days for ever fled, Mrs Todgers!’

‘Then you had better avoid her for a short time, if she does,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘and come to know her again, by degrees. That’s my advice.’

‘But I can’t avoid her,’ replied Moddle, ‘I haven’t strength of mind to do it. Oh, Mrs Todgers, if you knew what a comfort her nose is to me!’

‘Her nose, sir!’ Mrs Todgers cried.

‘Her profile, in general,’ said the youngest gentleman, ‘but particularly her nose. It’s so like;’ here he yielded to a burst of grief. ‘It’s so like hers who is Another’s, Mrs Todgers!’

The observant matron did not fail to report this conversation to Charity, who laughed at the time, but treated Mr Moddle that very evening with increased consideration, and presented her side face to him as much as possible. Mr Moddle was not less sentimental than usual; was rather more so, if anything; but he sat and stared at her with glistening eyes, and seemed grateful.

‘Well, sir!’ said the lady of the Boarding-House next day. ‘You held up your head last night. You’re coming round, I think.’

‘Only because she’s so like her who is Another’s, Mrs Todgers,’ rejoined the youth. ‘When she talks, and when she smiles, I think I’m looking on HER brow again, Mrs Todgers.’

This was likewise carried to Charity, who talked and smiled next evening in her most engaging manner, and rallying Mr Moddle on the lowness of his spirits, challenged him to play a rubber at cribbage. Mr Moddle taking up the gauntlet, they played several rubbers for sixpences, and Charity won them all. This may have been partially attributable to the gallantry of the youngest gentleman, but it was certainly referable to the state of his feelings also; for his eyes being frequently dimmed by tears, he thought that aces were tens, and knaves queens, which at times occasioned some confusion in his play.

On the seventh night of cribbage, when Mrs Todgers, sitting by, proposed that instead of gambling they should play for ‘love,’ Mr Moddle was seen to change colour. On the fourteenth night, he kissed Miss Pecksniff’s snuffers, in the passage, when she went upstairs to bed; meaning to have kissed her hand, but missing it.

In short, Mr Moddle began to be impressed with the idea that Miss Pecksniff’s mission was to comfort him; and Miss Pecksniff began to speculate on the probability of its being her mission to become ultimately Mrs Moddle. He was a young gentleman (Miss Pecksniff was not a very young lady) with rising prospects, and ‘almost’ enough to live on. Really it looked very well.

Besides—besides—he had been regarded as devoted to Merry. Merry had joked about him, and had once spoken of it to her sister as a conquest. He was better looking, better shaped, better spoken, better tempered, better mannered than Jonas. He was easy to manage, could be made to consult the humours of his Betrothed, and could be shown off like a lamb when Jonas was a bear. There was the rub!

In the meantime the cribbage went on, and Mrs Todgers went off; for the youngest gentleman, dropping her society, began to take Miss Pecksniff to the play. He also began, as Mrs Todgers said, to slip home ‘in his dinner-times,’ and to get away from ‘the office’ at unholy seasons; and twice, as he informed Mrs Todgers himself, he received anonymous letters, enclosing cards from Furniture Warehouses—clearly the act of that ungentlemanly ruffian Jinkins; only he hadn’t evidence enough to call him out upon. All of which, so Mrs Todgers told Miss Pecksniff, spoke as plain English as the shining sun.

‘My dear Miss Pecksniff, you may depend upon it,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘that he is burning to propose.’

‘My goodness me, why don’t he then?’ cried Cherry.

‘Men are so much more timid than we think ‘em, my dear,’ returned Mrs Todgers. ‘They baulk themselves continually. I saw the words on Todgers’s lips for months and months and months, before he said ‘em.’

Miss Pecksniff submitted that Todgers might not have been a fair specimen.

‘Oh yes, he was. Oh bless you, yes, my dear. I was very particular in those days, I assure you,’ said Mrs Todgers, bridling. ‘No, no. You give Mr Moddle a little encouragement, Miss Pecksniff, if you wish him to speak; and he’ll speak fast enough, depend upon it.’

‘I am sure I don’t know what encouragement he would have, Mrs Todgers,’ returned Charity. ‘He walks with me, and plays cards with me, and he comes and sits alone with me.’

Questo era l’unico cambiamento significativo, rispetto a quello che aveva colpito il giovane gentiluomo più giovane. Per quanto lo riguardava, lui stesso confermava ampiamente le dichiarazioni della signora Todgers; possedeva infatti una sensibilità maggiore di quanto lei stessa gli avesse attribuito. Aveva delle idee terribili sul Destino, e parlava spesso delle “missioni” delle persone; a proposito sembrava disporre di informazioni private che non sono generalmente accessibili, poiché sapeva che la “missione” della povera Merry era stata quella di “schiacciare lui nel germoglio”. Era molto debole e piangeva spesso; essendo convinto che il compito di un pastore fosse suonare per le sue greggi, quello di un timoniere fosse dirigere tutti i movimenti dell’equipaggio, e che la missione di alcune persone fosse quella di essere musicisti stipendiati, mentre altre dovevano semplicemente pagare quei musicisti. Così aveva deciso che la sua “missione particolare” fosse quella di “suonare per i propri occhi”. E lo faceva continuamente.

Spesso raccontava alla signora Todgers che il sole si era spento su di lui; che le onde lo avevano sommerso; che il carro del Juggernaut lo aveva schiacciato, e anche che l’uccisiva pianta Upas di Giava lo aveva distrutto. Il suo nome era Moddle.

Verso questo sfortunato Moddle, la signorina Pecksniff si comportò all’inizio con distaccata arroganza, poiché non era affatto di umore ad ascoltare lodi in onore della sua sorella sposata. Il povero giovane fu ulteriormente spezzato da questo trattamento e ne parlò con la signora Todgers.

“Anche lei si allontana da me, signora Todgers,” disse Moddle.

“Allora perché non provate ad essere un po’ più allegri, signore?” ribatté la signora Todgers.

“Che gioia, signora Todgers! Che felicità!” esclamò il giovane gentiluomo; “quando lei mi ricorda di giorni ormai per sempre svaniti, signora Todgers, ”

“Allora sarebbe meglio che la evitassi per un po’, se lei lo farà,” disse la signora Todgers, “e poi che la conoscessi di nuovo, gradualmente. Questo è il mio consiglio.”

“Ma non posso evitarla,” rispose Moddle, “non ho la forza di volontà per farlo. Oh, signora Todgers, se solo sapeste quanto mi conforti il suo naso!”

“Il suo naso, signore!” gridò la signora Todgers.

“Il suo profilo, in generale,” disse il più giovane dei gentiluomini, “ma soprattutto il suo naso. È così simile a quello di lei, che appartiene a un’altra persona, la signora Todgers!” Qui non riuscì a trattenere una lacrima di dolore.

La attenta matrona non mancò di riferire questa conversazione a Charity, la quale rise in quel momento, ma quella stessa sera trattò il signor Moddle con maggiore considerazione e gli rivolse il viso il più possibile. Il signor Moddle non era meno sentimentale del solito; anzi, forse lo era ancora di più; tuttavia sedeva a fissarla con occhi lucidi, sembrando davvero grato.

“Beh, signore!”, disse il giorno dopo la padrona della casa di riposo. “Ieri notte ha tenuto alta la testa. Penso che stia migliorando.”

“Solo perché assomiglia così tanto a colei che appartiene all’Altro, signora Todgers,” ribatté il giovane. “Quando parla, quando sorride, penso di vedere di nuovo la sua fronte, signora Todgers.”

Lo stesso accadde anche con Charity, la quale il giorno seguente parlò e sorrise nel suo modo più affascinante, incoraggiando Mr Moddle riguardo al suo umore cupo e sfidandolo a giocare una partita di cribbage. Accettata la sfida, giocarono diverse partite per sei pence, e Charity le vinse tutte. Ciò potrebbe essere stato in parte dovuto alla galanteria del giovane gentiluomo, ma certamente anche allo stato dei suoi sentimenti: poiché i suoi occhi erano spesso offuscati dalle lacrime, a volte confondeva gli assi con i dieci e i jolly con le regine, il che causava qualche errore durante la partita.

Nella settima notte di gioco a cribbage, quando la signora Todgers, seduta accanto a loro, propose di giocare non per denaro ma per “amore”, si notò che il signor Moddle cambiava colore. Nel quattordicesimo notte, baciò i fazzoletti della signorina Pecksniff nel corridoio, mentre lei saliva le scale per andare a letto; in realtà voleva baciarle la mano, ma non ci riuscì.

In breve, il signor Moddle iniziò ad essere colpito dall’idea che la missione della signorina Pecksniff fosse quella di consolarlo; e la signorina Pecksniff cominciò a riflettere sulla possibilità che la sua vera missione fosse diventare, in definitiva, la signora Moddle. Era un giovane gentiluomo (la signorina Pecksniff non era una giovane donna molto giovane) con prospettive promettenti, “Quasi” abbastanza buone da garantirgli una vita dignitosa. Davvero, sembrava tutto andare molto bene.

Inoltre, inoltre, era considerato un uomo devoto verso Merry. Merry scherzava su di lui e una volta ne aveva parlato con sua sorella, definendolo una “vittoria” per sé. Era più attraente, meglio proporzionato, più eloquente, più mite e più raffinato di Jonas. Era facile da gestire; si poteva far sì che tenesse conto dei umori della sua fidanzata, e si poteva “mostrare in giro” come un agnellino, mentre Jonas era come un orso. Ecco il problema!

Nel frattempo, il gioco di cribbage continuava, e la signora Todgers se ne andò; infatti, il giovane gentiluomo, abbandonando la sua compagnia, iniziò a portare la signorina Pecksniff al teatro. Inoltre, come disse la signora Todgers, cominciò anche ad “assentarsi da casa” durante i pasti e a allontanarsi dall’“ufficio” in periodi inappropriati dell’anno; in due occasioni, come riferì personalmente alla signora Todgers, ricevette lettere anonime contenenti biglietti provenienti da negozi di mobili, chiaramente opera di quel maleducato e scortese individuo chiamato Jinkins; tuttavia non aveva prove sufficienti per accusarlo apertamente. Tutto ciò, secondo la signora Todgers, era più che evidente.

“Mia cara signorina Pecksniff, può starne certa,” disse la signora Todgers, “che lui è desideroso di farle una proposta.”

“Mio Dio, allora perché non lo fa?”, esclamò Cherry.

“Gli uomini sono molto più timidi di quanto pensiamo, cara mia,” rispose la signora Todgers. “Si tirano indietro continuamente. Ho visto quelle parole sulle sue labbra per mesi e mesi, prima che finalmente le dicesse.”

La signorina Pecksniff sostenne che Todgers potesse non essere un esempio rappresentativo.

“Oh sì, lo era davvero. Oh, benedetto voi, sì, mio caro. A quei tempi ero molto esigente, ve lo assicuro,” disse la signora Todgers, cercando di mantenere la calma. “No, no. Se volete che il signor Moddle parli, dategli un po’ di incoraggiamento, signorina Pecksniff; parlerà abbastanza in fretta, ve lo garantisco.”

“Sono sicura di non sapere quale incoraggiamento potrebbe ricevere, signora Todgers,” rispose Charity. “Cammina con me, gioca a carte con me, e viene a sedersi da solo con me.”

‘Quite right,’ said Mrs Todgers. ‘That’s indispensable, my dear.’

‘And he sits very close to me.’

‘Also quite correct,’ said Mrs Todgers.

‘And he looks at me.’

‘To be sure he does,’ said Mrs Todgers.

‘And he has his arm upon the back of the chair or sofa, or whatever it is—behind me, you know.’

‘I should think so,’ said Mrs Todgers.

‘And then he begins to cry!’

Mrs Todgers admitted that he might do better than that; and might undoubtedly profit by the recollection of the great Lord Nelson’s signal at the battle of Trafalgar. Still, she said, he would come round, or, not to mince the matter, would be brought round, if Miss Pecksniff took up a decided position, and plainly showed him that it must be done.

Determining to regulate her conduct by this opinion, the young lady received Mr Moddle, on the earliest subsequent occasion, with an air of constraint; and gradually leading him to inquire, in a dejected manner, why she was so changed, confessed to him that she felt it necessary for their mutual peace and happiness to take a decided step. They had been much together lately, she observed, much together, and had tasted the sweets of a genuine reciprocity of sentiment. She never could forget him, nor could she ever cease to think of him with feelings of the liveliest friendship, but people had begun to talk, the thing had been observed, and it was necessary that they should be nothing more to each other, than any gentleman and lady in society usually are. She was glad she had had the resolution to say thus much before her feelings had been tried too far; they had been greatly tried, she would admit; but though she was weak and silly, she would soon get the better of it, she hoped.

Moddle, who had by this time become in the last degree maudlin, and wept abundantly, inferred from the foregoing avowal, that it was his mission to communicate to others the blight which had fallen on himself; and that, being a kind of unintentional Vampire, he had had Miss Pecksniff assigned to him by the Fates, as Victim Number One. Miss Pecksniff controverting this opinion as sinful, Moddle was goaded on to ask whether she could be contented with a blighted heart; and it appearing on further examination that she could be, plighted his dismal troth, which was accepted and returned.

He bore his good fortune with the utmost moderation. Instead of being triumphant, he shed more tears than he had ever been known to shed before; and, sobbing, said:

‘Oh! what a day this has been! I can’t go back to the office this afternoon. Oh, what a trying day this has been! Good Gracious!’

“Assolutamente giusto,” disse la signora Todgers. “È indispensabile, cara mia.”

“E si siede molto vicino a me.”

“Anche del tutto corretto,” disse la signora Todgers.

“E lui mi guarda.”

“Certo che lo fa,” disse la signora Todgers.

E ha il braccio appoggiato sulla spalliera della sedia, del divano, o di qualsiasi altra cosa sia, dietro di me, capisci.

“Credo proprio di sì,” disse la signora Todgers.

“E poi inizia a piangere!”

La signora Todgers ammise che potesse riuscire meglio di così; e senza dubbio avrebbe tratto beneficio ricordando il segnale inviato dal grande Lord Nelson nella battaglia di Trafalgar. Tuttavia, disse, si sarebbe ravveduto, o, per essere chiari, lo avrebbero costretto a ravvedersi, se la signorina Pecksniff avesse assunto una posizione decisa e gli avesse fatto capire chiaramente che era necessario farlo.

Decisa a regolare il proprio comportamento in base a questo principio, la giovane signorina accolse il signor Moddle, alla prima occasione successiva, con un atteggiamento forzato; gradualmente lo indusse a chiedere, con aria depressa, il motivo di tale cambiamento nel suo comportamento, e gli confessò che riteneva necessario intraprendere un passo deciso per garantire la loro armonia e felicità reciproca. Osservò che ultimamente avevano trascorso molto tempo insieme e avevano sperimentato i piaceri di un vero affetto reciproco. Non avrebbe mai potuto dimenticarlo, né smettere di pensare a lui con sentimenti di profonda amicizia; tuttavia, la gente aveva iniziato a parlare, e era necessario che il loro rapporto rimanesse esattamente ciò che di solito è tra un gentiluomo e una signora nella società. Era contenta di essersi decisa a dirgli tutto questo prima che i suoi sentimenti venissero messi troppo alla prova; ammetteva che avevano subito grandi pressioni, ma sperava di riuscire presto a superarle, nonostante fosse debole e sciocca.

Moddle, ormai profondamente malinconico e in preda alle lacrime, dedusse dall’affermazione precedente che il suo compito fosse quello di condividere con gli altri la sofferenza che lo aveva colpito; e poiché si trattava, in un certo senso, di un “Vampiro involontario”, sembrava che il Fato avesse destinato a lui Miss Pecksniff come sua prima vittima. Quando Miss Pecksniff definì questa idea peccaminosa, Moddle insistette per chiederle se potesse accontentarsi di un cuore distrutto dalla tristezza; e dopo ulteriori discussioni, risultò che lei fosse disposta ad accettarlo. Così, i due si impegnarono l’uno con l’altra in un matrimonio desolato, che fu accolto e ricambiato.

Affrontò la sua fortuna con estrema moderazione. Invece di essere trionfante, versò più lacrime di quante se ne fosse mai visto versare prima; e, singhiozzando, disse:

“Oh, che giornata terribile. Non posso tornare in ufficio questo pomeriggio. Davvero, una giornata estenuante. Per l’amor del cielo!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

FURTHER PROCEEDINGS IN EDEN, AND A PROCEEDING OUT OF IT. MARTIN MAKES A DISCOVERY OF SOME IMPORTANCE

From Mr Moddle to Eden is an easy and natural transition. Mr Moddle, living in the atmosphere of Miss Pecksniff’s love, dwelt (if he had but known it) in a terrestrial Paradise. The thriving city of Eden was also a terrestrial Paradise, upon the showing of its proprietors. The beautiful Miss Pecksniff might have been poetically described as a something too good for man in his fallen and degraded state. That was exactly the character of the thriving city of Eden, as poetically heightened by Zephaniah Scadder, General Choke, and other worthies; part and parcel of the talons of that great American Eagle, which is always airing itself sky-high in purest aether, and never, no never, never, tumbles down with draggled wings into the mud.

When Mark Tapley, leaving Martin in the architectural and surveying offices, had effectually strengthened and encouraged his own spirits by the contemplation of their joint misfortunes, he proceeded, with new cheerfulness, in search of help; congratulating himself, as he went along, on the enviable position to which he had at last attained.

‘I used to think, sometimes,’ said Mr Tapley, ‘as a desolate island would suit me, but I should only have had myself to provide for there, and being naturally a easy man to manage, there wouldn’t have been much credit in THAT. Now here I’ve got my partner to take care on, and he’s something like the sort of man for the purpose. I want a man as is always a-sliding off his legs when he ought to be on ‘em. I want a man as is so low down in the school of life that he’s always a-making figures of one in his copy-book, and can’t get no further. I want a man as is his own great coat and cloak, and is always a-wrapping himself up in himself. And I have got him too,’ said Mr Tapley, after a moment’s silence. ‘What a happiness!’

He paused to look round, uncertain to which of the log-houses he should repair.

‘I don’t know which to take,’ he observed; ‘that’s the truth. They’re equally prepossessing outside, and equally commodious, no doubt, within; being fitted up with every convenience that a Alligator, in a state of natur’, could possibly require. Let me see! The citizen as turned out last night, lives under water, in the right hand dog-kennel at the corner. I don’t want to trouble him if I can help it, poor man, for he is a melancholy object; a reg’lar Settler in every respect. There’s house with a winder, but I am afraid of their being proud. I don’t know whether a door ain’t too aristocratic; but here goes for the first one!’

He went up to the nearest cabin, and knocked with his hand. Being desired to enter, he complied.

‘Neighbour,’ said Mark; ‘for I AM a neighbour, though you don’t know me; I’ve come a-begging. Hallo! hal—lo! Am I a-bed, and dreaming!’

He made this exclamation on hearing his own name pronounced, and finding himself clasped about the skirts by two little boys, whose faces he had often washed, and whose suppers he had often cooked, on board of that noble and fast-sailing line-of-packet ship, the Screw.

‘My eyes is wrong!’ said Mark. ‘I don’t believe ‘em. That ain’t my fellow-passenger younder, a-nursing her little girl, who, I am sorry to see, is so delicate; and that ain’t her husband as come to New York to fetch her. Nor these,’ he added, looking down upon the boys, ‘ain’t them two young shavers as was so familiar to me; though they are uncommon like ‘em. That I must confess.’

The woman shed tears, in very joy to see him; the man shook both his hands and would not let them go; the two boys hugged his legs; the sick child in the mother’s arms stretched out her burning little fingers, and muttered, in her hoarse, dry throat, his well-remembered name.

It was the same family, sure enough. Altered by the salubrious air of Eden. But the same.

‘This is a new sort of a morning call,’ said Mark, drawing a long breath. ‘It strikes one all of a heap. Wait a little bit! I’m a-coming round fast. That’ll do! These gentlemen ain’t my friends. Are they on the visiting list of the house?’

The inquiry referred to certain gaunt pigs, who had walked in after him, and were much interested in the heels of the family. As they did not belong to the mansion, they were expelled by the two little boys.

‘I ain’t superstitious about toads,’ said Mark, looking round the room, ‘but if you could prevail upon the two or three I see in company, to step out at the same time, my young friends, I think they’d find the open air refreshing. Not that I at all object to ‘em. A very handsome animal is a toad,’ said Mr Tapley, sitting down upon a stool; ‘very spotted; very like a partickler style of old gentleman about the throat; very bright-eyed, very cool, and very slippy. But one sees ‘em to the best advantage out of doors perhaps.’

While pretending, with such talk as this, to be perfectly at his ease, and to be the most indifferent and careless of men, Mark Tapley had an eye on all around him. The wan and meagre aspect of the family, the changed looks of the poor mother, the fevered child she held in her lap, the air of great despondency and little hope on everything, were plain to him, and made a deep impression on his mind. He saw it all as clearly and as quickly, as with his bodily eyes he saw the rough shelves supported by pegs driven between the logs, of which the house was made; the flour-cask in the corner, serving also for a table; the blankets, spades, and other articles against the walls; the damp that blotched the ground; or the crop of vegetable rottenness in every crevice of the hut.

‘How is it that you have come here?’ asked the man, when their first expressions of surprise were over.

‘Why, we come by the steamer last night,’ replied Mark. ‘Our intention is to make our fortuns with punctuality and dispatch; and to retire upon our property as soon as ever it’s realised. But how are you all? You’re looking noble!’

CAPITOLO TRENTATRÉ

Ulteriori sviluppi ad Eden, e un evento che ne deriva. Martin compie una scoperta di notevole importanza.

Il passaggio da Mr Moddle ad Eden è facile e naturale. Mr Moddle, immerso nell’atmosfera d’amore di Miss Pecksniff, viveva (se solo lo avesse saputo) in un paradiso terrestre. Anche la fiorente città di Eden era, a giudicare dai suoi proprietari, un paradiso terrestre. La bella Miss Pecksniff potrebbe essere descritta poeticamente come qualcosa di troppo bello per l’uomo nel suo stato decaduto e degradato. Ed è proprio questo il carattere della fiorente città di Eden, esaltato poeticamente da Zephaniah Scadder, General Choke e altri personaggi del genere; essa rappresenta in sostanza una delle “artigli” di quell’immensa Aquila Americana che si eleva sempre più in alto nel cielo puro, senza mai, mai cadere con le ali impigliate nella fangia.

Quando Mark Tapley, lasciato Martin negli uffici di architettura e topografia, riuscì effettivamente a rafforzare e incoraggiare il proprio spirito riflettendo sulle loro comuni sfortune, proseguì con nuovo entusiasmo alla ricerca di aiuto; congratulandosi, lungo la strada, per la posizione invidiabile che aveva finalmente raggiunto.

“A volte pensavo,” disse il signor Tapley, “che un’isola desolata potesse andarmi bene, ma lì avrei dovuto provvedere da solo a tutto. E essendo naturalmente una persona facile da gestire, non ci sarebbe stato molto merito in questo. Ora invece ho il mio compagno di cui prendersi cura, e lui è proprio il tipo adatto per questo scopo. Voglio un uomo che sia sempre pronto a lasciare perdere tutto quando dovrebbe impegnarsi al massimo. Un uomo così poco ambizioso da limitarsi sempre ai piccoli successi, senza mai riuscire a fare di più. Un uomo che si avvolga sempre in se stesso, come in un grande mantello. E l’ho trovato,” aggiunse il signor Tapley dopo un momento di silenzio. “Che felicità, ”

Si fermò per guardarsi intorno, incerto su quale delle capanne di tronchi dovesse riparare.

“Non so quale scegliere,” osservò; “questa è la verità. Sono entrambi ugualmente attraenti dall’esterno e, senza dubbio, altrettanto comodi all’interno; sono dotati di tutte le comodità di cui un Alligatore, in stato naturale, potrebbe aver bisogno. Lasciami pensare. Il cittadino che è emerso l’ultima notte vive sott’acqua, nella cuccia per cani situata all’angolo destro. Non vorrei disturbarlo se posso evitarlo, poveretto. È davvero un esempio di “colono” modello sotto ogni aspetto. C’è una casa dotata anche di un meccanismo per chiudere la porta. Ma temo che siano troppo presuntuosi. Non so nemmeno se quella porta sia abbastanza “popolare”. Comunque, proviamo con la prima!”

Si avvicinò alla cabina più vicina e bussò con la mano. Poiché gli fu chiesto di entrare, lo fece.

“Vicino,” disse Mark; “perché IO SONO un vicino, anche se tu non mi conosci; sono venuto a chiedere l’elemosina. Ehi! Ehi. Forse sto sognando!”

Egli emise questa esclamazione sentendo pronunciare il proprio nome e vedendosi circondato dalle gonne di due piccoli ragazzi i cui volti aveva spesso lavato e le cui cene aveva spesso preparato a bordo di quella nobile e veloce nave a vapore, la nave Screw.

“I miei occhi mi ingannano!”, disse Mark. “Non ci credo. Quella non è la mia compagna di viaggio che sta prendendosi cura della sua bambina, la quale, a quanto vedo, è davvero molto delicata; e nemmeno quello è suo marito venuto a New York per prenderla con sé. E nemmeno questi”, aggiunse, guardando i ragazzi, “sono quei due giovani che mi erano così familiari. Anche se, devo ammetterlo, sono davvero insoliti.”

La donna versò lacrime, di grande gioia nel vederlo; l’uomo gli strinse le mani e non volle lasciarle; i due ragazzi lo abbracciarono per le gambe; la malata >bambina tra le braccia della madre tese le sue piccole dita ardenti e, con la sua voce rauca e secca, mormorò il suo nome, che ricordava così bene.

Era davvero la stessa famiglia. Modificata dall’aria salutare di Eden, ma comunque la stessa.

“Questo è un tipo nuovo di ‘chiamata mattutina’, ”, disse Mark, facendo un lungo respiro. “Mi colpisce davvero molto. Aspetta un attimo! Sto riprendendomi in fretta. Va bene così. Questi signori non sono miei amici. Sono sulla lista degli ospiti di questa ‘casa’, forse?”

L’indagine riguardava alcuni maiali magri che lo avevano seguito all’interno della dimora e che erano molto interessati alle “scarpette” della famiglia. Poiché non appartenevano alla casa, furono cacciati via dai due bambini.

“Non sono superstizioso riguardo alle rane,” disse Mark, guardandosi intorno nella stanza, “ma se riusciste a convincere quei due o tre che vedo qui con voi ad uscire tutti nello stesso momento, penso che troverebbero l’aria aperta molto rinfrescante. Anche se personalmente non ho nulla in contrario alle rane. È davvero un animale bellissimo,” aggiunse il signor Tapley, sedendosi su uno sgabello; “molto maculato; assomiglia molto a certi vecchi gentiluomini con i colletti particolari. Occhi molto luminosi, corpo molto fresco. Ma forse si vedono al meglio all’aperto.”

Mentre fingeva, con discorsi del genere, di essere completamente a suo agio e di essere l’uomo più indifferente e negligente che ci fosse, Mark Tapley osservava attentamente tutto intorno a sé. L’aspetto pallido e malnutrito della famiglia, i cambiamenti nel viso della povera madre, il bambino febbricitante che teneva in grembo, l’atmosfera di grande disperazione e scarsa >speranza che pervadeva ogni cosa, tutto questo gli era evidente e lasciò un profondo impatto nella sua mente. Vedeva tutto con la stessa chiarezza e rapidità con cui i suoi occhi fisici osservavano le rozze mensole sostenute da chiodi conficcati tra i tronchi di legno che costituivano la >casa; il barile di farina nell’angolo, utilizzato anche come tavolo; le coperte, le pale e gli altri oggetti appoggiati alle pareti; l’umidità che macchiava il pavimento; o i resti di verdure marce presenti in ogni angolo della capanna.

“Come mai sei arrivato qui?” chiese l’uomo, quando le loro prime espressioni di sorpresa si furono placate.

“Beh, siamo arrivati con la nave a vapore l’ultima notte,” rispose Mark. “Il nostro intento è quello di fare fortuna in modo rapido e efficiente; e poi ritirarci nella nostra proprietà non appena sarà realizzata. Ma come state tutti voi? Sembrate davvero in ottima forma!”

‘We are but sickly now,’ said the poor woman, bending over her child. ‘But we shall do better when we are seasoned to the place.’

‘There are some here,’ thought Mark ‘whose seasoning will last for ever.’

But he said cheerfully, ‘Do better! To be sure you will. We shall all do better. What we’ve got to do is, to keep up our spirits, and be neighbourly. We shall come all right in the end, never fear. That reminds me, by the bye, that my partner’s all wrong just at present; and that I looked in to beg for him. I wish you’d come and give me your opinion of him, master.’

That must have been a very unreasonable request on the part of Mark Tapley, with which, in their gratitude for his kind offices on board the ship, they would not have complied instantly. The man rose to accompany him without a moment’s delay. Before they went, Mark took the sick child in his arms, and tried to comfort the mother; but the hand of death was on it then, he saw.

They found Martin in the house, lying wrapped up in his blanket on the ground. He was, to all appearance, very ill indeed, and shook and shivered horribly; not as people do from cold, but in a frightful kind of spasm or convulsion, that racked his whole body. Mark’s friend pronounced his disease an aggravated kind of fever, accompanied with ague; which was very common in those parts, and which he predicted would be worse to-morrow, and for many more to-morrows. He had had it himself off and on, he said, for a couple of years or so; but he was thankful that, while so many he had known had died about him, he had escaped with life.

‘And with not too much of that,’ thought Mark, surveying his emaciated form. ‘Eden for ever!’

They had some medicine in their chest; and this man of sad experience showed Mark how and when to administer it, and how he could best alleviate the sufferings of Martin. His attentions did not stop there; for he was backwards and forwards constantly, and rendered Mark good service in all his brisk attempts to make their situation more endurable. Hope or comfort for the future he could not bestow. The season was a sickly one; the settlement a grave. His child died that night; and Mark, keeping the secret from Martin, helped to bury it, beneath a tree, next day.

With all his various duties of attendance upon Martin (who became the more exacting in his claims, the worse he grew), Mark worked out of doors, early and late; and with the assistance of his friend and others, laboured to do something with their land. Not that he had the least strength of heart or hope, or steady purpose in so doing, beyond the habitual cheerfulness of his disposition, and his amazing power of self-sustainment; for within himself, he looked on their condition as beyond all hope, and, in his own words, ‘came out strong’ in consequence.

‘As to coming out as strong as I could wish, sir,’ he confided to Martin in a leisure moment; that is to say, one evening, while he was washing the linen of the establishment, after a hard day’s work, ‘that I give up. It’s a piece of good fortune as never is to happen to me, I see!’

‘Would you wish for circumstances stronger than these?’ Martin retorted with a groan, from underneath his blanket.

‘Why, only see how easy they might have been stronger, sir,’ said Mark, ‘if it wasn’t for the envy of that uncommon fortun of mine, which is always after me, and tripping me up. The night we landed here, I thought things did look pretty jolly. I won’t deny it. I thought they did look pretty jolly.’

‘How do they look now?’ groaned Martin.

‘Ah!’ said Mark, ‘Ah, to be sure. That’s the question. How do they look now? On the very first morning of my going out, what do I do? Stumble on a family I know, who are constantly assisting of us in all sorts of ways, from that time to this! That won’t do, you know; that ain’t what I’d a right to expect. If I had stumbled on a serpent and got bit; or stumbled on a first-rate patriot, and got bowie-knifed, or stumbled on a lot of Sympathisers with inverted shirt-collars, and got made a lion of; I might have distinguished myself, and earned some credit. As it is, the great object of my voyage is knocked on the head. So it would be, wherever I went. How do you feel to-night, sir?’

‘Worse than ever,’ said poor Martin.

‘That’s something,’ returned Mark, ‘but not enough. Nothing but being very bad myself, and jolly to the last, will ever do me justice.’

‘In Heaven’s name, don’t talk of that,’ said Martin with a thrill of terror. ‘What should I do, Mark, if you were taken ill!’

Mr Tapley’s spirits appeared to be stimulated by this remark, although it was not a very flattering one. He proceeded with his washing in a brighter mood; and observed ‘that his glass was arising.’

‘There’s one good thing in this place, sir,’ said Mr Tapley, scrubbing away at the linen, ‘as disposes me to be jolly; and that is that it’s a reg’lar little United States in itself. There’s two or three American settlers left; and they coolly comes over one, even here, sir, as if it was the wholesomest and loveliest spot in the world. But they’re like the cock that went and hid himself to save his life, and was found out by the noise he made. They can’t help crowing. They was born to do it, and do it they must, whatever comes of it.’

Glancing from his work out at the door as he said these words, Mark’s eyes encountered a lean person in a blue frock and a straw hat, with a short black pipe in his mouth, and a great hickory stick studded all over with knots, in his hand; who smoking and chewing as he came along, and spitting frequently, recorded his progress by a train of decomposed tobacco on the ground.

‘Here’s one on ‘em,’ cried Mark, ‘Hannibal Chollop.’

‘Don’t let him in,’ said Martin, feebly.

‘He won’t want any letting in,’ replied Mark. ‘He’ll come in, sir.’ Which turned out to be quite true, for he did. His face was almost as hard and knobby as his stick; and so were his hands. His head was like an old black hearth-broom. He sat down on the chest with his hat on; and crossing his legs and looking up at Mark, said, without removing his pipe:

“Adesso siamo solo malati,” disse la povera donna, chinandosi sul suo bambino. “Ma starà meglio quando ci saremo abituati a questo posto.”

“Ci sono alcuni qui,” pensò Mark, “la cui ‘spezia’ durerà per sempre.”

Ma disse allegramente: “Fai del tuo meglio! Sicuramente ci riuscirai. Tutti noi faremo del nostro meglio. Quello che dobbiamo fare è mantenere alto il morale e essere gentili gli uni con gli altri. Alla fine andrà tutto bene, non c’è bisogno di temere nulla. A proposito, mi è venuto in mente che al mio socio in questo momento non va affatto bene; sono andato a trovarlo per chiedergli aiuto. Vorrei che tu venissi anche tu e mi desse il tuo parere su di lui, signore.”

Quella deve essere stata una richiesta molto irragionevole da parte di Mark Tapley; tuttavia, in segno di gratitudine per i suoi aiuti a bordo della nave, non avrebbero mai acconsentito immediatamente. L’uomo si alzò senza esitazione per accompagnarlo. Prima di partire, Mark prese il bambino malato tra le braccia e cercò di consolare la madre; ma vide che la mano della morte era già su di lui.

Trovarono Martin nella casa, sdraiato a terra avvolto nel suo plaid. A prima vista sembrava davvero molto malato: tremava terribilmente, non per il freddo, ma a causa di spasmi e convulsioni che gli scuotevano l’intero -corpo. L’amico di Mark diagnosticò che si trattasse di una forma acuta di febbre accompagnata da brividi; una malattia molto comune in quelle zone, e previde che le condizioni peggiorassero il giorno dopo, e per molti giorni ancora. Lui stesso, disse, l’aveva sofferta a intermittenza negli ultimi due anni; ma era grato di essere sopravvissuto, mentre tante persone intorno a lui erano morte.

“E non ne mancherà molto,” pensò Mark, osservando il proprio corpo emaciato. “L’Eden per sempre, ”

Avevano del medicinale nel loro baule; e quest’uomo, con molta esperienza in materia, mostrò a Mark come e quando somministrarlo, e come potesse alleviare al meglio le sofferenze di Martin. Le sue attenzioni non si fermarono lì: era sempre pronto ad aiutare, e fornì a Mark grande assistenza in tutti i suoi sforzi per rendere la loro situazione più sopportabile. Tuttavia, non poté offrire alcuna speranza o conforto per il futuro. Quella stagione fu particolarmente malsana; l’insediamento stesso era in condizioni molto precarie. La sua figlia morì quella notte; e Mark, tenendo il segreto per Martin, lo aiutò a seppellirla il giorno dopo, sotto un albero.

Con tutte le sue varie responsabilità nel prendersi cura di Martin (che diventava sempre più esigente nelle sue richieste, man mano che peggiorava), Mark lavorava all’aperto, presto al mattino e tardi la sera; con l’aiuto del suo amico e di altri, si sforzava di fare qualcosa per migliorare la loro situazione. Non che avesse il minimo spirito di volontà, alcuna speranza o un obiettivo preciso, se non la solita allegria del suo carattere e la sua straordinaria capacità di auto-sostegno; perché dentro di sé considerava la loro condizione come irrimediabile. E, con le sue stesse parole, “ne è uscito indenne”.

“Per quanto riguarda il fatto di riuscire ad essere forte come vorrei, signore,” confidò a Martin in un momento di relax; cioè, una sera, mentre lavava la biancheria dell’istituto dopo una giornata di duro lavoro, “devo ammettere che ho rinunciato. È davvero una grande fortuna che mi sia mai capitato, ”

“Vorresti che le circostanze fossero ancora più difficili di così?” ribatté Martin con un gemito, da sotto la coperta.

“Perché, guardate solo quanto facilmente avrebbero potuto essere più forti, signore,” disse Mark, “se non fosse stato per l’invidia verso quella fortuna insolita che mi perseguita sempre e mi fa inciampare. Quella notte in cui sbarcammo qui, pensavo davvero che le cose andassero piuttosto bene. Non lo nego: sembrava proprio che tutto andasse per il meglio.”

“Come sono adesso?” gemette Martin.

“Ah!” disse Mark, “Ah, certo. Ecco il problema: com’è che ora sembrano? Nella stessa prima mattina in cui sono uscito, cosa faccio? Incampo su una famiglia che ci aiuta sempre in mille modi, da allora fino ad oggi! Ma questo non va. Non è certo quello che mi aspetterei. Se invece avessi inciampato in un serpente e fossi stato morso; o in un vero patriota, e fossi stato accoltellato con un coltello a lama lunga; o in tante persone che condividono le nostre idee. Forse allora avrei potuto distinguermi e guadagnarmi qualche riconoscimento. Invece, lo scopo principale del mio viaggio è andato completamente perso. E sarebbe lo stesso ovunque andassi. Che ne pensa lei, signore?”

“Peggio che mai,” disse il povero Martin.

“È qualcosa,” rispose Mark, “ma non basta. Solo comportandomi molto male io stesso, e divertendomi fino all’ultimo momento, riuscirò mai a rendere giustizia a ciò che ho fatto.”

“Per il nome del cielo, non parlarne più,” disse Martin con un brivido di terrore. “Cosa dovrei fare, Mark, se ti ammalassi!”

A quanto pare, queste parole stimolarono l’umore di Mr Tapley, anche se non erano molto lusinghiere. Continuò a lavarsi con maggiore allegria e osservò che “il suo livello di spirito stava migliorando”.

“C’è una cosa positiva in questo posto, signore,” disse il signor Tapley, mentre puliva la biancheria, “ed è che mi rende felice; anzi, è praticamente una piccola versione degli Stati Uniti. Ci sono ancora due o tre coloni americani qui; e vengono tranquillamente anche in posti come questo, signore, come se fosse il luogo più salutare e bello del mondo. Ma sono come quel gallo che si nascose per salvarsi la vita, e fu scoperto proprio a causa del rumore che faceva. Non possono fare a meno di “cantare”. Sono nati per farlo, e devono farlo, a qualunque costo.”

Mentre pronunciava queste parole, Mark alzò lo sguardo dalla sua attività vicino alla porta e i suoi occhi incrociarono la figura di una persona snella, vestita con un abito blu e un cappello di paglia; aveva in bocca una corta pipa nera e in mano un grosso bastone di quercia pieno di nodi. Mentre camminava, fumava, masticava e sputava di frequente, lasciando dietro di sé una scia di tabacco decomposto sul terreno che segnava il suo percorso.

“Ecco uno di loro,” esclamò Mark, “Hannibal Chollop.”

“Non lasciatelo entrare,” disse Martin, con voce debole.

“Non vorrà che nessuno entri,” rispose Mark. “Entrerà lo stesso, signore.”
E infatti fu proprio così: entrò davvero. Il suo viso era quasi altrettanto duro e nodoso come il suo bastone; lo erano anche le sue mani. La sua testa assomigliava a un vecchio scopa da camino nera. Si sedette sul baule, con il cappello in testa; incrociò le gambe e, guardando Mark, disse senza togliersi la pipa:

‘Well, Mr Co.! and how do you git along, sir?’

It may be necessary to observe that Mr Tapley had gravely introduced himself to all strangers, by that name.

‘Pretty well, sir; pretty well,’ said Mark.

‘If this ain’t Mr Chuzzlewit, ain’t it!’ exclaimed the visitor ‘How do YOU git along, sir?’

Martin shook his head, and drew the blanket over it involuntarily; for he felt that Hannibal was going to spit; and his eye, as the song says, was upon him.

‘You need not regard me, sir,’ observed Mr Chollop, complacently. ‘I am fever-proof, and likewise agur.’

‘Mine was a more selfish motive,’ said Martin, looking out again. ‘I was afraid you were going to—’

‘I can calc’late my distance, sir,’ returned Mr Chollop, ‘to an inch.’

With a proof of which happy faculty he immediately favoured him.

‘I re-quire, sir,’ said Hannibal, ‘two foot clear in a circ’lar di-rection, and can engage my-self toe keep within it. I HAVE gone ten foot, in a circ’lar di-rection, but that was for a wager.’

‘I hope you won it, sir,’ said Mark.

‘Well, sir, I realised the stakes,’ said Chollop. ‘Yes, sir.’

He was silent for a time, during which he was actively engaged in the formation of a magic circle round the chest on which he sat. When it was completed, he began to talk again.

‘How do you like our country, sir?’ he inquired, looking at Martin.

‘Not at all,’ was the invalid’s reply.

Chollop continued to smoke without the least appearance of emotion, until he felt disposed to speak again. That time at length arriving, he took his pipe from his mouth, and said:

‘I am not surprised to hear you say so. It re-quires An elevation, and A preparation of the intellect. The mind of man must be prepared for Freedom, Mr Co.’

He addressed himself to Mark; because he saw that Martin, who wished him to go, being already half-mad with feverish irritation, which the droning voice of this new horror rendered almost insupportable, had closed his eyes, and turned on his uneasy bed.

‘A little bodily preparation wouldn’t be amiss, either, would it, sir,’ said Mark, ‘in the case of a blessed old swamp like this?’

‘Do you con-sider this a swamp, sir?’ inquired Chollop gravely.

‘Why yes, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘I haven’t a doubt about it myself.’

‘The sentiment is quite Europian,’ said the major, ‘and does not surprise me; what would your English millions say to such a swamp in England, sir?’

‘They’d say it was an uncommon nasty one, I should think, said Mark; ‘and that they would rather be inoculated for fever in some other way.’

‘Europian!’ remarked Chollop, with sardonic pity. ‘Quite Europian!’

And there he sat. Silent and cool, as if the house were his; smoking away like a factory chimney.

Mr Chollop was, of course, one of the most remarkable men in the country; but he really was a notorious person besides. He was usually described by his friends, in the South and West, as ‘a splendid sample of our na-tive raw material, sir,’ and was much esteemed for his devotion to rational Liberty; for the better propagation whereof he usually carried a brace of revolving pistols in his coat pocket, with seven barrels a-piece. He also carried, amongst other trinkets, a sword-stick, which he called his ‘Tickler.’ and a great knife, which (for he was a man of a pleasant turn of humour) he called ‘Ripper,’ in allusion to its usefulness as a means of ventilating the stomach of any adversary in a close contest. He had used these weapons with distinguished effect in several instances, all duly chronicled in the newspapers; and was greatly beloved for the gallant manner in which he had ‘jobbed out’ the eye of one gentleman, as he was in the act of knocking at his own street-door.

Mr Chollop was a man of a roving disposition; and, in any less advanced community, might have been mistaken for a violent vagabond. But his fine qualities being perfectly understood and appreciated in those regions where his lot was cast, and where he had many kindred spirits to consort with, he may be regarded as having been born under a fortunate star, which is not always the case with a man so much before the age in which he lives. Preferring, with a view to the gratification of his tickling and ripping fancies, to dwell upon the outskirts of society, and in the more remote towns and cities, he was in the habit of emigrating from place to place, and establishing in each some business—usually a newspaper—which he presently sold; for the most part closing the bargain by challenging, stabbing, pistolling, or gouging the new editor, before he had quite taken possession of the property.

He had come to Eden on a speculation of this kind, but had abandoned it, and was about to leave. He always introduced himself to strangers as a worshipper of Freedom; was the consistent advocate of Lynch law, and slavery; and invariably recommended, both in print and speech, the ‘tarring and feathering’ of any unpopular person who differed from himself. He called this ‘planting the standard of civilization in the wilder gardens of My country.’

There is little doubt that Chollop would have planted this standard in Eden at Mark’s expense, in return for his plainness of speech (for the genuine Freedom is dumb, save when she vaunts herself), but for the utter desolation and decay prevailing in the settlement, and his own approaching departure from it. As it was, he contented himself with showing Mark one of the revolving-pistols, and asking him what he thought of that weapon.

‘It ain’t long since I shot a man down with that, sir, in the State of IllinOY,’ observed Chollop.

‘Did you, indeed!’ said Mark, without the smallest agitation. ‘Very free of you. And very independent!’

‘I shot him down, sir,’ pursued Chollop, ‘for asserting in the Spartan Portico, a tri-weekly journal, that the ancient Athenians went a-head of the present Locofoco Ticket.’

“Beh, signor Co! E come va, signore?”

È possibile che sia stato necessario osservare che il signor Tapley si presentava seriamente a tutti gli sconosciuti con quel nome.

“Abbastanza bene, signore; abbastanza bene,” disse Mark.

“Se questo non è il signor Chuzzlewit, allora chi è?”, esclamò il visitatore. “Come va, signore?”

Martin scosse la testa e, senza volerlo, tirò su il piumone; perché sentiva che Hannibal stava per sputare. E i suoi occhi, come dice la canzone, erano fissi su di lui.

“Non c’è bisogno che si preoccupi di me, signore,” osservò con soddisfazione il signor Chollop. “Sono immune alla febbre, e allo stesso modo anche all’agur.”

“Il mio motivo era più egoistico,” disse Martin, guardando di nuovo fuori. “Avevo paura che tu stessi per, ”

“Posso calcolare con precisione la distanza, signore”, rispose il signor Chollop, “con un errore di un pollice al massimo”.

Dimostrando con ciò quale felice capacità possedesse, gli mostrò immediatamente la sua simpatia.

“Richiedo, signore,” disse Annibale, “un spazio di due piedi di diametro attorno a me stesso, e posso garantire di mantenere sempre i miei piedi all’interno di tale area. Ho già provato ad allontanarmi fino a dieci piedi, ma è stato solo per una scommessa.”

“Spero che l’abbiate vinto, signore,” disse Mark.

“Beh, signore, ho capito quali siano le implicazioni,” disse Chollop. “Sì, signore.”

Rimase in silenzio per un po’, durante il quale era impegnato attivamente nella creazione di un circolo magico intorno al petto su cui sedeva. Una volta completato, ricominciò a parlare.

“Come le piace il nostro paese, signore?”, chiese, guardando Martin.

“Assolutamente no,” fu la risposta dell’infermo.

Chollop continuò a fumare senza mostrare la minima emozione, fino a quando non si sentì pronto per parlare di nuovo. Quando finalmente quel momento arrivò, tolse la pipa dalla bocca e disse:

“Non mi sorprende affatto sentirti dire questo. Richiede un certo livello di elevazione e una preparazione intellettuale. La mente dell’uomo deve essere pronta per la Libertà, signor Co.”

Si rivolse a Mark; perché vide che Martin, che desiderava che se ne andasse, essendo ormai quasi impazzito per l’irritazione febbrile causata dal suono monotono di quell’orrore nuovo, aveva chiuso gli occhi e si era girato sul suo letto inquieto.

“Anche una piccola preparazione fisica non sarebbe male, vero signore,” disse Mark, “in caso di un vecchio e benedetto pantano come questo, ”

“Ritiene che questo sia uno stagno, signore?”, chiese seriamente Chollop.

“Sì, signore,” rispose Mark. “Anch’io non ne ho alcun >dubbio.”

“Questo sentimento è decisamente tipico europeo,” disse il maggiore, “e non mi sorprende affatto; cosa direbbero i vostri milioni di inglesi di fronte a una simile palude in Inghilterra, signore?”

“Direbbero che si tratta di un tipo particolarmente pericoloso e spiacevole, penso,” disse Mark; “e che preferirebbero essere vaccinati contro la febbre in qualche altro modo.”

“Veramente europeo!”, commentò Chollop con sarcasmo e compassione. “Davvero tipico dell’Europa, ”

E lì sedeva. In silenzio, con calma, come se quella casa fosse sua; fumava senza sosta, come una ciminiera di fabbrica.

Il signor Chollop era, naturalmente, uno degli uomini più notevoli del paese; ma era anche una persona davvero tristemente nota. I suoi amici, nel Sud e nell’Ovest, lo descrivevano solitamente come “un esempio straordinario della nostra ‘matrice naturale’, signore”, e lo stimavano molto per la sua dedizione alla libertà razionale; anzi, per promuoverne ulteriormente la diffusione, portava sempre con sé due pistole a tamburo nella tasca del suo cappotto, ognuna con sette canne. Portava anche, tra altri oggetti, un bastone da duello che chiamava “Tickler”, e un grande coltello che, essendo una persona dal senso dell’umorismo piuttosto vivace, definiva “Ripper”, in allusione alla sua utilità nel “ventilare lo stomaco” di qualsiasi avversario durante uno scontro ravvicinato. Aveva usato queste armi con notevoli risultati in diverse occasioni, e questi episodi erano stati debitamente riportati dai giornali; inoltre, era molto amato per il modo coraggioso in cui aveva “strappato via l’occhio” a un certo gentiluomo proprio mentre quest’ultimo stava bussando alla porta di casa sua.

Il signor Chollop era un uomo dal carattere errante; in una comunità meno avanzata, avrebbe potuto essere scambiato per un violento vagabondo. Tuttavia, le sue ottime qualità venivano perfettamente comprese e apprezzate nelle regioni dove viveva, e lì aveva molti simili con cui condividere i suoi interessi. Si può quindi dire che fosse nato sotto una stella fortunata, il che non sempre accade a persone così giovani rispetto all’età in cui vivono. Per soddisfare le sue stravaganti fantasie, preferiva stabilirsi ai margini della società, nelle città e nei paesi più remoti; aveva l’abitudine di spostarsi da un luogo all’altro e, in ogni posto, avviava qualche attività commerciale – solitamente una tipografia – per poi venderla poco dopo. La maggior parte delle volte, concludeva gli affari sfidando, pugnalando o aggredendo il nuovo editore, prima ancora che quest’ultimo prendesse effettivamente possesso dell’impresa.

Era arrivato ad Eden con queste intenzioni, ma le aveva abbandonate e stava per andarsene. Si presentava sempre agli sconosciuti come un devoto della Libertà; era un convinto sostenitore della legge Lynch e della schiavitù; inoltre, sia in scritti che nei discorsi, consigliava sempre di “impiastricciare e piumare” chiunque si opponesse alle sue idee. Definiva questo comportamento “il modo per piantare lo stendardo della civiltà nei giardini più selvaggi del mio paese”.

È quasi certo che Chollop avrebbe piantato questo “standard” ad Eden a scapito di Mark, in cambio della sua schiettezza nel parlare (poiché la vera Libertà è silenziosa, tranne quando si vanta), ma a causa della totale desolazione e del declino che regnavano nella colonia, nonché del suo stesso imminente distacco da essa. Alla fine, si accontentò di mostrare a Mark uno dei fucili a tamburo rotante e chiedergli cosa ne pensasse di quell’arma.

“Non è passato molto tempo da quando ho ucciso un uomo con quell’arma, signore, nello Stato dell’Illinois,” osservò Chollop.

“Davvero l’hai fatto!” disse Mark, senza la minima agitazione. “Molto coraggioso da parte tua. E davvero molto indipendente!”

“L’ho abbattuto, signore,” continuò Chollop, “perché aveva affermato sul giornale settimanale ‘Spartan Portico’ che gli antichi ateniesi erano più avanti dei moderni inventori come Locofoco.”

‘And what’s that?’ asked Mark.

‘Europian not to know,’ said Chollop, smoking placidly. ‘Europian quite!’

After a short devotion to the interests of the magic circle, he resumed the conversation by observing:

‘You won’t half feel yourself at home in Eden, now?’

‘No,’ said Mark, ‘I don’t.’

‘You miss the imposts of your country. You miss the house dues?’ observed Chollop.

‘And the houses—rather,’ said Mark.

‘No window dues here, sir,’ observed Chollop.

‘And no windows to put ‘em on,’ said Mark.

‘No stakes, no dungeons, no blocks, no racks, no scaffolds, no thumbscrews, no pikes, no pillories,’ said Chollop.

‘Nothing but rewolwers and bowie-knives,’ returned Mark. ‘And what are they? Not worth mentioning!’

The man who had met them on the night of their arrival came crawling up at this juncture, and looked in at the door.

‘Well, sir,’ said Chollop. ‘How do YOU git along?’

He had considerable difficulty in getting along at all, and said as much in reply.

‘Mr Co. And me, sir,’ observed Chollop, ‘are disputating a piece. He ought to be slicked up pretty smart to disputate between the Old World and the New, I do expect?’

‘Well!’ returned the miserable shadow. ‘So he had.’

‘I was merely observing, sir,’ said Mark, addressing this new visitor, ‘that I looked upon the city in which we have the honour to live, as being swampy. What’s your sentiments?’

‘I opinionate it’s moist perhaps, at certain times,’ returned the man.

‘But not as moist as England, sir?’ cried Chollop, with a fierce expression in his face.

‘Oh! Not as moist as England; let alone its Institutions,’ said the man.

‘I should hope there ain’t a swamp in all Americay, as don’t whip THAT small island into mush and molasses,’ observed Chollop, decisively. ‘You bought slick, straight, and right away, of Scadder, sir?’ to Mark.

He answered in the affirmative. Mr Chollop winked at the other citizen.

‘Scadder is a smart man, sir? He is a rising man? He is a man as will come up’ards, right side up, sir?’ Mr Chollop winked again at the other citizen.

‘He should have his right side very high up, if I had my way,’ said Mark. ‘As high up as the top of a good tall gallows, perhaps.’

Mr Chollop was so delighted at the smartness of his excellent countryman having been too much for the Britisher, and at the Britisher’s resenting it, that he could contain himself no longer, and broke forth in a shout of delight. But the strangest exposition of this ruling passion was in the other—the pestilence-stricken, broken, miserable shadow of a man—who derived so much entertainment from the circumstance that he seemed to forget his own ruin in thinking of it, and laughed outright when he said ‘that Scadder was a smart man, and had draw’d a lot of British capital that way, as sure as sun-up.’

After a full enjoyment of this joke, Mr Hannibal Chollop sat smoking and improving the circle, without making any attempts either to converse or to take leave; apparently labouring under the not uncommon delusion that for a free and enlightened citizen of the United States to convert another man’s house into a spittoon for two or three hours together, was a delicate attention, full of interest and politeness, of which nobody could ever tire. At last he rose.

‘I am a-going easy,’ he observed.

Mark entreated him to take particular care of himself.

‘Afore I go,’ he said sternly, ‘I have got a leetle word to say to you. You are darnation ‘cute, you are.’

Mark thanked him for the compliment.

‘But you are much too ‘cute to last. I can’t con-ceive of any spotted Painter in the bush, as ever was so riddled through and through as you will be, I bet.’

‘What for?’ asked Mark.

‘We must be cracked up, sir,’ retorted Chollop, in a tone of menace. ‘You are not now in A despotic land. We are a model to the airth, and must be jist cracked-up, I tell you.’

‘What! I speak too free, do I?’ cried Mark.

‘I have draw’d upon A man, and fired upon A man for less,’ said Chollop, frowning. ‘I have know’d strong men obleeged to make themselves uncommon skase for less. I have know’d men Lynched for less, and beaten into punkin’-sarse for less, by an enlightened people. We are the intellect and virtue of the airth, the cream of human natur’, and the flower Of moral force. Our backs is easy ris. We must be cracked-up, or they rises, and we snarls. We shows our teeth, I tell you, fierce. You’d better crack us up, you had!’

After the delivery of this caution, Mr Chollop departed; with Ripper, Tickler, and the revolvers, all ready for action on the shortest notice.

‘Come out from under the blanket, sir,’ said Mark, ‘he’s gone. What’s this!’ he added softly; kneeling down to look into his partner’s face, and taking his hot hand. ‘What’s come of all that chattering and swaggering? He’s wandering in his mind to-night, and don’t know me!’

Martin indeed was dangerously ill; very near his death. He lay in that state many days, during which time Mark’s poor friends, regardless of themselves, attended him. Mark, fatigued in mind and body; working all the day and sitting up at night; worn with hard living and the unaccustomed toil of his new life; surrounded by dismal and discouraging circumstances of every kind; never complained or yielded in the least degree. If ever he had thought Martin selfish or inconsiderate, or had deemed him energetic only by fits and starts, and then too passive for their desperate fortunes, he now forgot it all. He remembered nothing but the better qualities of his fellow-wanderer, and was devoted to him, heart and hand.

Many weeks elapsed before Martin was strong enough to move about with the help of a stick and Mark’s arm; and even then his recovery, for want of wholesome air and proper nourishment, was very slow. He was yet in a feeble and weak condition, when the misfourtune he had so much dreaded fell upon them. Mark was taken ill.

“E cos’è?” chiese Mark.

“Un europeo non lo saprebbe mai”, disse Chollop, fumando tranquillamente. “Proprio un europeo, ”

Dopo un breve attimo dedicato agli interessi del circolo di magia, riprese la conversazione osservando:

“Ora ti sentirai sicuramente come a casa ad Eden, vero?”

“No,” disse Mark, “non lo faccio.”

“Vi mancano le tasse del vostro paese. Vi mancano i pagamenti relativi alla casa?” osservò Chollop.

“E le case, anzi,” disse Mark.

“Non ci sono tasse sulle finestre qui, signore,” osservò Chollop.

“E non ci sono finestre su cui metterle,” disse Mark.

“Nessun rischio, nessune prigioni sotterranee, nessun blocco da utilizzare, nessuna griglia, nessun ponteggio, nessun cavicchio per le dita, nessuna lancia, nessuna forca,” disse Chollop.

“Solo pistole a doppio caricatore e coltelli Bowie,” rispose Mark. “E cosa sono? Non valgono nemmeno la pena di essere menzionati!”

L’uomo che li aveva incontrati la notte del loro arrivo si avvicinò strisciando in quel momento e guardò attraverso la porta.

“Beh, signore,” disse Chollop. “Come va lei?”

Aveva notevoli difficoltà a rapportarsi con gli altri, e lo disse apertamente in risposta alle domande ricevute.

“Il signor Co. e io, signore,” osservò Chollop, “stiamo discutendo su un argomento importante. Dovrebbe essere davvero ben preparato per poter dibattere tra il Vecchio Mondo e il Nuovo Mondo, non credete?”

“‘Beh!’” rispose quella misera ombra. “Lo so che l’aveva.”

“Stavo semplicemente osservando, signore,” disse Mark rivolgendosi a questo nuovo visitatore, “che considero la città in cui abbiamo l’onore di vivere piuttosto paludosa. Qual è il suo parere?”

“Secondo me, a volte è umido,” rispose l’uomo.

“Ma non è altrettanto umido come in Inghilterra, signore?”, esclamò Chollop, con un’espressione furiosa sul viso.

“Ah! Non è così umido come l’Inghilterra. Lasciamo che siano le sue istituzioni a fare da solde,” disse l’uomo.

“Dovrei sperare che non ci sia nessun pantano in tutta l’America, altrimenti quell’isola piccola verrebbe ridotta in fango e melassa,” osservò Chollop con decisione. “Avete comprato quella cosa liscia, dritta e perfetta da Scadder, signore?” chiese a Mark.

Rispose affermativamente. Il signor Chollop fece l’occhiolino all’altro cittadino.

“Scadder è un uomo intelligente, signore? È una persona che sta facendo carriera. Un uomo che riuscirà ad arrivare in alto, vero, signore?” Il signor Chollop fece di nuovo l’occhiolino all’altro cittadino.

“Se fosse per me, il suo lato destro dovrebbe essere posizionato molto in alto,” disse Mark. “Forse proprio all’altezza della cima di una bella forca alta.”

Il signor Chollop era così compiaciuto dell’intelligenza del suo eccellente connazionale, che aveva messo in difficoltà il britannico e che quest’ultimo ne era rimasto offeso, da non riuscire più a trattenersi e scoppiò in un grido di gioia. Ma la manifestazione più strana di questa passione dominante si vide nell’altro individuo: quella creatura devastata dalla peste, distrutta, miserabile, che traeva così tanto divertimento da quella situazione da sembrare dimenticare la propria rovina; rideva apertamente quando diceva “che quel Scadder era davvero un uomo intelligente e aveva ottenuto molto capitale britannico in quel modo, con assoluta certezza”.

Dopo aver apprezzato a pieno questa barzelletta, il signor Hannibal Chollop rimase seduto a fumare e continuò la sua conversazione, senza tentare né di parlare con gli altri né di andarsene; evidentemente convinto dell’illusione non infrequente che, per un cittadino libero ed illuminato degli Stati Uniti, trasformare per due o tre ore la casa di un altro uomo in un luogo adatto a scopi poco lusinghieri fosse un gesto di delicatezza, pieno di interesse e cortesia, di cui nessuno potesse mai stancarsi. Alla fine si alzò.

“Sto procedendo con calma,” osservò.

Mark lo pregò di prendersi particolare cura di sé stesso.

“Prima di andarmene,” disse con severità, “ho una cosa da dirti. Sei davvero terribilmente, carino.”

Mark gli ringraziò per il complimento.

“Ma sei troppo ‘carino’ per poter durare a lungo. Non riesco nemmeno a immaginare che qualche pittore possa riuscire a dipingerti completamente, come sicuramente accadrà.”

“Perché?” chiese Mark.

“Dovremmo essere pazzi, signore,” ribatté Chollop con tono minaccioso.
“Ora non ci troviamo in una terra dispotica. Siamo un esempio per tutto il mondo, e dobbiamo assolutamente essere pazzi, ve lo dico io.”

“Che cosa! Parlo forse troppo liberamente?” esclamò Mark.

“Ho sparato a un uomo, e ho ucciso un uomo per motivi ancora più banali,” disse Chollop, con un cipiglio. “Ho visto uomini forti costretti a umiliarsi fino all’inverosimile per motivi insignificanti. Ho visto persone linciate o picchiate a morte da gente che si considerava ‘illuminata’. Noi siamo l’intelligenza e la virtù di questa terra, la crema della natura umana. La rappresentazione stessa della forza morale. Se non ci spezzano, loro continueranno ad alzarsi in piedi, e noi reagiremo con violenza. Vi dico: è meglio che ci distruggano, prima che sia troppo tardi.”

Dopo aver ricevuto questa avvertenza, il signor Chollop se ne andò; insieme a Ripper, Tickler e le pistole, tutti pronti ad agire al minimo segnale.

“Uscita da sotto la coperta, signore,” disse Mark, “se n’è andato. Ma che cos’è questo!” aggiunse sottovoce; si inginocchiò per guardare in faccia il suo compagno e prese la sua mano calda. “Che fine hanno fatto tutte quelle chiacchiere e quei gesti teatrali? È completamente perso nei suoi pensieri. Di notte, non mi riconosce nemmeno!”

Martin era davvero gravemente malato; si trovava molto vicino alla morte. Rimase in quello stato per molti giorni, e durante tutto quel tempo gli amici di Mark, senza curarsi di se stessi, lo assistettero costantemente. Mark, esausto sia mentalmente che fisicamente – lavorando tutto il giorno e vegliando tutta la notte; logorato dalla dura vita e dallo sforzo insolito impostogli dalla sua nuova situazione; circondato da circostanze tristi e scoraggianti di ogni tipo – non si lamentò mai né cedette in alcun modo. Se in passato aveva ritenuto Martin egoista o insensibile, o se lo aveva considerato energico solo a intermittenza, e comunque troppo passivo di fronte alle loro disperate difficoltà, ora aveva dimenticato tutto. Non ricordava più che le qualità migliori del suo compagno di viaggio, e si dedicò a lui con tutto il cuore e con tutte le sue forze.

Trascorsero molte settimane prima che Martin diventasse abbastanza forte da muoversi con l’aiuto di un bastone e del braccio di Mark; e anche allora, a causa della mancanza d’aria salutare e di una nutrizione adeguata, la sua guarigione fu molto lenta. Era ancora in uno stato di debolezza quando la sfortuna che temeva tanto li colpì: Mark si ammalò.

Mark fought against it; but the malady fought harder, and his efforts were in vain.

‘Floored for the present, sir,’ he said one morning, sinking back upon his bed; ‘but jolly!’

Floored indeed, and by a heavy blow! As any one but Martin might have known beforehand.

If Mark’s friends had been kind to Martin (and they had been very), they were twenty times kinder to Mark. And now it was Martin’s turn to work, and sit beside the bed and watch, and listen through the long, long nights, to every sound in the gloomy wilderness; and hear poor Mr Tapley, in his wandering fancy, playing at skittles in the Dragon, making love-remonstrances to Mrs Lupin, getting his sea-legs on board the Screw, travelling with old Tom Pinch on English roads, and burning stumps of trees in Eden, all at once.

But whenever Martin gave him drink or medicine, or tended him in any way, or came into the house returning from some drudgery without, the patient Mr Tapley brightened up and cried: ‘I’m jolly, sir; ‘I’m jolly!’

Now, when Martin began to think of this, and to look at Mark as he lay there; never reproaching him by so much as an expression of regret; never murmuring; always striving to be manful and staunch; he began to think, how was it that this man who had had so few advantages, was so much better than he who had had so many? And attendance upon a sick bed, but especially the sick bed of one whom we have been accustomed to see in full activity and vigour, being a great breeder of reflection, he began to ask himself in what they differed.

He was assisted in coming to a conclusion on this head by the frequent presence of Mark’s friend, their fellow-passenger across the ocean, which suggested to him that in regard to having aided her, for example, they had differed very much. Somehow he coupled Tom Pinch with this train of reflection; and thinking that Tom would be very likely to have struck up the same sort of acquaintance under similar circumstances, began to think in what respects two people so extremely different were like each other, and were unlike him. At first sight there was nothing very distressing in these meditations, but they did undoubtedly distress him for all that.

Martin’s nature was a frank and generous one; but he had been bred up in his grandfather’s house; and it will usually be found that the meaner domestic vices propagate themselves to be their own antagonists. Selfishness does this especially; so do suspicion, cunning, stealth, and covetous propensities. Martin had unconsciously reasoned as a child, ‘My guardian takes so much thought of himself, that unless I do the like by MYself, I shall be forgotten.’ So he had grown selfish.

But he had never known it. If any one had taxed him with the vice, he would have indignantly repelled the accusation, and conceived himself unworthily aspersed. He never would have known it, but that being newly risen from a bed of dangerous sickness, to watch by such another couch, he felt how nearly Self had dropped into the grave, and what a poor dependent, miserable thing it was.

It was natural for him to reflect—he had months to do it in—upon his own escape, and Mark’s extremity. This led him to consider which of them could be the better spared, and why? Then the curtain slowly rose a very little way; and Self, Self, Self, was shown below.

He asked himself, besides, when dreading Mark’s decease (as all men do and must, at such a time), whether he had done his duty by him, and had deserved and made a good response to his fidelity and zeal. No. Short as their companionship had been, he felt in many, many instances, that there was blame against himself; and still inquiring why, the curtain slowly rose a little more, and Self, Self, Self, dilated on the scene.

It was long before he fixed the knowledge of himself so firmly in his mind that he could thoroughly discern the truth; but in the hideous solitude of that most hideous place, with Hope so far removed, Ambition quenched, and Death beside him rattling at the very door, reflection came, as in a plague-beleaguered town; and so he felt and knew the failing of his life, and saw distinctly what an ugly spot it was.

Eden was a hard school to learn so hard a lesson in; but there were teachers in the swamp and thicket, and the pestilential air, who had a searching method of their own.

He made a solemn resolution that when his strength returned he would not dispute the point or resist the conviction, but would look upon it as an established fact, that selfishness was in his breast, and must be rooted out. He was so doubtful (and with justice) of his own character, that he determined not to say one word of vain regret or good resolve to Mark, but steadily to keep his purpose before his own eyes solely; and there was not a jot of pride in this; nothing but humility and steadfastness; the best armour he could wear. So low had Eden brought him down. So high had Eden raised him up.

After a long and lingering illness (in certain forlorn stages of which, when too far gone to speak, he had feebly written ‘jolly!’ on a slate), Mark showed some symptoms of returning health. They came and went, and flickered for a time; but he began to mend at last decidedly; and after that continued to improve from day to day.

As soon as he was well enough to talk without fatigue, Martin consulted him upon a project he had in his mind, and which a few months back he would have carried into execution without troubling anybody’s head but his own.

‘Ours is a desperate case,’ said Martin. ‘Plainly. The place is deserted; its failure must have become known; and selling what we have bought to any one, for anything, is hopeless, even if it were honest. We left home on a mad enterprise, and have failed. The only hope left us, the only one end for which we have now to try, is to quit this settlement for ever, and get back to England. Anyhow! by any means! only to get back there, Mark.’

Mark lottò contro quella malattia; ma essa era più forte dei suoi sforzi, e tutti i suoi tentativi risultarono vani.

“Per il momento sono completamente sconfitto, signore,” disse una mattina, sdraiandosi di nuovo sul letto; “ma, che divertimento!”

Effettivamente sbalordito, e per un colpo molto duro! Qualsiasi altro, tranne Martin, avrebbe potuto saperlo in anticipo.

Se gli amici di Mark fossero stati gentili con Martin (e lo erano davvero molto), sarebbero stati venti volte più gentili con Mark. Ora toccava a Martin lavorare: sedersi accanto al letto e ascoltare, durante quelle lunghe notti, ogni suono che proveniva da quel luogo desolato; ascoltare il povero signor Tapley, nella sua fantasia vagabonda, giocare a skittles nel “Dragone”, fare l’amore con la signora Lupin, abituarsi al mare a bordo della nave “Screw”, viaggiare insieme all’anziano Tom Pinch lungo le strade d’Inghilterra, e anche bruciare i tronchi degli alberi in Eden, tutto contemporaneamente.

Ma ogni volta che Martin gli dava da bere o del medicinale, lo curava in qualche modo, o entrava nella >casa dopo essere tornato da qualche lavoro noioso, il paziente signor Tapley si rallegrava subito e gridava: “Sono felice, signore; sono davvero felice!”

Ora, quando Martin iniziò a riflettere su questo e a osservare Mark mentre giaceva lì; senza mai rimproverarlo nemmeno con un’espressione di rammarico, senza mai mormorare, sempre cercando di essere coraggioso e fedele, cominciò a chiedersi: come mai quest’uomo, che aveva avuto così poche opportunità, fosse molto migliore di lui, che ne aveva avute tantissime? E il fatto di dover assistere un malato, soprattutto un malato che noi eravamo abituati a vedere sempre pieno di energia e vigore, fu per Martin un motivo importante per riflettere profondamente. Iniziò quindi a chiedersi in cosa differissero realmente.

Gli fu di aiuto nel giungere a una conclusione su questo argomento la frequente presenza dell’amico di Mark, loro compagno di viaggio attraverso l’oceano; questa circostanza gli fece pensare che, ad esempio riguardo all’aiutare quella donna, i loro punti di vista fossero molto diversi. In qualche modo collegò Tom Pinch a queste riflessioni; e, ritenendo che Tom avrebbe probabilmente fatto lo stesso tipo di conoscenza in circostanze simili, iniziò a chiedersi in quali aspetti due persone così estremamente diverse potessero essere simili tra loro, e in quali fossero diverse da lui. A prima vista, queste riflessioni non sembravano particolarmente angosciose, ma in realtà lo turbavano molto.

La natura di Martin era schietta e generosa; ma era stato educato nella casa di suo nonno. Di solito si osserva che i vizi domestici più meschini tendono a trasformarsi nei loro stessi nemici. L’egoismo lo fa in modo particolare, così come il sospetto, l’astuzia, la furtività e le inclinazioni avide. Martin, inconsciamente, ragionava come un >bambino: “Il mio tutore pensa troppo a se stesso; quindi, se non faccio lo stesso anch’io, verrò dimenticato”. Ed è così che è diventato egoista.

Ma lui non lo sapeva mai. Se qualcuno gli avesse attribuito tale vizio, l’avrebbe respinto con indignazione, ritenendosi indegnamente diffamato. Non avrebbe mai saputo nulla di tutto ciò. Ma essendo appena risalito da un letto di grave malattia, e trovandosi ora accanto a un altro letto simile, si rese conto di quanto vicino fosse stato l’Io a cadere nella tomba. E di quanto povera e miserabile cosa fosse in realtà.

Era naturale che riflettesse: aveva mesi a disposizione per farlo, sul proprio modo di fuggire e sulla situazione disperata di Mark. Questo lo portò a chiedersi quale dei due potesse essere risparmiato, e perché. Poi la tenda si sollevò lentamente, solo un po’; e apparve Se stesso, Se stesso, Se stesso.

Si chiese anche, mentre temeva la morte di Mark (come fanno e devono fare tutti in un momento del genere), se avesse adempiuto al proprio dovere nei suoi confronti, se fosse stato all’altezza della sua fedeltà e del suo zelo. No. Nonostante il loro rapporto fosse stato breve, in molte occasioni si rese conto di aver commesso degli errori; continuando a chiedersi il motivo, la “cortina” dei suoi ricordi si sollevò lentamente un po’ di più, e il suo “ego” iniziò a descrivere dettagliatamente quella scena.

Trascorse molto tempo prima che riuscisse a fissare con tanta fermezza la conoscenza di sé stesso nella sua mente, al punto da poter discernere completamente la verità; ma nell’orribile solitudine di quel luogo spaventoso, con l’>Speranza così lontana, l’>Ambizione spenta e la >Morte che gli rimbombava accanto alla porta stessa, iniziò a riflettere. Come in una città assediata dalla peste. Così comprese appieno l’inadeguatezza della propria esistenza e vide chiaramente quanto fosse orribile quel luogo.

Eden era una scuola dura, dove si imparava una lezione molto severa; ma c’erano degli “insegnanti” nel fango e nelle macchie boschive, nell’aria malsana, loro avevano i loro metodi particolari per insegnare.

Prese una solenne risoluzione: non appena avesse ripreso le forze, non avrebbe più discusso la questione né resistito a quella convinzione, ma l’avrebbe considerata un fatto acquisito, ovvero che nel suo cuore esisteva l’egoismo e che doveva essere estirpato. Era così scettico (e con ragione) riguardo al proprio carattere, che decise di non pronunciare una parola di vana rimorso o di buone intenzioni davanti a Mark, ma di mantenere costantemente quel proposito davanti ai propri occhi; in tutto ciò non c’era nemmeno un briciolo di orgoglio, solo umiltà e determinazione: l’armatura migliore che potesse indossare. Eden lo aveva abbassato così in basso, ma anche sollevato così in alto.

Dopo una lunga e debilitante malattia (in alcune fasi particolarmente difficili, quando ormai non era più in grado di parlare, aveva scritto debolmente “felice!” su una lavagna), Mark mostrò alcuni segni di miglioramento. Questi sintomi andavano e venivano, e per un certo periodo sembrarono indecisi; ma alla fine iniziò a riprendersi con decisione, e da quel momento il suo stato continuò a migliorare giorno dopo giorno.

Non appena si fu ripreso abbastanza da poter parlare senza affaticarsi, Martin gli consultò un progetto che aveva in mente; alcuni mesi prima, avrebbe attuato quel progetto senza disturbare nessuno se non sé stesso.

“La nostra situazione è disperata,” disse Martin. “Chiaramente: il posto è deserto; il fallimento deve essersi già diffuso; e vendere ciò che abbiamo comprato a chiunque, per qualsiasi prezzo, è impossibile, anche se si trattasse di persone oneste. Siamo partiti da casa con un’impresa folle, e abbiamo fallito. L’unica speranza che ci rimane, l’unico obiettivo a cui possiamo ancora puntare, è abbandonare per sempre questa colonia e tornare in Inghilterra. A qualunque costo! Solo per riuscire ad arrivare là, Mark.”

‘That’s all, sir,’ returned Mr Tapley, with a significant stress upon the words; ‘only that!’

‘Now, upon this side of the water,’ said Martin, ‘we have but one friend who can help us, and that is Mr Bevan.’

‘I thought of him when you was ill,’ said Mark.

‘But for the time that would be lost, I would even write to my grandfather,’ Martin went on to say, ‘and implore him for money to free us from this trap into which we were so cruelly decoyed. Shall I try Mr Bevan first?’

‘He’s a very pleasant sort of a gentleman,’ said Mark. ‘I think so.’

‘The few goods we brought here, and in which we spent our money, would produce something if sold,’ resumed Martin; ‘and whatever they realise shall be paid him instantly. But they can’t be sold here.’

‘There’s nobody but corpses to buy ‘em,’ said Mr Tapley, shaking his head with a rueful air, ‘and pigs.’

‘Shall I tell him so, and only ask him for money enough to enable us by the cheapest means to reach New York, or any port from which we may hope to get a passage home, by serving in any capacity? Explaining to him at the same time how I am connected, and that I will endeavour to repay him, even through my grandfather, immediately on our arrival in England?’

‘Why to be sure,’ said Mark: ‘he can only say no, and he may say yes. If you don’t mind trying him, sir—’

‘Mind!’ exclaimed Martin. ‘I am to blame for coming here, and I would do anything to get away. I grieve to think of the past. If I had taken your opinion sooner, Mark, we never should have been here, I am certain.’

Mr Tapley was very much surprised at this admission, but protested, with great vehemence, that they would have been there all the same; and that he had set his heart upon coming to Eden, from the first word he had ever heard of it.

Martin then read him a letter to Mr Bevan, which he had already prepared. It was frankly and ingenuously written, and described their situation without the least concealment; plainly stated the miseries they had undergone; and preferred their request in modest but straightforward terms. Mark highly commended it; and they determined to dispatch it by the next steamboat going the right way, that might call to take in wood at Eden—where there was plenty of wood to spare. Not knowing how to address Mr Bevan at his own place of abode, Martin superscribed it to the care of the memorable Mr Norris of New York, and wrote upon the cover an entreaty that it might be forwarded without delay.

More than a week elapsed before a boat appeared; but at length they were awakened very early one morning by the high-pressure snorting of the ‘Esau Slodge;’ named after one of the most remarkable men in the country, who had been very eminent somewhere. Hurrying down to the landing-place, they got it safe on board; and waiting anxiously to see the boat depart, stopped up the gangway; an instance of neglect which caused the ‘Capting’ of the Esau Slodge to ‘wish he might be sifted fine as flour, and whittled small as chips; that if they didn’t come off that there fixing right smart too, he’d spill ‘em in the drink;’ whereby the Capting metaphorically said he’d throw them in the river.

They were not likely to receive an answer for eight or ten weeks at the earliest. In the meantime they devoted such strength as they had to the attempted improvement of their land; to clearing some of it, and preparing it for useful purposes. Monstrously defective as their farming was, still it was better than their neighbours’; for Mark had some practical knowledge of such matters, and Martin learned of him; whereas the other settlers who remained upon the putrid swamp (a mere handful, and those withered by disease), appeared to have wandered there with the idea that husbandry was the natural gift of all mankind. They helped each other after their own manner in these struggles, and in all others; but they worked as hopelessly and sadly as a gang of convicts in a penal settlement.

Often at night when Mark and Martin were alone, and lying down to sleep, they spoke of home, familiar places, houses, roads, and people whom they knew; sometimes in the lively hope of seeing them again, and sometimes with a sorrowful tranquillity, as if that hope were dead. It was a source of great amazement to Mark Tapley to find, pervading all these conversations, a singular alteration in Martin.

‘I don’t know what to make of him,’ he thought one night, ‘he ain’t what I supposed. He don’t think of himself half as much. I’ll try him again. Asleep, sir?’

‘No, Mark.’

‘Thinking of home, sir?’

‘Yes, Mark.’

‘So was I, sir. I was wondering how Mr Pinch and Mr Pecksniff gets on now.’

‘Poor Tom!’ said Martin, thoughtfully.

‘Weak-minded man, sir,’ observed Mr Tapley. ‘Plays the organ for nothing, sir. Takes no care of himself?’

‘I wish he took a little more, indeed,’ said Martin. ‘Though I don’t know why I should. We shouldn’t like him half as well, perhaps.’

‘He gets put upon, sir,’ hinted Mark.

‘Yes!’ said Martin, after a short silence. ‘I know that, Mark.’

He spoke so regretfully that his partner abandoned the theme, and was silent for a short time until he had thought of another.

‘Ah, sir!’ said Mark, with a sigh. ‘Dear me! You’ve ventured a good deal for a young lady’s love!’

‘I tell you what. I’m not so sure of that, Mark,’ was the reply; so hastily and energetically spoken, that Martin sat up in his bed to give it. ‘I begin to be far from clear upon it. You may depend upon it she is very unhappy. She has sacrificed her peace of mind; she has endangered her interests very much; she can’t run away from those who are jealous of her, and opposed to her, as I have done. She has to endure, Mark; to endure without the possibility of action, poor girl! I begin to think that she has more to bear than ever I had. Upon my soul I do!’

“Tutto qui, signore,” rispose il signor Tapley, ponendo un’enfasi particolare su quelle parole; “solo questo!”

“Ora, da questa parte dell’acqua”, disse Martin, “abbiamo soltanto un amico che possa aiutarci, ed è il signor Bevan.”

“Ho pensato a lui quando eri malata,” disse Mark.

“Se non fosse per il tempo che verrebbe perso, scriverei persino a mio nonno,” continuò Martin, “e lo supplicherei di darmi dei soldi per liberarci da questa trappola in cui siamo stati crudelmente intrappolati. Dovrei provare prima con il signor Bevan?”

“È un gentiluomo davvero piacevole,” disse Mark. “Lo penso anch’io.”

“Quei pochi beni che abbiamo portato qui e per i quali abbiamo speso i nostri soldi, se venduti, produrrebbero del denaro”, continuò Martin; “e tutto ciò che ne otterremo verrà pagato immediatamente a lui. Ma non possono essere venduti qui.”

“Non ci sono altro che cadaveri da cui comprarli,” disse il signor Tapley scuotendo la testa con un’espressione di rammarico, “e maiali.”

“Dovrei dirglielo e chiedergli soltanto abbastanza denaro per permetterci di raggiungere New York o qualsiasi porto da cui possiamo sperare di ottenere un passaggio per tornare a casa, lavorando in qualsiasi ruolo? Spiegandogli al contempo come sono collegato con lui e che farò del mio meglio per ripagarlo, anche attraverso mio nonno, non appena arriveremo in Inghilterra?”

“Perché non provarci?” disse Mark: “Può solo dire di no, ma potrebbe anche dire di sì. Se non le dispiace tentare, signore, ”

“Attenzione!”, esclamò Martin. “Sono io il responsabile di essere venuto qui, e farei qualsiasi cosa per andarmene. Mi dispiace molto ripensare al passato. Se avessi ascoltato prima il tuo parere, Mark, non saremmo mai finiti in questa situazione, ne sono certo.”

Il signor Tapley rimase molto sorpreso da questa ammissione, ma protestò con grande veemenza, sostenendo che comunque sarebbero arrivati lì; e che aveva deciso con determinazione di recarsi ad Eden non appena ne aveva sentito parlare per la prima volta.

Martin gli lesse allora una lettera indirizzata a Mr Bevan, che aveva già preparato in precedenza. Era scritta in modo franco e ingenuo; descriveva la loro situazione senza alcun velo di menzogna, esprimeva chiaramente le sofferenze che avevano dovuto sopportare e presentava la loro richiesta in termini modesti ma diretti. Mark ne fu molto colpito; decisero quindi di inviarla con il prossimo battello a vapore diretto nella giusta direzione, che avrebbe fatto tappa ad Eden per raccogliere legna – dove ce n’era in abbondanza. Non sapendo come rivolgersi a Mr Bevan al suo indirizzo personale, Martin la affidò alle cure del memorabile Mr Norris di New York e scrisse sulla copertina di chiedere che venisse inoltrata senza ritardi.

Trascorse più di una settimana prima che apparisse una barca; ma finalmente, una mattina molto presto, furono svegliati dal rombo potente del “Esau Slodge”, così chiamato in onore di uno dei personaggi più notevoli della regione. Corsero immediatamente verso il molo e riuscirono a imbarcarsi sani e salvi; mentre aspettavano con ansia che la barca partisse, bloccarono il passaggio pedonale. Un’omissione che fece sì che il capitano del “Esau Slodge” desiderasse ardentemente essere setacciato fino a diventare farina, o tritato finemente come scaglie di legno; e minacciò che, se non si fossero subito allontanati da lì, li avrebbe gettati nel fiume. In altre parole, intendeva letteralmente buttarli nell’fiume.

Probabilmente non avrebbero ricevuto una risposta per almeno otto o dieci settimane. Nel frattempo, dedicarono tutte le loro forze al tentativo di migliorare le loro terre: disboscandone alcune parti e preparandole per usi utili. Nonostante le loro pratiche agricole fossero estremamente imperfette, erano comunque migliori di quelle dei loro vicini; infatti Mark possedeva alcune conoscenze pratiche in materia, e Martin ne aveva appreso da lui. Gli altri coloni che rimasero nella palude putrefatta – soltanto un manipolo di persone, per lo più indebolite dalla malattia – sembravano essersi recati lì con l’idea che l’agricoltura fosse un dono naturale di tutta l’umanità. Si aiutavano a vicenda in queste fatiche, e in tutte le altre; ma lavoravano in modo altrettanto disperato e tragico quanto una banda di detenuti in un insediamento penale.

Spesso di notte, quando Mark e Martin erano soli e si sdraiavano per )dormire, parlavano di casa, di luoghi familiari, case, strade e persone che conoscevano; a volte con la viva speranza di rivederle, altre volte con una triste tranquillità, come se quella speranza fosse ormai svanita. Per Mark Tapley fu una grande sorpresa scoprire che, in tutte queste conversazioni, c’era un cambiamento straordinario in Martin.

“Non so cosa pensare di lui,” pensò una notte, “non è affatto come me l’aspettavo. Non si dà nemmeno la metà delle importanze che gli do io. Proverò ancora con lui. Dorme, signore?”

“No, Mark.”

“Pensando a casa, signore?”

“Sì, Mark.”

“Anch’io lo pensavo, signore. Mi chiedevo come andassero ora le cose tra il signor Pinch e il signor Pecksniff, ”

“Povero Tom!”, disse Martin, pensieroso.

“Uomo debole di volontà, signore,” osservò il signor Tapley. “Suona l’organo senza alcun motivo, signore. Non si cura affatto di sé stesso?”

“Vorrei che ne avesse preso un po’ di più, davvero,” disse Martin. “Anche se non so perché dovrei pensarlo. Forse non dovremmo trovarlo nemmeno la metà così simpatico.”

“Lo trattano male, signore,” suggerì Mark.

“Sì!” disse Martin, dopo un breve silenzio. “Lo so, Mark.”

Parlò con tale rimorso che il suo interlocutore abbandonò l’argomento e rimase in silenzio per un breve periodo, fino a quando non ne trovò un altro da affrontare.

“Ah, signore!” disse Mark, sospirando. “Dio mio. Avete osato fare davvero molto per l’amore di una giovane signorina, ”

“Ti dico una cosa. Non ne sono affatto sicuro, Mark,” fu la risposta; pronunciata così in fretta e con tanta enfasi che Martin si alzò a sedere sul letto per essere più chiaro. “Comincio davvero a non capire nulla. Puoi star certo che lei è molto infelice. Ha sacrificato la propria serenità, ha messo a rischio i propri interessi. Non può scappare da coloro che sono gelosi di lei e contrari a lei, come ho fatto io. Deve sopportare tutto questo, Mark. Sopportare senza alcuna possibilità di agire. Povera ragazza! Comincio a pensare che debba affrontare cose molto peggiori di quelle che ho mai dovuto affrontare io. Lo giuro sulla mia ‘anima!”

Mr Tapley opened his eyes wide in the dark; but did not interrupt.

‘And I’ll tell you a secret, Mark,’ said Martin, ‘since we ARE upon this subject. That ring—’

‘Which ring, sir?’ Mark inquired, opening his eyes still wider.

‘That ring she gave me when we parted, Mark. She bought it; bought it; knowing I was poor and proud (Heaven help me! Proud!) and wanted money.’

‘Who says so, sir?’ asked Mark.

‘I say so. I know it. I thought of it, my good fellow, hundreds of times, while you were lying ill. And like a beast, I took it from her hand, and wore it on my own, and never dreamed of this even at the moment when I parted with it, when some faint glimmering of the truth might surely have possessed me! But it’s late,’ said Martin, checking himself, ‘and you are weak and tired, I know. You only talk to cheer me up. Good night! God bless you, Mark!’

‘God bless you, sir! But I’m reg’larly defrauded,’ thought Mr Tapley, turning round with a happy face. ‘It’s a swindle. I never entered for this sort of service. There’ll be no credit in being jolly with HIM!’

The time wore on, and other steamboats coming from the point on which their hopes were fixed, arrived to take in wood; but still no answer to the letter. Rain, heat, foul slime, and noxious vapour, with all the ills and filthy things they bred, prevailed. The earth, the air, the vegetation, and the water that they drank, all teemed with deadly properties. Their fellow-passenger had lost two children long before; and buried now her last. Such things are much too common to be widely known or cared for. Smart citizens grow rich, and friendless victims smart and die, and are forgotten. That is all.

At last a boat came panting up the ugly river, and stopped at Eden. Mark was waiting at the wood hut when it came, and had a letter handed to him from on board. He bore it off to Martin. They looked at one another, trembling.

‘It feels heavy,’ faltered Martin. And opening it a little roll of dollar-notes fell out upon the ground.

What either of them said, or did, or felt, at first, neither of them knew. All Mark could ever tell was, that he was at the river’s bank again out of breath, before the boat had gone, inquiring when it would retrace its track and put in there.

The answer was, in ten or twelve days; notwithstanding which they began to get their goods together and to tie them up that very night. When this stage of excitement was passed, each of them believed (they found this out, in talking of it afterwards) that he would surely die before the boat returned.

They lived, however, and it came, after the lapse of three long crawling weeks. At sunrise, on an autumn day, they stood upon her deck.

‘Courage! We shall meet again!’ cried Martin, waving his hand to two thin figures on the bank. ‘In the Old World!’

‘Or in the next one,’ added Mark below his breath. ‘To see them standing side by side, so quiet, is a’most the worst of all!’

They looked at one another as the vessel moved away, and then looked backward at the spot from which it hurried fast. The log-house, with the open door, and drooping trees about it; the stagnant morning mist, and red sun, dimly seen beyond; the vapour rising up from land and river; the quick stream making the loathsome banks it washed more flat and dull; how often they returned in dreams! How often it was happiness to wake and find them Shadows that had vanished!

Il signor Tapley aprì bene gli occhi nel buio, ma non interruppe nulla.

“E ti dirò un segreto, Mark,” disse Martin, “poiché siamo già su questo argomento. Quel anello, ”

“Quale anello, signore?” chiese Mark, aprendo ancora di più gli occhi.

“Quel anello che mi ha dato quando ci siamo separati, Mark. L’ha comprato lei, sapendo che ero povero e orgoglioso (Dio mi aiuti! Orgoglioso, ) e voleva soldi.”

“Chi lo dice, signore?”, chiese Mark.

“Lo dico io. Lo so. Ci ho pensato, caro amico, centinaia di volte, mentre eri malato. E come una bestia, l’ho presa dalla sua mano e me la sono messa addosso. Non ci ho mai pensato nemmeno nel momento in cui l’ho data via, quando forse un debole barlume della verità avrebbe potuto illuminarmi! Ma ormai è troppo tardi,” disse Martin, controllandosi. “Sei debole e stanco. Parli solo per rincuorarmi. Buona notte! Che Dio ti benedica, Mark!”

“Dio vi benedica, signore! Ma vengo regolarmente truffato,” pensò il signor Tapley, girandosi con un sorriso felice. “È una truffa. Non ho mai accettato di svolgere questo tipo di servizio. Non c’è alcun merito nel comportarsi in modo amichevole con LUI!”

Il tempo passava, e altri battelli a vapore provenienti dal luogo in cui avevano riposto le loro speranze arrivarono per raccogliere legna; ma ancora nessuna risposta alla lettera ricevuta. Pioggia, caldo intenso, fango vischioso e vapori nocivi, insieme a tutte le malattie e alle cose sporche che ne derivavano, regnavano sovrani. La terra, l’aria, la vegetazione e l’acqua che bevevano erano piene di proprietà letali. La loro compagna di viaggio aveva già perso due bambini molto tempo prima; ora seppelliva anche l’ultimo. Questi eventi sono troppo comuni per essere ampiamente conosciuti o presi in considerazione. I cittadini astuti diventano ricchi, mentre le vittime senza appoggi muoiono in silenzio e vengono dimenticate. E basta.

Finalmente una barca arrivò, ansimante, lungo quel brutto fiume e si fermò ad Eden. Mark stava aspettando nella capanna di legno quando la barca attraccò; qualcuno gli consegnò una lettera a bordo. La portò subito da Martin. Si guardarono l’un l’altro, tremanti.

“Sembra pesante, ”, balbettò Martin. Appena lo aprì, un rotolo di banconote da un dollaro cadde a terra.

Quello che ciascuno di loro aveva detto, fatto o provato all’inizio, nessuno dei due lo sapeva. Tutto ciò che Mark riuscì a scoprire fu che si trovava di nuovo sulla riva del fiume, senza fiato, prima ancora che la barca partisse; chiese quando sarebbe tornata indietro per ripartire da lì.

La risposta era: tra dieci o dodici giorni; nonostante ciò, iniziarono a preparare i loro bagagli e a legarli quella stessa notte. Una volta superata questa fase di agitazione, ognuno di loro credeva (lo scoprirono parlandone in seguito) che sicuramente sarebbe morto prima del ritorno della barca.

Tuttavia, sopravvissero. E dopo tre lunghissime settimane, arrivò il momento tanto atteso. All’alba, in una giornata d’autunno, si trovarono sul suo ponte.

“Coraggio! Ci rivedremo!” gridò Martin, agitando la mano verso due figure snelle sulla riva. “Nel Vecchio Mondo!”

“O forse nel prossimo,” aggiunse Mark sottovoce. “Vederli lì, uno accanto all’altro, così in silenzio, è davvero la cosa peggiore di tutte!”

Si guardarono a vicenda mentre la nave si allontanava, poi voltarono lo sguardo indietro verso il punto da cui era partita velocemente. La capanna di tronchi, con la porta aperta, gli alberi piegati intorno ad essa; la nebbia mattutina stagnante e il sole rosso, appena visibile in lontananza; il vapore che si alzava dalla terra e dal fiume; il corso rapido dell’acqua che rendeva le rive su cui scorreva ancora più piatte e monotone. Quante volte tornavano a quei luoghi nei loro sogni! Quante volte era una vera felicità svegliarsi e scoprire che tutto ciò non era altro che ombre ormai scomparse.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

IN WHICH THE TRAVELLERS MOVE HOMEWARD, AND ENCOUNTER SOME DISTINGUISHED CHARACTERS UPON THE WAY

Among the passengers on board the steamboat, there was a faint gentleman sitting on a low camp-stool, with his legs on a high barrel of flour, as if he were looking at the prospect with his ankles, who attracted their attention speedily.

He had straight black hair, parted up the middle of his head and hanging down upon his coat; a little fringe of hair upon his chin; wore no neckcloth; a white hat; a suit of black, long in the sleeves and short in the legs; soiled brown stockings and laced shoes. His complexion, naturally muddy, was rendered muddier by too strict an economy of soap and water; and the same observation will apply to the washable part of his attire, which he might have changed with comfort to himself and gratification to his friends. He was about five and thirty; was crushed and jammed up in a heap, under the shade of a large green cotton umbrella; and ruminated over his tobacco-plug like a cow.

He was not singular, to be sure, in these respects; for every gentleman on board appeared to have had a difference with his laundress and to have left off washing himself in early youth. Every gentleman, too, was perfectly stopped up with tight plugging, and was dislocated in the greater part of his joints. But about this gentleman there was a peculiar air of sagacity and wisdom, which convinced Martin that he was no common character; and this turned out to be the case.

‘How do you do sir?’ said a voice in Martin’s ear

‘How do you do sir?’ said Martin.

It was a tall thin gentleman who spoke to him, with a carpet-cap on, and a long loose coat of green baize, ornamented about the pockets with black velvet.

‘You air from Europe, sir?’

‘I am,’ said Martin.

‘You air fortunate, sir.’

Martin thought so too; but he soon discovered that the gentleman and he attached different meanings to this remark.

‘You air fortunate, sir, in having an opportunity of beholding our Elijah Pogram, sir.’

‘Your Elijahpogram!’ said Martin, thinking it was all one word, and a building of some sort.

‘Yes sir.’

Martin tried to look as if he understood him, but he couldn’t make it out.

‘Yes, sir,’ repeated the gentleman, ‘our Elijah Pogram, sir, is, at this minute, identically settin’ by the engine biler.’

The gentleman under the umbrella put his right forefinger to his eyebrow, as if he were revolving schemes of state.

‘That is Elijah Pogram, is it?’ said Martin.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the other. ‘That is Elijah Pogram.’

‘Dear me!’ said Martin. ‘I am astonished.’ But he had not the least idea who this Elijah Pogram was; having never heard the name in all his life.

‘If the biler of this vessel was Toe bust, sir,’ said his new acquaintance, ‘and Toe bust now, this would be a festival day in the calendar of despotism; pretty nigh equallin’, sir, in its effects upon the human race, our Fourth of glorious July. Yes, sir, that is the Honourable Elijah Pogram, Member of Congress; one of the master-minds of our country, sir. There is a brow, sir, there!’

‘Quite remarkable,’ said Martin.

‘Yes, sir. Our own immortal Chiggle, sir, is said to have observed, when he made the celebrated Pogram statter in marble, which rose so much con-test and preju-dice in Europe, that the brow was more than mortal. This was before the Pogram Defiance, and was, therefore, a pre-diction, cruel smart.’

‘What is the Pogram Defiance?’ asked Martin, thinking, perhaps, it was the sign of a public-house.

‘An o-ration, sir,’ returned his friend.

‘Oh! to be sure,’ cried Martin. ‘What am I thinking of! It defied—’

‘It defied the world, sir,’ said the other, gravely. ‘Defied the world in general to com-pete with our country upon any hook; and devellop’d our internal resources for making war upon the universal airth. You would like to know Elijah Pogram, sir?’

‘If you please,’ said Martin.

‘Mr Pogram,’ said the stranger—Mr Pogram having overheard every word of the dialogue—‘this is a gentleman from Europe, sir; from England, sir. But gen’rous ene-mies may meet upon the neutral sile of private life, I think.’

The languid Mr Pogram shook hands with Martin, like a clock-work figure that was just running down. But he made amends by chewing like one that was just wound up.

‘Mr Pogram,’ said the introducer, ‘is a public servant, sir. When Congress is recessed, he makes himself acquainted with those free United States, of which he is the gifted son.’

It occurred to Martin that if the Honourable Elijah Pogram had stayed at home, and sent his shoes upon a tour, they would have answered the same purpose; for they were the only part of him in a situation to see anything.

In course of time, however, Mr Pogram rose; and having ejected certain plugging consequences which would have impeded his articulation, took up a position where there was something to lean against, and began to talk to Martin; shading himself with the green umbrella all the time.

As he began with the words, ‘How do you like—?’ Martin took him up and said:

‘The country, I presume?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Elijah Pogram. A knot of passengers gathered round to hear what followed; and Martin heard his friend say, as he whispered to another friend, and rubbed his hands, ‘Pogram will smash him into sky-blue fits, I know!’

‘Why,’ said Martin, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘I have learned by experience, that you take an unfair advantage of a stranger, when you ask that question. You don’t mean it to be answered, except in one way. Now, I don’t choose to answer it in that way, for I cannot honestly answer it in that way. And therefore, I would rather not answer it at all.’

But Mr Pogram was going to make a great speech in the next session about foreign relations, and was going to write strong articles on the subject; and as he greatly favoured the free and independent custom (a very harmless and agreeable one) of procuring information of any sort in any kind of confidence, and afterwards perverting it publicly in any manner that happened to suit him, he had determined to get at Martin’s opinions somehow or other. For if he could have got nothing out of him, he would have had to invent it for him, and that would have been laborious. He made a mental note of his answer, and went in again.

CAPITOLO TRENTA QUATTRO

In cui i viaggiatori tornano verso casa e incontrano lungo la strada alcune figure distinte.

Tra i passeggeri a bordo della nave a vapore, c’era un gentiluomo dall’aspetto pallido che sedeva su una bassa sedia da campeggio, con le gambe appoggiate su un alto barile di farina; sembrava che stesse osservando il paesaggio attraverso i propri polpacci. Questo aspetto attirò immediatamente l’attenzione di tutti.

Aveva i capelli neri e lisci, divisi al centro della testa e che gli pendevano sul cappotto; una piccola frangia di capelli sul mento; non indossava cravatta; portava un cappello bianco e un abito nero, con maniche lunghe e gambe corte; calze marroni sporche e scarpe allacciate. La sua pelle, naturalmente scura, diventava ancora più opaca a causa di un uso troppo parsimonioso di sapone e acqua; lo stesso valeva per le parti dell’abbigliamento lavabili, che avrebbe potuto cambiare con comodità per sé stesso e soddisfazione per i suoi amici. Aveva circa cinquantatré anni; era accovacciato in un angolo, all’ombra di un grande ombrello di cotone verde, e rimuginava sul suo tabacco come una mucca.

Non era certo un caso isolato; infatti, sembrava che ogni gentiluomo a bordo avesse avuto dei disaccordi con la propria lavandaia e avesse smesso di lavarsi fin da giovane. Inoltre, ogni gentiluomo presentava gravi problemi dovuti all’uso eccessivo di tappi stagnanti, e la maggior parte delle sue articolazioni era fuori posto. Tuttavia, questo particolare gentiluomo emanava un’aura di saggezza e intelletto che convinse Martin che non fosse una persona comune. E infatti, così era davvero.

“Come sta, signore?” disse una voce all’orecchio di Martin.

“Come state, signore?” disse Martin.

Era un signore alto e magro che gli parlava; indossava un cappello di velluto e un lungo mantello verde, decorato sui taschi con velluto nero.

“Viene dall’Europa, signore?”

“Lo sono,” disse Martin.

“Siete davvero fortunato, signore.”

Anche Martin la pensava così; ma presto scoprì che il signore e lui attribuivano significati diversi a questa osservazione.

“È davvero una fortuna per voi, signore, poter assistere al nostro Elijah Program.”

“Il tuo ‘Elijahprogram’!” disse Martin, pensando che si trattasse di una sola parola e che indicasse qualche tipo di struttura o costruzione.

“Sì, signore.”

Martin cercò di sembrare interessato a ciò che gli stava dicendo, ma non riuscì a nascondere la sua confusione.

“Sì, signore,” ripeté il gentiluomo, “il nostro Elijah Pogram, signore, in questo preciso momento sta venendo impostato esattamente dal macchinista.”

Il signore sotto l’ombrello si portò il dito indice destro sulla fronte, come se stesse elaborando importanti piani politici.

“Quello è Elijah Pogram, giusto?” disse Martin.

“Sì, signore,” rispose l’altro. “Quello è Elijah Pogram.”

“Mio Dio!”, disse Martin. “Sono davvero sorpreso.” Ma non aveva la minima idea di chi fosse questo Elijah Pogram; non aveva mai sentito quel nome in tutta la sua vita.

“Se il macchinista di questa nave fosse Toe bust, signore,” disse il suo nuovo conoscente, “e se ora fosse davvero Toe bust, questo sarebbe un giorno di festa nel calendario del dispotismo; per gli effetti che avrebbe sull’umanità, potrebbe essere paragonato al nostro glorioso Quattro Luglio. Sì, signore: quello è l’onorevole Elijah Pogram, membro del Congresso; uno dei cervelli più brillanti del nostro paese, signore.”

“Davvero notevole,” disse Martin.

“Sì, signore. Si dice che il nostro stesso immortale Chiggle, quando realizzò quella celebre scultura in marmo raffigurante la rosa, suscitasse così tanta opposizione e pregiudizi in Europa, da far sembrare la sua fronte più che mortale. Questo avvenne prima della ‘Rivolta contro il Programma’, quindi si trattava di una previsione, davvero crudele.”

“Cos’è il Programma ‘Defiance’?”, chiese Martin, pensando forse che fosse un segno di una qualche istituzione pubblica.

“Un’ora di riposo, signore,” rispose il suo amico.

“Oh! Certo,” esclamò Martin. “A cosa sto pensando? Era impossibile, ”

“Ha sfidato il mondo intero, signore,” disse l’altro con gravità. “Ha sfidato il mondo intero a competere con il nostro paese in qualsiasi ambito; e ha sviluppato le nostre risorse interne per combattere su tutti i fronti. Vorrebbe conoscere Elijah Pogram, signore?”

“Se vuoi, per favore,” disse Martin.

“Signor Pogram,” disse lo sconosciuto – poiché Signor Pogram aveva sentito ogni parola del dialogo – “questo è un gentiluomo dell’Europa, signore; dell’Inghilterra, per la precisione. Ma penso che nemici generosi possano incontrarsi anche nel silenzio neutro della vita privata.”

Il pigro signor Pogram strinse la mano a Martin, come una figura meccanica che stesse semplicemente per fermarsi. Ma si rimediò masticando con energia, come se fosse appena stato caricato.

“Signor Pogram,” disse l’introduttore, “è un funzionario pubblico, signore. Quando il Congresso è in pausa, si dedica allo studio di quegli Stati Uniti liberi di cui è il figlio eccezionale.”

A Martin venne in mente che se l’onorevole Elijah Pogram fosse rimasto a >casa e avesse inviato i suoi scarponi in giro, avrebbero svolto lo stesso scopo; infatti, erano l’unica parte di lui in grado di “vedere” qualcosa.

Nel corso del tempo, tuttavia, il signor Pogram si alzò in piedi; dopo aver eliminato alcune conseguenze negative che avrebbero potuto ostacolare la sua capacità di parlare chiaramente, trovò un punto su cui appoggiarsi e iniziò a parlare con Martin, proteggendosi dal sole con l’ombrello verde per tutto il tempo.

“Come le sembra,?” appena iniziò a dire Martin, lo interruppe e disse:

“La campagna, presumo?”

“Sì, signore,” disse Elijah Pogram. Un gruppo di passeggeri si radunò intorno per ascoltare ciò che sarebbe seguito; e Martin sentì il suo amico sussurrare a un altro amico, strofinandosi le mani: “So che Pogram lo farà impazzire di rabbia!”

“Perché,” disse Martin, dopo un momento di esitazione, “ho imparato dall’esperienza che si approfitta ingiustamente di uno sconosciuto quando si pone quella domanda. Non si vuole davvero una risposta diversa da quella unica possibile. Ora, io non scelgo di rispondere in quel modo, perché non potrei farlo onestamente. E quindi, preferisco non rispondere affatto.”

Ma il signor Pogram avrebbe tenuto un grande discorso nella sessione successiva sulle relazioni estere e avrebbe scritto articoli decisi sull’argomento; inoltre, poiché era molto a favore della pratica libera e indipendente di ottenere informazioni di ogni tipo con qualsiasi mezzo e poi di utilizzarle pubblicamente nel modo che più gli piacesse, aveva deciso a tutti i costi di scoprire quali fossero le opinioni di Martin. Perché se non fosse riuscito a ottenere nulla da lui, avrebbe dovuto inventare qualcosa, e questo sarebbe stato molto laborioso. Prese mentalmente nota della sua risposta e tornò dentro.

‘You are from Eden, sir? How did you like Eden?’

Martin said what he thought of that part of the country, in pretty strong terms.

‘It is strange,’ said Pogram, looking round upon the group, ‘this hatred of our country, and her Institutions! This national antipathy is deeply rooted in the British mind!’

‘Good Heaven, sir,’ cried Martin. ‘Is the Eden Land Corporation, with Mr Scadder at its head, and all the misery it has worked, at its door, an Institution of America? A part of any form of government that ever was known or heard of?’

‘I con-sider the cause of this to be,’ said Pogram, looking round again and taking himself up where Martin had interrupted him, ‘partly jealousy and pre-judice, and partly the nat’ral unfitness of the British people to appreciate the ex-alted Institutions of our native land. I expect, sir,’ turning to Martin again, ‘that a gentleman named Chollop happened in upon you during your lo-cation in the town of Eden?’

‘Yes,’ answered Martin; ‘but my friend can answer this better than I can, for I was very ill at the time. Mark! The gentleman is speaking of Mr Chollop.’

‘Oh. Yes, sir. Yes. I see him,’ observed Mark.

‘A splendid example of our na-tive raw material, sir?’ said Pogram, interrogatively.

‘Indeed, sir!’ cried Mark.

The Honourable Elijah Pogram glanced at his friends as though he would have said, ‘Observe this! See what follows!’ and they rendered tribute to the Pogram genius by a gentle murmur.

‘Our fellow-countryman is a model of a man, quite fresh from Natur’s mould!’ said Pogram, with enthusiasm. ‘He is a true-born child of this free hemisphere! Verdant as the mountains of our country; bright and flowing as our mineral Licks; unspiled by withering conventionalities as air our broad and boundless Perearers! Rough he may be. So air our Barrs. Wild he may be. So air our Buffalers. But he is a child of Natur’, and a child of Freedom; and his boastful answer to the Despot and the Tyrant is, that his bright home is in the Settin Sun.’

Part of this referred to Chollop, and part to a Western postmaster, who, being a public defaulter not very long before (a character not at all uncommon in America), had been removed from office; and on whose behalf Mr Pogram (he voted for Pogram) had thundered the last sentence from his seat in Congress, at the head of an unpopular President. It told brilliantly; for the bystanders were delighted, and one of them said to Martin, ‘that he guessed he had now seen something of the eloquential aspect of our country, and was chawed up pritty small.’

Mr Pogram waited until his hearers were calm again, before he said to Mark:

‘You do not seem to coincide, sir?’

‘Why,’ said Mark, ‘I didn’t like him much; and that’s the truth, sir. I thought he was a bully; and I didn’t admire his carryin’ them murderous little persuaders, and being so ready to use ‘em.’

‘It’s singler!’ said Pogram, lifting his umbrella high enough to look all round from under it. ‘It’s strange! You observe the settled opposition to our Institutions which pervades the British mind!’

‘What an extraordinary people you are!’ cried Martin. ‘Are Mr Chollop and the class he represents, an Institution here? Are pistols with revolving barrels, sword-sticks, bowie-knives, and such things, Institutions on which you pride yourselves? Are bloody duels, brutal combats, savage assaults, shooting down and stabbing in the streets, your Institutions! Why, I shall hear next that Dishonour and Fraud are among the Institutions of the great republic!’

The moment the words passed his lips, the Honourable Elijah Pogram looked round again.

‘This morbid hatred of our Institutions,’ he observed, ‘is quite a study for the psychological observer. He’s alludin’ to Repudiation now!’

‘Oh! you may make anything an Institution if you like,’ said Martin, laughing, ‘and I confess you had me there, for you certainly have made that one. But the greater part of these things are one Institution with us, and we call it by the generic name of Old Bailey!’

The bell being rung for dinner at this moment, everybody ran away into the cabin, whither the Honourable Elijah Pogram fled with such precipitation that he forgot his umbrella was up, and fixed it so tightly in the cabin door that it could neither be let down nor got out. For a minute or so this accident created a perfect rebellion among the hungry passengers behind, who, seeing the dishes, and hearing the knives and forks at work, well knew what would happen unless they got there instantly, and were nearly mad; while several virtuous citizens at the table were in deadly peril of choking themselves in their unnatural efforts to get rid of all the meat before these others came.

They carried the umbrella by storm, however, and rushed in at the breach. The Honourable Elijah Pogram and Martin found themselves, after a severe struggle, side by side, as they might have come together in the pit of a London theatre; and for four whole minutes afterwards, Pogram was snapping up great blocks of everything he could get hold of, like a raven. When he had taken this unusually protracted dinner, he began to talk to Martin; and begged him not to have the least delicacy in speaking with perfect freedom to him, for he was a calm philosopher. Which Martin was extremely glad to hear; for he had begun to speculate on Elijah being a disciple of that other school of republican philosophy, whose noble sentiments are carved with knives upon a pupil’s body, and written, not with pen and ink, but tar and feathers.

‘What do you think of my countrymen who are present, sir?’ inquired Elijah Pogram.

‘Oh! very pleasant,’ said Martin.

They were a very pleasant party. No man had spoken a word; every one had been intent, as usual, on his own private gorging; and the greater part of the company were decidedly dirty feeders.

“Lei è di Eden, signore? Come le è piaciuto Eden?”

Martin espresse ciò che pensava di quella parte del paese in termini piuttosto duri.

“È strano,” disse Pogram, guardandosi intorno al gruppo, “questo odio verso il nostro paese e le sue istituzioni. Questa avversione nazionale è profondamente radicata nella mentalità britannica!”

“Mio Dio, signore,” esclamò Martin. “La Eden Land Corporation, con il signor Scadder alla sua guida, e tutta la sofferenza che ha causato, è davvero un’istituzione dell’America? Fa parte di qualche forma di governo mai esistita o conosciuta?”

“Ritengo che la causa di tutto ciò sia,” disse Pogram, guardandosi intorno di nuovo e riprendendo il punto dove Martin l’aveva interrotto, “in parte la invidia e i pregiudizi, e in parte l’incapacità naturale del popolo britannico di apprezzare le istituzioni nobili della nostra terra natale. Immagino,” aggiunse rivolgendosi di nuovo a Martin, “che durante il vostro soggiorno nella città di Eden vi sia capitato di incontrare un gentiluomo di nome Chollop, ”

“Sì,” rispose Martin; “ma mio amico può rispondere meglio di me, perché in quel momento ero molto malato. Mark! Il signore sta parlando del signor Chollop.”

“Ah, sì, signore. Sì, lo vedo,” osservò Mark.

“Un esempio splendido della nostra materia prima naturale, signore?”, chiese Pogram in tono interrogativo.

“Certamente, signore!” esclamò Mark.

L’onorevole Elijah Pogram guardò i suoi amici come se volesse dire: “Osservate questo! Vedete cosa succederà dopo!”, e loro tributarono al genio di Pogram con un sommesso mormorio di ammirazione.

“Il nostro connazionale è un modello di uomo, appena uscito dal grembo della Natura!” disse Pogram con entusiasmo. “È un vero e proprio bambino di questo emisfero libero! Verde come le montagne del nostro paese; brillante e fluido come i nostri minerali; privo delle contaminazioni delle convenzioni invecchiate, proprio come l’aria dei nostri vasti e illimitati spazi! Può anche essere rozzo. Proprio come l’ambiente naturale in cui viviamo. Può anche essere selvaggio. Proprio come i nostri animali liberi. Ma è un bambino della Natura, un bambino della Libertà; e la sua risposta orgogliosa al Despota e al Tiranno è che la sua luminosa casa si trova nel Sole.”

In parte si riferiva a Chollop, e in parte a un postino occidentale che, essendo stato un debitore pubblico poco tempo prima (un caso tutt’altro che insolito in America), era stato destituito dal suo incarico; ed era proprio a nome di quest’ultimo che il signor Pogram aveva pronunciato quella frase dalla sua postazione al Congresso, in apertura di un discorso contro un presidente impopolare. Il racconto fu davvero efficace: gli spettatori ne furono molto divertiti, e uno di loro disse a Martin che, secondo lui, ora aveva potuto comprendere appieno l’aspetto oratorio del nostro paese, e che ne era rimasto profondamente colpito.

“Signor Program aspettò che i suoi ascoltatori si calmassero di nuovo, prima di dire a Mark, ”

“Non sembrate concordare, signore, ”

“Perché,” disse Mark, “non mi piaceva molto; ed è la verità, signore. Pensavo che fosse un bullo; e non ammiravo il modo in cui utilizzava quei piccoli individui spietati per convincere le persone, né il fatto che fosse sempre pronto a servirsene.”

“È davvero singolare!” disse Pogram, alzando il suo ombrello abbastanza in alto da poter guardarsi intorno al di sotto di esso. “È strano. Si nota una netta opposizione alle nostre istituzioni che pervade la mentalità britannica!”

“Che gente straordinaria siete!” esclamò Martin. “Il signor Chollop e la classe che rappresenta sono davvero delle ‘istituzioni’ qui? Le pistole a canna rotante, le mazze da duello, i coltelli Bowie e simili cose sono davvero oggetti di cui vi vantiate? I duelli sanguinosi, i combattimenti brutali, gli assalti selvaggi, sparare e pugnalare per le strade, sono davvero queste le vostre ‘istituzioni’! Perché, tra poco sentirò dire che anche l’Onore e la Frode fanno parte delle istituzioni di questa grande repubblica, ”

Non appena quelle parole gli uscirono dalle labbra, l’onorevole Elijah Pogram guardò di nuovo intorno.

“Questo odio morbido verso le nostre istituzioni,” osservò, “è davvero un soggetto di studio per lo psicologo. Ora sta alludendo alla ‘Ripudiazione’, ”

“Oh! Si può trasformare qualsiasi cosa in un’istituzione, se si vuole,” disse Martin ridendo, “e devo ammettere che per un momento ci sono cascato dentro, perché sicuramente quella che avete creato lo è davvero. Ma la maggior parte di queste cose fa già parte della nostra vita quotidiana; le chiamiamo semplicemente ‘Old Bailey’.”

In quel momento, poiché il campanello annunciava la cena, tutti corsero dentro le cabine. L’onorevole Elijah Pogram fuggì con tale fretta che dimenticò di prendere l’ombrello, e lo fissò così saldamente alla porta della cabina che non fu possibile né abbassarlo né toglierlo. Per un minuto circa, questo incidente scatenò una vera e propria rivolta tra i passeggeri affamati che si trovavano dietro; vedendo i piatti pronti e sentendo il rumore dei coltelli e delle forchette in azione, capirono immediatamente cosa sarebbe accaduto se non fossero arrivati subito lì. Erano quasi impazziti! Intanto, alcuni passeggeri “virtuosi” seduti al tavolo rischiavano seriamente di soffocarsi nel tentativo disperato di finire tutto il cibo prima che gli altri li raggiungessero.

Portarono l’ombrello con sé durante la tempesta e corsero verso il punto in cui si era aperta una breccia. L’onorevole Elijah Pogram e Martin, dopo una dura lotta, si trovarono uno accanto all’altro, come se fossero stati uniti nel palco di un teatro di Londra; per ben quattro minuti consecutivi, Pogram afferrò quanti blocchi di materiale riuscì a prendere, come un corvo che si nutre di rifiuti. Dopo aver terminato questo pasto insolitamente lungo, iniziò a parlare con Martin e lo pregò di non esitare a esprimersi con assoluta libertà, poiché lui era un filosofo sereno. Martin ne fu estremamente felice; aveva infatti iniziato a ipotizzare che Elijah potesse essere discepolo di quella corrente della filosofia repubblicana la cui nobiltà di ideali viene incisa con coltelli sul corpo dei suoi seguaci, e scritta non con inchiostro e penna, ma con catrame e piume.

“Che ne pensate dei miei connazionali presenti qui, signore?” chiese Elijah Pogram.

“Ah! Molto piacevole,” disse Martin.

È stata una festa molto piacevole. Nessuno aveva detto una parola; tutti, come al solito, erano concentrati solo sul proprio pasto; e la maggior parte dei presenti era decisamente gente poco raffinata.

The Honourable Elijah Pogram looked at Martin as if he thought ‘You don’t mean that, I know!’ and he was soon confirmed in this opinion.

Sitting opposite to them was a gentleman in a high state of tobacco, who wore quite a little beard, composed of the overflowing of that weed, as they had dried about his mouth and chin; so common an ornament that it would scarcely have attracted Martin’s observation, but that this good citizen, burning to assert his equality against all comers, sucked his knife for some moments, and made a cut with it at the butter, just as Martin was in the act of taking some. There was a juiciness about the deed that might have sickened a scavenger.

When Elijah Pogram (to whom this was an every-day incident) saw that Martin put the plate away, and took no butter, he was quite delighted, and said,

‘Well! The morbid hatred of you British to the Institutions of our country is as-TONishing!’

‘Upon my life!’ cried Martin, in his turn. ‘This is the most wonderful community that ever existed. A man deliberately makes a hog of himself, and THAT’S an Institution!’

‘We have no time to ac-quire forms, sir,’ said Elijah Pogram.

‘Acquire!’ cried Martin. ‘But it’s not a question of acquiring anything. It’s a question of losing the natural politeness of a savage, and that instinctive good breeding which admonishes one man not to offend and disgust another. Don’t you think that man over the way, for instance, naturally knows better, but considers it a very fine and independent thing to be a brute in small matters?’

‘He is a na-tive of our country, and is nat’rally bright and spry, of course,’ said Mr Pogram.

‘Now, observe what this comes to, Mr Pogram,’ pursued Martin. ‘The mass of your countrymen begin by stubbornly neglecting little social observances, which have nothing to do with gentility, custom, usage, government, or country, but are acts of common, decent, natural, human politeness. You abet them in this, by resenting all attacks upon their social offences as if they were a beautiful national feature. From disregarding small obligations they come in regular course to disregard great ones; and so refuse to pay their debts. What they may do, or what they may refuse to do next, I don’t know; but any man may see if he will, that it will be something following in natural succession, and a part of one great growth, which is rotten at the root.’

The mind of Mr Pogram was too philosophical to see this; so they went on deck again, where, resuming his former post, he chewed until he was in a lethargic state, amounting to insensibility.

After a weary voyage of several days, they came again to that same wharf where Mark had been so nearly left behind, on the night of starting for Eden. Captain Kedgick, the landlord, was standing there, and was greatly surprised to see them coming from the boat.

‘Why, what the ‘tarnal!’ cried the Captain. ‘Well! I do admire at this, I do!’

‘We can stay at your house until to-morrow, Captain, I suppose?’ said Martin.

‘I reckon you can stay there for a twelvemonth if you like,’ retorted Kedgick coolly. ‘But our people won’t best like your coming back.’

‘Won’t like it, Captain Kedgick!’ said Martin.

‘They did expect you was a-going to settle,’ Kedgick answered, as he shook his head. ‘They’ve been took in, you can’t deny!’

‘What do you mean?’ cried Martin.

‘You didn’t ought to have received ‘em,’ said the Captain. ‘No you didn’t!’

‘My good friend,’ returned Martin, ‘did I want to receive them? Was it any act of mine? Didn’t you tell me they would rile up, and that I should be flayed like a wild cat—and threaten all kinds of vengeance, if I didn’t receive them?’

‘I don’t know about that,’ returned the Captain. ‘But when our people’s frills is out, they’re starched up pretty stiff, I tell you!’

With that, he fell into the rear to walk with Mark, while Martin and Elijah Pogram went on to the National.

‘We’ve come back alive, you see!’ said Mark.

‘It ain’t the thing I did expect,’ the Captain grumbled. ‘A man ain’t got no right to be a public man, unless he meets the public views. Our fashionable people wouldn’t have attended his le-vee, if they had know’d it.’

Nothing mollified the Captain, who persisted in taking it very ill that they had not both died in Eden. The boarders at the National felt strongly on the subject too; but it happened by good fortune that they had not much time to think about this grievance, for it was suddenly determined to pounce upon the Honourable Elijah Pogram, and give HIM a le-vee forthwith.

As the general evening meal of the house was over before the arrival of the boat, Martin, Mark, and Pogram were taking tea and fixings at the public table by themselves, when the deputation entered to announce this honour; consisting of six gentlemen boarders and a very shrill boy.

‘Sir!’ said the spokesman.

‘Mr Pogram!’ cried the shrill boy.

The spokesman thus reminded of the shrill boy’s presence, introduced him. ‘Doctor Ginery Dunkle, sir. A gentleman of great poetical elements. He has recently jined us here, sir, and is an acquisition to us, sir, I do assure you. Yes, sir. Mr Jodd, sir. Mr Izzard, sir. Mr Julius Bib, sir.’

‘Julius Washington Merryweather Bib,’ said the gentleman himself TO himself.

‘I beg your pardon, sir. Excuse me. Mr Julius Washington Merryweather Bib, sir; a gentleman in the lumber line, sir, and much esteemed. Colonel Groper, sir. Pro-fessor Piper, sir. My own name, sir, is Oscar Buffum.’

Each man took one slide forward as he was named; butted at the Honourable Elijah Pogram with his head; shook hands, and slid back again. The introductions being completed, the spokesman resumed.

‘Sir!’

‘Mr Pogram!’ cried the shrill boy.

‘Perhaps,’ said the spokesman, with a hopeless look, ‘you will be so good, Dr. Ginery Dunkle, as to charge yourself with the execution of our little office, sir?’

As there was nothing the shrill boy desired more, he immediately stepped forward.

Onorevole Elijah Pogram guardò Martin come se pensasse: “Non lo dici sul serio, lo so!”, e presto si rese conto che aveva ragione.

Seduto di fronte a loro c’era un gentiluomo con una folta barba, formata dal tabacco che gli si era accumulato intorno alla bocca e al mento; un ornamento così comune da non aver quasi attirato l’attenzione di Martin. Ma quel buon cittadino, desideroso di dimostrare la propria uguaglianza con tutti, iniziò a succhiare il proprio coltello per alcuni momenti e poi lo usò per tagliare il burro, proprio nel momento in cui Martin stava per prenderne un po’. Quell’atto aveva una “succosità” tale da poter far venire la nausea anche a uno spazzino.

Quando Elijah Pogram – per il quale questo era un evento quotidiano – vide che Martin metteva via il piatto senza prendere il burro, ne fu molto felice e disse:

‘Beh! L’odio morboso che voi britannici provate per le istituzioni del nostro paese è davvero sbalorditivo!’

“Per la mia vita!”, esclamò a sua volta Martin. “Questa è davvero la comunità più meravigliosa che sia mai esistita. Un uomo si comporta deliberatamente in modo spregevole, e QUESTO, beh, questo è addirittura un’istituzione!”

“Non abbiamo tempo per raccogliere i moduli, signore,” disse Elijah Pogram.

“Acquistatelo!”, gridò Martin. “Ma non si tratta di acquistare qualcosa. Si tratta piuttosto di perdere quella naturale cortesia tipica degli esseri umani, quel senso innato di buone maniere che ci impedisce di offendere o disgustare gli altri. Non pensate anche voi che quell’uomo laggiù, per esempio, sappia naturalmente cosa è giusto fare, ma che consideri invece molto elegante e “indipendente” comportarsi in modo brutale nelle piccole cose?”

“È un cittadino del nostro paese, ed è naturalmente intelligente e vivace,” disse il signor Pogram.

“Ora, osservi fino a dove tutto questo può portare, signor Pogram,” continuò Martin. “La maggior parte dei suoi connazionali inizia ignorando ostinatamente piccole regole sociali che non hanno nulla a che fare con la gentilezza, le usanze o lo stato, ma rappresentano semplicemente atti di cortesia comune, decente e naturale. Lei li incoraggia in questo comportamento, ritenendo che qualsiasi critica a queste loro abitudini sia in realtà un complimento per le caratteristiche nazionali del loro paese. Ignorando queste piccole obbligazioni, finiscono inevitabilmente per trascurare anche quelle più importanti; e così rifiutano di pagare i propri debiti. Non so cosa faranno in seguito, ma chiunque possa osservare con attenzione vedrà che ciò che accadrà rappresenterà semplicemente la conseguenza naturale di questo comportamento, e parte di un processo più ampio che, alla radice, è già marcio.”

La mente del signor Pogram era troppo filosofica per comprendere tutto ciò; così continuarono a salire sul ponte, dove, riprendendo il suo solito posto, continuò a masticare fino a raggiungere uno stato di letargia, che equivaleva alla perdita di sensibilità.

Dopo un viaggio estenuante che durò diversi giorni, arrivarono di nuovo a quel medesimo molo dove Mark era quasi stato abbandonato, nella notte in cui avevano iniziato il loro viaggio verso Eden. Il capitano Kedgick, il proprietario del locale, stava lì ad aspettarli e rimase molto sorpreso nel vederli scendere dalla barca.

“Ma che diavolo, ”, esclamò il Capitano. “Davvero, devo ammetterlo: mi colpisce molto, davvero!”

“Possiamo rimanere a casa tua fino a domani, capitano, giusto?” disse Martin.

“Penso che tu possa rimanere lì per dodici mesi, se vuoi,” ribatté Kedgick con calma. “Ma alla nostra gente non piacerà affatto il tuo ritorno.”

“Non gli piacerà, Capitano Kedgick!”, disse Martin.

“Si aspettavano davvero che tu ti stabilissi qui,” rispose Kedgick scuotendo la testa. “Ti hanno accolto, non puoi negarlo!”

“Cosa intendi dire?”, gridò Martin.

“Non avresti dovuto riceverli,” disse il Capitano. “No, davvero non avresti dovuto!”

“Mio caro amico,” rispose Martin, “volevo davvero riceverli? È stata forse una mia decisione? Non mi avevi detto che avrebbero causato problemi e che sarei stato punito come un gatto selvatico, e che minacciavano ogni sorta di vendetta se non li accettavo?”

“Non ne so nulla,” rispose il Capitano. “Ma quando le nostre donne indossano quei vestiti eleganti, diventano davvero molto rigide, ve lo dico io!”

Con questo, si mise in coda per camminare insieme a Mark, mentre Martin ed Elijah Pogram proseguirono verso il National.

“Siamo tornati vivi, capisci!” disse Mark.

“Non è affatto ciò che mi aspettavo,” borbottò il Capitano. “Un uomo non ha alcun diritto di essere considerato una figura pubblica, a meno che non condivida le opinioni del pubblico. Le persone alla moda di oggi non avrebbero partecipato a quella sua festa, se lo avessero saputo.”

Niente riuscì a placare il Capitano, il quale insisteva nel considerare molto grave il fatto che loro due non fossero morti ad Eden. Anche gli ospiti dell’ostello National condividevano questa opinione; ma per fortuna non ebbero molto tempo per riflettere su questo problema, perché improvvisamente fu deciso di intervenire contro l’onorevole Elijah Pogram e di punirlo immediatamente.

Dato che la cena tradizionale della >casa era già finita prima dell’arrivo della barca, Martin, Mark e Pogram stavano bevendo tè e mangiando qualche spuntino al tavolo comune da soli, quando entrò la delegazione per annunciare questa ‘onorificenza; essa era composta da sei gentiluomini che soggiornavano lì e da un ragazzo dal tono di voce molto acuto.

“Signore!”, disse il portavoce.

“Signor Program!” gridò il ragazzo con la voce stridula.

Il portavoce ricordò così la presenza di quel ragazzo dal tono acuto e lo presentò: “Dottor Ginery Dunkle, signore. Un gentiluomo con grandi inclinazioni poetiche. Si è unito a noi di recente, signore. Una vera aggiunta per noi, ve lo assicuro. Sì, signore. Il signor Jodd, il signor Izzard, il signor Julius Bib, signore.”

“Julius Washington Merryweather Bib,” disse il gentiluomo tra sé e sé.

“Perdonatemi, signore. Scusate. Il signor Julius Washington Merryweather Bib, signore; un gentiluomo del settore della legna, molto stimato. Il colonnello Groper, signore. Il professor Piper, signore. Il mio nome è Oscar Buffum.”

Ogni uomo avanzò di una posizione non appena il suo nome fu chiamato; si sfiorò la testa con quella dell’onorevole Elijah Pogram, strinse la mano e poi tornò indietro nella sua posizione originale. Una volta terminate le presentazioni, il portavoce riprese a parlare.

“Signore!”

“Signor Program!” gridò il ragazzo con la voce stridula.

“Forse,” disse il portavoce con un’espressione disperata, “sarà così gentile, dottor Ginery Dunkle, da assumersi l’onere di gestire la nostra piccola organizzazione, signore?”

Poiché non c’era nulla che quel ragazzo stridulo desiderasse di più, si avvicinò immediatamente.

‘Mr Pogram! Sir! A handful of your fellow-citizens, sir, hearing of your arrival at the National Hotel, and feeling the patriotic character of your public services, wish, sir, to have the gratification of beholding you, and mixing with you, sir; and unbending with you, sir, in those moments which—’

‘Air,’ suggested Buffum.

‘Which air so peculiarly the lot, sir, of our great and happy country.’

‘Hear!’ cried Colonel Grouper, in a loud voice. ‘Good! Hear him! Good!’

‘And therefore, sir,’ pursued the Doctor, ‘they request; as A mark Of their respect; the honour of your company at a little le-Vee, sir, in the ladies’ ordinary, at eight o’clock.’

Mr Pogram bowed, and said:

‘Fellow countrymen!’

‘Good!’ cried the Colonel. ‘Hear, him! Good!’

Mr Pogram bowed to the Colonel individually, and then resumed.

‘Your approbation of My labours in the common cause goes to My heart. At all times and in all places; in the ladies’ ordinary, My friends, and in the Battle Field—’

‘Good, very good! Hear him! Hear him!’ said the Colonel.

‘The name of Pogram will be proud to jine you. And may it, My friends, be written on My tomb, “He was a member of the Congress of our common country, and was ac-Tive in his trust.”’

‘The Com-mittee, sir,’ said the shrill boy, ‘will wait upon you at five minutes afore eight. I take My leave, sir!’

Mr Pogram shook hands with him, and everybody else, once more; and when they came back again at five minutes before eight, they said, one by one, in a melancholy voice, ‘How do you do, sir?’ and shook hands with Mr Pogram all over again, as if he had been abroad for a twelvemonth in the meantime, and they met, now, at a funeral.

But by this time Mr Pogram had freshened himself up, and had composed his hair and features after the Pogram statue, so that any one with half an eye might cry out, ‘There he is! as he delivered the Defiance!’ The Committee were embellished also; and when they entered the ladies’ ordinary in a body, there was much clapping of hands from ladies and gentlemen, accompanied by cries of ‘Pogram! Pogram!’ and some standing up on chairs to see him.

The object of the popular caress looked round the room as he walked up it, and smiled; at the same time observing to the shrill boy, that he knew something of the beauty of the daughters of their common country, but had never seen it in such lustre and perfection as at that moment. Which the shrill boy put in the paper next day; to Elijah Pogram’s great surprise.

‘We will re-quest you, sir, if you please,’ said Buffum, laying hands on Mr Pogram as if he were taking his measure for a coat, ‘to stand up with your back agin the wall right in the furthest corner, that there may be more room for our fellow citizens. If you could set your back right slap agin that curtain-peg, sir, keeping your left leg everlastingly behind the stove, we should be fixed quite slick.’

Mr Pogram did as he was told, and wedged himself into such a little corner that the Pogram statue wouldn’t have known him.

The entertainments of the evening then began. Gentlemen brought ladies up, and brought themselves up, and brought each other up; and asked Elijah Pogram what he thought of this political question, and what he thought of that; and looked at him, and looked at one another, and seemed very unhappy indeed. The ladies on the chairs looked at Elijah Pogram through their glasses, and said audibly, ‘I wish he’d speak. Why don’t he speak? Oh, do ask him to speak!’ And Elijah Pogram looked sometimes at the ladies and sometimes elsewhere, delivering senatorial opinions, as he was asked for them. But the great end and object of the meeting seemed to be, not to let Elijah Pogram out of the corner on any account; so there they kept him, hard and fast.

A great bustle at the door, in the course of the evening, announced the arrival of some remarkable person; and immediately afterwards an elderly gentleman, much excited, was seen to precipitate himself upon the crowd, and battle his way towards the Honourable Elijah Pogram. Martin, who had found a snug place of observation in a distant corner, where he stood with Mark beside him (for he did not so often forget him now as formerly, though he still did sometimes), thought he knew this gentleman, but had no doubt of it, when he cried as loud as he could, with his eyes starting out of his head:

‘Sir, Mrs Hominy!’

‘Lord bless that woman, Mark. She has turned up again!’

‘Here she comes, sir,’ answered Mr Tapley. ‘Pogram knows her. A public character! Always got her eye upon her country, sir! If that there lady’s husband is of my opinion, what a jolly old gentleman he must be!’

A lane was made; and Mrs Hominy, with the aristocratic stalk, the pocket handkerchief, the clasped hands, and the classical cap, came slowly up it, in a procession of one. Mr Pogram testified emotions of delight on seeing her, and a general hush prevailed. For it was known that when a woman like Mrs Hominy encountered a man like Pogram, something interesting must be said.

Their first salutations were exchanged in a voice too low to reach the impatient ears of the throng; but they soon became audible, for Mrs Hominy felt her position, and knew what was expected of her.

Mrs H. was hard upon him at first; and put him through a rigid catechism in reference to a certain vote he had given, which she had found it necessary, as the mother of the modern Gracchi, to deprecate in a line by itself, set up expressly for the purpose in German text. But Mr Pogram evading it by a well-timed allusion to the star-spangled banner, which, it appeared, had the remarkable peculiarity of flouting the breeze whenever it was hoisted where the wind blew, she forgave him. They now enlarged on certain questions of tariff, commercial treaty, boundary, importation and exportation with great effect. And Mrs Hominy not only talked, as the saying is, like a book, but actually did talk her own books, word for word.

‘Signor Pogram! Signore! Un gruppo di suoi concittadini, signore, avendo appreso del suo arrivo all’Hotel Nazionale e riconoscendo il carattere patriottico dei suoi servizi pubblici, desidera molto, signore, avere l’onore di vederlo e di intrattenersi con lui; e di condividere con lui, signore, quei momenti che, ’

“ aria”, suggerì Buffum.

“Quell’aria che caratterizza in modo così particolare il nostro grande e felice paese, ”

“Ascoltate!” gridò il Colonnello Grouper ad alta voce. “Bene! Lo sentite? Ottimo!”

“E pertanto, signore,” proseguì il Dottore, “chiedono, come segno del loro rispetto, l’onore della vostra compagnia a una piccola riunione, signore, presso la sala delle signore, alle otto in ora.”

“Signor Program si inchinò e disse, ”

“Compatrioti!”

“Bene!” esclamò il Colonnello. “Sentite, cosa dice. Bene!”

Il signor Pogram si inchinò individualmente al colonnello, poi riprese a parlare.

“La tua approvazione per il mio impegno nella causa comune mi riempie il cuore. In ogni momento e in ogni luogo: nelle riunioni delle signore, tra i miei amici, e anche sul campo di battaglia, ”

“Bene, molto bene! Ascoltatelo! Ascoltatelo!” disse il Colonnello.

“Il nome di Pogram sarà orgoglioso di essere associato a te. E possa esso, amici miei, essere scritto sulla mia tomba: ‘Era un membro del Congresso della nostra nazione comune, e fu attivo nel svolgere i suoi doveri.’”

“Il Comitato, signore,” disse il ragazzo con voce acuta, “vi aspetterà alle cinque meno un quarto. Mi congedo, signore!”

Il signor Pogram gli strinse la mano, così come tutti gli altri; e quando tornarono di nuovo, cinque minuti prima delle otto, dissero uno dopo l’altro, con una voce melancolica, “Come sta, signore?”, e strinsero nuovamente la mano al signor Pogram, come se in quel frattempo fosse stato via per dodici mesi e ora si incontrassero in un funerale.

Ma a quell’ora il signor Pogram si era già rinfrescato e sistemato i capelli e i tratti del viso in modo da assomigliare alla statua di Pogram; chiunque avesse anche solo mezzo occhio avrebbe potuto esclamare: “Eccolo lì, proprio come quando pronunciò il Discorso della sfida!” Anche i membri del Comitato erano stati abbelliti; e quando entrarono nella sala delle signore in gruppo, ci fu molto applauso da parte di donne e uomini, accompagnato dai grida “Pogram! Pogram!”, e alcuni si alzarono persino sulle sedie per vederlo meglio.

L’oggetto di quel tenero gesto guardò intorno nella stanza mentre si avvicinava a esso e sorrise; allo stesso tempo osservò al ragazzo dal tono acuto che conosceva bene la bellezza delle figlie della loro terra natale, ma non l’aveva mai vista in un tale splendore e perfezione come in quel momento. Il ragazzo lo annotò su un foglio di carta il giorno dopo, suscitando grande sorpresa in Elijah Pogram.

“Vi ricollocheremo, signore, se vi compiacete,” disse Buffum, mettendo le mani sul signor Pogram come se stesse prendendogli le misure per un cappotto. “Dovrete appoggiarvi con la schiena al muro, nell’angolo più lontano, in modo che ci sia più spazio per i nostri concittadini. Se poteste mettervi esattamente contro quel gancio della tenda, signore, tenendo la gamba sinistra sempre dietro il camino, saremmo perfettamente sistemati.”

Il signor Pogram fece ciò che gli era stato detto e si infilò in un angolino così piccolo che nemmeno la statua di Pogram lo avrebbe riconosciuto.

Iniziarono quindi gli intrattenimenti della serata. I gentiluomini accompagnarono le signore sul palco, si presentarono a vicenda e chiesero a Elijah Pogram cosa ne pensasse di questa o quella questione politica; lo guardavano, si guardavano tra loro e sembravano davvero molto insoddisfatti. Le signore sedute sulle poltrone osservavano Elijah Pogram attraverso i loro occhiali e dicevano ad alta voce: “Vorrei che parlasse. Perché non parla? Oh, chiedetegli di parlare!” Elijah Pogram guardava a volte le signore, a volte altrove, esprimendo opinioni “senatoriali” ogni volta che gli veniva chiesto. Ma l’obiettivo principale di quell’incontro sembrava essere proprio quello di impedire a Elijah Pogram di andarsene in alcun modo; quindi lo tennero lì, stretto tra loro.

Un grande trambusto alla porta, durante la serata, annunciò l’arrivo di una persona molto importante; poco dopo si vide un anziano gentiluomo, molto eccitato, precipitarsi nella folla e farsi strada verso l’onorevole Elijah Pogram. Martin, che aveva trovato un posto comodo da osservare in un angolo lontano, dove stava insieme a Mark (poiché ormai non lo dimenticava più spesso come prima, anche se a volte succedeva ancora), pensò di conoscere quel gentiluomo, e ne ebbe la certezza quando questi gridò con tutte le sue forze, con gli occhi che sembravano uscire dalle orbite:

“Signore, signora Hominy!”

“Che il Signore benedica quella donna, Mark. È tornata di nuovo!”

“Eccola che arriva, signore,” rispose il signor Tapley. “Il programma la conosce bene. Una figura pubblica! Ha sempre avuto a cuore il suo paese, signore! Se il marito di quella signora la pensa come me, deve essere davvero un gentiluomo molto simpatico!”

Fu creata una corsia; e la signora Hominy, con il suo portamento aristocratico, il fazzoletto da tasca, le mani giunte e il cappello classico, vi si avviò lentamente, da sola. Il signor Pogram manifestò grande gioia nel vederla, e calò un silenzio generale. Infatti, tutti sapevano che quando una donna come la signora Hominy incontrava un uomo come il signor Pogram, sicuramente sarebbero state dette cose interessanti.

I loro primi saluti furono scambiati a voce troppo bassa per raggiungere le orecchie impazienti della folla; ma presto divennero udibili, perché la signora Hominy si rese conto della sua posizione e capì cosa ci si aspettava da lei.

All’inizio, la signora H. fu molto dura con lui; lo sottopose a un rigoroso interrogatorio riguardo a un certo voto che aveva espresso, e che lei ritenne necessario denunciare pubblicamente, in quanto madre dei “moderni Gracchi”. Per farlo, utilizzò addirittura un testo tedesco scritto appositamente per quell’occasione. Tuttavia, il signor Program riuscì a eludere le sue domande facendo un’allusione tempestiva alla bandiera stellata, che, a quanto pare, aveva la strana proprietà di sventolarsi non appena veniva issata nei luoghi dove soffiava il vento. Per questo motivo, lei lo perdonò. In seguito, continuarono a discutere con grande efficacia su questioni relative alle tariffe doganali, ai trattati commerciali, ai confini e alle importazioni/esportazioni. La signora Hominy non solo parlava come se stesse leggendo un libro, ma in realtà recitava parola per parola i contenuti dei suoi stessi libri.

‘My! what is this!’ cried Mrs Hominy, opening a little note which was handed her by her excited gentleman-usher. ‘Do tell! oh, well, now! on’y think!’

And then she read aloud, as follows:

‘Two literary ladies present their compliments to the mother of the modern Gracchi, and claim her kind introduction, as their talented countrywoman, to the honourable (and distinguished) Elijah Pogram, whom the two L. L.’s have often contemplated in the speaking marble of the soul-subduing Chiggle. On a verbal intimation from the mother of the M. G., that she will comply with the request of the two L. L.’s, they will have the immediate pleasure of joining the galaxy assembled to do honour to the patriotic conduct of a Pogram. It may be another bond of union between the two L. L.’s and the mother of the M. G. to observe, that the two L. L.’s are Transcendental.’

Mrs Hominy promptly rose, and proceeded to the door, whence she returned, after a minute’s interval, with the two L. L.’s, whom she led, through the lane in the crowd, with all that stateliness of deportment which was so remarkably her own, up to the great Elijah Pogram. It was (as the shrill boy cried out in an ecstasy) quite the Last Scene from Coriolanus. One of the L. L.’s wore a brown wig of uncommon size. Sticking on the forehead of the other, by invisible means, was a massive cameo, in size and shape like the raspberry tart which is ordinarily sold for a penny, representing on its front the Capitol at Washington.

‘Miss Toppit, and Miss Codger!’ said Mrs Hominy.

‘Codger’s the lady so often mentioned in the English newspapers I should think, sir,’ whispered Mark. ‘The oldest inhabitant as never remembers anything.’

‘To be presented to a Pogram,’ said Miss Codger, ‘by a Hominy, indeed, a thrilling moment is it in its impressiveness on what we call our feelings. But why we call them so, or why impressed they are, or if impressed they are at all, or if at all we are, or if there really is, oh gasping one! a Pogram or a Hominy, or any active principle to which we give those titles, is a topic, Spirit searching, light abandoned, much too vast to enter on, at this unlooked-for crisis.’

‘Mind and matter,’ said the lady in the wig, ‘glide swift into the vortex of immensity. Howls the sublime, and softly sleeps the calm Ideal, in the whispering chambers of Imagination. To hear it, sweet it is. But then, outlaughs the stern philosopher, and saith to the Grotesque, “What ho! arrest for me that Agency. Go, bring it here!” And so the vision fadeth.’

After this, they both took Mr Pogram by the hand, and pressed it to their lips, as a patriotic palm. That homage paid, the mother of the modern Gracchi called for chairs, and the three literary ladies went to work in earnest, to bring poor Pogram out, and make him show himself in all his brilliant colours.

How Pogram got out of his depth instantly, and how the three L. L.’s were never in theirs, is a piece of history not worth recording. Suffice it, that being all four out of their depths, and all unable to swim, they splashed up words in all directions, and floundered about famously. On the whole, it was considered to have been the severest mental exercise ever heard in the National Hotel. Tears stood in the shrill boy’s eyes several times; and the whole company observed that their heads ached with the effort—as well they might.

When it at last became necessary to release Elijah Pogram from the corner, and the Committee saw him safely back again to the next room, they were fervent in their admiration.

‘Which,’ said Mr Buffum, ‘must have vent, or it will bust. Toe you, Mr Pogram, I am grateful. Toe-wards you, sir, I am inspired with lofty veneration, and with deep e-mo-tion. The sentiment Toe which I would propose to give ex-pression, sir, is this: “May you ever be as firm, sir, as your marble statter! May it ever be as great a terror Toe its ene-mies as you.”’

There is some reason to suppose that it was rather terrible to its friends; being a statue of the Elevated or Goblin School, in which the Honourable Elijah Pogram was represented as in a very high wind, with his hair all standing on end, and his nostrils blown wide open. But Mr Pogram thanked his friend and countryman for the aspiration to which he had given utterance, and the Committee, after another solemn shaking of hands, retired to bed, except the Doctor; who immediately repaired to the newspaper-office, and there wrote a short poem suggested by the events of the evening, beginning with fourteen stars, and headed, ‘A Fragment. Suggested by witnessing the Honourable Elijah Pogram engaged in a philosophical disputation with three of Columbia’s fairest daughters. By Doctor Ginery Dunkle. Of Troy.’

If Pogram was as glad to get to bed as Martin was, he must have been well rewarded for his labours. They started off again next day (Martin and Mark previously disposing of their goods to the storekeepers of whom they had purchased them, for anything they would bring), and were fellow travellers to within a short distance of New York. When Pogram was about to leave them he grew thoughtful, and after pondering for some time, took Martin aside.

‘We air going to part, sir,’ said Pogram.

‘Pray don’t distress yourself,’ said Martin; ‘we must bear it.’

‘It ain’t that, sir,’ returned Pogram, ‘not at all. But I should wish you to accept a copy of My oration.’

‘Thank you,’ said Martin, ‘you are very good. I shall be most happy.’

‘It ain’t quite that, sir, neither,’ resumed Pogram; ‘air you bold enough to introduce a copy into your country?’

‘Certainly,’ said Martin. ‘Why not?’

‘Its sentiments air strong, sir,’ hinted Pogram, darkly.

‘That makes no difference,’ said Martin. ‘I’ll take a dozen if you like.’

‘No, sir,’ retorted Pogram. ‘Not A dozen. That is more than I require. If you are content to run the hazard, sir, here is one for your Lord Chancellor,’ producing it, ‘and one for Your principal Secretary of State. I should wish them to see it, sir, as expressing what my opinions air. That they may not plead ignorance at a future time. But don’t get into danger, sir, on my account!’

“Mio Dio, cos’è questo!” esclamò la signora Hominy, aprendo un biglietto che le era stato consegnato dal suo eccitato gentiluomo-portiere. “Ditemi, oh, davvero, ora! Pensateci bene!”

E poi lesse ad alta voce, come segue:

“Due signore letterate rivolgono i loro complimenti alla madre dei moderni ‘Gracchi’ e chiedono il suo gentile aiuto per presentarla, come loro talentuosa connazionale, all’onorevole (e distinto) Elijah Pogram, di cui le due signore hanno spesso parlato con ammirazione. Alla segnalazione verbale della madre del signor Pogram che acconsentirà alla richiesta delle due signore, queste avranno immediatamente l’onore di unirsi al gruppo riunito per rendere omaggio al comportamento patriottico di Elijah Pogram. Questo potrebbe rappresentare un altro legame di unione tra le due signore e la madre del signor Pogram. E va notato che entrambe le signore appartengono al movimento Transcendentalista.”

La signora Hominy si alzò immediatamente e si diresse verso la porta; dopo un minuto tornò con i due L.L., che guidò attraverso la folla, con quell’aria maestosa che le era così tipica, fino al grande Elijah Pogram. Era davvero (come gridava eccitato il ragazzo) l’ultima scena de Coriolano. Uno dei due L.L. indossava una parrucca marrone di dimensioni insolite; sull’altra fronte, in modo invisibile, era fissato un enorme cammeo, delle stesse dimensioni e forma della torta alle fragole che di solito si vende per un penny, raffigurante sul davanti il Campidoglio di Washington.

“Signorina Toppit, e signorina Codger!” disse la signora Hominy.

“Codger è quella signora di cui spesso si parla nei giornali inglesi. Penso che sia così, signore,” sussurrò Mark. “È l’abitante più anziano di qui e non ricorda mai nulla.”

“Essere presentati a un ‘Programma’,” disse la signorina Codger, “da un ‘Hominy’, davvero, è un momento straordinario, per l’impatto che ha sui nostri sentimenti. Ma perché li chiamiamo così, o perché vengono effettivamente influenzati da questi elementi, o se davvero lo sono, oh, che questione profonda! Un ‘Programma’, un ‘Hominy’, o qualsiasi altro principio attivo al quale attribuiamo tali nomi, è un argomento così vasto e complesso da non poter essere affrontato in questa crisi improvvisa.”

“Mente e materia,” disse la signora con la parrucca, “si inoltrano rapidamente nel vortice dell’immensità. Il sublime urla, mentre l’Ideale tranquillo riposa dolcemente nelle stanze sussurranti dell’Immaginazione. Ascoltarlo è meraviglioso. Ma allora il filosofo severo ride e dice al Grottesco: “Ehi! Fermate quell’Entità. Portatela qui!” E così quella visione svanisce.”

Dopo questo, entrambe presero il signor Pogram per mano e lo posarono sulle loro labbra, come un segno di patriottico rispetto. Una volta reso questo omaggio, la madre dei moderni “Gracchi” chiamò le sedie, e le tre dame letterarie iniziarono seriamente a lavorare, per far emergere il povero Pogram e far sì che mostrasse tutti i suoi splendidi aspetti.

Come Pogram riuscì immediatamente ad uscire dalla situazione difficile in cui si trovava, e come i tre L.L. non furono mai in grado di farlo nemmeno loro, è un episodio della storia che non vale la pena registrare. Basta dire che, essendo tutti e quattro fuori dalla loro capacità di reagire e nessuno in grado di nuotare, finirono per pronunciare parole a caso in tutte le direzioni, agitandosi disperatamente. Nel complesso, si considerò che fosse stata l’esercitazione mentale più intensa mai ascoltata al National Hotel. Più volte agli occhi del ragazzo stridulo apparvero delle lacrime; e tutti osservarono che le loro teste dolevano terribilmente a causa dello sforzo, come era del resto normale.

Quando finalmente divenne necessario liberare Elijah Pogram da quella situazione difficile, e il Comitato lo vide tornare sano e salvo nella stanza accanto, la loro ammirazione per lui aumentò ancora di più.

“Che,” disse il signor Buffum, “deve avere uno sfogo, altrimenti esploderà. Signor Pogram, vi sono grato; verso di voi provo un profondo rispetto e una profonda emozione. Il sentimento che vorrei esprimere è questo: ‘Che possiate sempre essere così fermi, signore, come la vostra statua di marmo. Che possiate sempre incutere tanto terrore nei vostri nemici.’”

C’è motivo di ritenere che fosse piuttosto terribile per i suoi amici; essendo una statua appartenente alla corrente artistica detta “Scuola Elevata” o “Scuola dei Goblin”, in cui l’onorevole Elijah Pogram era raffigurato in una posizione molto drammatica, con i capelli dritti e le narici spalancate. Tuttavia, il signor Pogram ringraziò il suo amico e connazionale per quella “aspirazione” che aveva espresso; dopo un altro solenne scambio di strette di mano, il comitato andò a dormire, tranne il dottore, che immediatamente si recò in redazione del giornale e vi scrisse una breve poesia ispirata agli eventi della serata, iniziando con quattordici “stelle” e intitolandola “Un frammento”. La poesia fu scritta dal dottor Ginery Dunkle di Troy, dopo aver assistito all’interazione filosofica dell’onorevole Elijah Pogram con tre delle più belle donne di Columbia.

Se Pogram fosse stato altrettanto felice di andare a letto quanto lo era Martin, allora i suoi sforzi dovevano essere stati ampiamente ricompensati. Il giorno dopo ripresero il viaggio (Martin e Mark avevano già consegnato le loro merci ai negoziatori da cui le avevano acquistate, pronti ad accettare qualsiasi offerta ricevessero), e proseguirono insieme per una breve distanza fino a New York. Quando Pogram stava per lasciarli, divenne pensieroso; dopo aver riflettuto per un po’, prese Martin da parte.

“Il nostro aereo sta per decollare, signore,” disse Pogram.

“Per favore, non angosciarti,” disse Martin; “dobbiamo sopportarlo.”

“Non è per questo, signore,” rispose Pogram, “assolutamente no. Ma vorrei che accettaste una copia del mio discorso.”

“Grazie,” disse Martin, “siete davvero molto gentili. Ne sarò molto felice.”

“Non è proprio così, signore,” continuò Pogram; “avete il coraggio di introdurre una copia nel vostro paese?”

“Certamente,” disse Martin. “Perché no?”

“I suoi sentimenti sono molto forti, signore,” suggerì Pogram in tono cupo.

“Non fa alcuna differenza,” disse Martin. “Ne prenderò una dozzina, se vuoi.”

“No, signore,” ribatté Pogram. “Non una dozzina. Quelle sono più di quante ne abbia bisogno. Se siete disposti ad affrontare questo rischio, ecco una copia per il vostro Cancelliere e una per il vostro Segretario di Stato. Vorrei che le vedessero, signore. Perché rappresentano fedelmente le mie opinioni. Così non potranno poi sostenere di ignorarle in futuro. Ma non mettetevi in pericolo a causa mia, signore!”

‘There is not the least danger, I assure you,’ said Martin. So he put the pamphlets in his pocket, and they parted.

Mr Bevan had written in his letter that, at a certain time, which fell out happily just then, he would be at a certain hotel in the city, anxiously expecting to see them. To this place they repaired without a moment’s delay. They had the satisfaction of finding him within; and of being received by their good friend, with his own warmth and heartiness.

‘I am truly sorry and ashamed,’ said Martin, ‘to have begged of you. But look at us. See what we are, and judge to what we are reduced!’

‘So far from claiming to have done you any service,’ returned the other, ‘I reproach myself with having been, unwittingly, the original cause of your misfortunes. I no more supposed you would go to Eden on such representations as you received; or, indeed, that you would do anything but be dispossessed, by the readiest means, of your idea that fortunes were so easily made here; than I thought of going to Eden myself.’

‘The fact is, I closed with the thing in a mad and sanguine manner,’ said Martin, ‘and the less said about it the better for me. Mark, here, hadn’t a voice in the matter.’

‘Well! but he hadn’t a voice in any other matter, had he?’ returned Mr Bevan; laughing with an air that showed his understanding of Mark and Martin too.

‘Not a very powerful one, I am afraid,’ said Martin with a blush. ‘But live and learn, Mr Bevan! Nearly die and learn; we learn the quicker.’

‘Now,’ said their friend, ‘about your plans. You mean to return home at once?’

‘Oh, I think so,’ returned Martin hastily, for he turned pale at the thought of any other suggestion. ‘That is your opinion too, I hope?’

‘Unquestionably. For I don’t know why you ever came here; though it’s not such an unusual case, I am sorry to say, that we need go any farther into that. You don’t know that the ship in which you came over with our friend General Fladdock, is in port, of course?’

‘Indeed!’ said Martin.

‘Yes. And is advertised to sail to-morrow.’

This was tempting news, but tantalising too; for Martin knew that his getting any employment on board a ship of that class was hopeless. The money in his pocket would not pay one-fourth of the sum he had already borrowed, and if it had been enough for their passage-money, he could hardly have resolved to spend it. He explained this to Mr Bevan, and stated what their project was.

‘Why, that’s as wild as Eden every bit,’ returned his friend. ‘You must take your passage like a Christian; at least, as like a Christian as a fore-cabin passenger can; and owe me a few more dollars than you intend. If Mark will go down to the ship and see what passengers there are, and finds that you can go in her without being actually suffocated, my advice is, go! You and I will look about us in the meantime (we won’t call at the Norris’s unless you like), and we will all three dine together in the afternoon.’

Martin had nothing to express but gratitude, and so it was arranged. But he went out of the room after Mark, and advised him to take their passage in the Screw, though they lay upon the bare deck; which Mr Tapley, who needed no entreaty on the subject readily promised to do.

When he and Martin met again, and were alone, he was in high spirits, and evidently had something to communicate, in which he gloried very much.

‘I’ve done Mr Bevan, sir,’ said Mark.

‘Done Mr Bevan!’ repeated Martin.

‘The cook of the Screw went and got married yesterday, sir,’ said Mr Tapley.

Martin looked at him for farther explanation.

‘And when I got on board, and the word was passed that it was me,’ said Mark, ‘the mate he comes and asks me whether I’d engage to take this said cook’s place upon the passage home. “For you’re used to it,” he says; “you were always a-cooking for everybody on your passage out.” And so I was,’ said Mark, ‘although I never cooked before, I’ll take my oath.’

‘What did you say?’ demanded Martin.

‘Say!’ cried Mark. ‘That I’d take anything I could get. “If that’s so,” says the mate, “why, bring a glass of rum;” which they brought according. And my wages, sir,’ said Mark in high glee, ‘pays your passage; and I’ve put the rolling-pin in your berth to take it (it’s the easy one up in the corner); and there we are, Rule Britannia, and Britons strike home!’

‘There never was such a good fellow as you are!’ cried Martin seizing him by the hand. ‘But what do you mean by “doing” Mr Bevan, Mark?’

‘Why, don’t you see?’ said Mark. ‘We don’t tell him, you know. We take his money, but we don’t spend it, and we don’t keep it. What we do is, write him a little note, explaining this engagement, and roll it up, and leave it at the bar, to be given to him after we are gone. Don’t you see?’

Martin’s delight in this idea was not inferior to Mark’s. It was all done as he proposed. They passed a cheerful evening; slept at the hotel; left the letter as arranged; and went off to the ship betimes next morning, with such light hearts as the weight of their past miseries engendered.

‘Good-bye! a hundred thousand times good-bye!’ said Martin to their friend. ‘How shall I remember all your kindness! How shall I ever thank you!’

‘If you ever become a rich man, or a powerful one,’ returned his friend, ‘you shall try to make your Government more careful of its subjects when they roam abroad to live. Tell it what you know of emigration in your own case, and impress upon it how much suffering may be prevented with a little pains!’

Cheerily, lads, cheerily! Anchor weighed. Ship in full sail. Her sturdy bowsprit pointing true to England. America a cloud upon the sea behind them!

‘Why, Cook! what are you thinking of so steadily?’ said Martin.

‘Why, I was a-thinking, sir,’ returned Mark, ‘that if I was a painter and was called upon to paint the American Eagle, how should I do it?’

‘Paint it as like an Eagle as you could, I suppose.’

‘No,’ said Mark. ‘That wouldn’t do for me, sir. I should want to draw it like a Bat, for its short-sightedness; like a Bantam, for its bragging; like a Magpie, for its honesty; like a Peacock, for its vanity; like a ostrich, for its putting its head in the mud, and thinking nobody sees it—’

‘And like a Phoenix, for its power of springing from the ashes of its faults and vices, and soaring up anew into the sky!’ said Martin. ‘Well, Mark. Let us hope so.’

“Non c’è il minimo pericolo, ve lo assicuro,” disse Martin. Così mise i volantini in tasca e si separarono.

Il signor Bevan aveva scritto nella sua lettera che, in un certo orario, che fortunatamente coincideva proprio in quel momento, si sarebbe trovato in un determinato hotel della >città, aspettandoli con ansia. Si recarono lì senza indugiare e furono felici di trovarlo lì; inoltre, furono accolti dal loro buon amico con grande calore e cordialità.

“Mi dispiace davvero molto e mi vergogno,” disse Martin, “di avervi chiesto aiuto. Ma guardateci. Vedete in che stato siamo ridotti!”

“Lontano dall’affermare di avervi reso qualche servizio,” rispose l’altro, “mi rimprovero per essere stato, involontariamente, la causa originale delle vostre sfortune. Non avrei mai pensato che vi sareste recati a Eden sulla base di tali argomentazioni; né, in realtà, che avreste fatto qualcosa altro che non fosse liberarvi, con i mezzi più rapidi possibili, dall’illusione che qui si possano guadagnare fortune così facilmente. Proprio come non avrei mai pensato di andare io stesso a Eden.”

“La verità è che ho concluso quella faccenda in modo folle e violento,” disse Martin, “e meno si parla di questo, meglio è per me. Mark, in questa questione, non aveva alcun diritto di parola.”

“Beh, ma in nessun altro ambito aveva voce in capitolo, vero?” rispose il signor Bevan, ridendo in modo che si capisse quanto comprendesse anche Mark e Martin.

“Non molto potente, temo,” disse Martin arrossendo. “Ma è meglio imparare vivendo, signor Bevan. Anzi, quasi morire per imparare: in quel caso si impara ancora più velocemente.”

“Ora,” disse il loro amico, “parliamo dei vostri piani. Intendete tornare a >casa subito?”

“Ah, credo di sì,” rispose Martin in fretta, perché impallidì al solo pensiero di un’altra possibilità. “Spero che anche tu la pensi così, ”

‘Indubbiamente. Non so infatti perché siate mai venuti qui; anche se, purtroppo, non è un caso così insolito. Mi dispiace dover approfondire ulteriormente la questione. Non sapete che la nave con cui siete arrivati insieme al nostro amico il generale Fladdock si trova in porto, vero?’

“Certamente!” disse Martin.

“Sì. E è annunciato che salperà domani.”

Era una notizia allettante, ma anche molto incerta; perché Martin sapeva che era impossibile per lui ottenere un lavoro su una >nave di quella classe. I soldi che aveva in tasca non sarebbero stati sufficienti nemmeno per un quarto della somma che aveva già preso in prestito, e anche se fossero stati sufficienti per il viaggio, difficilmente avrebbe deciso di spenderli. Spiegò tutto questo a Mr Bevan e gli raccontò quale fosse il loro progetto.

“Ma è altrettanto selvaggio quanto l’Eden,” rispose il suo amico. “Dovresti prendere il tuo posto a bordo come un cristiano, almeno, nel modo in cui un passeggero della cabina di prua potrebbe farlo; e mi devi ancora qualche dollaro in più di quanto tu intenda darmi. Se Mark andrà a vedere quali passeggeri ci sono a bordo e scoprirà che puoi salire senza rischiare davvero di soffocare, il mio consiglio è: vai! Nel frattempo, io e te potremo fare un giro per le vicinanze (non andremo da Norris a meno che tu non lo desideri), e poi pranzeremo tutti insieme nel pomeriggio.”

Martin non aveva nulla da esprimere se non gratitudine, e così fu deciso. Ma uscì dalla stanza dopo Mark e gli consigliò di utilizzare il passaggio disponibile sul “Screw”, anche se si trovava sul ponte scoperto; il signor Tapley, che non aveva bisogno di alcuna sollecitazione in merito, promise subito di farlo.

Quando lui e Martin si incontrarono di nuovo, e furono soli, lui era di ottimo umore e chiaramente aveva qualcosa da comunicare, di cui andava molto fiero.

“Ho fatto il lavoro richiesto dal signor Bevan, signore,” disse Mark.

“Fatto, signor Bevan!”, ripeté Martin.

“Il cuoco della ‘Screw’ si è sposato ieri, signore,” disse il signor Tapley.

Martin lo guardò in attesa di ulteriori spiegazioni.

“E quando sono salito a bordo e hanno detto che ero io,” disse Mark, “il secondo ufficiale è venuto da me chiedendomi se accettassi di prendere il posto di questo cuoco durante il viaggio di ritorno a casa. ‘Perché sei abituato a farlo,’ ha detto; ‘durante il viaggio di andata cucinavi sempre per tutti.’ E infatti era vero,” disse Mark, “anche se non avevo mai cucinato prima. Ma giuro sulla mia parola.”

“Cosa hai detto?” chiese Martin.

“Dite!” gridò Mark. “Che accetterei qualsiasi cosa mi venisse offerta, ‘Se è davvero così,’ disse il compagno di viaggio, ‘allora portate un bicchiere di rum;’ e loro lo fecero subito. E poi, signore,” aggiunse Mark con grande gioia, “il mio stipendio basta per pagare il vostro passaggio; inoltre ho messo la chiave nella vostra cabina affinché possiate prenderla. È quella più comoda, in angolo. E così siamo qui: ‘Rule Britannia’, e i britannici tornano a casa!”

“Non c’è mai stato un uomo così buono come te!” esclamò Martin afferrandolo per la mano. “Ma cosa intendi dire con ‘fare qualcosa’ a proposito del signor Bevan, Mark?”

“Perché, non capisci?” disse Mark. “Non gli diciamo nulla, sai. Prendiamo i suoi soldi, ma non li spendiamo né li teniamo. Quello che facciamo è scrivergli una breve nota per spiegargli tutto, arrotolarla e lasciarla al bar, in modo che gli venga data dopo che ce ne siamo andati. Non capisci?”

La gioia di Martin per questa idea non era inferiore a quella di Mark. Tutto fu fatto esattamente come aveva proposto lui. Trascorsero una serata allegra; dormirono in hotel; lasciarono la lettera nel luogo concordato; e il giorno seguente partirono per la nave con il cuore leggero, come se il peso delle loro sofferenze passate non esistesse più.

“Addio! Centomila volte addio!” disse Martin al loro amico. “Come potrò mai dimenticare tutta la tua gentilezza. Come potrò mai ringraziarti?”

“Se mai diventerai un uomo ricco o potente,” rispose il suo amico, “cerca di far sì che il tuo Governo presti maggiore attenzione ai suoi cittadini quando questi viaggiano all’estero. Raccontagli ciò che sai tu stesso riguardo alle emigrazioni e fai capire quanto sofferenza possa essere evitata con un po’ di impegno!”

Allegri, ragazzi, allegri! L’ancora è stata sollevata; la Nave ha levato le vele al massimo. Il suo robusto albero di maestra punta dritto verso l’Inghilterra. America è solo una nuvola sul mare, alle loro spalle!

“Ma che cosa stai pensando con tanta concentrazione, Cook?” disse Martin.

“Beh, stavo pensando, signore,” rispose Mark, “che se fossi un pittore e mi venisse chiesto di dipingere l’Aquila Americana, come dovrei farlo?”

“Rappresentalo come un’aquila, nel modo migliore che tu sappia fare, immagino.”

“No,” disse Mark. “Non mi andrebbe bene, signore. Vorrei disegnarlo come un Pipistrello, per la sua miopia; come un Pollo Battuto, per il suo vaniloquio; come una gazza, per la sua onestà; come un pavone, per la sua vanità; come un struzzo, per il fatto che mette la testa nella sabbia pensando che nessuno lo veda, ”

“E come una Fenice, per la sua capacità di risorgere dalle ceneri dei propri errori e vizi, e di innalzarsi nuovamente verso il cielo!” disse Martin. “Beh, Mark. Speriamo che sia così.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

ARRIVING IN ENGLAND, MARTIN WITNESSES A CEREMONY, FROM WHICH HE DERIVES THE CHEERING INFORMATION THAT HE HAS NOT BEEN FORGOTTEN IN HIS ABSENCE

It was mid-day, and high water in the English port for which the Screw was bound, when, borne in gallantly upon the fullness of the tide, she let go her anchor in the river.

Bright as the scene was; fresh, and full of motion; airy, free, and sparkling; it was nothing to the life and exultation in the breasts of the two travellers, at sight of the old churches, roofs, and darkened chimney stacks of Home. The distant roar that swelled up hoarsely from the busy streets, was music in their ears; the lines of people gazing from the wharves, were friends held dear; the canopy of smoke that overhung the town was brighter and more beautiful to them than if the richest silks of Persia had been waving in the air. And though the water going on its glistening track, turned, ever and again, aside to dance and sparkle round great ships, and heave them up; and leaped from off the blades of oars, a shower of diving diamonds; and wantoned with the idle boats, and swiftly passed, in many a sportive chase, through obdurate old iron rings, set deep into the stone-work of the quays; not even it was half so buoyant, and so restless, as their fluttering hearts, when yearning to set foot, once more, on native ground.

A year had passed since those same spires and roofs had faded from their eyes. It seemed to them, a dozen years. Some trifling changes, here and there, they called to mind; and wondered that they were so few and slight. In health and fortune, prospect and resource, they came back poorer men than they had gone away. But it was home. And though home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit answered to, in strongest conjuration.

Being set ashore, with very little money in their pockets, and no definite plan of operation in their heads, they sought out a cheap tavern, where they regaled upon a smoking steak, and certain flowing mugs of beer, as only men just landed from the sea can revel in the generous dainties of the earth. When they had feasted, as two grateful-tempered giants might have done, they stirred the fire, drew back the glowing curtain from the window, and making each a sofa for himself, by union of the great unwieldy chairs, gazed blissfully into the street.

Even the street was made a fairy street, by being half hidden in an atmosphere of steak, and strong, stout, stand-up English beer. For on the window-glass hung such a mist, that Mr Tapley was obliged to rise and wipe it with his handkerchief, before the passengers appeared like common mortals. And even then, a spiral little cloud went curling up from their two glasses of hot grog, which nearly hid them from each other.

It was one of those unaccountable little rooms which are never seen anywhere but in a tavern, and are supposed to have got into taverns by reason of the facilities afforded to the architect for getting drunk while engaged in their construction. It had more corners in it than the brain of an obstinate man; was full of mad closets, into which nothing could be put that was not specially invented and made for that purpose; had mysterious shelvings and bulkheads, and indications of staircases in the ceiling; and was elaborately provided with a bell that rung in the room itself, about two feet from the handle, and had no connection whatever with any other part of the establishment. It was a little below the pavement, and abutted close upon it; so that passengers grated against the window-panes with their buttons, and scraped it with their baskets; and fearful boys suddenly coming between a thoughtful guest and the light, derided him, or put out their tongues as if he were a physician; or made white knobs on the ends of their noses by flattening the same against the glass, and vanished awfully, like spectres.

Martin and Mark sat looking at the people as they passed, debating every now and then what their first step should be.

‘We want to see Miss Mary, of course,’ said Mark.

‘Of course,’ said Martin. ‘But I don’t know where she is. Not having had the heart to write in our distress—you yourself thought silence most advisable—and consequently, never having heard from her since we left New York the first time, I don’t know where she is, my good fellow.’

‘My opinion is, sir,’ returned Mark, ‘that what we’ve got to do is to travel straight to the Dragon. There’s no need for you to go there, where you’re known, unless you like. You may stop ten mile short of it. I’ll go on. Mrs Lupin will tell me all the news. Mr Pinch will give me every information that we want; and right glad Mr Pinch will be to do it. My proposal is: To set off walking this afternoon. To stop when we are tired. To get a lift when we can. To walk when we can’t. To do it at once, and do it cheap.’

‘Unless we do it cheap, we shall have some difficulty in doing it at all,’ said Martin, pulling out the bank, and telling it over in his hand.

‘The greater reason for losing no time, sir,’ replied Mark. ‘Whereas, when you’ve seen the young lady; and know what state of mind the old gentleman’s in, and all about it; then you’ll know what to do next.’

‘No doubt,’ said Martin. ‘You are quite right.’

They were raising their glasses to their lips, when their hands stopped midway, and their gaze was arrested by a figure which slowly, very slowly, and reflectively, passed the window at that moment.

Mr Pecksniff. Placid, calm, but proud. Honestly proud. Dressed with peculiar care, smiling with even more than usual blandness, pondering on the beauties of his art with a mild abstraction from all sordid thoughts, and gently travelling across the disc, as if he were a figure in a magic lantern.

CAPITOLO TRENTA-CINQUE

Arrivato in Inghilterra, Martin assiste a una cerimonia e da essa ottiene la gioiosa notizia che non è stato dimenticato durante la sua assenza.

Era mezzogiorno, e il livello dell’acqua nel porto inglese verso cui era diretta la nave era molto alto; spinta con forza dalla marea alta, gettò l’ancora nel fiume.

Per quanto la scena fosse luminosa, fresca e piena di movimento; per quanto fosse ariosa, libera e scintillante, nulla poteva eguagliare la vita e l’esultanza che provavano i due viaggiatori nel vedere le antiche chiese, i tetti e le ciminiere oscurate della loro casa. Il rumore lontano che risuonava dalle strade affollate era per loro musica; le persone che guardavano dai moli erano amici cari; la cortina di fumo che avvolgeva la città sembrava loro più luminosa e bella di quanto i più ricchi tessuti di seta della Persia potessero mai essere. Eppure, anche l’acqua che scorreva lungo il suo corso scintillante, che si piegava e danzava intorno alle grandi navi, che saltava giù dalle pale degli remi trasformandosi in una pioggia di diamanti, nemmeno quella era paragonabile all’agitazione e alla gioia nei loro cuori, mentre anelavano a mettere piede nuovamente sulla loro terra nativa.

Era trascorso un anno da quando quelle stesse guglie e tetti erano scomparsi dai loro occhi. A loro sembrava fossero passati addirittura una dozzina di anni. Alcuni piccoli cambiamenti, qua e là, li colpirono; si chiesero come potessero essere così pochi e insignificanti. In termini di salute, fortuna, prospettive e risorse, tornarono più poveri di quando erano partiti. Ma era comunque la casa. E sebbene “casa” sia solo un nome, una parola, è una parola potente; più potente di qualsiasi incantesimo pronunciato da un mago, o di qualsiasi risposta che uno spirito possa dare nella più forte delle invocazioni.

Essendo sbarcati con pochissimi soldi in tasca e senza alcun piano preciso per il futuro, trovarono una taverna economica dove si deliziarono con una bistecca fumante e alcune coppe di birra, proprio come possono fare solo gli uomini appena sbarcati dal mare. Dopo aver mangiato, come due giganti dal carattere generoso, ravvivarono il fuoco, tirarono indietro la tenda davanti alla finestra e, unendo insieme le grandi sedie ingombranti, si prepararono dei “divani” su cui sdraiarsi, guardando felicemente la strada fuori.

Anche la strada diventava una “strada fatata”, seminascosta in un’atmosfera di carne alla griglia e di robusta birra inglese. Sulle finestre si formava infatti una nebbia così fitta che il signor Tapley doveva alzarsi e pulirle con il fazzoletto, prima che i passeggeri riuscissero a vedersi chiaramente. E anche allora, una piccola nuvola a spirale si formava dai loro due bicchieri di grog caldo, quasi nascondendoli l’uno dall’altro.

Era uno di quei piccoli locali incomprensibili che si vedono solo nelle taverne, e si dice che siano entrati lì proprio a causa delle comodità che offrono all’architetto per ubriacarsi mentre li costruisce. Aveva più angoli di quanto ne abbia il cervello di un uomo testardo; era pieno di armadi strani, in cui non si poteva mettere nulla se non ciò che fosse stato appositamente inventato e realizzato per quel scopo; aveva ripiani misteriosi e paratie nascoste, oltre a indicazioni di scale sul soffitto; ed era anche dotato di una campanella che suonava all’interno dello stesso locale, situata a circa due piedi dal manico, senza alcun collegamento con altre parti dell’edificio. Si trovava leggermente al di sotto del livello della strada e confinava direttamente con essa; così i passanti urtavano le finestre con i loro bottoni o le graffiavano con le loro ceste; inoltre, ragazzi spaventosi che si avvicinavano improvvisamente a un cliente assorto nei suoi pensieri lo deridevano, oppure gli mostravano la lingua come se fosse un medico; alcuni, poi, schiacciando il naso contro il vetro, ne lasciavano dei segni bianchi e poi scomparivano all’improvviso, come fantasmi.

Martin e Mark sedevano a osservare le persone che passavano, discutendo di tanto in tanto su quale dovesse essere il loro primo passo da compiere.

“Vogliamo vedere la signorina Mary, naturalmente,” disse Mark.

“Certo,” disse Martin. “Ma non so dove sia. Non ho avuto il coraggio di scrivere per comunicare la nostra situazione difficile, tu stesso hai ritenuto che il silenzio fosse la scelta migliore. E quindi, non avendo più ricevuto sue notizie da quando abbiamo lasciato New York la prima volta, non so davvero dove sia, caro amico mio.”

“Secondo me, signore,” rispose Mark, “dobbiamo recarci direttamente dal Drago. Non c’è bisogno che voi ci andiate, visto che là vi conoscono, a meno che non lo desideriate. Potete fermarvi a dieci miglia di distanza. Io continuerò il viaggio: la signora Lupin mi racconterà tutte le novità, e il signor Pinch mi fornirà tutte le informazioni di cui abbiamo bisogno. Anzi, sarà molto felice di farlo. La mia proposta è: partire a piedi questo pomeriggio, fermarci quando siamo stanchi, cercare un mezzo di trasporto quando possibile, camminare quando non ne abbiamo la possibilità. Farlo subito, e spendere poco.”

“Se non lo facciamo a basso costo, avremo molte difficoltà a riuscirci affatto,” disse Martin, estraendo il libretto di banca e controllandone i dati nella sua mano.

“La ragione principale per non perdere tempo, signore,” rispose Mark. “Perché, una volta che avrete visto la giovane signora e saputo in quale stato d’animo si trovi il vecchio gentiluomo, e tutto ciò che riguarda la situazione, allora capirete cosa fare dopo.”

“Nessun dubbio”, disse Martin. “Hai assolutamente ragione.”

Stavano portando i bicchieri alle labbra quando le loro mani si fermarono a metà strada; il loro sguardo fu catturato da una figura che, in quel momento, passava lentamente, molto lentamente, davanti alla finestra.

Il signor Pecksniff. Pacato, calmo, ma orgoglioso. Davvero orgoglioso. Vestito con particolare cura, sorrideva con una dolcezza ancora maggiore del solito, riflettendo sulle bellezze della sua arte, lontano da qualsiasi pensiero volgare. E si muoveva lentamente su quel disco, come se fosse una figura all’interno di una lanterna magica.

As Mr Pecksniff passed, a person coming in the opposite direction stopped to look after him with great interest and respect, almost with veneration; and the landlord bouncing out of the house, as if he had seen him too, joined this person, and spoke to him, and shook his head gravely, and looked after Mr Pecksniff likewise.

Martin and Mark sat staring at each other, as if they could not believe it; but there stood the landlord, and the other man still. In spite of the indignation with which this glimpse of Mr Pecksniff had inspired him, Martin could not help laughing heartily. Neither could Mark.

‘We must inquire into this!’ said Martin. ‘Ask the landlord in, Mark.’

Mr Tapley retired for that purpose, and immediately returned with their large-headed host in safe convoy.

‘Pray, landlord!’ said Martin, ‘who is that gentleman who passed just now, and whom you were looking after?’

The landlord poked the fire as if, in his desire to make the most of his answer, he had become indifferent even to the price of coals; and putting his hands in his pockets, said, after inflating himself to give still further effect to his reply:

‘That, gentlemen, is the great Mr Pecksniff! The celebrated architect, gentlemen!’

He looked from one to the other while he said it, as if he were ready to assist the first man who might be overcome by the intelligence.

‘The great Mr Pecksniff, the celebrated architect, gentlemen.’ said the landlord, ‘has come down here, to help to lay the first stone of a new and splendid public building.’

‘Is it to be built from his designs?’ asked Martin.

‘The great Mr Pecksniff, the celebrated architect, gentlemen,’ returned the landlord, who seemed to have an unspeakable delight in the repetition of these words, ‘carried off the First Premium, and will erect the building.’

‘Who lays the stone?’ asked Martin.

‘Our member has come down express,’ returned the landlord. ‘No scrubs would do for no such a purpose. Nothing less would satisfy our Directors than our member in the House of Commons, who is returned upon the Gentlemanly Interest.’

‘Which interest is that?’ asked Martin.

‘What, don’t you know!’ returned the landlord.

It was quite clear the landlord didn’t. They always told him at election time, that it was the Gentlemanly side, and he immediately put on his top-boots, and voted for it.

‘When does the ceremony take place?’ asked Martin.

‘This day,’ replied the landlord. Then pulling out his watch, he added, impressively, ‘almost this minute.’

Martin hastily inquired whether there was any possibility of getting in to witness it; and finding that there would be no objection to the admittance of any decent person, unless indeed the ground were full, hurried off with Mark, as hard as they could go.

They were fortunate enough to squeeze themselves into a famous corner on the ground, where they could see all that passed, without much dread of being beheld by Mr Pecksniff in return. They were not a minute too soon, for as they were in the act of congratulating each other, a great noise was heard at some distance, and everybody looked towards the gate. Several ladies prepared their pocket handkerchiefs for waving; and a stray teacher belonging to the charity school being much cheered by mistake, was immensely groaned at when detected.

‘Perhaps he has Tom Pinch with him,’ Martin whispered Mr Tapley.

‘It would be rather too much of a treat for him, wouldn’t it, sir?’ whispered Mr Tapley in return.

There was no time to discuss the probabilities either way, for the charity school, in clean linen, came filing in two and two, so much to the self-approval of all the people present who didn’t subscribe to it, that many of them shed tears. A band of music followed, led by a conscientious drummer who never left off. Then came a great many gentlemen with wands in their hands, and bows on their breasts, whose share in the proceedings did not appear to be distinctly laid down, and who trod upon each other, and blocked up the entry for a considerable period. These were followed by the Mayor and Corporation, all clustering round the member for the Gentlemanly Interest; who had the great Mr Pecksniff, the celebrated architect on his right hand, and conversed with him familiarly as they came along. Then the ladies waved their handkerchiefs, and the gentlemen their hats, and the charity children shrieked, and the member for the Gentlemanly Interest bowed.

Silence being restored, the member for the Gentlemanly Interest rubbed his hands, and wagged his head, and looked about him pleasantly; and there was nothing this member did, at which some lady or other did not burst into an ecstatic waving of her pocket handkerchief. When he looked up at the stone, they said how graceful! when he peeped into the hole, they said how condescending! when he chatted with the Mayor, they said how easy! when he folded his arms they cried with one accord, how statesman-like!

Mr Pecksniff was observed too, closely. When he talked to the Mayor, they said, Oh, really, what a courtly man he was! When he laid his hand upon the mason’s shoulder, giving him directions, how pleasant his demeanour to the working classes; just the sort of man who made their toil a pleasure to them, poor dear souls!

But now a silver trowel was brought; and when the member for the Gentlemanly Interest, tucking up his coat-sleeve, did a little sleight of hand with the mortar, the air was rent, so loud was the applause. The workman-like manner in which he did it was amazing. No one could conceive where such a gentlemanly creature could have picked the knowledge up.

When he had made a kind of dirt-pie under the direction of the mason, they brought a little vase containing coins, the which the member for the Gentlemanly Interest jingled, as if he were going to conjure. Whereat they said how droll, how cheerful, what a flow of spirits! This put into its place, an ancient scholar read the inscription, which was in Latin; not in English; that would never do. It gave great satisfaction; especially every time there was a good long substantive in the third declension, ablative case, with an adjective to match; at which periods the assembly became very tender, and were much affected.

Mentre il signor Pecksniff passava, una persona che veniva nella direzione opposta si fermò per osservarlo con grande interesse e rispetto, quasi con venerazione; il padrone di casa, uscendo di fretta dalla casa, come se lo avesse visto anche lui, si unì a questa persona, parlò con lei, scosse gravemente la testa e osservò anch’egli il signor Pecksniff.

Martin e Mark sedevano uno di fronte all’altro, fissandosi come se non riuscissero a crederci; ma lì c’erano ancora il proprietario di casa e quell’uomo. Nonostante la indignazione che quell’immagine del signor Pecksniff aveva suscitato in lui, Martin non poté fare a meno di ridere di cuore. E nemmeno Mark riuscì a trattenersi.

“Dobbiamo indagare su questo!” disse Martin. “Chiedi al proprietario di entrare, Mark.”

Il signor Tapley si ritirò per quel motivo e subito dopo tornò insieme al loro ospite dal capo grosso, in un convoglio sicuro.

“Pregate, padrone!” disse Martin, “chi è quel signore che è appena passato e di cui vi stavate occupando?”

Il proprietario di casa ravvivò il fuoco, come se, nel suo desiderio di sfruttare al massimo la propria risposta, fosse diventato indifferente persino al prezzo del carbone; poi mise le mani in tasca e, gonfiandosi d’orgoglio per dare ancora più effetto alle sue parole, disse:

“Ecco, signori, il grande signor Pecksniff! L’architetto celebre, signori!”

Li guardò uno dopo l’altro mentre lo diceva, come se fosse pronto ad aiutare il primo di loro che potesse essere sopraffatto da quella intelligenza.

“Il grande signor Pecksniff, l’architetto celebre, signori,” disse il proprietario terriero, “è venuto qui per aiutare a posare la prima pietra di un nuovo e splendido edificio pubblico.”

“Deve essere costruito seguendo i suoi progetti?” chiese Martin.

“Il grande signor Pecksniff, l’architetto celebre, signori,” rispose il padrone di casa, che sembrava provare un piacere indescrivibile nel ripetere queste parole, “ha vinto la prima premiazione e costruirà l’edificio.”

“Chi mette la pietra?” chiese Martin.

“Il nostro membro è tornato appositamente per questa occasione,” rispose il proprietario dell’alloggio. “Nessun altro, tranne lui, sarebbe adatto a uno scopo del genere. Solo il nostro membro della Casa dei Comuni, che agisce nell’interesse del buon costume, potrebbe soddisfare le esigenze dei nostri Direttori.”

“Di quale interesse si tratta?” chiese Martin.

“Cosa? Non lo sai?” rispose il proprietario dell’alloggio.

Era abbastanza chiaro che il proprietario di casa non lo faceva. Ogni volta alle elezioni gli dicevano sempre che si trattava della fazione “gentiluomina”, e lui allora indossava immediatamente i suoi stivali alti e votava per loro.

“Quando si svolgerà la cerimonia?”, chiese Martin.

“Questo giorno,” rispose il proprietario di casa. Poi, tirando fuori l’orologio, aggiunse in modo impressionante: “Proprio in questo minuto.”

Martin chiese rapidamente se ci fosse qualche possibilità di entrare per assistere all’evento; e scoprendo che non ci sarebbero state obiezioni all’ammissione di persone rispettabili, a meno che il luogo non fosse già pieno, si affrettò ad andarsene insieme a Mark, correndo il più velocemente possibile.

Riuscirono fortunatamente a trovare spazio in un angolo ben noto del terreno, da dove potevano vedere tutto ciò che accadeva, senza il timore che il signor Pecksniff li scoprisse a sua volta. Non arrivarono nemmeno un minuto troppo tardi: mentre si stavano congratulando a vicenda, si udì un gran rumore in lontananza e tutti guardarono verso la porta. Diverse signore prepararono i fazzoletti da tasca per salutare con la mano; un insegnante occasionale appartenente alla scuola di beneficenza, acclamato per errore, fu invece oggetto di grandi lamenti quando venne scoperto.

“Forse ha con sé Tom Pinch,” sussurrò Martin a Mr Tapley.

“Sarebbe davvero un troppo grande regalo per lui, non credete, signore?” sussurrò a sua volta il signor Tapley.

Non c’era tempo per discutere le probabilità in un senso o nell’altro; la scuola di beneficenza, con i suoi abiti puliti e ordinati, arrivò in gruppi di due o tre persone. Tanto era l’approvazione di tutte le persone presenti che non ne erano sostenitori, che molte di loro versarono lacrime. Seguì una banda musicale, guidata da un batterista coscienzioso che non smise mai di suonare. Poi arrivarono molti signori con bastoni in mano e archi sul petto; il ruolo preciso che svolgevano nell’evento non sembrava essere stato chiaramente definito, e spesso si inciampavano a vicenda, bloccando l’ingresso per un bel po’. Dopo di loro arrivarono il Sindaco e il Consiglio comunale; tutti si radunarono intorno al rappresentante degli interessi dei gentiluomini, il quale aveva al suo fianco il famoso architetto Mr Pecksniff e conversava con lui in modo molto affabile mentre camminavano. Poi le signore agitarono i loro fazzoletti, i signori si tolsero il cappello, i bambini della scuola di beneficenza gridarono, e il rappresentante degli interessi dei gentiluomini fece un inchino.

Ristabilito il silenzio, il membro del “Gentlemanly Interest” si strofinò le mani, scosse la testa e guardò intorno con aria soddisfatta; non c’era nulla di ciò che faceva che non inducesse qualche signora a iniziare ad agitare estaticamente il fazzoletto da tasca. Quando alzava lo sguardo verso la pietra, dicevano quanto fosse elegante; quando sbirciava nella fossa, dicevano quanto fosse gentile e premuroso; quando chiacchierava con il Sindaco, dicevano quanto fosse disinvolto e affabile; quando incrociava le braccia, esclamavano all’unisono: “Che nobile figura!”

Anche il signor Pecksniff fu osservato attentamente. Quando parlava con il sindaco, la gente diceva: “Oh, davvero, che uomo cortese!” Quando posava la mano sulla spalla del muratore per dargli istruzioni, il suo comportamento verso le classi lavoratrici era così piacevole. Proprio il tipo di persona che rendeva il loro lavoro più sopportabile, povere anime!

Ma ora fu portata una paletta d’argento; e quando il rappresentante dell’“Interesse Gentiluomo”, arrotolando la manica del suo cappotto, eseguì con abilità alcune mosse con il mortaio, l’aria fu squarciata dal fragore degli applausi. Il modo in cui lo fece, così da vero lavoratore, era davvero sorprendente. Nessuno riusciva a immaginare da dove un gentiluomo del genere potesse aver acquisito tali conoscenze.

Quando ebbe preparato quella sorta di “torta di fango” sotto la guida del muratore, portarono una piccola vaso contenente monete; il rappresentante dell’“Interesse Gentiluomo” le fece tintinnare, come se stesse per eseguire un incantesimo. Allora tutti dissero quanto fosse divertente, quanto allegro. Che spirito vivace! Un antico studioso lesse poi l’iscrizione, che era in latino e non in inglese; naturalmente, in inglese non sarebbe mai andata bene. Fu davvero molto soddisfacente. Soprattutto ogni volta che nell’iscrizione compariva una parola lunga e sostanziosa, al caso ablativo, accompagnata da un aggettivo corrispondente; in quei momenti l’assemblea diventava particolarmente commossa e profondamente toccata.

And now the stone was lowered down into its place, amidst the shouting of the concourse. When it was firmly fixed, the member for the Gentlemanly Interest struck upon it thrice with the handle of the trowel, as if inquiring, with a touch of humour, whether anybody was at home. Mr Pecksniff then unrolled his Plans (prodigious plans they were), and people gathered round to look at and admire them.

Martin, who had been fretting himself—quite unnecessarily, as Mark thought—during the whole of these proceedings, could no longer restrain his impatience; but stepping forward among several others, looked straight over the shoulder of the unconscious Mr Pecksniff, at the designs and plans he had unrolled. He returned to Mark, boiling with rage.

‘Why, what’s the matter, sir?’ cried Mark.

‘Matter! This is MY building.’

‘Your building, sir!’ said Mark.

‘My grammar-school. I invented it. I did it all. He has only put four windows in, the villain, and spoilt it!’

Mark could hardly believe it at first, but being assured that it was really so, actually held him to prevent his interference foolishly, until his temporary heat was past. In the meantime, the member addressed the company on the gratifying deed which he had just performed.

He said that since he had sat in Parliament to represent the Gentlemanly Interest of that town; and he might add, the Lady Interest, he hoped, besides (pocket handkerchiefs); it had been his pleasant duty to come among them, and to raise his voice on their behalf in Another Place (pocket handkerchiefs and laughter), often. But he had never come among them, and had never raised his voice, with half such pure, such deep, such unalloyed delight, as now. ‘The present occasion,’ he said, ‘will ever be memorable to me; not only for the reasons I have assigned, but because it has afforded me an opportunity of becoming personally known to a gentleman—’

Here he pointed the trowel at Mr Pecksniff, who was greeted with vociferous cheering, and laid his hand upon his heart.

‘To a gentleman who, I am happy to believe, will reap both distinction and profit from this field; whose fame had previously penetrated to me—as to whose ears has it not!—but whose intellectual countenance I never had the distinguished honour to behold until this day, and whose intellectual conversation I had never before the improving pleasure to enjoy.’

Everybody seemed very glad of this, and applauded more than ever.

‘But I hope my Honourable Friend,’ said the Gentlemanly member—of course he added “if he will allow me to call him so,” and of course Mr Pecksniff bowed—‘will give me many opportunities of cultivating the knowledge of him; and that I may have the extraordinary gratification of reflecting in after-time that I laid on this day two first stones, both belonging to structures which shall last my life!’

Great cheering again. All this time, Martin was cursing Mr Pecksniff up hill and down dale.

‘My friends!’ said Mr Pecksniff, in reply. ‘My duty is to build, not speak; to act, not talk; to deal with marble, stone, and brick; not language. I am very much affected. God bless you!’

This address, pumped out apparently from Mr Pecksniff’s very heart, brought the enthusiasm to its highest pitch. The pocket handkerchiefs were waved again; the charity children were admonished to grow up Pecksniffs, every boy among them; the Corporation, gentlemen with wands, member for the Gentlemanly Interest, all cheered for Mr Pecksniff. Three cheers for Mr Pecksniff! Three more for Mr Pecksniff! Three more for Mr Pecksniff, gentlemen, if you please! One more, gentlemen, for Mr Pecksniff, and let it be a good one to finish with!

In short, Mr Pecksniff was supposed to have done a great work and was very kindly, courteously, and generously rewarded. When the procession moved away, and Martin and Mark were left almost alone upon the ground, his merits and a desire to acknowledge them formed the common topic. He was only second to the Gentlemanly member.

‘Compare the fellow’s situation to-day with ours!’ said Martin bitterly.

‘Lord bless you, sir!’ cried Mark, ‘what’s the use? Some architects are clever at making foundations, and some architects are clever at building on ‘em when they’re made. But it’ll all come right in the end, sir; it’ll all come right!’

‘And in the meantime—’ began Martin.

‘In the meantime, as you say, sir, we have a deal to do, and far to go. So sharp’s the word, and Jolly!’

‘You are the best master in the world, Mark,’ said Martin, ‘and I will not be a bad scholar if I can help it, I am resolved! So come! Best foot foremost, old fellow!’

E ora la pietra fu riportata al suo posto, tra gli urli della folla. Quando fu saldamente fissata, il rappresentante dell’“Interesse Gentiluomo” la colpì tre volte con il manico del secchio, come se volesse chiedere, con un pizzico di umorismo, se qualcuno fosse in casa. A quel punto, il signor Pecksniff srotolò i suoi “Piani” (piani davvero straordinari), e la gente si radunò intorno per guardarli e ammirarli.

Martin, che si era preoccupato inutilmente durante tutta questa situazione, secondo Mark, non riusciva più a trattenere la sua impazienza; così si fece avanti tra le altre persone e guardò direttamente, oltre la spalla del svenuto signor Pecksniff, i progetti e i disegni che questi aveva dispiegato. Tornò da Mark, ribollente di rabbia.

“Perché, cosa c’è che non va, signore?” gridò Mark.

“Materie! Questo è IL mio edificio.”

“Il suo edificio, signore!”, disse Mark.

“La mia scuola elementare. L’ho inventata io. Ho fatto tutto io. Lui ha solo aggiunto quattro finestre, quel malvagio, e l’ha rovinata!”

All’inizio Mark faticava a crederci, ma una volta assicuratosi che fosse davvero così, cercò di impedirgli di intervenire in modo sciocco, finché la sua momentanea irascibilità non si placò. Nel frattempo, il membro del gruppo si rivolse alla compagnia per parlare dell’atto lodevole che aveva appena compiuto.

Disse che, poiché aveva seduto in Parlamento per rappresentare gli interessi dei gentiluomini di quella città, e, aggiunse, anche quelli delle signore, sperava che questo compito fosse stato piacevole; era stato suo dovere venire tra loro e spesso alzare la voce in loro favore. Ma non aveva mai provato una gioia così pura, così profonda, così sincera come ora. “Questa occasione”, disse, “rimarrà per sempre memorabile per me; non solo per i motivi che ho menzionato, ma anche perché mi ha dato l’opportunità di conoscere personalmente un gentiluomo, ”

Qui puntò la paletta verso il signor Pecksniff, che fu accolto da grida entusiastiche; poi si mise una mano sul cuore.

“A un gentiluomo che, sono felice di credere, trarrà sia onore che profitto da questo campo; la cui fama mi era già nota – poiché a chi non lo è?! – ma il cui volto intellettuale non ho avuto la distinta onore di vedere fino ad oggi, e con il quale non ho mai avuto prima l’agio di intrattenermi in conversazioni intellettuali.”

Sembrava che tutti fossero molto felici per questo, e applaudirono più che mai.

“Ma spero che il mio Onorevole Amico,” disse il gentiluomo membro del parlamento – naturalmente aggiunse “se mi permetterà di chiamarlo così”, e naturalmente il signor Pecksniff si inchinò – “mi darà molte opportunità per approfondire la mia conoscenza di lui; e che avrò la grande soddisfazione di poter ricordare, in futuro, che proprio quel giorno ho posato due prime pietre, entrambe fondamentali per costruzioni che dureranno tutta la mia vita!”

Ancora grandi applausi. Per tutto questo tempo, Martin non ha fatto altro che maledire il signor Pecksniff su e giù per le colline e nei valli.

“Miei amici!” rispose il signor Pecksniff. “Il mio dovere è costruire, non parlare; agire, non discutere; lavorare con marmo, pietra e mattoni, non con le parole. Sono molto commosso. Che Dio vi benedica!”

Questo discorso, apparentemente pronunciato dal profondo del cuore di Mr Pecksniff, portò l’entusiasmo al suo apice. I fazzoletti da tasca furono nuovamente agitati; ai bambini della carità fu raccomandato di crescere diventando persone come Mr Pecksniff, ogni ragazzo tra loro! La Corporazione, composta da gentiluomini muniti di bacchette, esultò tutti per Mr Pecksniff. Tre evviva per Mr Pecksniff! Altri tre ancora, signori, se vi piace! Uno ultimo, signori, e che sia davvero un grande evviva per concludere!

In breve, si supponeva che il signor Pecksniff avesse compiuto un grande lavoro e fu quindi ricompensato con grande gentilezza, cortesia e generosità. Quando la processione se ne andò, lasciando Martin e Mark quasi soli sul posto, i suoi meriti e il desiderio di riconoscerli divennero l’argomento di conversazione generale. Era secondo solo al membro della nobiltà.

“Confrontate la situazione di quest’uomo oggi con la nostra!” disse Martin amaramente.

“Che il Signore vi benedica, signore!” esclamò Mark, “a che serve tutto questo? Alcuni architetti sono bravi a costruire le fondamenta, altri sono bravi a edificare sopra di esse una volta che sono pronte. Ma alla fine andrà tutto bene, signore; andrà davvero tutto bene!”

“E nel frattempo, ” iniziò Martin.

“Nel frattempo, come dite voi, signore, abbiamo un affare da concludere e molto lavoro da fare. La situazione è davvero critica. E bisogna agire in fretta!”

“Sei il miglior maestro al mondo, Mark,” disse Martin, “e farò del mio meglio per non essere un cattivo allievo, ne sono deciso! Allora andiamo! Prima tu, vecchio mio!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

TOM PINCH DEPARTS TO SEEK HIS FORTUNE. WHAT HE FINDS AT STARTING

Oh! What a different town Salisbury was in Tom Pinch’s eyes to be sure, when the substantial Pecksniff of his heart melted away into an idle dream! He possessed the same faith in the wonderful shops, the same intensified appreciation of the mystery and wickedness of the place; made the same exalted estimate of its wealth, population, and resources; and yet it was not the old city nor anything like it. He walked into the market while they were getting breakfast ready for him at the Inn; and though it was the same market as of old, crowded by the same buyers and sellers; brisk with the same business; noisy with the same confusion of tongues and cluttering of fowls in coops; fair with the same display of rolls of butter, newly made, set forth in linen cloths of dazzling whiteness; green with the same fresh show of dewy vegetables; dainty with the same array in higglers’ baskets of small shaving-glasses, laces, braces, trouser-straps, and hardware; savoury with the same unstinted show of delicate pigs’ feet, and pies made precious by the pork that once had walked upon them; still it was strangely changed to Tom. For, in the centre of the market-place, he missed a statue he had set up there as in all other places of his personal resort; and it looked cold and bare without that ornament.

The change lay no deeper than this, for Tom was far from being sage enough to know, that, having been disappointed in one man, it would have been a strictly rational and eminently wise proceeding to have revenged himself upon mankind in general, by mistrusting them one and all. Indeed this piece of justice, though it is upheld by the authority of divers profound poets and honourable men, bears a nearer resemblance to the justice of that good Vizier in the Thousand-and-one Nights, who issues orders for the destruction of all the Porters in Bagdad because one of that unfortunate fraternity is supposed to have misconducted himself, than to any logical, not to say Christian, system of conduct, known to the world in later times.

Tom had so long been used to steep the Pecksniff of his fancy in his tea, and spread him out upon his toast, and take him as a relish with his beer, that he made but a poor breakfast on the first morning after his expulsion. Nor did he much improve his appetite for dinner by seriously considering his own affairs, and taking counsel thereon with his friend the organist’s assistant.

The organist’s assistant gave it as his decided opinion that whatever Tom did, he must go to London; for there was no place like it. Which may be true in the main, though hardly, perhaps, in itself, a sufficient reason for Tom’s going there.

But Tom had thought of London before, and had coupled with it thoughts of his sister, and of his old friend John Westlock, whose advice he naturally felt disposed to seek in this important crisis of his fortunes. To London, therefore, he resolved to go; and he went away to the coach-office at once, to secure his place. The coach being already full, he was obliged to postpone his departure until the next night; but even this circumstance had its bright side as well as its dark one, for though it threatened to reduce his poor purse with unexpected country charges, it afforded him an opportunity of writing to Mrs Lupin and appointing his box to be brought to the old finger-post at the old time; which would enable him to take that treasure with him to the metropolis, and save the expense of its carriage. ‘So,’ said Tom, comforting himself, ‘it’s very nearly as broad as it’s long.’

And it cannot be denied that, when he had made up his mind to even this extent, he felt an unaccustomed sense of freedom—a vague and indistinct impression of holiday-making—which was very luxurious. He had his moments of depression and anxiety, and they were, with good reason, pretty numerous; but still, it was wonderfully pleasant to reflect that he was his own master, and could plan and scheme for himself. It was startling, thrilling, vast, difficult to understand; it was a stupendous truth, teeming with responsibility and self-distrust; but in spite of all his cares, it gave a curious relish to the viands at the Inn, and interposed a dreamy haze between him and his prospects, in which they sometimes showed to magical advantage.

In this unsettled state of mind, Tom went once more to bed in the low four-poster, to the same immovable surprise of the effigies of the former landlord and the fat ox; and in this condition, passed the whole of the succeeding day. When the coach came round at last with ‘London’ blazoned in letters of gold upon the boot, it gave Tom such a turn, that he was half disposed to run away. But he didn’t do it; for he took his seat upon the box instead, and looking down upon the four greys, felt as if he were another grey himself, or, at all events, a part of the turn-out; and was quite confused by the novelty and splendour of his situation.

And really it might have confused a less modest man than Tom to find himself sitting next that coachman; for of all the swells that ever flourished a whip professionally, he might have been elected emperor. He didn’t handle his gloves like another man, but put them on—even when he was standing on the pavement, quite detached from the coach—as if the four greys were, somehow or other, at the ends of the fingers. It was the same with his hat. He did things with his hat, which nothing but an unlimited knowledge of horses and the wildest freedom of the road, could ever have made him perfect in. Valuable little parcels were brought to him with particular instructions, and he pitched them into this hat, and stuck it on again; as if the laws of gravity did not admit of such an event as its being knocked off or blown off, and nothing like an accident could befall it. The guard, too! Seventy breezy miles a day were written in his very whiskers. His manners were a canter; his conversation a round trot. He was a fast coach upon a down-hill turnpike road; he was all pace. A waggon couldn’t have moved slowly, with that guard and his key-bugle on the top of it.

CAPITOLO TRENTASEI

Tom Pinch parte in cerca della sua fortuna. Ma cosa troverà all’inizio del suo viaggio?

Oh! Quanto diversa doveva sembrare Salisbury agli occhi di Tom Pinch, quando la solida immagine di Pecksniff che aveva nel cuore si trasformava in un sogno vano e senza significato. Provava ancora la stessa >fede nelle meravigliose opportunità offerte da quella città, apprezzava ancora con lo stesso entusiasmo il mistero e l’atmosfera particolare di quel luogo; stimava ancora al massimo la sua ricchezza, la sua popolazione e le sue risorse. Eppure non era più la vecchia >città di un tempo. Entrò nel mercato mentre loro gli preparavano la colazione all’ostello; e sebbene fosse lo stesso mercato di sempre, affollato dagli stessi compratori e venditori, animato dallo stesso fermento commerciale, rumoroso come sempre per il clamore delle voci e il movimento delle persone, sembrava comunque cambiato, agli occhi di Tom. Nel centro del mercato, infatti, mancava una statua che aveva sempre fatto parte di quel luogo; senza di essa, tutto appariva freddo e spoglio.

Il cambiamento non andava oltre questo: Tom era tutt’altro che saggio al punto di capire che, essendo stato deluso da un singolo individuo, sarebbe stato un comportamento assolutamente razionale e saggeggiato vendicarsi su tutta l’umanità, diffidando di tutti quanti. Infatti, questa sorta di “giustizia”, sebbene sia sostenuta dall’autorità di numerosi poeti profondi e uomini onesti, assomiglia molto di più alla giustizia di quel buon visir delle Mille e una Notte, che ordina la distruzione di tutti i portieri di Baghdad solo perché uno di loro si è comportato male, piuttosto che a qualsiasi sistema logico, per non dire cristiano, di condotta conosciuto nel mondo in tempi successivi.

Tom era ormai abituato da così tanto tempo ad immergere il “Pecksniff” delle sue fantasie nel tè, ad spalmarlo sul pane tostato e a mangiarlo come condimento con la birra, che la prima mattina dopo essere stato cacciato fece una colazione molto scarsa. Né migliorò molto l’appetito per la cena quando iniziò seriamente a riflettere sui propri problemi e ne discusse con il suo amico, l’assistente dell’organista.

L’assistente dell’organista era fermamente convinto che, qualunque cosa facesse Tom, dovesse assolutamente andare a Londra; non esisteva infatti nessun altro posto al mondo come quello. Cosa che, in linea di massima, potrebbe essere vera, anche se probabilmente non rappresenta un motivo sufficiente, in sé, per spingere Tom ad andarci.

Ma Tom aveva già pensato a Londra in precedenza, e associato a quell’idea i ricordi di sua sorella e del suo vecchio amico John Westlock, il cui consiglio sentiva naturalmente di dover chiedere in questa importante crisi della sua fortuna. Decise quindi di recarsi a Londra; andò subito all’ufficio delle diligenze per prenotare un posto. Poiché la diligenza era già piena, fu costretto a rimandare la partenza alla prossima notte; tuttavia anche questa circostanza presentava aspetti positivi e negativi: se da un lato avrebbe comportato spese supplementari per il viaggio, dall’altro gli permise di scrivere a Mrs Lupin e di far consegnare la sua valigia all’antico posto di ristoro, così da poter portare con sé quel “tesoro” nella capitale, risparmiando le spese per il trasporto. “Così,” si consolò Tom, “è quasi altrettanto largo quanto lungo, ”

E non si può negare che, quando decise di procedere fino a questo punto, provò una sensazione insolita di libertà: un’impressione vaga e indistinta di essere in vacanza, qualcosa di davvero lussuoso. Ebbe momenti di depressione e ansia, e questi, con buone ragioni, furono piuttosto frequenti; tuttavia, era meravigliosamente piacevole rendersi conto di essere il proprio padrone, di poter pianificare e decidere tutto da solo. Era sconcertante, emozionante, difficile da comprendere; una verità straordinaria, piena di responsabilità e di dubbi su se stesso; ma nonostante tutte le sue preoccupazioni, quel pensiero conferiva un sapore particolare ai cibi che mangiava all’osteria, e creava tra lui e le sue prospettive una sorta di nebbia onirica nella quale queste ultime a volte apparivano in modo davvero magico.

In questo stato d’animo turbato, Tom andò di nuovo a letto nel piccolo letto a baldacchino, suscitando ancora una volta lo stesso stupore delle effigi del precedente proprietario e dell’oca grassa; e in questa condizione trascorse l’intera giornata successiva. Quando finalmente arrivò la carrozza, con la scritta “Londra” dipinta in lettere dorate sui fianchi, Tom ne fu talmente sorpreso che per un momento pensò di fuggire. Ma non lo fece; si sedette invece sul sedile posteriore della carrozza e, guardando i quattro cavalli grigi, si sentì come se anche lui fosse uno di loro, o comunque parte di quel gruppo; era completamente confuso dalla novità e dallo splendore della sua situazione.

E davvero, un uomo meno modesto di Tom avrebbe potuto confondersi nel trovarsi seduto accanto a quel cocchiere; tra tutti i cocchieri che avevano mai maneggiato fruste con maestria professionale, lui avrebbe potuto essere eletto imperatore. Non indossava i guanti come fanno gli altri, ma se li metteva, anche quando stava in piedi sul marciapiede, completamente separato dal carro, come se quei quattro guanti grigi fossero davvero attaccati alle sue dita. Lo stesso valeva per il suo cappello: faceva cose con quel cappello che solo una conoscenza approfondita dei cavalli e la massima libertà possibile su strada avrebbero potuto renderlo perfetto. Gli venivano consegnati pacchetti preziosi con istruzioni precise, e lui li metteva dentro il cappello e se lo rimetteva in testa, come se le leggi della gravità impedissero che quel cappello venisse tolto o spazzato via dal vento, e che potesse mai accadere qualche incidente. E poi c’era il guardiano. Settanta miglia al giorno di viaggio. I suoi modi erano veloci, la sua conversazione era rapida. Era come un carro veloce su una strada in discesa; tutto in lui esprimeva velocità. Un carretto non avrebbe potuto muoversi lentamente, con quel guardiano e quella sua tromba sul tetto.

These were all foreshadowings of London, Tom thought, as he sat upon the box, and looked about him. Such a coachman, and such a guard, never could have existed between Salisbury and any other place. The coach was none of your steady-going, yokel coaches, but a swaggering, rakish, dissipated London coach; up all night, and lying by all day, and leading a devil of a life. It cared no more for Salisbury than if it had been a hamlet. It rattled noisily through the best streets, defied the Cathedral, took the worst corners sharpest, went cutting in everywhere, making everything get out of its way; and spun along the open country-road, blowing a lively defiance out of its key-bugle, as its last glad parting legacy.

It was a charming evening. Mild and bright. And even with the weight upon his mind which arose out of the immensity and uncertainty of London, Tom could not resist the captivating sense of rapid motion through the pleasant air. The four greys skimmed along, as if they liked it quite as well as Tom did; the bugle was in as high spirits as the greys; the coachman chimed in sometimes with his voice; the wheels hummed cheerfully in unison; the brass work on the harness was an orchestra of little bells; and thus, as they went clinking, jingling, rattling smoothly on, the whole concern, from the buckles of the leaders’ coupling-reins to the handle of the hind boot, was one great instrument of music.

Yoho, past hedges, gates, and trees; past cottages and barns, and people going home from work. Yoho, past donkey-chaises, drawn aside into the ditch, and empty carts with rampant horses, whipped up at a bound upon the little watercourse, and held by struggling carters close to the five-barred gate, until the coach had passed the narrow turning in the road. Yoho, by churches dropped down by themselves in quiet nooks, with rustic burial-grounds about them, where the graves are green, and daisies sleep—for it is evening—on the bosoms of the dead. Yoho, past streams, in which the cattle cool their feet, and where the rushes grow; past paddock-fences, farms, and rick-yards; past last year’s stacks, cut, slice by slice, away, and showing, in the waning light, like ruined gables, old and brown. Yoho, down the pebbly dip, and through the merry water-splash and up at a canter to the level road again. Yoho! Yoho!

Was the box there, when they came up to the old finger-post? The box! Was Mrs Lupin herself? Had she turned out magnificently as a hostess should, in her own chaise-cart, and was she sitting in a mahogany chair, driving her own horse Dragon (who ought to have been called Dumpling), and looking lovely? Did the stage-coach pull up beside her, shaving her very wheel, and even while the guard helped her man up with the trunk, did he send the glad echoes of his bugle careering down the chimneys of the distant Pecksniff, as if the coach expressed its exultation in the rescue of Tom Pinch?

‘This is kind indeed!’ said Tom, bending down to shake hands with her. ‘I didn’t mean to give you this trouble.’

‘Trouble, Mr Pinch!’ cried the hostess of the Dragon.

‘Well! It’s a pleasure to you, I know,’ said Tom, squeezing her hand heartily. ‘Is there any news?’

The hostess shook her head.

‘Say you saw me,’ said Tom, ‘and that I was very bold and cheerful, and not a bit down-hearted; and that I entreated her to be the same, for all is certain to come right at last. Good-bye!’

‘You’ll write when you get settled, Mr Pinch?’ said Mrs Lupin.

‘When I get settled!’ cried Tom, with an involuntary opening of his eyes. ‘Oh, yes, I’ll write when I get settled. Perhaps I had better write before, because I may find that it takes a little time to settle myself; not having too much money, and having only one friend. I shall give your love to the friend, by the way. You were always great with Mr Westlock, you know. Good-bye!’

‘Good-bye!’ said Mrs Lupin, hastily producing a basket with a long bottle sticking out of it. ‘Take this. Good-bye!’

‘Do you want me to carry it to London for you?’ cried Tom. She was already turning the chaise-cart round.

‘No, no,’ said Mrs Lupin. ‘It’s only a little something for refreshment on the road. Sit fast, Jack. Drive on, sir. All right! Good-bye!’

She was a quarter of a mile off, before Tom collected himself; and then he was waving his hand lustily; and so was she.

‘And that’s the last of the old finger-post,’ thought Tom, straining his eyes, ‘where I have so often stood to see this very coach go by, and where I have parted with so many companions! I used to compare this coach to some great monster that appeared at certain times to bear my friends away into the world. And now it’s bearing me away, to seek my fortune, Heaven knows where and how!’

It made Tom melancholy to picture himself walking up the lane and back to Pecksniff’s as of old; and being melancholy, he looked downwards at the basket on his knee, which he had for the moment forgotten.

‘She is the kindest and most considerate creature in the world,’ thought Tom. ‘Now I KNOW that she particularly told that man of hers not to look at me, on purpose to prevent my throwing him a shilling! I had it ready for him all the time, and he never once looked towards me; whereas that man naturally, (for I know him very well,) would have done nothing but grin and stare. Upon my word, the kindness of people perfectly melts me.’

Here he caught the coachman’s eye. The coachman winked. ‘Remarkable fine woman for her time of life,’ said the coachman.

‘I quite agree with you,’ returned Tom. ‘So she is.’

‘Finer than many a young ‘un, I mean to say,’ observed the coachman. ‘Eh?’

‘Than many a young one,’ Tom assented.

‘I don’t care for ‘em myself when they’re too young,’ remarked the coachman.

“Tutto questo erano presagi di Londra”, pensò Tom seduto sulla cassa e guardandosi intorno. Un cocchiere del genere, una scorta del genere, non avrebbero mai potuto esistere tra Salisbury e qualsiasi altro posto. Quel carro non era certo uno di quei vecchi e affidabili veicoli da viaggio; era piuttosto un carro lussuoso, disinvolto, tipico di Londra: viaggiava per tutta la notte, si fermava tutto il giorno, e conduceva una vita davvero dissoluta. Non gli importava affatto nulla di Salisbury; attraversava rumorosamente le strade più belle, sfidava addirittura la Cattedrale, prendeva gli angoli più stretti senza esitazione, tagliava la strada a chiunque, e poi si lanciava lungo le campagne aperte, suonando con orgoglio la sua tromba come segno di addio.

Era una serata incantevole: mite e luminosa. E nonostante il peso che gravava sulla sua mente a causa dell’immensità e dell’incertezza di Londra, Tom non riusciva a resistere alla sensazione piacevole di muoversi rapidamente in quell’aria fresca. I quattro cavalli avanzavano veloci, come se apprezzassero la situazione tanto quanto Tom; il suono della tromba si mescolava alle loro voci; le ruote ronzavano armoniosamente all’unisono; i componenti in ottone del carretto sembravano un’intera orchestra di piccoli campanelli. Così, mentre tutto quel sistema di elementi si muoveva con un suono tintinnante e melodioso, dall’attacco delle redini ai manici dei finimenti posteriori, l’intero insieme formava un unico grande strumento musicale.

Yoho, oltre siepi, cancelli e alberi; oltre casette e stalle, e persone che tornano a casa dal lavoro. Yoho, oltre carrozze trainate da asini, lasciate accanto ai fossati, e carri vuoti con cavalli impetuosi, che si lanciano al galoppo lungo il piccolo corso d’acqua, tenuti stretti dai conducenti vicino al cancello a cinque sbarre, finché la carrozza non ha superato la stretta curva della strada. Yoho, oltre chiese situate in tranquilli angoli, circondate da cimiteri rustici, dove le tombe sono verdi e i margheriti dormono sul petto dei morti, perché è sera. Yoho, oltre ruscelli nei quali il bestiame si rinfresca i piedi, e dove crescono i giunchi; oltre recinzioni di campi, fattorie e stalle per il grano; oltre mucchi di paglia dell’anno scorso, tagliati a fette e visibili nella luce morente, come vecchie grondaie rovinate e marroni. Yoho, giù lungo il pendio pieno di ciottoli, attraverso i gioiosi schizzi d’acqua, e poi di nuovo su, al livello della strada. Yoho! Yoho!

C’era la scatola lì, quando arrivarono vicino all’antico palo indicatore? Quella scatola!
Era presente la stessa signora Lupin? Era apparsa davvero magnifica nel suo ruolo di padrona di casa, seduta nella sua carrozza personale, con una sedia in mogano, guidando il proprio cavallo Dragon (che avrebbe dovuto essere chiamato Dumpling), e sembrava davvero incantevole? La diligenza si fermò accanto a lei; mentre il guardiano l’aiutava a scaricare i bagagli, le sue trombe emisero suoni gioiosi che risuonarono lungo le ciminiere della lontana Pecksniff, come se la carrozza stessa esprimesse la sua felicità per il salvataggio di Tom Pinch.

“Questo è davvero molto gentile da parte tua!” disse Tom, chinandosi per stringerle la mano. “Non volevo causarti tutti questi problemi.”

“Guai, signor Pinch!”, gridò la padrona del Dragon.

“Beh! So che è un piacere per te,” disse Tom stringendole la mano con calore. “Ci sono novità?”

La cameriera scosse la testa.

“Dite che mi avete visto,” disse Tom, “e che ero molto coraggioso e allegro, e affatto senza preoccupazioni; e che le ho chiesto di essere allo stesso modo, perché alla fine tutto andrà bene. Addio!”

“Scriverà quando si sarà sistemato, signor Pinch?”, chiese la signora Lupin.

“Quando mi sarò sistemato!”, esclamò Tom, aprendo involontariamente gli occhi. “Oh sì, scriverò non appena mi sarò sistemato. Forse sarebbe meglio scrivere prima, perché potrebbe volerci un po’ di tempo per sistemarmi; non ho molto denaro e ho solo un amico. Comunque, darò il tuo affetto a quell’amico. Tu sei sempre stato molto gentile con il signor Westlock, lo sai. Addio!”

“Addio!”, disse la signora Lupin, tirando fuori in fretta un cestino dal quale spuntava una lunga bottiglia. “Prendi questa. Addio!”

“Vuoi che te la porti a Londra?”, gridò Tom. Lei stava già girando il carretto a rotelle.

“No, no,” disse la signora Lupin. “È solo qualcosa di piccolo per rinfrescarsi durante il viaggio. Stai fermo, Jack. Continui a guidare, signore. Bene! Addio!”

Era a un quarto di miglio di distanza quando Tom si riprese; poi iniziò ad agitare la mano vigorosamente, e lei fece lo stesso.

“E questo è l’ultimo di quei vecchi cartelli stradali,” pensò Tom, stringendo gli occhi, “dove spesso mi fermavo ad aspettare che passasse proprio questo treno, e dove ho salutato tanti compagni. Una volta paragonavo questo treno a qualche grande mostro che, in momenti precisi, portava via i miei amici verso chissà dove. E ora è lui a portarmi via, per cercare la mia fortuna. Chissà dove e come!”

Rivisitare nella mente la scena di camminare lungo quel sentiero e tornare a casa di Pecksniff come un tempo lo rese malinconico; e, essendo malinconico, guardò verso il basso, verso il cestino che aveva sulle ginocchia, dimenticandosene momentaneamente.

“È l’essere più gentile e premuroso del mondo,” pensò Tom. “Ora so che lei gli ha detto apposta di non guardarmi, per evitare che gli desse una sterlina! L’avevo pronta per lui tutto il tempo, ma lui nemmeno una volta si è voltato verso di me; mentre quell’uomo, naturalmente (poiché lo conosco molto bene), avrebbe fatto solo sorrisi e fissazioni. Davvero, la gentilezza delle persone mi commuove profondamente.”

Qui attirò l’attenzione del cocchiere, che gli fece l’occhiolino. “Una donna davvero notevole, per la sua età”, disse il cocchiere.

“Sono completamente d’accordo con te,” rispose Tom. “Infatti, lo è.”

“Molto più raffinato di molti giovani, intendo dire,” osservò il cocchiere.
“Eh?”

“Molto più di molti giovani,” concordò Tom.

“Personalmente non mi piacciono quando sono troppo giovani,” osservò il cocchiere.

This was a matter of taste, which Tom did not feel himself called upon to discuss.

‘You’ll seldom find ‘em possessing correct opinions about refreshment, for instance, when they’re too young, you know,’ said the coachman; ‘a woman must have arrived at maturity, before her mind’s equal to coming provided with a basket like that.’

‘Perhaps you would like to know what it contains?’ said Tom, smiling.

As the coachman only laughed, and as Tom was curious himself, he unpacked it, and put the articles, one by one, upon the footboard. A cold roast fowl, a packet of ham in slices, a crusty loaf, a piece of cheese, a paper of biscuits, half a dozen apples, a knife, some butter, a screw of salt, and a bottle of old sherry. There was a letter besides, which Tom put in his pocket.

The coachman was so earnest in his approval of Mrs Lupin’s provident habits, and congratulated Torn so warmly on his good fortune, that Tom felt it necessary, for the lady’s sake, to explain that the basket was a strictly Platonic basket, and had merely been presented to him in the way of friendship. When he had made the statement with perfect gravity; for he felt it incumbent on him to disabuse the mind of this lax rover of any incorrect impressions on the subject; he signified that he would be happy to share the gifts with him, and proposed that they should attack the basket in a spirit of good fellowship at any time in the course of the night which the coachman’s experience and knowledge of the road might suggest, as being best adapted to the purpose. From this time they chatted so pleasantly together, that although Tom knew infinitely more of unicorns than horses, the coachman informed his friend the guard at the end of the next stage, ‘that rum as the box-seat looked, he was as good a one to go, in pint of conversation, as ever he’d wish to sit by.’

Yoho, among the gathering shades; making of no account the deep reflections of the trees, but scampering on through light and darkness, all the same, as if the light of London fifty miles away, were quite enough to travel by, and some to spare. Yoho, beside the village green, where cricket-players linger yet, and every little indentation made in the fresh grass by bat or wicket, ball or player’s foot, sheds out its perfume on the night. Away with four fresh horses from the Bald-faced Stag, where topers congregate about the door admiring; and the last team with traces hanging loose, go roaming off towards the pond, until observed and shouted after by a dozen throats, while volunteering boys pursue them. Now, with a clattering of hoofs and striking out of fiery sparks, across the old stone bridge, and down again into the shadowy road, and through the open gate, and far away, away, into the wold. Yoho!

Yoho, behind there, stop that bugle for a moment! Come creeping over to the front, along the coach-roof, guard, and make one at this basket! Not that we slacken in our pace the while, not we; we rather put the bits of blood upon their metal, for the greater glory of the snack. Ah! It is long since this bottle of old wine was brought into contact with the mellow breath of night, you may depend, and rare good stuff it is to wet a bugler’s whistle with. Only try it. Don’t be afraid of turning up your finger, Bill, another pull! Now, take your breath, and try the bugle, Bill. There’s music! There’s a tone!’ over the hills and far away,’ indeed. Yoho! The skittish mare is all alive to-night. Yoho! Yoho!

See the bright moon! High up before we know it; making the earth reflect the objects on its breast like water. Hedges, trees, low cottages, church steeples, blighted stumps and flourishing young slips, have all grown vain upon the sudden, and mean to contemplate their own fair images till morning. The poplars yonder rustle that their quivering leaves may see themselves upon the ground. Not so the oak; trembling does not become HIM; and he watches himself in his stout old burly steadfastness, without the motion of a twig. The moss-grown gate, ill-poised upon its creaking hinges, crippled and decayed swings to and fro before its glass, like some fantastic dowager; while our own ghostly likeness travels on, Yoho! Yoho! through ditch and brake, upon the ploughed land and the smooth, along the steep hillside and steeper wall, as if it were a phantom-Hunter.

Clouds too! And a mist upon the Hollow! Not a dull fog that hides it, but a light airy gauze-like mist, which in our eyes of modest admiration gives a new charm to the beauties it is spread before; as real gauze has done ere now, and would again, so please you, though we were the Pope. Yoho! Why now we travel like the Moon herself. Hiding this minute in a grove of trees; next minute in a patch of vapour; emerging now upon our broad clear course; withdrawing now, but always dashing on, our journey is a counter-part of hers. Yoho! A match against the Moon!

The beauty of the night is hardly felt, when Day comes rushing up. Yoho! Two stages, and the country roads are almost changed to a continuous street. Yoho, past market-gardens, rows of houses, villas, crescents, terraces, and squares; past waggons, coaches, carts; past early workmen, late stragglers, drunken men, and sober carriers of loads; past brick and mortar in its every shape; and in among the rattling pavements, where a jaunty-seat upon a coach is not so easy to preserve! Yoho, down countless turnings, and through countless mazy ways, until an old Innyard is gained, and Tom Pinch, getting down quite stunned and giddy, is in London!

‘Five minutes before the time, too!’ said the driver, as he received his fee of Tom.

‘Upon my word,’ said Tom, ‘I should not have minded very much, if we had been five hours after it; for at this early hour I don’t know where to go, or what to do with myself.’

Si trattava di una questione di gusto, e Tom non riteneva di doverne discutere.

“Raramente si trovano persone che abbiano opinioni corrette riguardo ai rinfreschi,” disse il cocchiere; “per esempio, quando sono troppo giovani. Una donna deve aver raggiunto la maturità prima che la sua mente sia in grado di comprendere cose del genere.”

“Forse vorresti sapere cosa contiene?” disse Tom sorridendo.

Poiché il cocchiere rideva solo e Tom era curioso di natura, lo aprì e dispose gli oggetti uno per uno sul sedile anteriore della carrozza: un pollo arrosto freddo, un pacchetto di prosciutto a fette, un pane croccante, un pezzo di formaggio, un foglio di biscotti, mezza dozzina di mele, un coltello, un po’ di burro, un pizzico di sale e una bottiglia di sherry vecchio. C’era anche una lettera, che Tom mise in tasca.

Il cocchiere era così sincero nella sua approvazione delle abitudini previdenti della signora Lupin e congratulava Torn con tale calore per la sua fortuna, che Tom ritenne necessario, per il bene della signora, spiegare che quel cesto era in realtà un “cesto platonico”, offertogli soltanto in segno di amicizia. Dopo aver espresso questo concetto con la massima serietà – poiché riteneva suo dovere dissipare qualsiasi idea errata quel viaggiatore avesse al riguardo – propose di condividere i regali con lui e suggerì che potessero “aprire” il cesto insieme, in un’atmosfera di buona armonia, in qualsiasi momento della notte che la competenza del cocchiere nel conoscere le strade ritenesse più adatto allo scopo. Da quel momento in poi conversarono così piacevolmente che, sebbene Tom sapesse molto di più sugli unicorni che sui cavalli, il cocchiere disse al suo amico, il guardiano della stazione successiva: “Quel rum, beh, per quanto possa sembrare poco interessante all’aspetto, è altrettanto piacevole da bere, e la sua conversazione è davvero gradevole.”

Yoho, tra le ombre che si addensano; senza curarsi delle profonde riflessioni create dagli alberi, corre attraverso luce e oscurità, come se la luce di Londra, a cinquanta miglia di distanza, fosse più che sufficiente per il suo viaggio. E forse anche in eccesso. Yoho, accanto al prato del villaggio, dove ancora i giocatori di cricket si soffermano; ogni piccola incisione lasciata nell’erba fresca dalla mazza, dal wicket, dalla palla o dai piedi dei giocatori, sprigiona il suo profumo nella notte. Quattro cavalli freschi vengono presi dal “Bald-faced Stag”, dove i giocatori si radunano davanti alla porta ammirandosi a vicenda; l’ultima squadra, con le tracce lasciate dai cavalli ancora visibili, si allontana verso il laghetto. Fino a quando non viene notata e inseguita da una dozzina di voci; ragazzi volontari la inseguono. Ora, con lo scalpitio degli zoccoli e scintille che volano nell’aria, attraverso l’antico ponte di pietra, giù nuovamente nella strada oscura, oltre il cancello aperto, e lontano, lontano, nel bosco. Yoho!

Yoho, laggiù dietro, smetti un attimo di suonare quella tromba! Avvicinati lentamente verso la parte anteriore, lungo il tetto del carro. Guarda e provaci con quel cesto lì! Non che stiamo rallentando il passo, no; anzi, stiamo versando un po’ del nostro sangue su quel metallo, per la maggiore gloria di questo “spuntino”. Ah. Questa bottiglia di vino vecchio non viene toccata dall’aroma profondo della notte da molto tempo. Puoi starne certo: è davvero un ottimo liquido per inumidire il fischio di una tromba. Prova pure. Non avere paura di soffiare forte, Bill. Un altro tentativo! Ora, prendi fiato e suona la tromba, Bill. C’è musica. Un suono davvero meraviglioso. Che si diffonde oltre le colline, lontano. Yoho! Quel cavallo irrequieto è completamente sveglio, sotto la notte. Yoho! Yoho!

Guardate quella luminosa luna! Sale alta nel cielo senza che ce ne accorgiamo; fa sì che la terra rifletta gli oggetti presenti sulla sua superficie, proprio come l’acqua. Sentieri, alberi, piccole case, campanili di chiese, tronchi secchi e giovani piante rigogliose, tutto appare improvvisamente più bello, e sembra voler ammirare la propria immagine riflessa fino all’alba. Gli olmi laggiù frusciano, perché le loro foglie tremolanti riescono a vedere se stesse sul terreno. Ma non così il quercio: il tremore non si addice a LUI; egli osserva se stesso nella sua robustezza e stabilità, senza che un solo rametto si muova. Il cancello ricoperto di muschio, mal fissato sui cardini cigolanti, oscilla avanti e indietro davanti al suo “specchio”, come una vecchia dama fantastica. Mentre la nostra stessa immagine spettrale continua il suo viaggio. Yoho! Yoho! attraverso fossati e siepi, su terreni arati e pianeggianti, lungo pendii scoscesi e muri ripidi, come se fosse un cacciatore di fantasmi.

Anche le nuvole. E una nebbia sopra la Valle Deserta! Non una foschia densa che la nasconda,
ma una leggera, vaporosa nebbia simile a garza, che ai nostri occhi pieni di ammirazione conferisce un nuovo fascino alle bellezze che illumina; proprio come la vera garza ha già fatto in passato. E lo farebbe ancora, se voi lo desideraste, anche se fossimo il Papa.
Yoho! Ora viaggiamo proprio come la Luna stessa: un momento ci nascondiamo tra gli alberi, il momento dopo emergiamo nella nebbia; a volte appaiono chiaramente sul nostro ampio percorso, altre volte scompaiono. Ma il nostro viaggio è davvero l’equivalente del suo.
Yoho! Un vero confronto con la Luna!

La bellezza della notte quasi non si percepisce quando arriva il giorno. Yoho!
Due livelli di strade, e i sentieri rurali diventano quasi una strada continua. Yoho, oltre ai mercati, file di case, ville, terrazze, piazze; oltre a carri, cocchi, carretti; oltre a lavoratori mattutini, persone che tornano tardi a casa, ubriaconi e uomini sobri che trasportano merci; oltre a mattoni e cemento in ogni loro forma. E tra le strade accidentate, dove non è affatto facile mantenere la stabilità su un cocchio! Yoho, giù per innumerevoli curve, attraverso sentieri tortuosi, fino a raggiungere un vecchio mercato. E Tom Pinch, scendendo dal cocchio, completamente stordito e confuso, si trova finalmente a Londra!

“Cinque minuti prima dell’orario previsto!” disse il conducente, ricevendo la sua ricompensa da Tom.

“Per la mia parola,” disse Tom, “non mi sarebbe dispiaciuto molto se fosse successo cinque ore dopo; perché a quest’ora mattutina non so dove andare o cosa fare.”

‘Don’t they expect you then?’ inquired the driver.

‘Who?’ said Tom.

‘Why them,’ returned the driver.

His mind was so clearly running on the assumption of Tom’s having come to town to see an extensive circle of anxious relations and friends, that it would have been pretty hard work to undeceive him. Tom did not try. He cheerfully evaded the subject, and going into the Inn, fell fast asleep before a fire in one of the public rooms opening from the yard. When he awoke, the people in the house were all astir, so he washed and dressed himself; to his great refreshment after the journey; and, it being by that time eight o’clock, went forth at once to see his old friend John.

John Westlock lived in Furnival’s Inn, High Holborn, which was within a quarter of an hour’s walk of Tom’s starting-point, but seemed a long way off, by reason of his going two or three miles out of the straight road to make a short cut. When at last he arrived outside John’s door, two stories up, he stood faltering with his hand upon the knocker, and trembled from head to foot. For he was rendered very nervous by the thought of having to relate what had fallen out between himself and Pecksniff; and he had a misgiving that John would exult fearfully in the disclosure.

‘But it must be made,’ thought Tom, ‘sooner or later; and I had better get it over.’

Rat tat.

‘I am afraid that’s not a London knock,’ thought Tom. ‘It didn’t sound bold. Perhaps that’s the reason why nobody answers the door.’

It is quite certain that nobody came, and that Tom stood looking at the knocker; wondering whereabouts in the neighbourhood a certain gentleman resided, who was roaring out to somebody ‘Come in!’ with all his might.

‘Bless my soul!’ thought Tom at last. ‘Perhaps he lives here, and is calling to me. I never thought of that. Can I open the door from the outside, I wonder. Yes, to be sure I can.’

To be sure he could, by turning the handle; and to be sure when he did turn it the same voice came rushing out, crying ‘Why don’t you come in? Come in, do you hear? What are you standing there for?’—quite violently.

Tom stepped from the little passage into the room from which these sounds proceeded, and had barely caught a glimpse of a gentleman in a dressing-gown and slippers (with his boots beside him ready to put on), sitting at his breakfast with a newspaper in his hand, when the said gentleman, at the imminent hazard of oversetting his tea-table, made a plunge at Tom, and hugged him.

‘Why, Tom, my boy!’ cried the gentleman. ‘Tom!’

‘How glad I am to see you, Mr Westlock!’ said Tom Pinch, shaking both his hands, and trembling more than ever. ‘How kind you are!’

‘Mr Westlock!’ repeated John, ‘what do you mean by that, Pinch? You have not forgotten my Christian name, I suppose?’

‘No, John, no. I have not forgotten,’ said Thomas Pinch. ‘Good gracious me, how kind you are!’

‘I never saw such a fellow in all my life!’ cried John. ‘What do you mean by saying THAT over and over again? What did you expect me to be, I wonder! Here, sit down, Tom, and be a reasonable creature. How are you, my boy? I am delighted to see you!’

‘And I am delighted to see YOU,’ said Tom.

‘It’s mutual, of course,’ returned John. ‘It always was, I hope. If I had known you had been coming, Tom, I would have had something for breakfast. I would rather have such a surprise than the best breakfast in the world, myself; but yours is another case, and I have no doubt you are as hungry as a hunter. You must make out as well as you can, Tom, and we’ll recompense ourselves at dinner-time. You take sugar, I know; I recollect the sugar at Pecksniff’s. Ha, ha, ha! How IS Pecksniff? When did you come to town? DO begin at something or other, Tom. There are only scraps here, but they are not at all bad. Boar’s Head potted. Try it, Tom. Make a beginning whatever you do. What an old Blade you are! I am delighted to see you.’

While he delivered himself of these words in a state of great commotion, John was constantly running backwards and forwards to and from the closet, bringing out all sorts of things in pots, scooping extraordinary quantities of tea out of the caddy, dropping French rolls into his boots, pouring hot water over the butter, and making a variety of similar mistakes without disconcerting himself in the least.

‘There!’ said John, sitting down for the fiftieth time, and instantly starting up again to make some other addition to the breakfast. ‘Now we are as well off as we are likely to be till dinner. And now let us have the news, Tom. Imprimis, how’s Pecksniff?’

‘I don’t know how he is,’ was Tom’s grave answer.

John Westlock put the teapot down, and looked at him, in astonishment.

‘I don’t know how he is,’ said Thomas Pinch; ‘and, saving that I wish him no ill, I don’t care. I have left him, John. I have left him for ever.’

‘Voluntarily?’

‘Why, no, for he dismissed me. But I had first found out that I was mistaken in him; and I could not have remained with him under any circumstances. I grieve to say that you were right in your estimate of his character. It may be a ridiculous weakness, John, but it has been very painful and bitter to me to find this out, I do assure you.’

Tom had no need to direct that appealing look towards his friend, in mild and gentle deprecation of his answering with a laugh. John Westlock would as soon have thought of striking him down upon the floor.

‘It was all a dream of mine,’ said Tom, ‘and it is over. I’ll tell you how it happened, at some other time. Bear with my folly, John. I do not, just now, like to think or speak about it.’

‘I swear to you, Tom,’ returned his friend, with great earnestness of manner, after remaining silent for a few moments, ‘that when I see, as I do now, how deeply you feel this, I don’t know whether to be glad or sorry that you have made the discovery at last. I reproach myself with the thought that I ever jested on the subject; I ought to have known better.’

“Allora non ti aspettano?” chiese il conducente.

“Chi?” disse Tom.

“Perché proprio loro?” rispose il conducente.

La sua mente era chiaramente basata sull’ipotesi che Tom fosse venuto in città per incontrare un gran numero di parenti e amici ansiosi; quindi sarebbe stato piuttosto difficile ingannarlo. Tom non ci provò nemmeno: evitò volentieri l’argomento e, entrato nell’ostello, si addormentò rapidamente davanti al fuoco in una delle stanze comuni che si affacciavano sul cortile. Al suo risveglio, tutti nella casa erano già svegli; si lavò e si vestì, con grande sollievo dopo il lungo viaggio; e, essendo ormai le otto di mattina, uscì subito per andare a trovare il suo vecchio amico John.

John Westlock viveva presso la Furnival’s Inn, a High Holborn, che distava solo un quarto d’ora a piedi dal punto di partenza di Tom, ma sembrava molto più lontana perché lui aveva percorso due o tre miglia fuori dalla strada principale per prendere una scorciatoia. Quando finalmente arrivò davanti alla porta di John, al secondo piano, esitò, con la mano sulla maniglia, tremando da capo a piedi. Il pensiero di dover raccontare ciò che era accaduto tra lui e Pecksniff lo rendeva molto nervoso; inoltre, temeva che John potesse reagire con grande gioia alla rivelazione.

“Ma deve essere fatto,” pensò Tom, “prima o poi; e tanto vale che me ne occupi subito.”

Tatuaggio a forma di topo.

“Temo che non sia il solito bussare di Londra. Non sembrava deciso. Forse è per questo che nessuno risponde alla porta.”

È abbastanza certo che nessuno sia venuto, e che Tom sia rimasto lì ad osservare il campanello, chiedendosi dove nella zona potesse vivere quel signore che gridava a squarciagola “Entri!” con tutta la sua forza.

“Che la mia ‘anima sia benedetta!”, pensò finalmente Tom. “Forse vive qui e sta chiamando me. Non ci avevo mai pensato. Riuscirò ad aprire la porta dall’esterno? Chissà,. Sì, di certo sì.”

Era certo che potesse farlo, girando la maniglia; ed era anche certo che, quando l’avrebbe girata, la stessa voce sarebbe uscita fuori, gridando: “Perché non entri? Entra, mi senti? Perché stai lì fermo?”, in modo piuttosto aggressivo.

Tom uscì dal piccolo corridoio e entrò nella stanza da cui provenivano questi suoni; appena riuscì a intravedere un signore in pigiama e pantofole (con le sue scarpe accanto a lui pronte per essere indossate), seduto a colazione con un giornale in mano, quel signore, rischiando di rovesciare il tavolino da tè, si precipitò verso Tom e lo abbracciò.

“Ma che cosa, Tom, mio ragazzo!”, esclamò il gentiluomo. “Tom!”

“Che gioia rivedervi, signor Westlock!” disse Tom Pinch stringendogli entrambe le mani e tremando più che mai. “Che gentile siete!”

“Signor Westlock!”, ripeté John. “Cosa intendete dire con questo, Pinch? Non avrete mica dimenticato il mio nome cristiano, vero?”

“No, John, no. Non l’ho dimenticato,” disse Thomas Pinch. “Mio Dio, quanto siete gentile!”

“Non ho mai visto una persona del genere in tutta la mia vita!” esclamò John. “Cosa intendi dire con queste continue ripetizioni? Cosa pensavi che fossi, mi chiedo. Siediti qui, Tom, e comportati in modo ragionevole. Come stai, ragazzo mio? È un piacere rivederti!”

“E sono molto felice di vederti,” disse Tom.

“È reciproco, naturalmente,” rispose John. “Sempre lo è stato, spero. Se avessi saputo che saresti venuto, Tom, avrei preparato qualcosa per colazione. Preferirei una sorpresa del genere anche al miglior pasto del mondo; ma nel tuo caso è diverso. Non ho alcun dubbio che tu abbia molta fame. Devi cercare di cavartela il meglio possibile, Tom. Ci ripagheremo a cena. So che ti piace lo zucchero. Ricordo quello di Pecksniff. Ahahah! Come sta Pecksniff? Quando sei arrivato in città? Per favore, inizia a raccontare qualcosa. Qui ci sono solo avanzi, ma non sono affatto male. Prova questo stufato di maiale. Inizia pure con qualsiasi cosa tu voglia. Che vecchio amico! È un piacere rivederti.”

Mentre pronunciava queste parole in uno stato di grande agitazione, John continuava a correre avanti e indietro verso il bagno, tirando fuori ogni sorta di cose: pentole, mestoli; versava quantità enormi di tè dal vasetto, faceva cadere i panini francesi nelle sue scarpe, rovesciava acqua calda sul burro. Commetteva una serie di errori simili, ma senza mai perdere la calma.

“Eccola!” disse John, sedendosi per la cinquantesima volta e subito dopo alzandosi di nuovo per aggiungere qualcos’altro alla colazione. “Ora siamo nella situazione migliore in cui possiamo trovarci fino a cena. E ora raccontami le novità, Tom. Prima di tutto, come sta Pecksniff?”

“Non so come stia,” fu la risposta grave di Tom.

John Westlock posò la tazza di tè e lo guardò, stupito.

“Non so come stia,” disse Thomas Pinch; “e, a parte il fatto che non gli desidero alcun male, non mi interessa affatto. L’ho lasciato, John. L’ho lasciato per sempre.”

“Volontariamente?”

“Perché no. Lui mi ha rifiutata. Ma prima avevo capito di essermi sbagliata riguardo a lui; in nessun caso avrei potuto rimanere con lui. Mi dispiace dirlo, ma avevi ragione nel valutarne il carattere. Forse si tratta di una debolezza ridicola. Ma scoprirlo è stato davvero molto doloroso e amaro per me, te lo assicuro.”

A Tom non serviva affatto rivolgere quell’occhiata così affascinante verso il suo amico, per esprimere in modo dolce e gentile la sua disapprovazione del fatto che questi rispondesse con una risata. John Westlock avrebbe preferito di gran lunga colpirlo a terra.

“Tutto è stato solo un mio sogno», disse Tom, “e ora è finito. Vi racconterò come è successo in un’altra occasione. Perdonate la mia follia, John. In questo momento non mi va di pensarci né di parlarne.”

“Giuro su di te, Tom,” rispose il suo amico con grande sincerità, dopo essere rimasto in silenzio per alcuni momenti, “che quando vedo, come sto vedendo ora, quanto profondamente tu provi queste emozioni, non so se essere felice o dispiaciuto che tu abbia finalmente fatto questa scoperta. Mi rimprovero per aver mai scherzato sull’argomento; avrei dovuto saperlo meglio.”

‘My dear friend,’ said Tom, extending his hand, ‘it is very generous and gallant in you to receive me and my disclosure in this spirit; it makes me blush to think that I should have felt a moment’s uneasiness as I came along. You can’t think what a weight is lifted off my mind,’ said Tom, taking up his knife and fork again, and looking very cheerful. ‘I shall punish the Boar’s Head dreadfully.’

The host, thus reminded of his duties, instantly betook himself to piling up all kinds of irreconcilable and contradictory viands in Tom’s plate, and a very capital breakfast Tom made, and very much the better for it Tom felt.

‘That’s all right,’ said John, after contemplating his visitor’s proceedings with infinite satisfaction. ‘Now, about our plans. You are going to stay with me, of course. Where’s your box?’

‘It’s at the Inn,’ said Tom. ‘I didn’t intend—’

‘Never mind what you didn’t intend,’ John Westlock interposed. ‘What you DID intend is more to the purpose. You intended, in coming here, to ask my advice, did you not, Tom?’

‘Certainly.’

‘And to take it when I gave it to you?’

‘Yes,’ rejoined Tom, smiling, ‘if it were good advice, which, being yours, I have no doubt it will be.’

‘Very well. Then don’t be an obstinate old humbug in the outset, Tom, or I shall shut up shop and dispense none of that invaluable commodity. You are on a visit to me. I wish I had an organ for you, Tom!’

‘So do the gentlemen downstairs, and the gentlemen overhead I have no doubt,’ was Tom’s reply.

‘Let me see. In the first place, you will wish to see your sister this morning,’ pursued his friend, ‘and of course you will like to go there alone. I’ll walk part of the way with you; and see about a little business of my own, and meet you here again in the afternoon. Put that in your pocket, Tom. It’s only the key of the door. If you come home first you’ll want it.’

‘Really,’ said Tom, ‘quartering one’s self upon a friend in this way—’

‘Why, there are two keys,’ interposed John Westlock. ‘I can’t open the door with them both at once, can I? What a ridiculous fellow you are, Tom? Nothing particular you’d like for dinner, is there?’

‘Oh dear no,’ said Tom.

‘Very well, then you may as well leave it to me. Have a glass of cherry brandy, Tom?’

‘Not a drop! What remarkable chambers these are!’ said Pinch ‘there’s everything in ‘em!’

‘Bless your soul, Tom, nothing but a few little bachelor contrivances! the sort of impromptu arrangements that might have suggested themselves to Philip Quarll or Robinson Crusoe, that’s all. What do you say? Shall we walk?’

‘By all means,’ cried Tom. ‘As soon as you like.’

Accordingly John Westlock took the French rolls out of his boots, and put his boots on, and dressed himself; giving Tom the paper to read in the meanwhile. When he returned, equipped for walking, he found Tom in a brown study, with the paper in his hand.

‘Dreaming, Tom?’

‘No,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘No. I have been looking over the advertising sheet, thinking there might be something in it which would be likely to suit me. But, as I often think, the strange thing seems to be that nobody is suited. Here are all kinds of employers wanting all sorts of servants, and all sorts of servants wanting all kinds of employers, and they never seem to come together. Here is a gentleman in a public office in a position of temporary difficulty, who wants to borrow five hundred pounds; and in the very next advertisement here is another gentleman who has got exactly that sum to lend. But he’ll never lend it to him, John, you’ll find! Here is a lady possessing a moderate independence, who wants to board and lodge with a quiet, cheerful family; and here is a family describing themselves in those very words, “a quiet, cheerful family,” who want exactly such a lady to come and live with them. But she’ll never go, John! Neither do any of these single gentlemen who want an airy bedroom, with the occasional use of a parlour, ever appear to come to terms with these other people who live in a rural situation remarkable for its bracing atmosphere, within five minutes’ walk of the Royal Exchange. Even those letters of the alphabet who are always running away from their friends and being entreated at the tops of columns to come back, never DO come back, if we may judge from the number of times they are asked to do it and don’t. It really seems,’ said Tom, relinquishing the paper with a thoughtful sigh, ‘as if people had the same gratification in printing their complaints as in making them known by word of mouth; as if they found it a comfort and consolation to proclaim “I want such and such a thing, and I can’t get it, and I don’t expect I ever shall!”’

John Westlock laughed at the idea, and they went out together. So many years had passed since Tom was last in London, and he had known so little of it then, that his interest in all he saw was very great. He was particularly anxious, among other notorious localities, to have those streets pointed out to him which were appropriated to the slaughter of countrymen; and was quite disappointed to find, after half-an-hour’s walking, that he hadn’t had his pocket picked. But on John Westlock’s inventing a pickpocket for his gratification, and pointing out a highly respectable stranger as one of that fraternity, he was much delighted.

His friend accompanied him to within a short distance of Camberwell and having put him beyond the possibility of mistaking the wealthy brass-and-copper founder’s, left him to make his visit. Arriving before the great bell-handle, Tom gave it a gentle pull. The porter appeared.

‘Pray does Miss Pinch live here?’ said Tom.

‘Miss Pinch is governess here,’ replied the porter.

At the same time he looked at Tom from head to foot, as if he would have said, ‘You are a nice man, YOU are; where did YOU come from?’

‘It’s the same young lady,’ said Tom. ‘It’s quite right. Is she at home?’

“Mio caro amico,” disse Tom, tendendogli la mano, “è davvero molto generoso e nobile da parte tua accogliermi e ascoltare ciò che ho da dire con questo spirito; mi vergogno solo al pensiero di aver potuto provare anche solo un attimo di imbarazzo venendo qui. Non puoi immaginare quanto peso mi sia stato sollevato dal cuore,” aggiunse Tom, riprendendo il suo coltello e le sue forchette con aria molto allegra. “Farò pagare a quel Boar’s Head una lezione davvero severa.”

Il padrone di casa, così ricordato dei suoi doveri, si mise immediatamente all’opera per accumulare nel piatto di Tom ogni sorta di cibi incompatibili e contraddittori. Così Tom fece una colazione davvero sostanziosa, e ne trasse grande beneficio.

“Va bene così,” disse John, dopo aver osservato con infinita soddisfazione le azioni del suo visitatore. “Ora, parliamo dei nostri piani. Naturalmente resterai con me. Dove è la tua valigia?”

“È all’ostello,” disse Tom. “Non intendevo, ”

“Non importa ciò che non intendevi,” intervenne John Westlock. “Ciò che hai inteso davvero è quello che conta. Intendevi, venendo qui, chiedermi il mio consiglio, vero, Tom?”

‘Senz’altro.’

“E doverlo prendere proprio quando te l’ho dato?”

“Sì,” rispose Tom sorridendo, “se fosse un buon consiglio, e poiché viene da te, non ho alcun >dubbio che lo sia.”

“Molto bene. Allora non essere fin dall’inizio un vecchio testardo e presuntuoso, Tom. Altrimenti chiuderò il negozio e smetterò di fornire quella merce inestimabile. Sei qui a farmi visita. Vorrei davvero avere un organo per te, Tom!”

“Anch i signori al piano di sotto, e quelli sopra, ne sono certi,” fu la risposta di Tom.

“Lasciami pensare. Prima di tutto, questa mattina vorrai sicuramente vedere tua sorella,” continuò il suo amico, “e ovviamente preferirai andarci da solo. Camminerò con te per un tratto; poi devo occuparmi di una faccenda mia e ci rivedremo qui nel pomeriggio. Metti questa chiave in tasca, Tom. È solo la chiave della porta. Se torni a >casa prima, ne avrai bisogno.”

“Davvero,” disse Tom, “dividere la propria attenzione in questo modo con un amico, ”

“Ma ci sono due chiavi,” intervenne John Westlock. “Non posso aprire la porta usando entrambe contemporaneamente, vero? Che tipo ridicolo sei, Tom. Non desideri nulla in particolare per cena, vero?”

“Oddio no,” disse Tom.

“Allora, molto bene, puoi lasciarmelo fare. Vuoi un bicchiere di brandy alle ciliegie, Tom?”

“Nessuna goccia! Che stanze straordinarie. Ci hanno davvero tutto!” esclamò Pinch.

“Che la tua ‘anima sia benedetta, Tom. Nient’altro che qualche piccolo stratagemma da scapolo! Quel genere di soluzioni improvvisate che potrebbero essere venute in mente a Philip Quarll o a Robinson Crusoe. Solo questo. Che ne dici? Andiamo a fare una passeggiata?”

“Certamente,” esclamò Tom. “Quando vuoi tu.”

Di conseguenza, John Westlock tirò fuori i documenti francesi dalle sue scarpe, si mise le scarpe e si vestì; nel frattempo diede il foglio a Tom per che lo leggesse. Quando tornò, pronto per partire, trovò Tom in uno studio arredato in stile rustico, con il foglio in mano.

“Sogni, Tom?”

“No,” disse il signor Pinch, “no. Ho esaminato attentamente quel foglio pubblicitario, pensando che potesse esserci qualcosa adatto a me. Ma, come spesso mi capita di riflettere, la cosa strana è che nessuno sembra trovare ciò che cerca. Ci sono dappertutto datori di lavoro che cercano vari tipi di servitori, e viceversa; ma loro non riescono mai a incontrarsi. Ecco, ad esempio, un gentiluomo che ricopre una posizione pubblica e sta attraversando momenti difficili: vuole prendere in prestito cinquecento sterline. Ma nell’annuncio successivo c’è un altro gentiluomo che ha proprio quella somma da prestare. Eppure non la presterà mai a lui, John, ne sono sicuro! C’è anche una signora con una certa indipendenza economica che vorrebbe alloggiare in una famiglia tranquilla e allegra. E c’è proprio una famiglia che si descrive come “tranquilla e allegra”, e che cerca proprio una signora del genere. Ma lei non andrà mai da loro, John! Nemmeno quei gentiluomini single che cercano una camera spaziosa, con l’opportunità di utilizzare occasionalmente il salotto, sembrano riuscire a incontrare quelle altre persone che vivono in un ambiente rurale particolarmente piacevole, a soli cinque minuti a piedi dalla Borsa di Londra. Anche quelle lettere dell’alfabeto che continuano sempre a “scappare” dai loro amici e vengono supplicate con insistenza di tornare indietro, mai tornano davvero, a giudicare dal numero di volte in cui viene chiesto loro di farlo e loro non lo fanno. Davvero sembra,” disse Tom, posando il foglio pubblicitario con un sospiro pensieroso, “che le persone provino la stessa soddisfazione nel scrivere le proprie lamentele quanto nell’esprimerle a voce; che trovino conforto e consolazione nel proclamare: ‘Voglio questa o quell’altra cosa, ma non riesco ad ottenerla, e probabilmente non ci riuscirò mai!’”

John Westlock rise in risata all’idea, e uscirono insieme. Erano passati così tanti anni da quando Tom era stato l’ultima volta a Londra, e allora ne sapeva molto poco; per questo il suo interesse per tutto ciò che vedeva era davvero grande. In particolare, desiderava ardentemente che gli venissero indicate quelle strade dove si commettevano atti di violenza contro i suoi connazionali; rimase quindi deluso quando, dopo mezz’ora di camminata, scoprì di non essere stato derubato. Ma quando John Westlock inventò per lui un “ladro da tasca” e gli indicò come tale uno sconosciuto dall’aspetto molto rispettabile, ne fu molto compiaciuto.

Il suo amico lo accompagnò per una breve distanza fino a Camberwell e, una volta assicuratosi che non potesse confondere la residenza del ricco fondatore, lo lasciò andare da solo. Arrivato davanti alla grande maniglia della campana, Tom la tirò dolcemente; subito apparve il portiere.

“La signorina Pinch vive qui?” chiese Tom.

“La signorina Pinch è la governante qui,” rispose il portiere.

Nello stesso momento, lo guardò dalla testa ai piedi, come se volesse dire: “Sei un uomo gentile. Da dove vieni?”

“È la stessa giovane signora,” disse Tom. “Esatto. È a >casa?”

‘I don’t know, I’m sure,’ rejoined the porter.

‘Do you think you could have the goodness to ascertain?’ said Tom. He had quite a delicacy in offering the suggestion, for the possibility of such a step did not appear to present itself to the porter’s mind at all.

The fact was that the porter in answering the gate-bell had, according to usage, rung the house-bell (for it is as well to do these things in the Baronial style while you are about it), and that there the functions of his office had ceased. Being hired to open and shut the gate, and not to explain himself to strangers, he left this little incident to be developed by the footman with the tags, who, at this juncture, called out from the door steps:

‘Hollo, there! wot are you up to? This way, young man!’

‘Oh!’ said Tom, hurrying towards him. ‘I didn’t observe that there was anybody else. Pray is Miss Pinch at home?’

‘She’s IN,’ replied the footman. As much as to say to Tom: ‘But if you think she has anything to do with the proprietorship of this place you had better abandon that idea.’

‘I wish to see her, if you please,’ said Tom.

The footman, being a lively young man, happened to have his attention caught at that moment by the flight of a pigeon, in which he took so warm an interest that his gaze was rivetted on the bird until it was quite out of sight. He then invited Tom to come in, and showed him into a parlour.

‘Hany neem?’ said the young man, pausing languidly at the door.

It was a good thought; because without providing the stranger, in case he should happen to be of a warm temper, with a sufficient excuse for knocking him down, it implied this young man’s estimate of his quality, and relieved his breast of the oppressive burden of rating him in secret as a nameless and obscure individual.

‘Say her brother, if you please,’ said Tom.

‘Mother?’ drawled the footman.

‘Brother,’ repeated Tom, slightly raising his voice. ‘And if you will say, in the first instance, a gentleman, and then say her brother, I shall be obliged to you, as she does not expect me or know I am in London, and I do not wish to startle her.’

The young man’s interest in Tom’s observations had ceased long before this time, but he kindly waited until now; when, shutting the door, he withdrew.

‘Dear me!’ said Tom. ‘This is very disrespectful and uncivil behaviour. I hope these are new servants here, and that Ruth is very differently treated.’

His cogitations were interrupted by the sound of voices in the adjoining room. They seemed to be engaged in high dispute, or in indignant reprimand of some offender; and gathering strength occasionally, broke out into a perfect whirlwind. It was in one of these gusts, as it appeared to Tom, that the footman announced him; for an abrupt and unnatural calm took place, and then a dead silence. He was standing before the window, wondering what domestic quarrel might have caused these sounds, and hoping Ruth had nothing to do with it, when the door opened, and his sister ran into his arms.

‘Why, bless my soul!’ said Tom, looking at her with great pride, when they had tenderly embraced each other, ‘how altered you are Ruth! I should scarcely have known you, my love, if I had seen you anywhere else, I declare! You are so improved,’ said Tom, with inexpressible delight; ‘you are so womanly; you are so—positively, you know, you are so handsome!’

‘If YOU think so Tom—’

‘Oh, but everybody must think so, you know,’ said Tom, gently smoothing down her hair. ‘It’s matter of fact; not opinion. But what’s the matter?’ said Tom, looking at her more intently, ‘how flushed you are! and you have been crying.’

‘No, I have not, Tom.’

‘Nonsense,’ said her brother stoutly. ‘That’s a story. Don’t tell me! I know better. What is it, dear? I’m not with Mr Pecksniff now. I am going to try and settle myself in London; and if you are not happy here (as I very much fear you are not, for I begin to think you have been deceiving me with the kindest and most affectionate intention) you shall not remain here.’

Oh! Tom’s blood was rising; mind that! Perhaps the Boar’s Head had something to do with it, but certainly the footman had. So had the sight of his pretty sister—a great deal to do with it. Tom could bear a good deal himself, but he was proud of her, and pride is a sensitive thing. He began to think, ‘there are more Pecksniffs than one, perhaps,’ and by all the pins and needles that run up and down in angry veins, Tom was in a most unusual tingle all at once!

‘We will talk about it, Tom,’ said Ruth, giving him another kiss to pacify him. ‘I am afraid I cannot stay here.’

‘Cannot!’ replied Tom. ‘Why then, you shall not, my love. Heyday! You are not an object of charity! Upon my word!’

Tom was stopped in these exclamations by the footman, who brought a message from his master, importing that he wished to speak with him before he went, and with Miss Pinch also.

‘Show the way,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll wait upon him at once.’

Accordingly they entered the adjoining room from which the noise of altercation had proceeded; and there they found a middle-aged gentleman, with a pompous voice and manner, and a middle-aged lady, with what may be termed an excisable face, or one in which starch and vinegar were decidedly employed. There was likewise present that eldest pupil of Miss Pinch, whom Mrs Todgers, on a previous occasion, had called a syrup, and who was now weeping and sobbing spitefully.

‘My brother, sir,’ said Ruth Pinch, timidly presenting Tom.

‘Oh!’ cried the gentleman, surveying Tom attentively. ‘You really are Miss Pinch’s brother, I presume? You will excuse my asking. I don’t observe any resemblance.’

‘Miss Pinch has a brother, I know,’ observed the lady.

‘Miss Pinch is always talking about her brother, when she ought to be engaged upon my education,’ sobbed the pupil.

“Non lo so, ne sono sicuro,” rispose il portiere.

“Pensi che potresti avere la gentilezza di verificare?” disse Tom. Era davvero molto diplomatico nel fare quella proposta, perché l’idea di intraprendere un simile passo non sembrava affatto essere venuta in mente al portiere.

Il fatto era che il portiere, rispondendo al campanello della porta, aveva, secondo l’usanza, suonato il campanello di casa (poiché è giusto fare queste cose nello stile nobiliare, visto che ci si trova in un ambiente del genere), e con questo i compiti propri del suo incarico finivano lì. Essendo stato assunto per aprire e chiudere la porta, e non per spiegarsi agli estranei, lasciò che questo piccolo incidente venisse poi chiarito dal valletto addetto alle consegne, il quale in quel momento chiamò dall’ingresso:

“Ehi, ehi! Cosa stai facendo? Vieni da questa parte, ragazzo!”

“Oh!” disse Tom, affrettandosi verso di lui. “Non mi ero accorto che ci fosse qualcun altro. Per favore, la signorina Pinch è a >casa?”

“È dentro,” rispose il valletto. Il che, in sostanza, voleva dire a Tom: “Ma se pensi che abbia qualche legame con la proprietà di questo posto, faresti meglio a scartare quell’idea.”

“Vorrei vederla, per favore,” disse Tom.

Il valletto, essendo un giovane vivace, in quel momento fu attratto dal volo di una colomba; ne mostrò un tale interesse che non riuscì a staccare lo sguardo da quell’uccello finché non scomparve completamente dalla vista. Poi invitò Tom ad entrare e lo portò in un salotto.

“Hany neem?” disse il giovane, fermandosi con aria pigra alla porta.

Era un’ottima idea; perché senza fornire allo sconosciuto, nel caso fosse di temperamento mite, una scusa sufficiente per colpirlo, si manifestava così la valutazione che quel giovane aveva della sua natura, e si allentava il peso opprimente di considerarlo segretamente un individuo senza nome e insignificante.

“Dì ‘suo fratello’, per favore”, disse Tom.

“Madre?”, disse con voce strascicata il valletto.

“Fratello,” ripeté Tom, alzando leggermente la voce. “E se prima dici che sei un gentiluomo, e poi aggiungi che sei suo fratello, te ne sarò grato. Poiché lei non si aspetta che io sia qui, né sa che sono a Londra, e non voglio spaventarla.”

L’interesse di quel giovane per le osservazioni di Tom era cessato molto tempo prima di questa occasione, ma egli ha gentilmente atteso fino ad ora; poi, chiudendo la porta, se ne è andato.

“Mio Dio!”, disse Tom. “Questo comportamento è molto irrispettoso e scortese. Spero che questi siano nuovi servitori qui, e che Ruth venga trattata in modo molto diverso.”

I suoi pensieri furono interrotti dal suono di voci nella stanza accanto. Sembrava che stessero discutendo animatamente o rimproverando con indignazione qualcuno che aveva commesso un errore; a volte il volume delle voci aumentava, trasformandosi in un vero e proprio clamore. Fu durante uno di questi momenti, secondo quanto osservò Tom, che il servitore lo annunciò: improvvisamente calò un silenzio assoluto. Lui stava davanti alla finestra, chiedendosi quale lite domestica potesse aver causato tutto quel trambusto e sperando che Ruth non ne fosse responsabile, quando la porta si aprì e sua sorella corse tra le sue braccia.

“Mio Dio, benedica la mia ‘anima!” disse Tom, guardandola con grande orgoglio, quando si abbracciarono teneramente. “Quanto sei cambiata, Ruth! A malapena ti avrei riconosciuta, mio amore, se ti avessi vista in un altro posto. Sei davvero migliorata,” disse Tom, con un piacere indescrivibile. “Sei così femminile. Davvero, sei così bella!”

“Se tu la pensi così, Tom, ”

“Oh, ma tutti devono pensarlo così, capisci,” disse Tom, accarezzandole dolcemente i capelli. “È una questione di fatto, non un’opinione. Ma qual è il problema?” aggiunse, guardandola più attentamente. “Sei tutta rossa in viso, e devi aver pianto.”

“No, non l’ho fatto, Tom.”

“Sciocchezze,” disse suo fratello con fermezza. “È solo una storia. Non dirmela! So meglio io. Di cosa si tratta, cara? Ora non sono più con il signor Pecksniff; sto cercando di stabilirmi a Londra. E se tu non sei felice qui (e temo molto che non lo sia, perché inizio a pensare che tu mi abbia ingannato per motivi del tutto gentili e affettuosi), allora non resterai qui.”

Oh! Il sangue di Tom stava ribollendo. Fate attenzione a questo! Forse la “Testa di Cinghiale” c’entrava qualcosa, ma di certo c’entrava anche quel servitore. E poi l’immagine della sua bella sorella. C’entravano davvero molto. Tom riusciva a sopportare molte cose da solo, ma era orgoglioso di lei. E l’orgoglio è una cosa delicata. Cominciò a pensare: “Forse ci sono più Pecksniff di uno, ” E, per effetto di tutte quelle sensazioni spiacevoli che gli correvano nelle vene in preda alla rabbia, Tom provò all’improvviso un formicolio davvero insolito.

“Ne parleremo, Tom,” disse Ruth, dandogli un altro bacio per calmarlo. “Temo di non poter rimanere qui.”

“Non posso!” rispose Tom. “Allora non lo farai, mia amata. Ascolta: tu non sei un oggetto di carità. Te lo giuro!”

Tom fu fermato mentre pronunciava queste esclamazioni dal maggiordomo, che gli portò un messaggio dal suo padrone: voleva parlargli prima che se ne andasse, e anche con la signorina Pinch.

“Mostrami la strada,” disse Tom. “Andrò subito ad occuparmi di lui.”

Pertanto entrarono nella stanza adiacente da dove proveniva il rumore della lite; e lì trovarono un signore di mezza età, con voce e modi pomposi, e una signora di mezza età il cui viso sembrava essere stato “trattato” con abbondante amido e aceto. C’era anche quella studentessa più anziana della signorina Pinch, che in un’altra occasione la signora Todgers aveva definito “zuccherino”, e che ora piangeva e singhiozzava in modo particolarmente ostile.

“Mio fratello, signore,” disse timidamente Ruth Pinch, presentando Tom.

“Oh!”, esclamò il gentiluomo, osservando attentamente Tom. “Allora lei è davvero il fratello di Miss Pinch, giusto? Mi scusi se lo chiedo. Non noto alcuna somiglianza tra voi.”

“So che la signorina Pinch ha un fratello,” osservò la donna.

“La signorina Pinch parla sempre di suo fratello, quando invece dovrebbe occuparsi della mia istruzione”, singhiozzò lo studente.

‘Sophia! Hold your tongue!’ observed the gentleman. ‘Sit down, if you please,’ addressing Tom.

Tom sat down, looking from one face to another, in mute surprise.

‘Remain here, if you please, Miss Pinch,’ pursued the gentleman, looking slightly over his shoulder.

Tom interrupted him here, by rising to place a chair for his sister. Having done which he sat down again.

‘I am glad you chance to have called to see your sister to-day, sir,’ resumed the brass-and-copper founder. ‘For although I do not approve, as a principle, of any young person engaged in my family in the capacity of a governess, receiving visitors, it happens in this case to be well timed. I am sorry to inform you that we are not at all satisfied with your sister.’

‘We are very much DISsatisfied with her,’ observed the lady.

‘I’d never say another lesson to Miss Pinch if I was to be beat to death for it!’ sobbed the pupil.

‘Sophia!’ cried her father. ‘Hold your tongue!’

‘Will you allow me to inquire what your ground of dissatisfaction is?’ asked Tom.

‘Yes,’ said the gentleman, ‘I will. I don’t recognize it as a right; but I will. Your sister has not the slightest innate power of commanding respect. It has been a constant source of difference between us. Although she has been in this family for some time, and although the young lady who is now present has almost, as it were, grown up under her tuition, that young lady has no respect for her. Miss Pinch has been perfectly unable to command my daughter’s respect, or to win my daughter’s confidence. Now,’ said the gentleman, allowing the palm of his hand to fall gravely down upon the table: ‘I maintain that there is something radically wrong in that! You, as her brother, may be disposed to deny it—’

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Tom. ‘I am not at all disposed to deny it. I am sure that there is something radically wrong; radically monstrous, in that.’

‘Good Heavens!’ cried the gentleman, looking round the room with dignity, ‘what do I find to be the case! what results obtrude themselves upon me as flowing from this weakness of character on the part of Miss Pinch! What are my feelings as a father, when, after my desire (repeatedly expressed to Miss Pinch, as I think she will not venture to deny) that my daughter should be choice in her expressions, genteel in her deportment, as becomes her station in life, and politely distant to her inferiors in society, I find her, only this very morning, addressing Miss Pinch herself as a beggar!’

‘A beggarly thing,’ observed the lady, in correction.

‘Which is worse,’ said the gentleman, triumphantly; ‘which is worse. A beggarly thing. A low, coarse, despicable expression!’

‘Most despicable,’ cried Tom. ‘I am glad to find that there is a just appreciation of it here.’

‘So just, sir,’ said the gentleman, lowering his voice to be the more impressive. ‘So just, that, but for my knowing Miss Pinch to be an unprotected young person, an orphan, and without friends, I would, as I assured Miss Pinch, upon my veracity and personal character, a few minutes ago, I would have severed the connection between us at that moment and from that time.’

‘Bless my soul, sir!’ cried Tom, rising from his seat; for he was now unable to contain himself any longer; ‘don’t allow such considerations as those to influence you, pray. They don’t exist, sir. She is not unprotected. She is ready to depart this instant. Ruth, my dear, get your bonnet on!’

‘Oh, a pretty family!’ cried the lady. ‘Oh, he’s her brother! There’s no doubt about that!’

‘As little doubt, madam,’ said Tom, ‘as that the young lady yonder is the child of your teaching, and not my sister’s. Ruth, my dear, get your bonnet on!’

‘When you say, young man,’ interposed the brass-and-copper founder, haughtily, ‘with that impertinence which is natural to you, and which I therefore do not condescend to notice further, that the young lady, my eldest daughter, has been educated by any one but Miss Pinch, you—I needn’t proceed. You comprehend me fully. I have no doubt you are used to it.’

‘Sir!’ cried Tom, after regarding him in silence for some little time. ‘If you do not understand what I mean, I will tell you. If you do understand what I mean, I beg you not to repeat that mode of expressing yourself in answer to it. My meaning is, that no man can expect his children to respect what he degrades.’

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ laughed the gentleman. ‘Cant! cant! The common cant!’

‘The common story, sir!’ said Tom; ‘the story of a common mind. Your governess cannot win the confidence and respect of your children, forsooth! Let her begin by winning yours, and see what happens then.’

‘Miss Pinch is getting her bonnet on, I trust, my dear?’ said the gentleman.

‘I trust she is,’ said Tom, forestalling the reply. ‘I have no doubt she is. In the meantime I address myself to you, sir. You made your statement to me, sir; you required to see me for that purpose; and I have a right to answer it. I am not loud or turbulent,’ said Tom, which was quite true, ‘though I can scarcely say as much for you, in your manner of addressing yourself to me. And I wish, on my sister’s behalf, to state the simple truth.’

‘You may state anything you like, young man,’ returned the gentleman, affecting to yawn. ‘My dear, Miss Pinch’s money.’

‘When you tell me,’ resumed Tom, who was not the less indignant for keeping himself quiet, ‘that my sister has no innate power of commanding the respect of your children, I must tell you it is not so; and that she has. She is as well bred, as well taught, as well qualified by nature to command respect, as any hirer of a governess you know. But when you place her at a disadvantage in reference to every servant in your house, how can you suppose, if you have the gift of common sense, that she is not in a tenfold worse position in reference to your daughters?’

“Sophia! Tieni a bada la lingua!” osservò il gentiluomo. “Siediti, per favore,” disse poi a Tom.

Tom si sedette, guardando uno dopo l’altro quei volti, con un silenzioso stupore.

“Per favore, rimanga qui, signorina Pinch,” insistette il gentiluomo, guardando leggermente alle sue spalle.

Tom lo interruppe in quel momento, alzandosi per mettere una sedia per sua sorella; dopo averlo fatto, si sedette di nuovo.

“Sono felice che abbiate avuto l’opportunità di visitare vostra sorella oggi, signore,” riprese il fonditore di bronzo e rame. “Poiché, in linea di principio, non approvo che una giovane donna assuma il ruolo di governante nella mia famiglia e riceva visite, in questo caso però l’occasione si è presentata nel momento giusto. Purtroppo devo comunicarvi che non siamo affatto soddisfatti di vostra sorella.”

“Siamo molto insoddisfatti di lei,” osservò la signora.

“Non direi mai più una parola alla signorina Pinch, anche se per questo dovessi essere picchiato a morte!” singhiozzò lo studente.

“Sophia!” gridò suo padre. “Taci!”

“Mi permetterete di chiedere quale sia la ragione della vostra insoddisfazione?” chiese Tom.

“Sì,” disse il gentiluomo, “lo farò. Non lo considero un diritto; ma lo farò. Tua sorella non possiede la minima capacità innata di suscitare rispetto. Questo è sempre stato motivo di dissidio tra noi. Anche se vive in questa famiglia da alcuni tempi, e anche se la giovane signorina che è qui ora è cresciuta quasi sotto la sua guida, lei non prova alcun rispetto per lei. La signorina Pinch non è mai riuscita a conquistare il rispetto o la fiducia di mia figlia. Ora,” disse il gentiluomo, posando con forza il palmo della mano sul tavolo, “affermo che c’è qualcosa di profondamente sbagliato in tutto questo! Tu, come suo fratello, potresti essere disposto a negarlo, ”

“Perdonatemi, signore,” disse Tom. “Non ho affatto intenzione di negarlo. Sono sicuro che ci sia qualcosa di profondamente sbagliato, qualcosa di davvero orribile.”

“Mio Dio!” esclamò il gentiluomo, guardandosi intorno con dignità, “che cosa mi trovo ad affrontare! Che conseguenze derivano da questa debolezza di carattere da parte della signorina Pinch. Quali sono i miei sentimenti come padre, quando, nonostante il mio desiderio (ripetutamente espresso alla signorina Pinch, e che credo lei non oserebbe negare), che mia figlia si comportasse con eleganza nelle sue espressioni, con dignità nel suo modo di fare, in linea con la sua posizione sociale, e mantenendo una distanza cortese nei confronti dei suoi inferiori, trovo che questa stessa mattina lei abbia addirittura rivolto direttamente alla signorina Pinch parole simili a quelle di una mendicante!”

“Una cosa miserabile,” osservò la signora, con tono di disapprovazione.

“Qual è peggio,” disse il gentiluomo con tono trionfale, “qual è davvero peggio. Una cosa spregevole, volgare e disgustosa!”

“Davvero spregevole,” esclamò Tom. “Sono contento che qui ci sia chi lo apprezzi sinceramente.”

“So solo questo, signore,” disse il gentiluomo, abbassando la voce per essere più convincente. “So solo che, se non sapessi che la signorina Pinch è una giovane donna indifesa, un’orfana e senza amici, come le ho assicurato pochi minuti fa, sulla mia onestà e sul mio carattere personale, avrei interrotto ogni rapporto con lei all’istante e da quel Timemomento in poi.”

“Benedica la mia ‘anima, signore!” gridò Tom alzandosi dal suo posto; ormai non riusciva più a trattenersi; “Per favore, non lasciate che considerazioni del genere vi influenzino. Non esistono, signore. Lei non è indifesa. È pronta ad andarsene in questo stesso istante. Ruth, cara, mettiti il cappello!”

“Oh, una famiglia così bella!” esclamò la signora. “Oh, è suo fratello! Non c’è alcun dubbio al riguardo!”

“Non ho la minima dubbio, signora,” disse Tom, “che quella giovane signorina sia la figlia delle vostre lezioni, e non di mia sorella. Ruth, cara, mettiti il cappello!”

“Quando dici, giovane uomo, ”, intervenne l’uomo dal viso coperto di barba e rame, con tono sprezzante, “con quell’impertinenza che è naturale in te, e che quindi non mi abbasso a notare ulteriormente, che la mia figlia maggiore sia stata educata da qualcun altro che non la signorina Pinch, beh, non ho bisogno di continuare. Capisci perfettamente ciò che intendo. Non ho alcun dubbio che tu sia abituato a queste cose.”

“Signore!” esclamò Tom, dopo averlo osservato in silenzio per qualche momento.
“Se non capite ciò che intendo, ve lo spiegherò. Se invece capite, vi prego di non ripetere mai più quel modo di esprimervi in risposta alle mie parole. Quello che voglio dire è che nessun uomo può aspettarsi che i suoi figli rispettino ciò che lui stesso disprezza.”

“Ahahah!” rise il gentiluomo. “Banalità, soltanto banalità!”

“Una storia banale, signore!” disse Tom; “la storia di una mente mediocre. La vostra governante non riuscirà certo a guadagnare la fiducia e il rispetto dei vostri figli. Lasciate che prima conquisti il vostro, e vedrete cosa succederà dopo.”

“Spero che la signorina Pinch stia indossando il suo cappello, cara mia”, disse il gentiluomo.

“Spero che lo sia,” disse Tom, anticipando la risposta. “Non ho alcun dubbio che lo sia. Nel frattempo, mi rivolgo a voi, signore. Avete fatto le vostre dichiarazioni davanti a me; avete richiesto di incontrarmi per questo motivo; e ho il diritto di rispondervi. Non sono né rumoroso né turbolento,” disse Tom, il che era assolutamente vero, “anche se non posso dire lo stesso di voi, considerando il modo in cui vi siete rivolti a me. E desidero, a nome di mia sorella, esprimere semplicemente la verità.”

“Puoi dire tutto quello che vuoi, giovane,” rispose il gentiluomo, fingendo di sbadigliare. “Ma, cara, si tratta dei soldi della signorina Pinch.”

“Quando mi dite,” continuò Tom, il quale non per questo era meno indignato nel mantenere il silenzio, “che mia sorella non possiede un’innata capacità di suscitare il rispetto dei vostri figli, devo dirvi che non è vero; anzi, ne è pienamente dotata. È altrettanto ben educata, tanto istruita e, per natura, così qualificata da meritare rispetto, quanto qualsiasi altro datore di lavoro che assuma una governante. Ma quando la mettete in svantaggio rispetto a ogni servitore della vostra casa, come potete pensare, se avete un briciolo di buon senso, che non si trovi in una situazione dieci volte peggiore rispetto alle vostre figlie?”

‘Pretty well! Upon my word,’ exclaimed the gentleman, ‘this is pretty well!’

‘It is very ill, sir,’ said Tom. ‘It is very bad and mean, and wrong and cruel. Respect! I believe young people are quick enough to observe and imitate; and why or how should they respect whom no one else respects, and everybody slights? And very partial they must grow—oh, very partial!—to their studies, when they see to what a pass proficiency in those same tasks has brought their governess! Respect! Put anything the most deserving of respect before your daughters in the light in which you place her, and you will bring it down as low, no matter what it is!’

‘You speak with extreme impertinence, young man,’ observed the gentleman.

‘I speak without passion, but with extreme indignation and contempt for such a course of treatment, and for all who practice it,’ said Tom. ‘Why, how can you, as an honest gentleman, profess displeasure or surprise at your daughter telling my sister she is something beggarly and humble, when you are for ever telling her the same thing yourself in fifty plain, outspeaking ways, though not in words; and when your very porter and footman make the same delicate announcement to all comers? As to your suspicion and distrust of her; even of her word; if she is not above their reach, you have no right to employ her.’

‘No right!’ cried the brass-and-copper founder.

‘Distinctly not,’ Tom answered. ‘If you imagine that the payment of an annual sum of money gives it to you, you immensely exaggerate its power and value. Your money is the least part of your bargain in such a case. You may be punctual in that to half a second on the clock, and yet be Bankrupt. I have nothing more to say,’ said Tom, much flushed and flustered, now that it was over, ‘except to crave permission to stand in your garden until my sister is ready.’

Not waiting to obtain it, Tom walked out.

Before he had well begun to cool, his sister joined him. She was crying; and Tom could not bear that any one about the house should see her doing that.

‘They will think you are sorry to go,’ said Tom. ‘You are not sorry to go?’

‘No, Tom, no. I have been anxious to go for a very long time.’

‘Very well, then! Don’t cry!’ said Tom.

‘I am so sorry for YOU, dear,’ sobbed Tom’s sister.

‘But you ought to be glad on my account,’ said Tom. ‘I shall be twice as happy with you for a companion. Hold up your head. There! Now we go out as we ought. Not blustering, you know, but firm and confident in ourselves.’

The idea of Tom and his sister blustering, under any circumstances, was a splendid absurdity. But Tom was very far from feeling it to be so, in his excitement; and passed out at the gate with such severe determination written in his face that the porter hardly knew him again.

It was not until they had walked some short distance, and Tom found himself getting cooler and more collected, that he was quite restored to himself by an inquiry from his sister, who said in her pleasant little voice:

‘Where are we going, Tom?’

‘Dear me!’ said Tom, stopping, ‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t you—don’t you live anywhere, dear?’ asked Tom’s sister looking wistfully in his face.

‘No,’ said Tom. ‘Not at present. Not exactly. I only arrived this morning. We must have some lodgings.’

He didn’t tell her that he had been going to stay with his friend John, and could on no account think of billeting two inmates upon him, of whom one was a young lady; for he knew that would make her uncomfortable, and would cause her to regard herself as being an inconvenience to him. Neither did he like to leave her anywhere while he called on John, and told him of this change in his arrangements; for he was delicate of seeming to encroach upon the generous and hospitable nature of his friend. Therefore he said again, ‘We must have some lodgings, of course;’ and said it as stoutly as if he had been a perfect Directory and Guide-Book to all the lodgings in London.

‘Where shall we go and look for ‘em?’ said Tom. ‘What do you think?’

Tom’s sister was not much wiser on such a topic than he was. So she squeezed her little purse into his coat-pocket, and folding the little hand with which she did so on the other little hand with which she clasped his arm, said nothing.

‘It ought to be a cheap neighbourhood,’ said Tom, ‘and not too far from London. Let me see. Should you think Islington a good place?’

‘I should think it was an excellent place, Tom.’

‘It used to be called Merry Islington, once upon a time,’ said Tom. ‘Perhaps it’s merry now; if so, it’s all the better. Eh?’

‘If it’s not too dear,’ said Tom’s sister.

‘Of course, if it’s not too dear,’ assented Tom. ‘Well, where IS Islington? We can’t do better than go there, I should think. Let’s go.’

Tom’s sister would have gone anywhere with him; so they walked off, arm in arm, as comfortably as possible. Finding, presently, that Islington was not in that neighbourhood, Tom made inquiries respecting a public conveyance thither; which they soon obtained. As they rode along they were very full of conversation indeed, Tom relating what had happened to him, and Tom’s sister relating what had happened to her, and both finding a great deal more to say than time to say it in; for they had only just begun to talk, in comparison with what they had to tell each other, when they reached their journey’s end.

‘Now,’ said Tom, ‘we must first look out for some very unpretending streets, and then look out for bills in the windows.’

So they walked off again, quite as happily as if they had just stepped out of a snug little house of their own, to look for lodgings on account of somebody else. Tom’s simplicity was unabated, Heaven knows; but now that he had somebody to rely upon him, he was stimulated to rely a little more upon himself, and was, in his own opinion, quite a desperate fellow.

After roaming up and down for hours, looking at some scores of lodgings, they began to find it rather fatiguing, especially as they saw none which were at all adapted to their purpose. At length, however, in a singular little old-fashioned house, up a blind street, they discovered two small bedrooms and a triangular parlour, which promised to suit them well enough. Their desiring to take possession immediately was a suspicious circumstance, but even this was surmounted by the payment of their first week’s rent, and a reference to John Westlock, Esquire, Furnival’s Inn, High Holborn.

Ah! It was a goodly sight, when this important point was settled, to behold Tom and his sister trotting round to the baker’s, and the butcher’s, and the grocer’s, with a kind of dreadful delight in the unaccustomed cares of housekeeping; taking secret counsel together as they gave their small orders, and distracted by the least suggestion on the part of the shopkeeper! When they got back to the triangular parlour, and Tom’s sister, bustling to and fro, busy about a thousand pleasant nothings, stopped every now and then to give old Tom a kiss or smile upon him, Tom rubbed his hands as if all Islington were his.

It was late in the afternoon now, though, and high time for Tom to keep his appointment. So, after agreeing with his sister that in consideration of not having dined, they would venture on the extravagance of chops for supper at nine, he walked out again to narrate these marvellous occurrences to John.

‘I am quite a family man all at once,’ thought Tom. ‘If I can only get something to do, how comfortable Ruth and I may be! Ah, that if! But it’s of no use to despond. I can but do that, when I have tried everything and failed; and even then it won’t serve me much. Upon my word,’ thought Tom, quickening his pace, ‘I don’t know what John will think has become of me. He’ll begin to be afraid I have strayed into one of those streets where the countrymen are murdered; and that I have been made meat pies of, or some such horrible thing.’

“Molto bene! Per la mia parola,” esclamò il gentiluomo, “è davvero molto bene!”

“È molto malvagio, signore,” disse Tom. “È davvero crudele e sbagliato. Rispetto! Credo che i giovani siano abbastanza veloci nell’osservare e nell’imitare; e perché mai dovrebbero rispettare qualcuno che nessun altro rispetta, e che tutti disprezzano? Inoltre, diventeranno sicuramente molto selettivi nelle loro attività di studio, quando vedranno a quale livello l’eccellenza in quelle stesse materie ha portato la loro governante. Rispetto! Mettete qualsiasi cosa meriti davvero rispetto al posto delle vostre figlie, secondo il modo in cui la considerate voi stesso, e la ridurrete allo stesso livello di disprezzo, qualunque essa sia!”

“Parli con estrema impertinenza, giovane uomo,” osservò il gentiluomo.

“Parlo senza passione, ma con estrema indignazione e disprezzo per un simile modo di comportarsi, e per chiunque lo pratichi,” disse Tom. “Come può lei, da parte sua, manifestare disappunto o sorpresa quando dice a mia sorella che è qualcosa di meschino e umile, se voi stesso continuate a dirle la stessa cosa in cinquanta modi diversi, anche se non con parole esplicite; e se persino il vostro portiere e il vostro valletto fanno lo stesso davanti a chiunque entri? Per quanto riguarda i vostri sospetti e la vostra diffidenza nei suoi confronti, anche verso la sua parola, se lei non è al di sopra del loro livello, allora non avete il diritto di assumerla.”

“Non è possibile!”, gridò il fonditore di rame e ottone.

“Assolutamente no,” rispose Tom. “Se pensate che il pagamento di una somma annuale di denaro vi conferisca qualche vantaggio reale, allora state esagerando enormemente il suo potere e il suo valore. In casi del genere, i vostri soldi rappresentano soltanto una parte minima dell’accordo. Potreste anche essere puntuali, anche di mezzo secondo rispetto all’orologio, eppure finire in bancarotta. Non ho altro da dire,” aggiunse Tom, arrossendo e turbato ora che tutto era finito, “se non chiedervi il permesso di stare nel vostro giardino fino a quando mia sorella non sarà pronta.”

Senza aspettare di ottenerlo, Tom se ne andò.

Prima ancora che iniziasse a raffreddarsi del tutto, sua sorella lo raggiunse. Stava piangendo; e Tom non poteva sopportare l’idea che qualcuno, nella casa, la vedesse in quello stato.

“Penseranno che ti dispiaccia andartene,” disse Tom. “Ma a te non dispiace andartene, vero?”

“No, Tom, no. Desideravo andare da molto tempo.”

“Allora, molto bene! Non piangere!” disse Tom.

“Mi dispiace tantissimo per TE, caro,” singhiozzò la sorella di Tom.

“Ma dovresti essere felice per me,” disse Tom. “Sarò ancora più contento di averti come compagno. Alza la testa. Ecco, ora usciamo nel modo giusto: senza esagerazioni, ma con fermezza e fiducia in noi stessi.”

L’idea che Tom e sua sorella potessero comportarsi in modo aggressivo, in qualsiasi circostanza, era una assurdità meravigliosa. Ma, nel suo entusiasmo, Tom non la considerava affatto così; svenne all’ingresso con un’espressione così decisa sul viso che il portiere quasi non lo riconobbe.

Solo dopo aver camminato per un po’, e quando Tom si rese conto di stare iniziando a rilassarsi e a calmarsi, sua sorella gli fece una domanda che lo aiutò completamente a riprendersi. Lei disse, con la sua voce dolce e gentile:

“Dove stiamo andando, Tom?”

“Mio Dio!”, esclamò Tom, fermandosi, “Non lo so.”

“Non abiti da qualche parte, caro?” chiese la sorella di Tom, guardandolo con aria malinconica.

“No,” disse Tom. “Non per ora. Non esattamente. Sono arrivato solo stamattina. Dobbiamo trovare un alloggio.”

Non le disse che aveva intenzione di trascorrere la notte da suo amico John, e che assolutamente non poteva pensare di ospitare due persone in casa sua, una delle quali era una giovane donna; sapeva infatti che questo l’avrebbe messa a disagio e le avrebbe fatto sentire di essere un peso per lui. Inoltre, non voleva lasciarla da nessuna parte mentre andava a trovare John per parlargli di questo cambiamento nei suoi piani; era molto attento a non sembrare di violare la generosa e ospitale >natura di suo amico. Quindi ripeté: “Dobbiamo assolutamente trovare un alloggio”; lo disse con tale fermezza, come se fosse un perfetto dizionario o guida agli alloggi disponibili a )Londra.

“Dove dovremmo andare a cercarli?”, disse Tom. “Che ne pensi?”

La sorella di Tom non era molto più saggia di lui su tale argomento. Così infilò la sua piccola borsa nella tasca del suo cappotto e, mentre con una mano piccola faceva questo, con l’altra mano si stringeva al suo braccio, senza dire nulla.

“Dovrebbe essere un quartiere economico,” disse Tom, “e non troppo lontano da Londra. Fammi pensare. Credi che Islington sia un buon posto?”

“Devo dire che è un posto eccellente, Tom.”

“Un tempo si chiamava Merry Islington, una volta, molto tempo fa,” disse Tom.
“Forse ora è davvero un posto felice; in tal caso, è ancora meglio, no?”

“Se non è troppo costoso, ”, disse la sorella di Tom.

“Certo, se non è troppo costoso,” acconsentì Tom. “Beh, dove si trova esattamente Islington? Penso che non possiamo trovare di meglio di andarci. Andiamo.”

La sorella di Tom sarebbe andata ovunque con lui; quindi se ne andarono, mano nella mano, il più confortevolmente possibile. Dopo un po’, scoprendo che Islington non si trovava in quella zona, Tom chiese informazioni su un mezzo pubblico per raggiungerlo; ne trovarono presto uno. Mentre viaggiavano, conversarono molto: Tom raccontò ciò che gli era accaduto, e sua sorella raccontò ciò che le era accaduto; entrambi scoprirono di avere molto da dire, ma non abbastanza tempo per farlo, perché, rispetto a tutto ciò che avevano da raccontarsi a vicenda, avevano appena iniziato a parlare quando arrivarono alla fine del loro viaggio.

“Ora,” disse Tom, “dobbiamo prima cercare strade molto tranquille e poi guardare dentro le vetrine per vedere se ci sono avvisi o annunci.”

Così se ne andarono di nuovo, altrettanto felici come se appena fossero usciti da una loro piccola, accogliente >casa per andare a cercare un alloggio per qualcun altro. La semplicità di Tom non era affatto diminuita; ma ora che aveva qualcuno su cui contare, si sentiva incoraggiato a fare ancora più affidamento su se stesso. E, a suo parere, era davvero un ragazzo straordinario.

Dopo aver girovagato per ore, esaminando decine di alloggi, iniziarono a trovare la cosa piuttosto faticosa, soprattutto perché non ne trovarono nessuno che fosse minimamente adatto alle loro esigenze. Alla fine, tuttavia, in una piccola casa vecchio stile, situata in una strada senza uscita, scoprirono due piccole camere da letto e un salotto a forma di triangolo, che sembravano adattarsi abbastanza bene alle loro esigenze. Il fatto che volessero occuparla immediatamente rappresentava una circostanza sospetta, ma anche questo problema fu risolto con il pagamento dell’affitto della prima settimana, nonché con la presentazione di una referenza a John Westlock, Esquire, presso l’Furnival’s Inn di High Holborn.

Ah! Fu davvero uno spettacolo piacevole quando questa questione importante fu risolta: vedere Tom e sua sorella correre da un negozio all’altro – quello del panettiere, del macellaio, del mercante di alimentari – con una sorta di gioia incredibile nell’assumersi quelle incombenze domestiche insolite. Si consultavano in segreto mentre facevano le loro piccole ordinazioni, e si distraevano anche al minimo suggerimento del negoziante! Quando tornavano nel salotto triangolare, la sorella di Tom, correndo avanti e indietro impegnata in mille piccole faccende piacevoli, si fermava di tanto in tanto per dare un bacio o sorridere a Tom. Il quale si strofinava le mani, come se tutto Islington fosse suo.

Era ormai tardi pomeriggio, e quindi era l’ora giusta per Tom di mantenere il suo appuntamento. Così, dopo aver concordato con sua sorella che, visto che non avevano pranzato, avrebbero potuto concedersi il lusso di mangiare costolette per cena alle nove, uscì di nuovo per raccontare a John queste straordinarie avventure.

“Sono davvero un uomo di famiglia,” pensò Tom. “Se solo riuscissi a trovare qualcosa da fare. Che comodi potremmo essere io e Ruth! Ah, se solo fosse possibile. Ma non ha senso disperare. Devo provare, anche se ho già tentato tutto senza successo; e anche allora, probabilmente non servirà a molto. Giuro su quanto è sacro,” pensò Tom accelerando il passo, “non so cosa penserà John di me. Probabilmente inizierà ad avere paura che io sia finito in una di quelle strade dove vengono uccisi i contadini. Che mi abbiano fatto delle torte di carne, o qualcosa del genere, ”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

TOM PINCH, GOING ASTRAY, FINDS THAT HE IS NOT THE ONLY PERSON IN THAT PREDICAMENT. HE RETALIATES UPON A FALLEN FOE

Tom’s evil genius did not lead him into the dens of any of those preparers of cannibalic pastry, who are represented in many standard country legends as doing a lively retail business in the Metropolis; nor did it mark him out as the prey of ring-droppers, pea and thimble-riggers, duffers, touters, or any of those bloodless sharpers, who are, perhaps, a little better known to the Police. He fell into conversation with no gentleman who took him into a public-house, where there happened to be another gentleman who swore he had more money than any gentleman, and very soon proved he had more money than one gentleman by taking his away from him; neither did he fall into any other of the numerous man-traps which are set up without notice, in the public grounds of this city. But he lost his way. He very soon did that; and in trying to find it again he lost it more and more.

Now, Tom, in his guileless distrust of London, thought himself very knowing in coming to the determination that he would not ask to be directed to Furnival’s Inn, if he could help it; unless, indeed, he should happen to find himself near the Mint, or the Bank of England; in which case he would step in, and ask a civil question or two, confiding in the perfect respectability of the concern. So on he went, looking up all the streets he came near, and going up half of them; and thus, by dint of not being true to Goswell Street, and filing off into Aldermanbury, and bewildering himself in Barbican, and being constant to the wrong point of the compass in London Wall, and then getting himself crosswise into Thames Street, by an instinct that would have been marvellous if he had had the least desire or reason to go there, he found himself, at last, hard by the Monument.

The Man in the Monument was quite as mysterious a being to Tom as the Man in the Moon. It immediately occurred to him that the lonely creature who held himself aloof from all mankind in that pillar like some old hermit was the very man of whom to ask his way. Cold, he might be; little sympathy he had, perhaps, with human passion—the column seemed too tall for that; but if Truth didn’t live in the base of the Monument, notwithstanding Pope’s couplet about the outside of it, where in London (thought Tom) was she likely to be found!

Coming close below the pillar, it was a great encouragement to Tom to find that the Man in the Monument had simple tastes; that stony and artificial as his residence was, he still preserved some rustic recollections; that he liked plants, hung up bird-cages, was not wholly cut off from fresh groundsel, and kept young trees in tubs. The Man in the Monument, himself, was sitting outside the door—his own door: the Monument-door: what a grand idea!—and was actually yawning, as if there were no Monument to stop his mouth, and give him a perpetual interest in his own existence.

Tom was advancing towards this remarkable creature, to inquire the way to Furnival’s Inn, when two people came to see the Monument. They were a gentleman and a lady; and the gentleman said, ‘How much a-piece?’

The Man in the Monument replied, ‘A Tanner.’

It seemed a low expression, compared with the Monument.

The gentleman put a shilling into his hand, and the Man in the Monument opened a dark little door. When the gentleman and lady had passed out of view, he shut it again, and came slowly back to his chair.

He sat down and laughed.

‘They don’t know what a many steps there is!’ he said. ‘It’s worth twice the money to stop here. Oh, my eye!’

The Man in the Monument was a Cynic; a worldly man! Tom couldn’t ask his way of HIM. He was prepared to put no confidence in anything he said.

‘My gracious!’ cried a well-known voice behind Mr Pinch. ‘Why, to be sure it is!’

At the same time he was poked in the back by a parasol. Turning round to inquire into this salute, he beheld the eldest daughter of his late patron.

‘Miss Pecksniff!’ said Tom.

‘Why, my goodness, Mr Pinch!’ cried Cherry. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I have rather wandered from my way,’ said Tom. ‘I—’

‘I hope you have run away,’ said Charity. ‘It would be quite spirited and proper if you had, when my Papa so far forgets himself.’

‘I have left him,’ returned Tom. ‘But it was perfectly understood on both sides. It was not done clandestinely.’

‘Is he married?’ asked Cherry, with a spasmodic shake of her chin.

‘No, not yet,’ said Tom, colouring; ‘to tell you the truth, I don’t think he is likely to be, if—if Miss Graham is the object of his passion.’

‘Tcha, Mr Pinch!’ cried Charity, with sharp impatience, ‘you’re very easily deceived. You don’t know the arts of which such a creature is capable. Oh! it’s a wicked world.’

‘You are not married?’ Tom hinted, to divert the conversation.

‘N—no!’ said Cherry, tracing out one particular paving-stone in Monument Yard with the end of her parasol. ‘I—but really it’s quite impossible to explain. Won’t you walk in?’

‘You live here, then?’ said Tom

‘Yes,’ returned Miss Pecksniff, pointing with her parasol to Todgers’s; ‘I reside with this lady, AT PRESENT.’

The great stress on the two last words suggested to Tom that he was expected to say something in reference to them. So he said.

‘Only at present! Are you going home again soon?’

‘No, Mr Pinch,’ returned Charity. ‘No, thank you. No! A mother-in-law who is younger than—I mean to say, who is as nearly as possible about the same age as one’s self, would not quite suit my spirit. Not quite!’ said Cherry, with a spiteful shiver.

‘I thought from your saying “at present”’—Tom observed.

‘Really, upon my word! I had no idea you would press me so very closely on the subject, Mr Pinch,’ said Charity, blushing, ‘or I should not have been so foolish as to allude to—oh really!—won’t you walk in?’

CAPITOLO TRENTASETTE

Tom Pinch, allontanandosi dal sentiero giusto, scopre di non essere l’unica persona in quella situazione difficile. Allora si vendica su un nemico sconfitto.

Il genio malvagio di Tom non lo portò nelle tane di quei preparatori di dolci cannibali, che nelle molte leggende popolari vengono descritti come commercianti attivi nella Metropoli; né lo rese preda di truffatori, imbroglioni o individui senza scrupoli, forse meglio conosciuti dalla polizia. Non entrò in conversazione con nessun gentiluomo che lo portasse in un locale pubblico, dove per caso si trovava un altro uomo che giurava di avere più soldi di chiunque altro, e ben presto dimostrò davvero di averne più, togliendoli a quel tizio. Né cadde in altre delle numerose trappole messe in atto senza preavviso nei luoghi pubblici di questa città. Ma si perse. E cercando di ritrovare la strada, finì per perderla ancora di più.

Ora, Tom, con la sua ingenua diffidenza verso Londra, si riteneva molto astuto nell’aver deciso di non chiedere indicazioni per raggiungere l’Furnival’s Inn, se possibile; a meno che, naturalmente, non si trovasse vicino alla Zecca o alla Banca d’Inghilterra; in tal caso avrebbe interpellato qualcuno per porre un paio di domande, fidandosi della perfetta rispettabilità di quell’istituto. Così procedette, osservando tutte le strade che incontrava e salendo addirittura su metà di esse; a causa di questo comportamento errato – non seguendo mai la direzione giusta lungo Goswell Street, deviando verso Aldermanbury, perdendosi nel quartiere del Barbican, continuando a sbagliare direzione lungo il London Wall e infine finendo per imboccare la Thames Street per un motivo che sarebbe stato davvero sorprendente se avesse avuto anche solo il minimo desiderio o motivo di andarci – alla fine si ritrovò proprio vicino al Monumento.

L’Uomo nel Monumento era per Tom un essere altrettanto misterioso quanto l’Uomo sulla >Luna. Gli venne immediatamente in mente che quella creatura solitaria, che si teneva alla larga da tutta l’umanità all’interno di quel pilastro, come un vecchio eremita, fosse proprio la persona a cui chiedere indicazioni. Forse era freddo, forse provava poca simpatia per le passioni umane, il pilastro sembrava troppo alto per questo. Ma se la >Verità non viveva alla base del Monumento, allora nonostante il verso del Papa riguardante la sua esterna superficie, dove, a >Londra, avrebbe mai potuto essere trovata?

Avvicinandosi molto al pilastro, Tom fu molto incoraggiato nel scoprire che l’Uomo del Monumento aveva gusti semplici; nonostante la sua dimora fosse di pietra e artificiale, conservava ancora alcuni ricordi rustici; gli piacevano le piante, appendeva gabbie per uccelli, non era completamente separato dalla natura, e teneva alberelli in vasi. L’Uomo del Monumento stesso stava seduto fuori dalla porta, la sua porta: la porta del Monumento, che idea grandiosa! E in realtà stava sbadigliando, come se non ci fosse alcun Monumento a impedirgli di farlo, né a fornire un interesse perpetuo alla sua stessa esistenza.

Tom stava avanzando verso questa straordinaria creatura per chiedere indicazioni su come raggiungere l’Osteria Furnival’s Inn, quando due persone arrivarono per ammirare il Monumento. Erano un gentiluomo e una signora; il gentiluomo chiese: “Quanto costa pezzo?”

“L’uomo nel monumento rispose: ‘Un conciatore.’”

Sembrava un’espressione banale, rispetto al Monumento.

Il gentiluomo gli mise una sterlina in mano, e l’Uomo del Monumento aprì una piccola porta scura. Quando il gentiluomo e la signora furono fuori dalla vista, lui la richiuse e tornò lentamente alla sua sedia.

Si sedette e rise.

“Non sanno quanti passi ci siano!” disse. “Vale il doppio del prezzo fermarsi qui. Oh, mio Dio!”

L’Uomo del Monumento era un Cinico, un uomo mondano! Tom non poteva seguire il suo modo di fare. Era pronto a non fidarsi assolutamente di nulla di ciò che diceva.

“Mia cara!” esclamò una voce ben conosciuta dietro il signor Pinch. “Davvero, è proprio lei!”

Nello stesso momento, qualcuno lo punse sulla schiena con un ombrello. Girandosi per chiedere spiegazioni, vide la figlia maggiore del suo defunto protettore.

“Signorina Pecksniff!”, disse Tom.

“Ma mio Dio, signor Pinch!”, esclamò Cherry. “Cosa ci fa qui?”

“Mi sono un po’ allontanato dal percorso giusto,” disse Tom. “Io, ”

“Spero che tu sia scappato,” disse Charity. “Sarebbe davvero coraggioso e appropriato da parte tua, soprattutto considerando come si sta comportando mio padre.”

“L’ho lasciato,” rispose Tom. “Ma entrambe le parti erano perfettamente d’accordo. Non è stato fatto di nascosto.”

“È sposato?”, chiese Cherry, scuotendo spasmodicamente il mento.

“No, ancora no,” disse Tom, arrossendo; “a dire la verità, non credo che sia probabile che accada, se, se la signorina Graham è l’oggetto della sua passione.”

“Ah, signor Pinch!” esclamò Carità con una marcata impazienza, “vi lasciate ingannare troppo facilmente. Non conoscete le astuzie di cui è capace una creatura del genere. Oh! Questo mondo è davvero malvagio.”

“Non sei sposato?”, chiese Tom, per cambiare argomento della conversazione.

“N-no!” disse Cherry, indicando con l’estremità del suo ombrello un particolare ciottolo del cortile Monument Yard. “M-ma davvero è impossibile spiegarlo. Non vuoi entrare?”

“Quindi vivi qui?” disse Tom.

“Sì,” rispose la signorina Pecksniff, indicando con il suo ombrello la casa dei Todgers; “al momento abito con questa signora.”

La forte enfasi su queste ultime due parole fece capire a Tom che si aspettava da lui che dicesse qualcosa al loro riguardo. Così lo fece.

“Solo adesso! Tornerai a >casa presto?”

“No, signor Pinch,” rispose Charity. “No, grazie. No! Una suocera che sia più giovane di. Voglio dire, che abbia più o meno la stessa età della propria figlia, non mi andrebbe affatto a genio. Assolutamente no!” disse Cherry, con un brivido pieno di rancore.

“Ho pensato, dal tuo dire ‘al momento attuale’, ” osservò Tom.

“Davvero, sulla mia parola! Non avevo idea che mi avreste pressato così tanto sull’argomento, signor Pinch,” disse Charity arrossendo, “altrimenti non sarei stata così sciocca da accennare a, oh davvero! Non entrerete?”

Tom mentioned, to excuse himself, that he had an appointment in Furnival’s Inn, and that coming from Islington he had taken a few wrong turnings, and arrived at the Monument instead. Miss Pecksniff simpered very much when he asked her if she knew the way to Furnival’s Inn, and at length found courage to reply.

‘A gentleman who is a friend of mine, or at least who is not exactly a friend so much as a sort of acquaintance—Oh upon my word, I hardly know what I say, Mr Pinch; you mustn’t suppose there is any engagement between us; or at least if there is, that it is at all a settled thing as yet—is going to Furnival’s Inn immediately, I believe upon a little business, and I am sure he would be very glad to accompany you, so as to prevent your going wrong again. You had better walk in. You will very likely find my sister Merry here,’ she said with a curious toss of her head, and anything but an agreeable smile.

‘Then, I think, I’ll endeavour to find my way alone,’ said Tom, ‘for I fear she would not be very glad to see me. That unfortunate occurrence, in relation to which you and I had some amicable words together, in private, is not likely to have impressed her with any friendly feeling towards me. Though it really was not my fault.’

‘She has never heard of that, you may depend,’ said Cherry, gathering up the corners of her mouth, and nodding at Tom. ‘I am far from sure that she would bear you any mighty ill will for it, if she had.’

‘You don’t say so?’ cried Tom, who was really concerned by this insinuation.

‘I say nothing,’ said Charity. ‘If I had not already known what shocking things treachery and deceit are in themselves, Mr Pinch, I might perhaps have learnt it from the success they meet with—from the success they meet with.’ Here she smiled as before. ‘But I don’t say anything. On the contrary, I should scorn it. You had better walk in!’

There was something hidden here, which piqued Tom’s interest and troubled his tender heart. When, in a moment’s irresolution, he looked at Charity, he could not but observe a struggle in her face between a sense of triumph and a sense of shame; nor could he but remark how, meeting even his eyes, which she cared so little for, she turned away her own, for all the splenetic defiance in her manner.

An uneasy thought entered Tom’s head; a shadowy misgiving that the altered relations between himself and Pecksniff were somehow to involve an altered knowledge on his part of other people, and were to give him an insight into much of which he had had no previous suspicion. And yet he put no definite construction upon Charity’s proceedings. He certainly had no idea that as he had been the audience and spectator of her mortification, she grasped with eager delight at any opportunity of reproaching her sister with his presence in HER far deeper misery; for he knew nothing of it, and only pictured that sister as the same giddy, careless, trivial creature she always had been, with the same slight estimation of himself which she had never been at the least pains to conceal. In short, he had merely a confused impression that Miss Pecksniff was not quite sisterly or kind; and being curious to set it right, accompanied her as she desired.

The house-door being opened, she went in before Tom, requesting him to follow her; and led the way to the parlour door.

‘Oh, Merry!’ she said, looking in, ‘I am so glad you have not gone home. Who do you think I have met in the street, and brought to see you! Mr Pinch! There. Now you ARE surprised, I am sure!’

Not more surprised than Tom was, when he looked upon her. Not so much. Not half so much.

‘Mr Pinch has left Papa, my dear,’ said Cherry, ‘and his prospects are quite flourishing. I have promised that Augustus, who is going that way, shall escort him to the place he wants. Augustus, my child, where are you?’

With these words Miss Pecksniff screamed her way out of the parlour, calling on Augustus Moddle to appear; and left Tom Pinch alone with her sister.

If she had always been his kindest friend; if she had treated him through all his servitude with such consideration as was never yet received by struggling man; if she had lightened every moment of those many years, and had ever spared and never wounded him; his honest heart could not have swelled before her with a deeper pity, or a purer freedom from all base remembrance than it did then.

‘My gracious me! You are really the last person in the world I should have thought of seeing, I am sure!’

Tom was sorry to hear her speaking in her old manner. He had not expected that. Yet he did not feel it a contradiction that he should be sorry to see her so unlike her old self, and sorry at the same time to hear her speaking in her old manner. The two things seemed quite natural.

‘I wonder you find any gratification in coming to see me. I can’t think what put it in your head. I never had much in seeing you. There was no love lost between us, Mr Pinch, at any time, I think.’

Her bonnet lay beside her on the sofa, and she was very busy with the ribbons as she spoke. Much too busy to be conscious of the work her fingers did.

‘We never quarrelled,’ said Tom.—Tom was right in that, for one person can no more quarrel without an adversary, than one person can play at chess, or fight a duel. ‘I hoped you would be glad to shake hands with an old friend. Don’t let us rake up bygones,’ said Tom. ‘If I ever offended you, forgive me.’

She looked at him for a moment; dropped her bonnet from her hands; spread them before her altered face, and burst into tears.

‘Oh, Mr Pinch!’ she said, ‘although I never used you well, I did believe your nature was forgiving. I did not think you could be cruel.’

She spoke as little like her old self now, for certain, as Tom could possibly have wished. But she seemed to be appealing to him reproachfully, and he did not understand her.

Tom, per scusarsi, disse di avere un appuntamento all’Furnival’s Inn e che, essendo partito da Islington, aveva preso qualche svolta sbagliata, finendo invece al Monument. La signorina Pecksniff sorrise molto quando lui le chiese se conoscesse la strada per l’Furnival’s Inn, e alla fine trovò il coraggio di rispondere.

“Un gentiluomo che è un mio amico, o almeno, non proprio un amico, piuttosto una sorta di conoscente. Oh, perbacco, quasi non so più cosa sto dicendo, signor Pinch; non dovete pensare che ci sia qualche impegno tra noi. O almeno, se c’è, non è ancora nulla di definito. Sta andando immediatamente all’Furnival’s Inn per un piccolo affare, e sono sicura che sarebbe molto felice di accompagnarvi, così da evitare che vi capiti di nuovo qualcosa di sbagliato. È meglio che entriate. Molto probabilmente troverete mia sorella Merry qui,” disse lei, scuotendo la testa in modo strano e con un sorriso tutt’altro che cordiale.

“Allora, penso che proverò a trovare la strada da solo,” disse Tom, “perché temo che lei non sarebbe molto felice di vedermi. Quell’incidente sfortunato, riguardo al quale tu ed io abbiamo avuto qualche conversazione amichevole in privato, probabilmente non le ha lasciato alcun sentimento positivo nei miei confronti. Anche se in realtà non era colpa mia.”

“Non ne ha mai sentito parlare, puoi starne certo,” disse Cherry, sollevando gli angoli della bocca e annuendo verso Tom. “Non sono affatto sicura che le venisse voglia di farti del male per questo, anche se lo avesse fatto.”

“Non dici davvero?” esclamò Tom, che era davvero preoccupato da questa insinuazione.

“Non dico nulla,” disse Charity. “Se non avessi già conosciuto quali cose orribili siano la tradizione e l’inganno in sé, signor Pinch, forse le avrei apprese dal successo che ottengono, dal successo che raccolgono.” Qui sorrise di nuovo come prima. “Ma non dico nulla. Anzi, lo disprezzerei. È meglio che entri!”

C’era qualcosa nascosto qui, che suscitò l’interesse di Tom e turbò il suo tenero cuore. Quando, per un momento di indecisione, guardò Charity, non poté fare a meno di notare una lotta nel suo volto tra un senso di trionfo e uno di vergogna; né poté ignorare come, anche incontrando i suoi occhi, che le importavano così poco, lei distogliesse i propri, nonostante l’aria di sfida ostile nel suo comportamento.

Un pensiero inquietante gli attraversò la mente: un vago sospetto che i cambiamenti nei loro rapporti con Pecksniff potessero implicare un diverso modo di vedere le altre persone, e che questi cambiamenti potessero rivelargli cose di cui prima non aveva mai sospettato. Eppure, non riusciva a dare una spiegazione precisa alle azioni di Charity. Di certo non sapeva che, mentre lui era stato testimone delle sue umiliazioni, lei aveva colto con grande gioia ogni opportunità per rimproverare sua sorella davanti a lui, sfruttando la sua presenza nella sua stessa situazione ancora più tragica; perché lui di tutto questo non sapeva nulla, e immaginava soltanto che sua sorella fosse sempre stata quella stessa creatura frivola, negligente e superficiale, con lo stesso disprezzo per lui che non si era mai nemmeno presa la briga di nascondere. In breve, aveva solo l’impressione confusa che Miss Pecksniff non fosse affatto gentile o premurosa. E, desideroso di chiarire questa situazione, l’aveva seguita come lei desiderava.

La porta di casa si aprì e lei entrò prima di Tom, chiedendogli di seguirla; poi lo guidò verso la porta del salotto.

“Oh, Merry!” disse lei guardando all’interno, “Sono così contenta che tu non sia ancora tornata a casa. Chi pensi che abbia incontrato per strada e portato da te? Il signor Pinch! Ecco. Ora sei davvero sorpresa, ne sono sicura!”

Non più sorpreso di quanto lo fosse Tom quando la guardò. Non proprio. Nemmeno la metà.

“Il signor Pinch ha lasciato papà, caro mio,” disse Cherry, “e le sue prospettive sono davvero promettenti. Ho promesso ad Augustus, che sta andando da quella parte, di accompagnarlo nel posto che desidera. Augustus, mio bambino, dove sei?”

Con queste parole, la signorina Pecksniff gridò uscendo dal salotto, chiamando Augustus Moddle a farsi vedere; e lasciò Tom Pinch da solo con sua sorella.

Se lei fosse sempre stata la sua amica più gentile; se lo avesse trattato, durante tutti quegli anni di difficoltà, con una considerazione che nessun altro uomo avesse mai ricevuto; se avesse resi ogni momento di quegli anni più sereno, risparmiandolo e non ferendolo mai. Il suo cuore onesto non avrebbe potuto provare per lei un’empatia più profonda, né una libertà più pura da qualsiasi pensiero meschino, di quanto ne provasse in quel momento.

“Mio Dio! Sicuramente sei l’ultima persona al mondo che avrei dovuto pensare di incontrare!”

A Tom dispiaceva sentirla parlare nel suo vecchio modo. Non se lo aspettava. Eppure non trovava contraddittorio il fatto che gli dispiacesse vederla così diversa dalla sua vecchia stessa, e allo stesso tempo che gli dispiacesse sentirla parlare nel suo vecchio modo. Le due cose sembravano del tutto naturali.

‘Mi chiedo se provi qualche soddisfazione venendo a trovarmi. Non riesco proprio a capire cosa ti abbia spinto a farlo. Per me, vederti non ha mai significato nulla di particolare. Non c’è mai stata alcuna amore tra noi, signor Pinch. Mai, in nessun momento.’

Il suo cappello giaceva accanto a lei sul divano; mentre parlava, era molto impegnata con i nastri. Troppo impegnata per rendersi conto di ciò che le sue dita stavano facendo.

“Non ci siamo mai scontrati,” disse Tom. In questo aveva ragione: infatti, una persona non può litigare senza un avversario, proprio come non può giocare a scacchi o duellare da sola. “Speravo che fossi felice di stringere la mano a un vecchio amico. Non lasciamo che il passato torni a tormentarci,” aggiunse Tom. “Se ti ho offeso in qualche modo, perdonami.”

Lo guardò per un momento; lasciò cadere il cappello dalle mani, le aprì davanti al proprio viso cambiato e scoppiò in lacrime.

“Oh, signor Pinch!” disse lei, “anche se non vi ho mai fatto davvero buon uso, credevo che la vostra natura fosse indulgente. Non pensavo che poteste essere crudele.”

Ora parlava molto meno come la sua vecchia stessa, sicuramente proprio come Tom avrebbe desiderato. Ma sembrava che lo stesse rimproverando in qualche modo, e lui non riusciva a capirla.

‘I seldom showed it—never—I know that. But I had that belief in you, that if I had been asked to name the person in the world least likely to retort upon me, I would have named you, confidently.’

‘Would have named me!’ Tom repeated.

‘Yes,’ she said with energy, ‘and I have often thought so.’

After a moment’s reflection, Tom sat himself upon a chair beside her.

‘Do you believe,’ said Tom, ‘oh, can you think, that what I said just now, I said with any but the true and plain intention which my words professed? I mean it, in the spirit and the letter. If I ever offended you, forgive me; I may have done so, many times. You never injured or offended me. How, then, could I possibly retort, if even I were stern and bad enough to wish to do it!’

After a little while she thanked him, through her tears and sobs, and told him she had never been at once so sorry and so comforted, since she left home. Still she wept bitterly; and it was the greater pain to Tom to see her weeping, from her standing in especial need, just then, of sympathy and tenderness.

‘Come, come!’ said Tom, ‘you used to be as cheerful as the day was long.’

‘Ah! used!’ she cried, in such a tone as rent Tom’s heart.

‘And will be again,’ said Tom.

‘No, never more. No, never, never more. If you should talk with old Mr Chuzzlewit, at any time,’ she added, looking hurriedly into his face—‘I sometimes thought he liked you, but suppressed it—will you promise me to tell him that you saw me here, and that I said I bore in mind the time we talked together in the churchyard?’

Tom promised that he would.

‘Many times since then, when I have wished I had been carried there before that day, I have recalled his words. I wish that he should know how true they were, although the least acknowledgment to that effect has never passed my lips and never will.’

Tom promised this, conditionally too. He did not tell her how improbable it was that he and the old man would ever meet again, because he thought it might disturb her more.

‘If he should ever know this, through your means, dear Mr Pinch,’ said Mercy, ‘tell him that I sent the message, not for myself, but that he might be more forbearing and more patient, and more trustful to some other person, in some other time of need. Tell him that if he could know how my heart trembled in the balance that day, and what a very little would have turned the scale, his own would bleed with pity for me.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Tom, ‘I will.’

‘When I appeared to him the most unworthy of his help, I was—I know I was, for I have often, often, thought about it since—the most inclined to yield to what he showed me. Oh! if he had relented but a little more; if he had thrown himself in my way for but one other quarter of an hour; if he had extended his compassion for a vain, unthinking, miserable girl, in but the least degree; he might, and I believe he would, have saved her! Tell him that I don’t blame him, but am grateful for the effort that he made; but ask him for the love of God, and youth, and in merciful consideration for the struggle which an ill-advised and unwakened nature makes to hide the strength it thinks its weakness—ask him never, never, to forget this, when he deals with one again!’

Although Tom did not hold the clue to her full meaning, he could guess it pretty nearly. Touched to the quick, he took her hand and said, or meant to say, some words of consolation. She felt and understood them, whether they were spoken or no. He was not quite certain, afterwards, but that she had tried to kneel down at his feet, and bless him.

He found that he was not alone in the room when she had left it. Mrs Todgers was there, shaking her head. Tom had never seen Mrs Todgers, it is needless to say, but he had a perception of her being the lady of the house; and he saw some genuine compassion in her eyes, that won his good opinion.

‘Ah, sir! You are an old friend, I see,’ said Mrs Todgers.

‘Yes,’ said Tom.

‘And yet,’ quoth Mrs Todgers, shutting the door softly, ‘she hasn’t told you what her troubles are, I’m certain.’

Tom was struck by these words, for they were quite true. ‘Indeed,’ he said, ‘she has not.’

‘And never would,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘if you saw her daily. She never makes the least complaint to me, or utters a single word of explanation or reproach. But I know,’ said Mrs Todgers, drawing in her breath, ‘I know!’

Tom nodded sorrowfully, ‘So do I.’

‘I fully believe,’ said Mrs Todgers, taking her pocket-handkerchief from the flat reticule, ‘that nobody can tell one half of what that poor young creature has to undergo. But though she comes here, constantly, to ease her poor full heart without his knowing it; and saying, “Mrs Todgers, I am very low to-day; I think that I shall soon be dead,” sits crying in my room until the fit is past; I know no more from her. And, I believe,’ said Mrs Todgers, putting back her handkerchief again, ‘that she considers me a good friend too.’

Mrs Todgers might have said her best friend. Commercial gentlemen and gravy had tried Mrs Todgers’s temper; the main chance—it was such a very small one in her case, that she might have been excused for looking sharp after it, lest it should entirely vanish from her sight—had taken a firm hold on Mrs Todgers’s attention. But in some odd nook in Mrs Todgers’s breast, up a great many steps, and in a corner easy to be overlooked, there was a secret door, with ‘Woman’ written on the spring, which, at a touch from Mercy’s hand, had flown wide open, and admitted her for shelter.

When boarding-house accounts are balanced with all other ledgers, and the books of the Recording Angel are made up for ever, perhaps there may be seen an entry to thy credit, lean Mrs Todgers, which shall make thee beautiful!

She was growing beautiful so rapidly in Tom’s eyes; for he saw that she was poor, and that this good had sprung up in her from among the sordid strivings of her life; that she might have been a very Venus in a minute more, if Miss Pecksniff had not entered with her friend.

“Raramente lo mostravo, mai, lo so bene. Ma avevo fiducia in te: se mi avessero chiesto di nominare la persona al mondo meno probabile a contrariarmi, avrei indicato te, con sicurezza.”

“Avrebbe dovuto chiamarmi così!”, ripeté Tom.

“Sì,” disse con energia, “e spesso l’ho pensato anch’io.”

Dopo un momento di riflessione, Tom si sedette su una sedia accanto a lei.

“Credi davvero,” disse Tom, “oh, riesci a pensare che quello che ho appena detto l’abbia detto con altro scopo se non quello sincero e chiaro che le mie parole dichiaravano? Lo intendo davvero, nel senso letterale e spirituale delle parole. Se ti ho offeso in qualche modo, perdonami; forse l’ho fatto molte volte. Tu non mi hai mai ferito o offeso. Allora, come potrei mai ribattere, anche se fossi abbastanza duro e cattivo da volerlo fare?”

Dopo un po’ gli ringraziò, tra le sue lacrime e i suoi singhiozzi, e gli disse che non si era mai sentita allo stesso tempo così dispiaciuta e così consolata da quando aveva lasciato casa. Tuttavia continuava a piangere amaramente; per Tom era ancora più doloroso vederla piangere, soprattutto perché in quel momento aveva particolarmente bisogno di comprensione e tenerezza.

“Vieni, vieni!”, disse Tom, “una volta eri sempre così allegro, ”.

“Ah! Usata!” gridò lei, con un tono che spezzò il cuore di Tom.

“E lo sarà di nuovo,” disse Tom.

“No, mai più. No, assolutamente mai più. Se doveste parlare con il vecchio signor Chuzzlewit, in qualsiasi momento, ” aggiunse, guardandolo con fretta negli occhi, “A volte pensavo che gli piaceste, ma ho nascosto quel pensiero. Mi prometterete di dirgli che mi avete vista qui e che ho ricordato il momento in cui abbiamo parlato insieme nel cimitero?”

Tom promise che lo avrebbe fatto.

“Molte volte da allora, quando ho desiderato di essere stato portato lì prima di quel giorno, ho ricordato le sue parole. Vorrei che sapesse quanto fossero vere, anche se mai una parola in merito è uscita dalle mie labbra, e non uscirà mai.”

Tom lo promise, anche se a condizione che. Non le disse quanto fosse improbabile che lui e l’uomo anziano si incontrassero di nuovo, perché pensava che questo potesse disturbarla ancora di più.

“Se mai dovesse scoprirlo, attraverso i tuoi mezzi, caro signor Pinch,” disse Mercy, “digli che sono stata io ad inviare quel messaggio, non per me stessa, ma affinché possa essere più tollerante e paziente, e più fiducioso verso un’altra persona, in un altro momento di bisogno. Digli che se solo potesse sapere quanto tremasse il mio cuore quel giorno, e quanto poco ci sarebbe voluto per cambiare le cose, il suo cuore si riempirebbe di pietà per me.”

“Sì, sì,” disse Tom, “lo farò.”

“Quando gli apparvi la persona meno meritevole del suo aiuto, in realtà ero, so di esserlo stata, perché ne ho pensato spesso da allora, la più propensa ad arrendermi a ciò che lui mi aveva mostrato. Oh! se solo si fosse arreso un po’ di più; se solo fosse rimasto al mio fianco anche per un altro quarto d’ora; se solo avesse esteso la sua compassione verso una ragazza vana, incauta e miserabile, anche solo di poco. Avrebbe potuto, e credo che avrebbe davvero salvato lei! Ditegli che non lo biasimo, ma sono grata per gli sforzi che ha fatto; però chiedetegli l’amore di Dio, della gioventù. E, per pietà, considerando la lotta che una natura imprudente e ignara compie per nascondere ciò che ritiene essere debolezza. Chiedetegli di non dimenticarlo mai più, quando dovrà affrontare un’altra situazione simile!”

Anche se Tom non conosceva il vero significato di quelle parole, riusciva comunque a indovinarlo quasi del tutto. Commosso fino alle lacrime, le prese la mano e disse, o cercò di dire, alcune parole di conforto. Lei le percepì e le capì, anche se non venivano pronunciate ad alta voce. In seguito, Tom non ne fu del tutto sicuro, ma pensava che lei avesse cercato di inginocchiarsi ai suoi piedi per benedirlo.

Scoprì di non essere solo nella stanza quando lei se n’era andata. C’era la signora Todgers, che scuoteva la testa. Tom non aveva mai visto la signora Todgers, è ovvio, ma intuiva che fosse la padrona di casa; inoltre notò nel suo sguardo una vera compassione, il che gli fece guadagnare la sua stima.

“Ah, signore! Vedo che è un vecchio amico,” disse la signora Todgers.

“Sì,” disse Tom.

“Eppure,” disse la signora Todgers, chiudendo la porta dolcemente, “sono sicura che non vi abbia raccontato quali siano i suoi problemi.”

“Tom rimase colpito da queste parole, perché erano assolutamente vere. ‘Davvero,’ disse, ‘non l’ha fatto.’”

“E mai lo farebbe,” disse la signora Todgers, “se la vedessi tutti i giorni. Non mi fa mai la minima lamentele, né pronuncia una parola di spiegazione o rimprovero. Ma so,” aggiunse la signora Todgers, trattenendo il respiro, “so!”

“Anch’io lo penso,” disse Tom con tristezza.

“Credo fermamente,” disse la signora Todgers, prendendo il fazzoletto di tasca dal reticolo, “che nessuno possa immaginare nemmeno la metà di ciò che quella povera giovane deve sopportare. Anche se viene qui spesso, per alleviare il dolore nel suo cuore pieno di sofferenza senza che lui lo sappia; e dice: ‘Signora Todgers, oggi mi sento molto male. Penso che presto morirò’, poi si siede nella mia stanza a piangere finché la crisi non passa. Non so altro su di lei. E credo,” aggiunse la signora Todgers, riponendo il fazzoletto, “che anche lei mi consideri una buona amica.”

La signora Todgers avrebbe potuto definire quella donna la sua migliore amica. Gentiluomini d’affari e cibi deliziosi avevano già messo alla prova il suo carattere; l’unica vera possibilità – una possibilità davvero remota, nel suo caso – di preservare quel rapporto era proprio ciò che lei cercava disperatamente di mantenere, per evitare che svanisse del tutto dalla sua vita. Quella possibilità aveva conquistato con forza l’attenzione della signora Todgers. Ma in qualche angolo nascosto del suo cuore, in un luogo facilmente trascurabile, c’era una porta segreta, sulla cui maniglia era scritto “Donna”. Con un semplice tocco della mano di Mercy, quella porta si aprì immediatamente, offrendole rifugio.

Quando i conti della casa di accoglienza sono in pareggio con tutti gli altri registri contabili, e i libri dell’Angelo Registratore sono completati per sempre, forse si potrà trovare un voto a tuo favore, cara signora Todgers, che ti renderà davvero bella!

A occhi di Tom, lei diventava sempre più bella; lui vedeva infatti che era povera, e che questa bellezza era nata dalle difficoltà e dalle sofferenze della sua vita; avrebbe potuto diventare davvero una vera >Venere in un attimo, se solo la signorina Pecksniff non fosse arrivata con la sua amica.

‘Mr Thomas Pinch!’ said Charity, performing the ceremony of introduction with evident pride. ‘Mr Moddle. Where’s my sister?’

‘Gone, Miss Pecksniff,’ Mrs Todgers answered. ‘She had appointed to be home.’

‘Ah!’ said Charity, looking at Tom. ‘Oh, dear me!’

‘She’s greatly altered since she’s been Anoth—since she’s been married, Mrs Todgers!’ observed Moddle.

‘My dear Augustus!’ said Miss Pecksniff, in a low voice. ‘I verily believe you have said that fifty thousand times, in my hearing. What a Prose you are!’

This was succeeded by some trifling love passages, which appeared to originate with, if not to be wholly carried on by Miss Pecksniff. At any rate, Mr Moddle was much slower in his responses than is customary with young lovers, and exhibited a lowness of spirits which was quite oppressive.

He did not improve at all when Tom and he were in the streets, but sighed so dismally that it was dreadful to hear him. As a means of cheering him up, Tom told him that he wished him joy.

‘Joy!’ cried Moddle. ‘Ha, ha!’

‘What an extraordinary young man!’ thought Tom.

‘The Scorner has not set his seal upon you. YOU care what becomes of you?’ said Moddle.

Tom admitted that it was a subject in which he certainly felt some interest.

‘I don’t,’ said Mr Moddle. ‘The Elements may have me when they please. I’m ready.’

Tom inferred from these, and other expressions of the same nature, that he was jealous. Therefore he allowed him to take his own course; which was such a gloomy one, that he felt a load removed from his mind when they parted company at the gate of Furnival’s Inn.

It was now a couple of hours past John Westlock’s dinner-time; and he was walking up and down the room, quite anxious for Tom’s safety. The table was spread; the wine was carefully decanted; and the dinner smelt delicious.

‘Why, Tom, old boy, where on earth have you been? Your box is here. Get your boots off instantly, and sit down!’

‘I am sorry to say I can’t stay, John,’ replied Tom Pinch, who was breathless with the haste he had made in running up the stairs.

‘Can’t stay!’

‘If you’ll go on with your dinner,’ said Tom, ‘I’ll tell you my reason the while. I mustn’t eat myself, or I shall have no appetite for the chops.’

‘There are no chops here, my food fellow.’

‘No. But there are at Islington,’ said Tom.

John Westlock was perfectly confounded by this reply, and vowed he would not touch a morsel until Tom had explained himself fully. So Tom sat down, and told him all; to which he listened with the greatest interest.

He knew Tom too well, and respected his delicacy too much, to ask him why he had taken these measures without communicating with him first. He quite concurred in the expediency of Tom’s immediately returning to his sister, as he knew so little of the place in which he had left her, and good-humouredly proposed to ride back with him in a cab, in which he might convey his box. Tom’s proposition that he should sup with them that night, he flatly rejected, but made an appointment with him for the morrow. ‘And now Tom,’ he said, as they rode along, ‘I have a question to ask you to which I expect a manly and straightforward answer. Do you want any money? I am pretty sure you do.’

‘I don’t indeed,’ said Tom.

‘I believe you are deceiving me.’

‘No. With many thanks to you, I am quite in earnest,’ Tom replied. ‘My sister has some money, and so have I. If I had nothing else, John, I have a five-pound note, which that good creature, Mrs Lupin, of the Dragon, handed up to me outside the coach, in a letter begging me to borrow it; and then drove off as hard as she could go.’

‘And a blessing on every dimple in her handsome face, say I!’ cried John, ‘though why you should give her the preference over me, I don’t know. Never mind. I bide my time, Tom.’

‘And I hope you’ll continue to bide it,’ returned Tom, gayly. ‘For I owe you more, already, in a hundred other ways, than I can ever hope to pay.’

They parted at the door of Tom’s new residence. John Westlock, sitting in the cab, and, catching a glimpse of a blooming little busy creature darting out to kiss Tom and to help him with his box, would not have had the least objection to change places with him.

Well! she WAS a cheerful little thing; and had a quaint, bright quietness about her that was infinitely pleasant. Surely she was the best sauce for chops ever invented. The potatoes seemed to take a pleasure in sending up their grateful steam before her; the froth upon the pint of porter pouted to attract her notice. But it was all in vain. She saw nothing but Tom. Tom was the first and last thing in the world.

As she sat opposite to Tom at supper, fingering one of Tom’s pet tunes upon the table-cloth, and smiling in his face, he had never been so happy in his life.

“Signor Thomas Pinch!”, disse Carità, eseguendo la cerimonia di presentazione con evidente orgoglio. “Signor Moddle. Dov’è mia sorella?”

“Se n’è andata, signorina Pecksniff,” rispose la signora Todgers. “Aveva deciso di tornare a casa.”

“Ah!” disse Carità, guardando Tom. “Oh, mio Dio!”

“È cambiata molto da quando è diventata Anoth, da quando si è sposata, la signora Todgers!” osservò Moddle.

“Mio caro Augustus!”, disse la signorina Pecksniff a bassa voce. “Credo davvero che tu l’abbia detto cinquantamila volte, davanti ai miei occhi. Che prosatore sei!”

A questo seguirono alcuni brevi passaggi d’amore, che sembravano nascere, se non essere interamente scritti, da Miss Pecksniff. Comunque sia, le risposte del signor Moddle erano molto più lente di quanto sia consueto tra i giovani innamorati, e mostrava un umore così depresso da risultare davvero opprimente.

Non migliorò affatto quando era per le strade con Tom, ma sospirava in modo così triste che era terribile sentirlo. Per cercare di rallegrarlo, Tom gli disse che gli augurava gioia.

“Giù!”, gridò Moddle. “Ahah!”

“Che giovane straordinario!” pensò Tom.

“Lo Sprezzatore non ha ancora messo il suo sigillo su di te. Ti importa davvero cosa ti succederà?” disse Moddle.

Tom ammise che si trattava di un argomento su cui certamente provava un certo interesse.

“Non lo farò,” disse il signor Moddle. “Gli Elementi possono prendermi quando vogliono. Sono pronto.”

Tom dedusse, da queste e altre espressioni della stessa natura, che quell’uomo era geloso. Per questo motivo gli permise di seguire la sua strada; una strada così cupa, che si sentì sollevato quando si separarono alla porta dell’Osteria Furnival’s Inn.

Erano già passate un paio di ore dalla cena di John Westlock; camminava avanti e indietro nella stanza, molto preoccupato per la sicurezza di Tom. La tavola era imbandita; il vino era stato versato con cura; e il cibo profumava deliziosamente.

“Ma dove diavolo sei stato, Tom, vecchio mio? La tua scatola è qui. Togli subito le scarpe e siediti!”

“Mi dispiace molto, ma non posso restare, John,” rispose Tom Pinch, che era senza fiato per la fretta con cui aveva corso su per le scale.

“Non riesco a restare!”

“Se continui a mangiare la tua cena,” disse Tom, “ti spiegherò il motivo nel frattempo. Non posso mangiarmi tutto da solo, altrimenti non avrò più appetito per le costolette.”

“Qui non ci sono tagli di carne, amico mio.”

“No. Ma ce ne sono ad Islington,” disse Tom.

John Westlock rimase completamente perplesso da questa risposta e giurò che non avrebbe mangiato nulla finché Tom non si fosse spiegato del tutto. Così Tom si sedette e gli raccontò tutta la storia; John ascoltò con grande interesse.

Conosceva Tom troppo bene e rispettava troppo la sua delicatezza per chiedergli perché avesse preso quelle misure senza prima consultarlo. Concordava pienamente sull’opportunità che Tom tornasse immediatamente da sua sorella, poiché conosceva molto poco il luogo in cui l’aveva lasciata; e propose gentilmente di accompagnarlo in taxi, così da poter trasportare anche la sua valigia. Rifiutò categoricamente l’offerta di Tom di cenare con loro quella sera, ma fissò un appuntamento per il giorno seguente. “E ora, Tom,” disse mentre viaggiavano, “ho una domanda da farti e mi aspetto una risposta onesta e diretta. Hai bisogno di soldi? Sono abbastanza sicuro di sì.”

“Infatti no,” disse Tom.

“Credo che tu stia cercando di ingannarmi.”

“No. Grazie mille, parlo sul serio,” rispose Tom. “Mia sorella ha un po’ di soldi, e anch’io ne ho. Anche se non avessi nient’altro, John, ho una banconota da cinque sterline che quella brava donna, la signora Lupin del Dragon, mi ha dato fuori dalla stazione, insieme a una lettera in cui mi chiedeva di prenderla in prestito; poi se ne è andata il più velocemente possibile.”

“E che ogni fossetta sul suo bel viso sia benedetta, lo dico io!” esclamò John, “anche se non so proprio perché dovresti preferirla a me. Lascia stare. Aspetterò il mio turno, Tom.”

“E spero che tu continui ad aspettare,” rispose Tom, felice. “Perché ti devo ancora molto, in centinaia di altri modi, più di quanto possa mai sperare di ripagarti.”

Si separarono alla porta della nuova residenza di Tom. John Westlock, seduto nell’auto, e avendo intravisto una piccola creatura vivace e impegnata uscire di corsa per baciare Tom e aiutarlo con la scatola, non avrebbe avuto alcuna obiezione a scambiarsi i posti con lui.

Beh! Era davvero una persona allegra e vivace; possedeva una tranquillità particolare, dolce e luminosa, che era infinitamente piacevole. Di certo, era il “condimento” perfetto per le costine. Le patate sembravano divertirsi a emettere il loro vapore grato davanti a lei; la schiuma sulla pinta di birra cercava in tutti i modi di attirare la sua attenzione. Ma tutto era inutile: lei vedeva solo Tom. Tom era l’unica cosa che contasse al mondo per lei.

Mentre sedeva di fronte a Tom a cena, accarezzando una delle canzoni preferite di Tom sulla tovaglia e sorridendogli, lui non si era mai sentito così felice in vita sua.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

SECRET SERVICE

In walking from the city with his sentimental friend, Tom Pinch had looked into the face, and brushed against the threadbare sleeve, of Mr Nadgett, man of mystery to the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company. Mr Nadgett naturally passed away from Tom’s remembrance as he passed out of his view; for he didn’t know him, and had never heard his name.

As there are a vast number of people in the huge metropolis of England who rise up every morning not knowing where their heads will rest at night, so there are a multitude who shooting arrows over houses as their daily business, never know on whom they fall. Mr Nadgett might have passed Tom Pinch ten thousand times; might even have been quite familiar with his face, his name, pursuits, and character; yet never once have dreamed that Tom had any interest in any act or mystery of his. Tom might have done the like by him of course. But the same private man out of all the men alive, was in the mind of each at the same moment; was prominently connected though in a different manner, with the day’s adventures of both; and formed, when they passed each other in the street, the one absorbing topic of their thoughts.

Why Tom had Jonas Chuzzlewit in his mind requires no explanation. Why Mr Nadgett should have had Jonas Chuzzlewit in his, is quite another thing.

But, somehow or other, that amiable and worthy orphan had become a part of the mystery of Mr Nadgett’s existence. Mr Nadgett took an interest in his lightest proceedings; and it never flagged or wavered. He watched him in and out of the Assurance Office, where he was now formally installed as a Director; he dogged his footsteps in the streets; he stood listening when he talked; he sat in coffee-rooms entering his name in the great pocket-book, over and over again; he wrote letters to himself about him constantly; and, when he found them in his pocket, put them in the fire, with such distrust and caution that he would bend down to watch the crumpled tinder while it floated upwards, as if his mind misgave him, that the mystery it had contained might come out at the chimney-pot.

And yet all this was quite a secret. Mr Nadgett kept it to himself, and kept it close. Jonas had no more idea that Mr Nadgett’s eyes were fixed on him, than he had that he was living under the daily inspection and report of a whole order of Jesuits. Indeed Mr Nadgett’s eyes were seldom fixed on any other objects than the ground, the clock, or the fire; but every button on his coat might have been an eye, he saw so much.

The secret manner of the man disarmed suspicion in this wise; suggesting, not that he was watching any one, but that he thought some other man was watching him. He went about so stealthily, and kept himself so wrapped up in himself, that the whole object of his life appeared to be, to avoid notice and preserve his own mystery. Jonas sometimes saw him in the street, hovering in the outer office, waiting at the door for the man who never came, or slinking off with his immovable face and drooping head, and the one beaver glove dangling before him; but he would as soon have thought of the cross upon the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral taking note of what he did, or slowly winding a great net about his feet, as of Nadgett’s being engaged in such an occupation.

Mr Nadgett made a mysterious change about this time in his mysterious life: for whereas he had, until now, been first seen every morning coming down Cornhill, so exactly like the Nadgett of the day before as to occasion a popular belief that he never went to bed or took his clothes off, he was now first seen in Holborn, coming out of Kingsgate Street; and it was soon discovered that he actually went every morning to a barber’s shop in that street to get shaved; and that the barber’s name was Sweedlepipe. He seemed to make appointments with the man who never came, to meet him at this barber’s; for he would frequently take long spells of waiting in the shop, and would ask for pen and ink, and pull out his pocket-book, and be very busy over it for an hour at a time. Mrs Gamp and Mr Sweedlepipe had many deep discoursings on the subject of this mysterious customer; but they usually agreed that he had speculated too much and was keeping out of the way.

He must have appointed the man who never kept his word, to meet him at another new place too; for one day he was found, for the first time, by the waiter at the Mourning Coach-Horse, the House-of-call for Undertakers, down in the City there, making figures with a pipe-stem in the sawdust of a clean spittoon; and declining to call for anything, on the ground of expecting a gentleman presently. As the gentleman was not honourable enough to keep his engagement, he came again next day, with his pocket-book in such a state of distention that he was regarded in the bar as a man of large property. After that, he repeated his visits every day, and had so much writing to do, that he made nothing of emptying a capacious leaden inkstand in two sittings. Although he never talked much, still, by being there among the regular customers, he made their acquaintance, and in course of time became quite intimate with Mr Tacker, Mr Mould’s foreman; and even with Mr Mould himself, who openly said he was a long-headed man, a dry one, a salt fish, a deep file, a rasper; and made him the subject of many other flattering encomiums.

At the same time, too, he told the people at the Assurance Office, in his own mysterious way, that there was something wrong (secretly wrong, of course) in his liver, and that he feared he must put himself under the doctor’s hands. He was delivered over to Jobling upon this representation; and though Jobling could not find out where his liver was wrong, wrong Mr Nadgett said it was; observing that it was his own liver, and he hoped he ought to know. Accordingly, he became Mr Jobling’s patient; and detailing his symptoms in his slow and secret way, was in and out of that gentleman’s room a dozen times a day.

CAPITOLO TRENTA OTTO

Servizio Segreto

Camminando fuori dalla città insieme al suo amico sentimentale, Tom Pinch incrociò il signor Nadgett, un uomo misterioso per la Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company. Tom Pinch guardò il suo volto e sfiorò la manica logora del signor Nadgett; tuttavia, quest’ultimo naturalmente svanì dalla sua memoria non appena uscì dal suo campo visivo, perché Tom Pinch non lo conosceva e non aveva mai sentito il suo nome.

Poiché nella vasta metropoli dell’Inghilterra ci sono molte persone che ogni mattina si alzano senza sapere dove riposeranno la testa di notte, ce ne sono anche molte altre il cui compito quotidiano consiste nel lanciare frecce sopra le case, senza mai sapere su chi queste frecce possano cadere. Il signor Nadgett avrebbe potuto incrociare Tom Pinch diecimila volte; avrebbe persino potuto conoscerlo bene, conoscere il suo volto, il suo nome, le sue attività e il suo carattere; eppure non avrebbe mai immaginato che Tom potesse essere interessato a qualche azione o mistero legati a lui. Naturalmente, anche Tom avrebbe potuto fare lo stesso con lui. Ma quel singolo individuo, tra tutte le persone viventi, era presente nella mente di entrambi nello stesso momento; era strettamente collegato, sebbene in modo diverso, alle avventure quotidiane di entrambi; e quando si incrociavano per strada, rappresentava l’unico argomento di conversazione tra loro.

Perché Tom avesse Jonas Chuzzlewit in mente non richiede spiegazioni. Ma perché il signor Nadgett dovesse averlo anch’egli in mente, è tutta un’altra questione.

Ma, in qualche modo o per qualche ragione, quel gentile e meritevole orfano era diventato parte del mistero che circondava l’esistenza di Mr Nadgett. Quest’ultimo seguiva con interesse ogni sua minima azione, senza mai perdere interesse o vacillare nelle sue attenzioni. Lo osservava entrare e uscire dall’Ufficio Assicurazioni, dove ormai era stato formalmente nominato Direttore; lo seguiva per le strade; ascoltava attentamente quando parlava; lo vedeva seduto nei caffè, mentre scriveva il suo nome ripetutamente nel grande taccuino; gli scriveva lettere su di lui in continuazione; e, quando le trovava in tasca, le gettava nel fuoco, con tale diffidenza e cautela che si chinava a osservare i pezzetti di carta mentre bruciavano, come se temesse che il mistero che contenevano potesse uscire fuori dal camino.

Eppure tutto questo era un segreto assoluto. Il signor Nadgett lo teneva per sé, con grande discrezione. Jonas non aveva la minima idea che gli occhi del signor Nadgett fossero fissi su di lui, proprio come non sapeva di essere sotto l’osservazione e il controllo quotidiano di un intero ordine di gesuiti. Infatti, gli occhi del signor Nadgett raramente si posavano su altro che il pavimento, l’orologio o il >focolare; ma ogni bottone della sua giacca avrebbe potuto essere un “occhio”, tanto era attento a tutto ciò che lo circondava.

Il modo segreto di quell’uomo dissipava ogni sospetto: non dava l’impressione di stare osservando qualcuno, ma sembrava piuttosto ritenere che fosse un altro ad osservarlo lui. Si muoveva con estrema cautela, immerso nei propri pensieri, tanto che l’unico scopo della sua vita pareva essere quello di evitare di essere notato e di mantenere il proprio mistero. A volte Jonas lo vedeva per strada, aggirarsi nell’ufficio esterno, aspettare alla porta quell’uomo che non arrivava mai, o allontanarsi con il suo volto immobile e la testa bassa, quella sola mano guantata dondolante davanti a lui; ma avrebbe pensato altrettanto facilmente che fosse la croce sulla cima della cattedrale di San Paolo ad osservare le sue azioni, o che qualcuno stesse lentamente tendendo una grande rete intorno ai suoi piedi, piuttosto che che Nadgett si dedicasse a un simile compito.

A quell’ora, il signor Nadgett fece un cambiamento misterioso nella sua vita enigmatica: mentre fino ad allora veniva sempre visto ogni mattina scendere da Cornhill, identico in tutto al Nadgett del giorno precedente, al punto da far credere alla gente che non andasse mai a letto o si togliesse i vestiti, ora lo si vedeva per la prima volta a Holborn, uscire da Kingsgate Street. Presto si scoprì che ogni mattina andava in un negozio di barbiere di quella strada per farsi radere; il nome del barbiere era Sweedlepipe. Sembra che avesse preso appuntamenti con quell’uomo che, in realtà, non si presentava mai; spesso aspettava a lungo nel negozio, chiedeva penna e inchiostro, tirava fuori il portafoglio e se ne occupava per un’ora intera. La signora Gamp e il signor Sweedlepipe discutevano spesso su questo misterioso cliente, ma di solito concordavano sul fatto che avesse speculato troppo e stesse semplicemente evitando di farsi vedere in giro.

Deve aver incaricato proprio quell’uomo che non manteneva mai le sue promesse di incontrarlo in un altro luogo nuovo; perché un giorno fu trovato, per la prima volta, dal cameriere del “Mourning Coach-Horse”, quella casa di servizi funebri situata nella >Città. Stava disegnando figure con il gambo di una pipa nella polvere di un posacenere pulito, rifiutandosi di ordinare qualsiasi cosa, in attesa dell’arrivo di un certo gentiluomo. Poiché quel gentiluomo non fu abbastanza onesto da mantenere la sua promessa, tornò il giorno seguente. Il suo portafoglio era così gonfio che, nel bar, venne considerato una persona molto ricca. Dopo di allora, continuò a fare visite ogni giorno; aveva così tante cose da scrivere che riuscì a svuotare un’intera boccetta d’inchiostro in due soli tentativi. Anche se non parlava molto, essendo sempre tra i clienti abituali, finì per conoscere loro bene. E con il passare del tempo divenne addirittura molto intimo di Mr Tacker, il caposquadra di Mr Mould; e persino di Mr Mould stesso, che lo definì apertamente un uomo “lungimirante”, “asciutto come una salamandra”, “aspro come una lima”, “ruvido come uno strigilo”. E gli rivolse molte altre lodi piacevoli.

Nello stesso momento, raccontò anche alle persone dell’Ufficio Assicurazioni, nel suo solito modo misterioso, che c’era qualcosa che non andava (naturalmente qualcosa di segreto) nel suo fegato, e temeva di dover affidarsi alle cure del medico. Su queste dichiarazioni, fu affidato a Jobling; e sebbene Jobling non riuscisse a capire esattamente in che parte del fegato ci fosse il problema, il signor Nadgett sosteneva che fosse proprio lì, aggiungendo che si trattava del suo stesso fegato e quindi doveva esserne a conoscenza. Così, divenne paziente di Jobling; descrivendo i suoi sintomi in modo lento e riservato, entrava e usciva dalla stanza di quel signore una dozzina di volte al giorno.

As he pursued all these occupations at once; and all steadily; and all secretly; and never slackened in his watchfulness of everything that Mr Jonas said and did, and left unsaid and undone; it is not improbable that they were, secretly, essential parts of some great scheme which Mr Nadgett had on foot.

It was on the morning of this very day on which so much had happened to Tom Pinch, that Nadgett suddenly appeared before Mr Montague’s house in Pall Mall—he always made his appearance as if he had that moment come up a trap—when the clocks were striking nine. He rang the bell in a covert under-handed way, as though it were a treasonable act; and passed in at the door, the moment it was opened wide enough to receive his body. That done, he shut it immediately with his own hands.

Mr Bailey, taking up his name without delay, returned with a request that he would follow him into his master’s chamber. The chairman of the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Board was dressing, and received him as a business person who was often backwards and forwards, and was received at all times for his business’ sake.

‘Well, Mr Nadgett?’

Mr Nadgett put his hat upon the ground and coughed. The boy having withdrawn and shut the door, he went to it softly, examined the handle, and returned to within a pace or two of the chair in which Mr Montague sat.

‘Any news, Mr Nadgett?’

‘I think we have some news at last, sir.’

‘I am happy to hear it. I began to fear you were off the scent, Mr Nadgett.’

‘No, sir. It grows cold occasionally. It will sometimes. We can’t help that.’

‘You are truth itself, Mr Nadgett. Do you report a great success?’

‘That depends upon your judgment and construction of it,’ was his answer, as he put on his spectacles.

‘What do you think of it yourself? Have you pleased yourself?’

Mr Nadgett rubbed his hands slowly, stroked his chin, looked round the room, and said, ‘Yes, yes, I think it’s a good case. I am disposed to think it’s a good case. Will you go into it at once?’

‘By all means.’

Mr Nadgett picked out a certain chair from among the rest, and having planted it in a particular spot, as carefully as if he had been going to vault over it, placed another chair in front of it; leaving room for his own legs between them. He then sat down in chair number two, and laid his pocket-book, very carefully, on chair number one. He then untied the pocket-book, and hung the string over the back of chair number one. He then drew both the chairs a little nearer Mr Montague, and opening the pocket-book spread out its contents. Finally he selected a certain memorandum from the rest, and held it out to his employer, who, during the whole of these preliminary ceremonies, had been making violent efforts to conceal his impatience.

‘I wish you wouldn’t be so fond of making notes, my excellent friend,’ said Tigg Montague with a ghastly smile. ‘I wish you would consent to give me their purport by word of mouth.’

‘I don’t like word of mouth,’ said Mr Nadgett gravely. ‘We never know who’s listening.’

Mr Montague was going to retort, when Nadgett handed him the paper, and said, with quiet exultation in his tone, ‘We’ll begin at the beginning, and take that one first, if you please, sir.’

The chairman cast his eyes upon it, coldly, and with a smile which did not render any great homage to the slow and methodical habits of his spy. But he had not read half-a-dozen lines when the expression of his face began to change, and before he had finished the perusal of the paper, it was full of grave and serious attention.

‘Number Two,’ said Mr Nadgett, handing him another, and receiving back the first. ‘Read Number Two, sir, if you please. There is more interest as you go on.’

Tigg Montague leaned backward in his chair, and cast upon his emissary such a look of vacant wonder (not unmingled with alarm), that Mr Nadgett considered it necessary to repeat the request he had already twice preferred; with the view to recalling his attention to the point in hand. Profiting by the hint, Mr Montague went on with Number Two, and afterwards with Numbers Three, and Four, and Five, and so on.

These documents were all in Mr Nadgett’s writing, and were apparently a series of memoranda, jotted down from time to time upon the backs of old letters, or any scrap of paper that came first to hand. Loose straggling scrawls they were, and of very uninviting exterior; but they had weighty purpose in them, if the chairman’s face were any index to the character of their contents.

The progress of Mr Nadgett’s secret satisfaction arising out of the effect they made, kept pace with the emotions of the reader. At first, Mr Nadgett sat with his spectacles low down upon his nose, looking over them at his employer, and nervously rubbing his hands. After a little while, he changed his posture in his chair for one of greater ease, and leisurely perused the next document he held ready as if an occasional glance at his employer’s face were now enough and all occasion for anxiety or doubt were gone. And finally he rose and looked out of the window, where he stood with a triumphant air until Tigg Montague had finished.

‘And this is the last, Mr Nadgett!’ said that gentleman, drawing a long breath.

‘That, sir, is the last.’

‘You are a wonderful man, Mr Nadgett!’

‘I think it is a pretty good case,’ he returned as he gathered up his papers. ‘It cost some trouble, sir.’

‘The trouble shall be well rewarded, Mr Nadgett.’ Nadgett bowed. ‘There is a deeper impression of Somebody’s Hoof here, than I had expected, Mr Nadgett. I may congratulate myself upon your being such a good hand at a secret.’

‘Oh! nothing has an interest to me that’s not a secret,’ replied Nadgett, as he tied the string about his pocket-book, and put it up. ‘It always takes away any pleasure I may have had in this inquiry even to make it known to you.’

Poiché svolgeva tutte queste attività contemporaneamente, con costanza e in segreto, senza mai allentare la sua attenzione su tutto ciò che il signor Jonas diceva o faceva, così come su ciò che teneva per sé; non è improbabile che esse facessero parte, in modo nascosto, di qualche grande piano che il signor Nadgett aveva in mente.

Fu proprio la mattina di quel giorno, in cui era accaduto così tanto a Tom Pinch, che Nadgett apparve improvvisamente davanti alla casa del signor Montague in Pall Mall: arrivava sempre come se fosse emerso da qualche nascondiglio all’improvviso, quando le campane suonavano le nove. Suonò il campanello in modo furtivo e sospetto, come se si trattasse di un atto traditore; poi entrò non appena la porta fu sufficientemente aperta per farlo passare. E una volta dentro, la chiuse immediatamente con le sue stesse mani.

Il signor Bailey, senza indugiare, lo seguì nella stanza del suo padrone. Il presidente della Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Board si stava vestendo e lo accolse come un uomo d’affari che spesso andava avanti e indietro, ma che veniva sempre ricevuto per motivi legati al suo lavoro.

“Beh, signor Nadgett?”

Il signor Nadgett posò il cappello a terra e tossì. Dopo che il ragazzo si era ritirato e aveva chiuso la porta, lui si avvicinò silenziosamente, esaminò la maniglia e tornò ad allontanarsi di circa un passo o due dalla sedia su cui sedeva il signor Montague.

“Qualche novità, signor Nadgett?”

“Credo che finalmente abbiamo delle notizie, signore.”

“Sono felice di saperlo. Iniziavo a temere che aveste perso le tracce, signor Nadgett.”

“No, signore. A volte fa freddo. Non possiamo farci nulla.”

“Voi siete la stessa verità, signor Nadgett. Riferite di un grande successo?”

“Ciò dipende dal tuo giudizio e dalla tua interpretazione di esso,” fu la sua risposta, mentre si metteva gli occhiali.

“Che ne pensi tu? Ti è piaciuto?”

Il signor Nadgett si sfregò lentamente le mani, si accarezzò il mento, guardò intorno nella stanza e disse: “Sì, sì, penso che sia un buon caso. Sono propenso a ritenere che sia un buon caso. Lo prenderete in mano subito?”

“Certamente.”

Il signor Nadgett scelse una sedia in particolare tra le altre, la posizionò con estrema cura, come se dovesse saltarci sopra, e poi mise un’altra sedia davanti a essa, lasciando abbastanza spazio per le sue gambe. Si sedette quindi sulla seconda sedia e posò con grande attenzione la sua borsa di pelle sulla prima. Aprì la borsa e appese la cordicella sullo schienale della prima sedia; poi avvicinò leggermente entrambe le sedie al signor Montague e, aprendo la borsa, ne spiegò il contenuto. Infine selezionò un certo documento tra gli altri e lo porse al suo datore di lavoro, che, durante tutta questa serie di gesti preliminari, aveva fatto ogni sforzo per nascondere la sua impazienza.

“Vorrei che non fossi così ossessionato dal prendere appunti, mio eccellente amico,” disse Tigg Montague con un sorriso orribile. “Vorrei che acconsentissi a dirmi il loro contenuto a parole.”

“Non mi fido delle voci”, disse seriamente il signor Nadgett. “Non sappiamo mai chi le ascolta”.

Il signor Montague stava per ribattere, quando Nadgett gli porse il documento e disse, con un tono di tranquilla eccitazione: “Cominceremo dall’inizio; prenda prima quello, la prego, signore.”

Il presidente lo guardò con freddezza, e il suo sorriso non sembrava affatto rispettare le abitudini lente e meticolose del suo spia. Ma non aveva ancora letto nemmeno sei righe quando l’espressione sul suo viso iniziò a cambiare; prima ancora di finire la lettura del documento, il suo sguardo era pieno di attenzione grave e seria.

“Numero Due,” disse il signor Nadgett, porgendogliene un altro e riprendendo indietro il primo. “Per favore, legga il Numero Due, signore. Man mano che prosegue, diventa sempre più interessante.”

Tigg Montague si appoggiò allo schienale della sedia e lanciò al suo emissario uno sguardo pieno di vuoto stupore (senza alcun segno di allarme), tanto che il signor Nadgett ritenne necessario ripetere la richiesta che aveva già fatto due volte, nel tentativo di attirare nuovamente la sua attenzione sull’argomento in discussione. Approfittando di questo suggerimento, il signor Montague proseguì con la seconda richiesta, e poi con la terza, la quarta, la quinta, e così via.

Tutti questi documenti erano scritti dal signor Nadgett e sembravano essere una serie di appunti, presi qua e là nel corso del tempo sul retro di vecchie lettere o su qualsiasi pezzo di carta fosse a portata di mano. Erano appunti sparsi e di aspetto poco attraente; tuttavia, se il volto del presidente poteva essere considerato un indicatore del contenuto di quei documenti, allora essi avevano sicuramente uno scopo importante.

Il progresso della soddisfazione segreta di Mr Nadgett, derivante dall’effetto che le loro azioni avevano prodotto, procedeva di pari passo con le emozioni del lettore. All’inizio, Mr Nadgett sedeva con gli occhiali posizionati molto vicini al naso, guardando il proprio datore di lavoro attraverso di essi e strofinandosi nervosamente le mani. Dopo un po’, cambiò posizione sulla sedia per assumere una postura più rilassata e iniziò a leggere con calma il documento successivo che aveva preparato, come se ogni tanto uno sguardo al viso del proprio datore di lavoro fosse ormai sufficiente, e che quindi non ci fossero più motivi di ansia o dubbio. Infine si alzò e guardò fuori dalla finestra, rimanendo lì con un’espressione trionfale fino a quando Tigg Montague non ebbe finito.

“E questa è l’ultima, signor Nadgett!”, disse quel gentiluomo, tirando un lungo respiro.

“Quello, signore, è l’ultimo.”

“Lei è davvero un uomo meraviglioso, signor Nadgett!”

“Penso che si tratti di un caso abbastanza interessante,” rispose mentre raccoglieva i suoi documenti. “Ha richiesto qualche sforzo, signore.”

“Questo problema riceverà una adeguata ricompensa, signor Nadgett.” Nadgett si inchinò. “Qui c’è l’impronta di uno zoccolo, molto più evidente di quanto mi aspettassi. Posso congratularmi con me stesso per aver trovato una persona così abile nel mantenere i segreti.”

“Oh! Niente mi interessa se non è un segreto,” rispose Nadgett, mentre legava la corda attorno al suo portafoglio e lo metteva via. “Rivelarlo a te toglierebbe comunque ogni piacere che potrei provare nell’indagare su questo argomento.”

‘A most invaluable constitution,’ Tigg retorted. ‘A great gift for a gentleman employed as you are, Mr Nadgett. Much better than discretion; though you possess that quality also in an eminent degree. I think I heard a double knock. Will you put your head out of window, and tell me whether there is anybody at the door?’

Mr Nadgett softly raised the sash, and peered out from the very corner, as a man might who was looking down into a street from whence a brisk discharge of musketry might be expected at any moment. Drawing in his head with equal caution, he observed, not altering his voice or manner:

‘Mr Jonas Chuzzlewit!’

‘I thought so,’ Tigg retorted.

‘Shall I go?’

‘I think you had better. Stay though! No! remain here, Mr Nadgett, if you please.’

It was remarkable how pale and flurried he had become in an instant. There was nothing to account for it. His eye had fallen on his razors; but what of them!

Mr Chuzzlewit was announced.

‘Show him up directly. Nadgett! don’t you leave us alone together. Mind you don’t, now! By the Lord!’ he added in a whisper to himself: ‘We don’t know what may happen.’

Saying this, he hurriedly took up a couple of hair-brushes, and began to exercise them on his own head, as if his toilet had not been interrupted. Mr Nadgett withdrew to the stove, in which there was a small fire for the convenience of heating curling-irons; and taking advantage of so favourable an opportunity for drying his pocket-handkerchief, produced it without loss of time. There he stood, during the whole interview, holding it before the bars, and sometimes, but not often, glancing over his shoulder.

‘My dear Chuzzlewit!’ cried Montague, as Jonas entered. ‘You rise with the lark. Though you go to bed with the nightingale, you rise with the lark. You have superhuman energy, my dear Chuzzlewit!’

‘Ecod!’ said Jonas, with an air of langour and ill-humour, as he took a chair, ‘I should be very glad not to get up with the lark, if I could help it. But I am a light sleeper; and it’s better to be up than lying awake, counting the dismal old church-clocks, in bed.’

‘A light sleeper!’ cried his friend. ‘Now, what is a light sleeper? I often hear the expression, but upon my life I have not the least conception what a light sleeper is.’

‘Hallo!’ said Jonas, ‘Who’s that? Oh, old what’s-his-name: looking (as usual) as if he wanted to skulk up the chimney.’

‘Ha, ha! I have no doubt he does.’

‘Well! He’s not wanted here, I suppose,’ said Jonas. ‘He may go, mayn’t he?’

‘Oh, let him stay, let him stay!’ said Tigg. ‘He’s a mere piece of furniture. He has been making his report, and is waiting for further orders. He has been told,’ said Tigg, raising his voice, ‘not to lose sight of certain friends of ours, or to think that he has done with them by any means. He understands his business.’

‘He need,’ replied Jonas; ‘for of all the precious old dummies in appearance that I ever saw, he’s about the worst. He’s afraid of me, I think.’

‘It’s my belief,’ said Tigg, ‘that you are Poison to him. Nadgett! give me that towel!’

He had as little occasion for a towel as Jonas had for a start. But Nadgett brought it quickly; and, having lingered for a moment, fell back upon his old post by the fire.

‘You see, my dear fellow,’ resumed Tigg, ‘you are too—what’s the matter with your lips? How white they are!’

‘I took some vinegar just now,’ said Jonas. ‘I had oysters for my breakfast. Where are they white?’ he added, muttering an oath, and rubbing them upon his handkerchief. ‘I don’t believe they ARE white.’

‘Now I look again, they are not,’ replied his friend. ‘They are coming right again.’

‘Say what you were going to say,’ cried Jonas angrily, ‘and let my face be! As long as I can show my teeth when I want to (and I can do that pretty well), the colour of my lips is not material.’

‘Quite true,’ said Tigg. ‘I was only going to say that you are too quick and active for our friend. He is too shy to cope with such a man as you, but does his duty well. Oh, very well! But what is a light sleeper?’

‘Hang a light sleeper!’ exclaimed Jonas pettishly.

‘No, no,’ interrupted Tigg. ‘No. We’ll not do that.’

‘A light sleeper ain’t a heavy one,’ said Jonas in his sulky way; ‘don’t sleep much, and don’t sleep well, and don’t sleep sound.’

‘And dreams,’ said Tigg, ‘and cries out in an ugly manner; and when the candle burns down in the night, is in an agony; and all that sort of thing. I see!’

They were silent for a little time. Then Jonas spoke:

‘Now we’ve done with child’s talk, I want to have a word with you. I want to have a word with you before we meet up yonder to-day. I am not satisfied with the state of affairs.’

‘Not satisfied!’ cried Tigg. ‘The money comes in well.’

‘The money comes in well enough,’ retorted Jonas, ‘but it don’t come out well enough. It can’t be got at easily enough. I haven’t sufficient power; it is all in your hands. Ecod! what with one of your by-laws, and another of your by-laws, and your votes in this capacity, and your votes in that capacity, and your official rights, and your individual rights, and other people’s rights who are only you again, there are no rights left for me. Everybody else’s rights are my wrongs. What’s the use of my having a voice if it’s always drowned? I might as well be dumb, and it would be much less aggravating. I’m not a-going to stand that, you know.’

‘No!’ said Tigg in an insinuating tone.

‘No!’ returned Jonas, ‘I’m not indeed. I’ll play old Gooseberry with the office, and make you glad to buy me out at a good high figure, if you try any of your tricks with me.’

‘I give you my honour—’ Montague began.

‘Oh! confound your honour,’ interrupted Jonas, who became more coarse and quarrelsome as the other remonstrated, which may have been a part of Mr Montague’s intention; ‘I want a little more control over the money. You may have all the honour, if you like; I’ll never bring you to book for that. But I’m not a-going to stand it, as it is now. If you should take it into your honourable head to go abroad with the bank, I don’t see much to prevent you. Well! That won’t do. I’ve had some very good dinners here, but they’d come too dear on such terms; and therefore, that won’t do.’

“Una costituzione davvero inestimabile,” ribatté Tigg. “Un dono meraviglioso per un gentiluomo nella vostra posizione, signor Nadgett. Molto meglio della discrezione; anche se voi possedete questa qualità in misura eccezionale. Credo di aver sentito due colpi. Potreste sporgervi dalla finestra e dirmi se c’è qualcuno alla porta?”

Il signor Nadgett sollevò delicatamente la tenda e guardò fuori da quell’angolo preciso, come un uomo che osservasse una strada dalla quale si potesse aspettare in qualsiasi momento uno scatto di colpi d’arma da fuoco. Ritirando la testa con la stessa cautela, osservò senza cambiare tono o modo di fare:

“Signor Jonas Chuzzlewit!”

“Lo pensavo anch’io,” ribatté Tigg.

“Devo andare?”

“Penso che sia meglio per voi restare qui. No, signor Nadgett, vi prego, rimanete.”

Era straordinario quanto fosse diventato pallido e agitato in un istante. Non c’era nulla che potesse spiegarlo. Il suo sguardo era caduto sulle sue rasoi; ma cosa significavano quelle rasoi?

Fu annunciato il signor Chuzzlewit.

“Portalo qui subito. Nadgett, non lasciarci soli insieme. Mi raccomando, capisci? Per l’amor del Signore!” aggiunse sottovoce tra sé e sé: “Non sappiamo cosa potrebbe succedere.”

Dicendo questo, prese rapidamente un paio di spazzole per capelli e iniziò a usarle sulla propria testa, come se il suo “lavoro” non fosse stato interrotto. Il signor Nadgett si ritirò vicino al camino, dove c’era una piccola fiamma per riscaldare le piastre per arricciare i capelli; approfittando di questa opportunità, tirò fuori il fazzoletto da tasca senza perdere tempo. Durante l’intera conversazione, rimase lì in piedi, tenendolo davanti alle barre del camino, e di tanto in tanto, ma non molto spesso, dava un’occhiata alle sue spalle.

“Mio caro Chuzzlewit!”, esclamò Montague non appena Jonas entrò. “Ti alzi con la allodola. Anche se ti corichi con il usignolo, ti alzi comunque con la allodola. Hai un’energia sovrumana, mio caro Chuzzlewit!”

“Ecod!”, disse Jonas con un tono pigro e di cattivo umore, mentre si sedeva su una sedia, “Mi farebbe molto piacere non dovermi alzare all’alba, se potessi evitarlo. Ma dormo poco; è meglio alzarsi che restare sveglio a letto, contando quegli orologi della chiesa così tristi, ”

“Un sonnolento!” esclamò il suo amico. “Ma cos’è davvero un sonnolento? Sento spesso questa espressione, ma onestamente non ho la minima idea di cosa significhi.”

“Salve!” disse Jonas. “Chi è? Ah, quel vecchio, come si chiama, sembra (come al solito) che voglia infilarsi nel camino.”

‘Ah ah! Non ho alcun dubbio che lo faccia.’

“Beh. Immagino che qui non sia desiderato,” disse Jonas. “Può andarsene, no?”

“Oh, lasciatelo stare, lasciatelo stare!”, disse Tigg. “È solo un pezzo di mobilia. Ha appena presentato il suo rapporto e sta aspettando nuove istruzioni. Gli è stato detto”, continuò alzando la voce, “di non perdere di vista certi nostri amici, né di pensare in alcun modo di essersi sbarazzato di loro. Capisce bene il suo compito.”

“Ne ha bisogno,” rispose Jonas; “di tutte le vecchie statuette preziose che abbia mai visto, questa è davvero la peggiore. Penso che abbia paura di me.”

“Credo,” disse Tigg, “che tu sia una velena per lui. Nadgett, dammi quel asciugamano!”

Aveva altrettanto bisogno di un asciugamano quanto Jonas aveva bisogno di una partenza. Ma Nadgett glielo portò subito; e dopo essersi soffermato per un momento, tornò al suo solito posto vicino al focolare.

“Vedi, caro amico,” continuò Tigg, “sei troppo. Cosa c’è che non va con le tue labbra? Sono così pallide!”

“Ho preso un po’ di aceto poco fa,” disse Jonas. “Per colazione ho mangiato ostriche. Dove sono bianche?” aggiunse, mormorando una parola oscena e strofinandose le mani con il fazzoletto. “Non credo che siano davvero bianche, ”

“Ora che guardo di nuovo, non sono più così“, rispose il suo amico. “Stanno tornando nella posizione giusta.“

“Dì pure quello che stavi per dire,” gridò Jonas arrabbiato, “e lascia in pace il mio viso! Finché posso mostrare i denti quando voglio (e ci riesco abbastanza bene), il colore delle mie labbra non ha importanza.”

“Assolutamente vero,” disse Tigg. “Volevo solo dire che sei troppo veloce e attivo per il nostro amico. Lui è troppo timido per gestire una persona come te, ma svolge la sua dovere molto bene. Oh, davvero molto bene! Ma cosa significa ‘una persona con il sonno leggero’?”

“Mettete un sonnolento a letto!”, esclamò Jonas in tono petulante.

“No, no,” intervenne Tigg. “No, non lo faremo.”

“Chi dorme poco e male non dorme profondamente,” disse Jonas con il suo tono cupo; “non dorme molto, non dorme bene, e non russa nemmeno.”

“E sogni,” disse Tigg, “e grida in modo orribile; e quando la candela si spegne di notte, soffre terribilmente. Insomma, tutte queste cose. Lo vedo chiaramente!”

Rimasero in silenzio per un po’. Poi Jonas parlò:

Ora che abbiamo finito con le parole di quel bambino, voglio parlarti. Voglio discutere con te prima che ci incontriamo laggiù oggi. Non sono soddisfatto dello stato delle cose.

“Non sono soddisfatto!”, gridò Tigg. “I soldi arrivano davvero in abbondanza.”

“Il denaro arriva abbastanza bene,” ribatté Jonas, “ma non esce abbastanza facilmente. Non si riesce ad ottenerlo con facilità. Non ho abbastanza potere; tutto dipende da voi. Eddai! Con una delle vostre norme, un’altra delle vostre norme, i vostri voti in questo ruolo, i vostri voti in quell’altro ruolo, i vostri diritti ufficiali, i vostri diritti personali, e anche i diritti di altre persone che, in realtà, sono sempre voi stessi, non mi resta proprio nessun diritto. I diritti di tutti gli altri diventano i miei torti. A che serve avere una voce se viene sempre soffocata? Sarebbe molto meglio se fossi muto. E non intendo sopportarlo, capite.”

“No!”, disse Tigg con un tono allusivo.

“No!” rispose Jonas, “Assolutamente no. Giocherò il ruolo dell’old Gooseberry con l’ufficio e vi farò comprare la mia parte a un prezzo elevato, se provate anche solo a usare qualche trucco con me.”

“Vi do la mia onore, ” iniziò Montague.

“Oh! Perdiana con la tua onore, ”, interruppe Jonas, diventando sempre più scortese e litigioso man mano che l’altro continuava a rimproverarlo; forse questo faceva parte delle intenzioni del signor Montague. “Voglio avere un po’ più di controllo su quei soldi. Puoi tenerti tutta la tua onore, se vuoi. Non ti farò mai rimproverare per questo. Ma non intendo tollerare le cose così come stanno adesso. Se ti venisse in mente di portare via la banca all’estero, non vedo nulla che possa impedirtelo. Beh! Questo non va bene. Qui ho avuto alcuni pranzi molto buoni, ma a queste condizioni costerebbero troppo cari. Quindi, no: questo non va.”

‘I am unfortunate to find you in this humour,’ said Tigg, with a remarkable kind of smile; ‘for I was going to propose to you—for your own advantage; solely for your own advantage—that you should venture a little more with us.’

‘Was you, by G—?’ said Jonas, with a short laugh.

‘Yes. And to suggest,’ pursued Montague, ‘that surely you have friends; indeed, I know you have; who would answer our purpose admirably, and whom we should be delighted to receive.’

‘How kind of you! You’d be delighted to receive ‘em, would you?’ said Jonas, bantering.

‘I give you my sacred honour, quite transported. As your friends, observe!’

‘Exactly,’ said Jonas; ‘as my friends, of course. You’ll be very much delighted when you get ‘em, I have no doubt. And it’ll be all to my advantage, won’t it?’

‘It will be very much to your advantage,’ answered Montague poising a brush in each hand, and looking steadily upon him. ‘It will be very much to your advantage, I assure you.’

‘And you can tell me how,’ said Jonas, ‘can’t you?’

‘SHALL I tell you how?’ returned the other.

‘I think you had better,’ said Jonas. ‘Strange things have been done in the Assurance way before now, by strange sorts of men, and I mean to take care of myself.’

‘Chuzzlewit!’ replied Montague, leaning forward, with his arms upon his knees, and looking full into his face. ‘Strange things have been done, and are done every day; not only in our way, but in a variety of other ways; and no one suspects them. But ours, as you say, my good friend, is a strange way; and we strangely happen, sometimes, to come into the knowledge of very strange events.’

He beckoned to Jonas to bring his chair nearer; and looking slightly round, as if to remind him of the presence of Nadgett, whispered in his ear.

From red to white; from white to red again; from red to yellow; then to a cold, dull, awful, sweat-bedabbled blue. In that short whisper, all these changes fell upon the face of Jonas Chuzzlewit; and when at last he laid his hand upon the whisperer’s mouth, appalled, lest any syllable of what he said should reach the ears of the third person present, it was as bloodless and as heavy as the hand of Death.

He drew his chair away, and sat a spectacle of terror, misery, and rage. He was afraid to speak, or look, or move, or sit still. Abject, crouching, and miserable, he was a greater degradation to the form he bore, than if he had been a loathsome wound from head to heel.

His companion leisurely resumed his dressing, and completed it, glancing sometimes with a smile at the transformation he had effected, but never speaking once.

‘You’ll not object,’ he said, when he was quite equipped, ‘to venture further with us, Chuzzlewit, my friend?’

His pale lips faintly stammered out a ‘No.’

‘Well said! That’s like yourself. Do you know I was thinking yesterday that your father-in-law, relying on your advice as a man of great sagacity in money matters, as no doubt you are, would join us, if the thing were well presented to him. He has money?’

‘Yes, he has money.’

‘Shall I leave Mr Pecksniff to you? Will you undertake for Mr Pecksniff.’

‘I’ll try. I’ll do my best.’

‘A thousand thanks,’ replied the other, clapping him upon the shoulder. ‘Shall we walk downstairs? Mr Nadgett! Follow us, if you please.’

They went down in that order. Whatever Jonas felt in reference to Montague; whatever sense he had of being caged, and barred, and trapped, and having fallen down into a pit of deepest ruin; whatever thoughts came crowding on his mind even at that early time, of one terrible chance of escape, of one red glimmer in a sky of blackness; he no more thought that the slinking figure half-a-dozen stairs behind him was his pursuing Fate, than that the other figure at his side was his Good Angel.

“È sfortunato trovarvi in questo umore”, disse Tigg, con un sorriso davvero gentile; “perché stavo per farvi una proposta, a vostro vantaggio, esclusivamente a vostro vantaggio, che vi incoraggiassi ad avventurarvi di più con noi.”

“Eri tu, per G–?”, disse Jonas, ridendo brevemente.

“Sì. E per suggerire,” continuò Montague, “che sicuramente avete degli amici. Infatti, so che ne avete; qualcuno che potrebbe rispondere perfettamente alle nostre esigenze, e il cui aiuto ci farebbe molto piacere.”

“Che gentile da parte tua! Ti farebbe molto piacere riceverle, vero?” disse Jonas scherzando.

“Vi do la mia sacra onore, completamente trasportato. Come vostri amici, osserviamo!”

“Esattamente,” disse Jonas; “come miei amici, naturalmente. Sarà molto felice di ottenerli, non ho alcun dubbio al riguardo. E sarà tutto a mio vantaggio, vero?”

“Sarà di grande vantaggio per te,” rispose Montague, tenendo una pennellata in ciascuna mano e guardandolo fisso negli occhi. “Te lo assicuro, sarà davvero molto vantaggioso per te.”

“E dimmi come farlo, per favore”, disse Jonas. “Non puoi?”

“Devo dirti come farlo?” rispose l’altro.

“Penso che sia meglio così,” disse Jonas. “In passato sono già successe cose strane nel campo dell’Assurance, per mano di persone strane. E intendo prendere tutte le precauzioni necessarie.”

“Chuzzlewit!”, rispose Montague, chinandosi in avanti, con le braccia appoggiate sulle ginocchia, e guardandolo dritto negli occhi. “Si sono compiuti fatti strani, e se ne compiono ogni giorno; non solo nel nostro ambiente, ma anche in molti altri modi. E nessuno se ne accorge. Ma il nostro metodo, come dici tu, mio buon amico, è davvero un metodo strano. E a volte capita che veniamo a conoscenza di eventi ancora più strani.”

Fece segno a Jonas di avvicinare la sua sedia; poi, guardandosi intorno come per ricordargli della presenza di Nadgett, gli sussurrò all’orecchio.

Dal rosso al bianco; dal bianco di nuovo al rosso; poi al giallo; e infine a un blu freddo, opaco, terribile, coperto di sudore. In quel breve sussurro, tutti questi cambiamenti apparvero sul volto di Jonas Chuzzlewit; e quando finalmente posò la mano sulla bocca del sussurratore, inorridito, per evitare che anche una sola parola di ciò che stava dicendo raggiungesse le orecchie della terza persona presente, quella mano era pallida e pesante come quella di Morte.

Allontanò la sedia e si sedette, un esempio vivente di terrore, miseria e rabbia. Aveva paura di parlare, di guardare, di muoversi o anche di restare fermo. In quello stato di abietà, accovacciato e miserabile, rappresentava una degradazione ancora maggiore rispetto a se fosse stato un orribile ferimento dalla testa ai piedi.

Il suo compagno riprese con calma il proprio vestirsi e lo completò, lanciando di tanto in tanto uno sguardo sorridente alla trasformazione che aveva operato, ma senza mai pronunciare una parola.

“Non ti opporrai, vero,” disse lui, una volta completamente equipaggiato, “a proseguire il viaggio con noi, Chuzzlewit, mio caro amico?”

“No” fu appena articolato dalle sue labbra pallide.

‘Ben detto! È proprio come te. Sai che ieri pensavo che tuo suocero, avendo fiducia nei tuoi consigli – visto che sei sicuramente una persona molto saggia in questioni finanziarie – ci seguirebbe, se gli venisse presentata la cosa nel modo giusto? Lui ha soldi, no?’

“Sì, ha soldi.”

“Devo lasciare il signor Pecksniff a voi? Vi assumete la responsabilità del signor Pecksniff?”

“Ci proverò. Farò del mio meglio.”

“Mille grazie,” rispose l’altro, dandogli una pacca sulla spalla. “Andiamo giù per le scale? Signor Nadgett, vi preghiamo di seguirci.”

Scesero in quell’ordine. Qualunque cosa Jonas provasse riguardo a Montague; qualunque senso avesse di essere intrappolato, chiuso in gabbia, prigioniero, e di essere caduto in un abisso di rovina; quali che fossero i pensieri che gli affollavano la mente già in quel momento così precoce, riguardo a una possibile via d’uscita, a un barlume di speranza in mezzo alla notte più oscura. Lui non pensava più che quella figura silenziosa, appena qualche gradino dietro di lui, fosse la sua Destinazione inseguitrice; né che l’altra figura al suo fianco fosse il suo Angelo Custode.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CONTAINING SOME FURTHER PARTICULARS OF THE DOMESTIC ECONOMY OF THE PINCHES; WITH STRANGE NEWS FROM THE CITY, NARROWLY CONCERNING TOM

Pleasant little Ruth! Cheerful, tidy, bustling, quiet little Ruth! No doll’s house ever yielded greater delight to its young mistress, than little Ruth derived from her glorious dominion over the triangular parlour and the two small bedrooms.

To be Tom’s housekeeper. What dignity! Housekeeping, upon the commonest terms, associated itself with elevated responsibilities of all sorts and kinds; but housekeeping for Tom implied the utmost complication of grave trusts and mighty charges. Well might she take the keys out of the little chiffonier which held the tea and sugar; and out of the two little damp cupboards down by the fireplace, where the very black beetles got mouldy, and had the shine taken out of their backs by envious mildew; and jingle them upon a ring before Tom’s eyes when he came down to breakfast! Well might she, laughing musically, put them up in that blessed little pocket of hers with a merry pride! For it was such a grand novelty to be mistress of anything, that if she had been the most relentless and despotic of all little housekeepers, she might have pleaded just that much for her excuse, and have been honourably acquitted.

So far from being despotic, however, there was a coyness about her very way of pouring out the tea, which Tom quite revelled in. And when she asked him what he would like to have for dinner, and faltered out ‘chops’ as a reasonably good suggestion after their last night’s successful supper, Tom grew quite facetious, and rallied her desperately.

‘I don’t know, Tom,’ said his sister, blushing, ‘I am not quite confident, but I think I could make a beef-steak pudding, if I tried, Tom.’

‘In the whole catalogue of cookery, there is nothing I should like so much as a beef-steak pudding!’ cried Tom, slapping his leg to give the greater force to this reply.

‘Yes, dear, that’s excellent! But if it should happen not to come quite right the first time,’ his sister faltered; ‘if it should happen not to be a pudding exactly, but should turn out a stew, or a soup, or something of that sort, you’ll not be vexed, Tom, will you?’

The serious way in which she looked at Tom; the way in which Tom looked at her; and the way in which she gradually broke into a merry laugh at her own expense, would have enchanted you.

‘Why,’ said Tom ‘this is capital. It gives us a new, and quite an uncommon interest in the dinner. We put into a lottery for a beefsteak pudding, and it is impossible to say what we may get. We may make some wonderful discovery, perhaps, and produce such a dish as never was known before.’

‘I shall not be at all surprised if we do, Tom,’ returned his sister, still laughing merrily, ‘or if it should prove to be such a dish as we shall not feel very anxious to produce again; but the meat must come out of the saucepan at last, somehow or other, you know. We can’t cook it into nothing at all; that’s a great comfort. So if you like to venture, I will.’

‘I have not the least doubt,’ rejoined Tom, ‘that it will come out an excellent pudding, or at all events, I am sure that I shall think it so. There is naturally something so handy and brisk about you, Ruth, that if you said you could make a bowl of faultless turtle soup, I should believe you.’

And Tom was right. She was precisely that sort of person. Nobody ought to have been able to resist her coaxing manner; and nobody had any business to try. Yet she never seemed to know it was her manner at all. That was the best of it.

Well! she washed up the breakfast cups, chatting away the whole time, and telling Tom all sorts of anecdotes about the brass-and-copper founder; put everything in its place; made the room as neat as herself;—you must not suppose its shape was half as neat as hers though, or anything like it—and brushed Tom’s old hat round and round and round again, until it was as sleek as Mr Pecksniff. Then she discovered, all in a moment, that Tom’s shirt-collar was frayed at the edge; and flying upstairs for a needle and thread, came flying down again with her thimble on, and set it right with wonderful expertness; never once sticking the needle into his face, although she was humming his pet tune from first to last, and beating time with the fingers of her left hand upon his neckcloth. She had no sooner done this, than off she was again; and there she stood once more, as brisk and busy as a bee, tying that compact little chin of hers into an equally compact little bonnet; intent on bustling out to the butcher’s, without a minute’s loss of time; and inviting Tom to come and see the steak cut, with his own eyes. As to Tom, he was ready to go anywhere; so off they trotted, arm-in-arm, as nimbly as you please; saying to each other what a quiet street it was to lodge in, and how very cheap, and what an airy situation.

To see the butcher slap the steak, before he laid it on the block, and give his knife a sharpening, was to forget breakfast instantly. It was agreeable, too—it really was—to see him cut it off, so smooth and juicy. There was nothing savage in the act, although the knife was large and keen; it was a piece of art, high art; there was delicacy of touch, clearness of tone, skillful handling of the subject, fine shading. It was the triumph of mind over matter; quite.

Perhaps the greenest cabbage-leaf ever grown in a garden was wrapped about this steak, before it was delivered over to Tom. But the butcher had a sentiment for his business, and knew how to refine upon it. When he saw Tom putting the cabbage-leaf into his pocket awkwardly, he begged to be allowed to do it for him; ‘for meat,’ he said with some emotion, ‘must be humoured, not drove.’

Back they went to the lodgings again, after they had bought some eggs, and flour, and such small matters; and Tom sat gravely down to write at one end of the parlour table, while Ruth prepared to make the pudding at the other end; for there was nobody in the house but an old woman (the landlord being a mysterious sort of man, who went out early in the morning, and was scarcely ever seen); and saving in mere household drudgery, they waited on themselves.

CAPITOLO TRENTANOVE

Contiene ulteriori dettagli sull’economia domestica delle regioni dei “Pince”; inoltre, notizie strane provenienti dalla città, strettamente legate a Tom.

Carina e adorabile piccola Ruth! Allegra, ordinata, sempre impegnata, ma anche tranquilla. Nessuna casa di bambole mai ha regalato tanta gioia alla sua giovane padroncina quanto quella piccola Ruth, che esercitava il suo “splendido dominio” sulla sala triangolare e sulle due piccole camere da letto.

Essere la domestica di Tom. Che dignità! Il compito di una domestica, in termini molto semplici, è associato a responsabilità di ogni sorta; ma essere la domestica di Tom significava assumersi incarichi estremamente complessi e gravosi. Benissimo poteva prendere le chiavi dal piccolo comodino dove si tenevano il tè e lo zucchero, e dai due piccoli armadietti vicino al caminetto, dove i coleotteri neri si ammuffivano e perdevano il loro lucido a causa del muffo. E poteva farle tintinnare davanti agli occhi di Tom quando scendeva a colazione! Benissimo poteva, ridendo allegramente, riporle in quel suo adorabile “taschino”, con un vero e proprio senso di orgoglio. Perché essere la padrona di qualcosa rappresentava davvero una novità meravigliosa; quindi, anche se fosse stata la domestica più spietata e dispotica del mondo, avrebbe potuto addurre proprio questo come scusa. E sarebbe stata giustamente assolta.

Lontana dall’essere dispotica, c’era però una certa timidezza nel modo in cui versava il tè, e Tom ne traeva grande piacere. Quando gli chiese cosa volesse per cena e lui, dopo la riuscita della cena precedente, rispose timidamente “carne”, Tom prese a scherzare con lei in modo molto affettuoso.

“Non lo so, Tom,” disse sua sorella arrossendo, “non ne sono del tutto sicura, ma penso che potrei preparare un budino di bistecca di manzo, se ci provassi, Tom.”

“Nel catalogo intero della cucina, non c’è nulla che desideri di più di un budino di bistecca di manzo!” esclamò Tom, battendosi la gamba per dare maggiore enfasi a quelle parole.

“Sì, caro, è eccellente! Ma se per caso la prima volta non dovesse andare proprio come previsto, ”, esitò sua sorella; “se dovesse risultare meno un budino e più una zuppa, o qualcosa del genere, non ti arrabbierebbe, vero, Tom?”

Il modo serio con cui lei guardava Tom; il modo in cui Tom la guardava; e il modo in cui poi, gradualmente, scoppiò a ridere di se stessa, tutto questo vi avrebbe incantati.

“Perché,” disse Tom, “questo è davvero straordinario. Ci dà un interesse nuovo e piuttosto insolito per questa cena. Abbiamo messo in palio una lotteria per vincere un budino di manzo. E non si può mai sapere cosa possiamo ottenere. Forse faremo qualche scoperta meravigliosa e prepareremo un piatto come nessuno ha mai visto prima.”

“Non mi sorprenderò affatto se ci riusciremo, Tom,” rispose sua sorella, continuando a ridere felicemente, “o se dovesse risultare un piatto che non avremo molta voglia di preparare di nuovo. Ma alla fine la carne deve uscire dalla pentola, in un modo o nell’altro, capisci? Non possiamo cucinarla fino a farla scomparire del tutto; questo è almeno un conforto. Quindi, se vuoi provare, io ci sto.”

“Non ho la minima dubbio,” ribatté Tom, “che il risultato sarà un ottimo budino; anzi, sono sicuro che lo penserò. C’è qualcosa di così pratico e deciso in te, Ruth, che se dicessi che puoi preparare una zuppa di tartaruga impeccabile, ti crederei senza esitazione.”

E Tom aveva ragione. Era proprio quel tipo di persona. Nessuno avrebbe dovuto riuscire a resistere al suo modo di fare così affettuoso e persuasivo; inoltre, nessuno avrebbe nemmeno dovuto provarci. Eppure lei non sembrava mai rendersi conto che fosse proprio quel suo modo di comportarsi ad avere quell’effetto. Ed era proprio questo il bello della cosa.

Bene! Lavò le tazze del caffè, chiacchierando per tutto il tempo, raccontando a Tom un sacco di aneddoti sul fonditore che lavorava con rame e ottone; sistemò ogni cosa al suo posto, rendendo la stanza altrettanto ordinata quanto lei stessa. Non dovete pensare che la forma della stanza fosse nemmeno lontanamente simile alla sua, però. Poi sistemò anche il vecchio cappello di Tom fino a renderlo lucido come quello del signor Pecksniff. Subito dopo si accorse che il colletto della camicia di Tom era logoro ai bordi; corse su per prendere ago e filo, tornò giù con il dito mignolo infilato nel filo e sistemò tutto con grande abilità. Non pungendosi nemmeno una volta il viso con l’ago, mentre intanto cantava la canzone preferita di Tom e batteva il tempo sul colletto della sua camicia con le dita della mano sinistra. Appena finito, se ne andò di nuovo. E lì era di nuovo, allegra e impegnata come una ape, mentre si sistemava il cappellino attorno al viso; pronta a correre dal macellaio senza perdere un minuto. E invitò Tom ad andare con lei per vedere tagliare la bistecca, con i suoi occhi. Per quanto riguarda Tom, era pronto ad andare ovunque. Così partirono insieme, mano nella mano, velocemente come volete voi. Parlando di quanto fosse tranquilla e economica quella strada dove abitavano, e di quanto fosse fresca l’aria lì.

Vedere il macellaio battere la bistecca prima di metterla sul tagliere e affilare il coltello significava dimenticare immediatamente la colazione. Era anche piacevole, davvero, vederlo tagliarla con tanta abilità, in modo così netto e succoso. Non c’era nulla di brutale in quel gesto, nonostante il coltello fosse grande e affilato; era un esempio di arte, alta arte: c’era delicatezza nel tocco, precisione nei movimenti, abilità nell’utilizzo degli strumenti. Era il trionfo dell’intelligenza sulla materia. Proprio così.

Forse la foglia di cavolo più verde mai coltivata in un giardino fu utilizzata per avvolgere questa bistecca, prima che venisse consegnata a Tom. Ma il macellaio teneva molto al suo lavoro e sapeva come migliorarlo. Quando vide Tom infilare goffamente quella foglia di cavolo nella tasca, gli chiese gentilmente se poteva farlo lui per lui; “Per la carne”, disse con emozione, “bisogna essere premurosi, non bruschi”.

Tornarono di nuovo nell’alloggio dopo aver comprato alcune uova, farina e altre piccole cose necessarie; Tom si sedette seriamente a scrivere all’estremità del tavolo del salotto, mentre Ruth si preparava a preparare la torta dall’altra estremità. In quella casa non c’era nessuno, tranne una vecchia donna; il proprietario era un uomo misterioso che usciva presto al mattino e quasi mai si faceva vedere. A parte le semplici faccende domestiche, si prendevano cura di loro stessi.

‘What are you writing, Tom?’ inquired his sister, laying her hand upon his shoulder.

‘Why, you see, my dear,’ said Tom, leaning back in his chair, and looking up in her face, ‘I am very anxious, of course, to obtain some suitable employment; and before Mr Westlock comes this afternoon, I think I may as well prepare a little description of myself and my qualifications; such as he could show to any friend of his.’

‘You had better do the same for me, Tom, also,’ said his sister, casting down her eyes. ‘I should dearly like to keep house for you and take care of you always, Tom; but we are not rich enough for that.’

‘We are not rich,’ returned Tom, ‘certainly; and we may be much poorer. But we will not part if we can help it. No, no; we will make up our minds Ruth, that unless we are so very unfortunate as to render me quite sure that you would be better off away from me than with me, we will battle it out together. I am certain we shall be happier if we can battle it out together. Don’t you think we shall?’

‘Think, Tom!’

‘Oh, tut, tut!’ interposed Tom, tenderly. ‘You mustn’t cry.’

‘No, no; I won’t, Tom. But you can’t afford it, dear. You can’t, indeed.’

‘We don’t know that,’ said Tom. ‘How are we to know that, yet awhile, and without trying? Lord bless my soul!’—Tom’s energy became quite grand—‘there is no knowing what may happen, if we try hard. And I am sure we can live contentedly upon a very little—if we can only get it.’

‘Yes; that I am sure we can, Tom.’

‘Why, then,’ said Tom, ‘we must try for it. My friend, John Westlock, is a capital fellow, and very shrewd and intelligent. I’ll take his advice. We’ll talk it over with him—both of us together. You’ll like John very much, when you come to know him, I am certain. Don’t cry, don’t cry. YOU make a beef-steak pudding, indeed!’ said Tom, giving her a gentle push. ‘Why, you haven’t boldness enough for a dumpling!’

‘You WILL call it a pudding, Tom. Mind! I told you not!’

‘I may as well call it that, till it proves to be something else,’ said Tom. ‘Oh, you are going to work in earnest, are you?’

Aye, aye! That she was. And in such pleasant earnest, moreover, that Tom’s attention wandered from his writing every moment. First, she tripped downstairs into the kitchen for the flour, then for the pie-board, then for the eggs, then for the butter, then for a jug of water, then for the rolling-pin, then for a pudding-basin, then for the pepper, then for the salt; making a separate journey for everything, and laughing every time she started off afresh. When all the materials were collected she was horrified to find she had no apron on, and so ran UPstairs by way of variety, to fetch it. She didn’t put it on upstairs, but came dancing down with it in her hand; and being one of those little women to whom an apron is a most becoming little vanity, it took an immense time to arrange; having to be carefully smoothed down beneath—Oh, heaven, what a wicked little stomacher!—and to be gathered up into little plaits by the strings before it could be tied, and to be tapped, rebuked, and wheedled, at the pockets, before it would set right, which at last it did, and when it did—but never mind; this is a sober chronicle. And then, there were her cuffs to be tucked up, for fear of flour; and she had a little ring to pull off her finger, which wouldn’t come off (foolish little ring!); and during the whole of these preparations she looked demurely every now and then at Tom, from under her dark eyelashes, as if they were all a part of the pudding, and indispensable to its composition.

For the life and soul of him, Tom could get no further in his writing than, ‘A respectable young man, aged thirty-five,’ and this, notwithstanding the show she made of being supernaturally quiet, and going about on tiptoe, lest she should disturb him; which only served as an additional means of distracting his attention, and keeping it upon her.

‘Tom,’ she said at last, in high glee. ‘Tom!’

‘What now?’ said Tom, repeating to himself, ‘aged thirty-five!’

‘Will you look here a moment, please?’

As if he hadn’t been looking all the time!

‘I am going to begin, Tom. Don’t you wonder why I butter the inside of the basin?’ said his busy little sister.

‘Not more than you do, I dare say,’ replied Tom, laughing. ‘For I believe you don’t know anything about it.’

‘What an infidel you are, Tom! How else do you think it would turn out easily when it was done! For a civil-engineer and land-surveyor not to know that! My goodness, Tom!’

It was wholly out of the question to try to write. Tom lined out ‘respectable young man, aged thirty-five;’ and sat looking on, pen in hand, with one of the most loving smiles imaginable.

Such a busy little woman as she was! So full of self-importance and trying so hard not to smile, or seem uncertain about anything! It was a perfect treat to Tom to see her with her brows knit, and her rosy lips pursed up, kneading away at the crust, rolling it out, cutting it up into strips, lining the basin with it, shaving it off fine round the rim, chopping up the steak into small pieces, raining down pepper and salt upon them, packing them into the basin, pouring in cold water for gravy, and never venturing to steal a look in his direction, lest her gravity should be disturbed; until, at last, the basin being quite full and only wanting the top crust, she clapped her hands all covered with paste and flour, at Tom, and burst out heartily into such a charming little laugh of triumph, that the pudding need have had no other seasoning to commend it to the taste of any reasonable man on earth.

‘Where’s the pudding?’ said Tom. For he was cutting his jokes, Tom was.

‘Where!’ she answered, holding it up with both hands. ‘Look at it!’

‘THAT a pudding!’ said Tom.

‘It WILL be, you stupid fellow, when it’s covered in,’ returned his sister. Tom still pretending to look incredulous, she gave him a tap on the head with the rolling-pin, and still laughing merrily, had returned to the composition of the top crust, when she started and turned very red. Tom started, too, for following her eyes, he saw John Westlock in the room.

“Cosa stai scrivendo, Tom?”, chiese sua sorella, mettendogli una mano sulla spalla.

“Vedi, carina,” disse Tom, appoggiandosi allo schienale della sedia e guardandola negli occhi, “sono molto ansioso, naturalmente, di trovare un lavoro adatto; e prima che il signor Westlock arrivi questo pomeriggio, penso che possa essere utile preparare una breve descrizione di me stesso e delle mie qualifiche, da potergli mostrare a eventuali amici suoi.”

“Dovresti fare lo stesso anche per me, Tom,” disse sua sorella, abbassando lo sguardo. “Mi piacerebbe molto prendersi cura di te e mantenere questa casa per te; ma non siamo abbastanza ricchi per farlo.”

“Non siamo ricchi,” rispose Tom, “certamente no; anzi, potremmo essere ancora più poveri. Ma non ci separeremo se possiamo evitarlo. No, Ruth. Decideremo insieme: a meno che non si verifichino circostanze così sfortunate da farmi credere davvero che tu stia meglio lontana da me che con me, combatteremo fino in fondo. Sono sicuro che saremo più felici se lo facciamo insieme. Non pensi anche tu?”

“Pensa, Tom!”

“Ah, no, no, ” intervenne Tom con dolcezza. “Non devi piangere.”

“No, no; non lo farò, Tom. Ma tu non te lo puoi permettere, caro. Davvero, non puoi.”

“Non lo sappiamo,” disse Tom. “Come possiamo saperlo, senza nemmeno provare? Signore, benedite la mia ‘anima, ” L’energia di Tom divenne davvero grande: “Non si può mai sapere cosa potrebbe accadere se ci impegniamo davvero. E sono sicuro che possiamo vivere felicemente con molto poco, se solo riuscissimo ad ottenerlo.”

“Sì, ne sono sicuro che possiamo farlo, Tom.”

“Allora,” disse Tom, “dobbiamo provarci. Mio amico John Westlock è un uomo eccezionale, molto astuto e intelligente. Seguirò il suo consiglio. Ne parleremo insieme, lui ed io. Sono sicuro che ti piacerà molto John, quando lo conoscerai. Non piangere, per favore. Tu sei davvero capace di preparare un budino di manzo!” disse Tom, dandole una leggera spinta. “Ma non hai nemmeno il coraggio necessario per fare un semplice dumpling, ”

“Lo chiamerai sicuramente ‘budino’, Tom. Attenzione! Te l’avevo detto di non farlo!”

“Posso ben chiamarlo così, finché non si scopre che sia qualcos’altro,” disse Tom. “Oh, quindi lavorerai seriamente, vero?”

Sì, sì! Proprio così era. E inoltre con tale serietà e gentilezza che l’attenzione di Tom si distraeva continuamente dal suo lavoro. Prima scese in cucina per prendere la farina, poi il tagliere da torta, poi le uova, il burro, una giara d’acqua, il matterello, la ciotola per il budino, il pepe e il sale; per ogni cosa faceva un viaggio separato, ridendo ogni volta che ricominciava da capo. Quando finalmente ebbe raccolto tutti gli ingredienti, si rese conto con orrore di non avere l’grembiule addosso, così corse di nuovo su per prenderlo. Non se lo mise subito, ma scese danzando con esso in mano; e poiché era una di quelle donne per cui l’grembiule rappresenta davvero una piccola vanità molto graziosa, ci volle un sacco di tempo per sistemarlo bene: doveva essere steso con cura sotto. Oh, mio Dio, che pancia birichina!, e poi raccolto in piccole trecce con i lacci prima di poter essere legato a dovere; inoltre bisognava dargli qualche colpetto, rimproverarlo un po’ e sistemare bene le tasche. Alla fine tutto fu pronto. Poi dovette anche arrotolare le maniche per evitare che si sporcassero di farina; aveva anche un anellino che non riusciva a togliersi dal dito (quell’anello stupido!). Durante tutta questa preparazione, di tanto in tanto guardava Tom con aria timida, sotto le sue lunghe ciglia scure, come se tutto ciò facesse parte integrante del budino, e fosse indispensabile per la sua riuscita.

Per la sua vita e la sua ‘anima, Tom non riusciva a scrivere altro che: “Un rispettabile giovane uomo, di trentacinque anni”, nonostante lei facesse di tutto per essere estremamente silenziosa e muoversi in punta di piedi, per non disturbarlo; ma tutto ciò serviva soltanto a distrarre ancora di più la sua attenzione, facendola rimanere fissata su di lei.

“Tom,” disse finalmente, con grande gioia. “Tom!”

“E ora?” si chiese Tom, ripetendolo tra sé, “trentacinque anni, ”

“Potrebbe guardare qui per un momento, per favore?”

Come se non avesse stato guardando per tutto il tempo.

“Ora inizio, Tom. Non ti chiedi perché spalmo burro all’interno della bacinella?” disse sua sorellina, sempre impegnata.

“Non più di te, oserei dire,” rispose Tom ridendo. “Perché credo che tu non sappia nulla al riguardo.”

“Che miscredente che sei, Tom! Come pensi possa andare tutto liscio se non si conoscono le basi. Un ingegnere civile e un topografo che non lo sa! Mio Dio, Tom!”

Era assolutamente impossibile provare a scrivere. Tom scrisse “un rispettabile giovane uomo di trentacinque anni”; poi si sedette, con la penna in mano, e fissò quella frase con uno dei sorrisi più affettuosi che si possano immaginare.

Che donna indaffarata! Così piena di importanza personale e che si sforzava così tanto di non sorridere o di non sembrare incerta su nulla. Per Tom era davvero un piacere vederla con le sopracciglia corrugate, le labbra rosse serrate mentre impastava, stendeva l’impasto, lo tagliava a strisce, lo usava per rivestire la ciotola, lo raschiava finemente lungo il bordo, tagliava la carne a pezzetti, ci spargeva sopra pepe e sale, poi li metteva nella ciotola e versava sopra dell’acqua fredda per preparare la salsa. E mai osava lanciargli uno sguardo, per paura che il suo “gravità” venisse disturbato. Fino a quando, finalmente, la ciotola era piena fino all’orlo e le mancava solo la crosta superiore; allora lei batteva le mani, coperte di pasta e farina, verso Tom e scoppiava in una risata così deliziosa e trionfale che quel budino non avrebbe avuto bisogno di alcun altro condimento per essere apprezzato da qualsiasi uomo sano di mente al mondo.

“Dove è la torta di budino?” disse Tom. Perché stava scherzando, naturalmente.

“Lì!” rispose lei, tenendolo in alto con entrambe le mani. “Guardatelo!”

“Che budino delizioso!” disse Tom.

“Sì che lo sarà, stupido! Quando sarà completamente coperto, ”, rispose sua sorella. Tom continuava a fingere di essere incredulo; lei gli diede una pacca sulla testa con il matterello e, ridendo ancora allegramente, tornò a preparare la crosta superiore del dolce, quando all’improvviso arrossì violentemente. Anche Tom arrossì: seguendo il suo sguardo, aveva visto John Westlock nella stanza.

‘Why, my goodness, John! How did YOU come in?’

‘I beg pardon,’ said John—’ your sister’s pardon especially—but I met an old lady at the street door, who requested me to enter here; and as you didn’t hear me knock, and the door was open, I made bold to do so. I hardly know,’ said John, with a smile, ‘why any of us should be disconcerted at my having accidentally intruded upon such an agreeable domestic occupation, so very agreeably and skillfully pursued; but I must confess that I am. Tom, will you kindly come to my relief?’

‘Mr John Westlock,’ said Tom. ‘My sister.’

‘I hope that, as the sister of so old a friend,’ said John, laughing ‘you will have the goodness to detach your first impressions of me from my unfortunate entrance.’

‘My sister is not indisposed perhaps to say the same to you on her own behalf,’ retorted Tom.

John said, of course, that this was quite unnecessary, for he had been transfixed in silent admiration; and he held out his hand to Miss Pinch; who couldn’t take it, however, by reason of the flour and paste upon her own. This, which might seem calculated to increase the general confusion and render matters worse, had in reality the best effect in the world, for neither of them could help laughing; and so they both found themselves on easy terms immediately.

‘I am delighted to see you,’ said Tom. ‘Sit down.’

‘I can only think of sitting down on one condition,’ returned his friend; ‘and that is, that your sister goes on with the pudding, as if you were still alone.’

‘That I am sure she will,’ said Tom. ‘On one other condition, and that is, that you stay and help us to eat it.’

Poor little Ruth was seized with a palpitation of the heart when Tom committed this appalling indiscretion, for she felt that if the dish turned out a failure, she never would be able to hold up her head before John Westlock again. Quite unconscious of her state of mind, John accepted the invitation with all imaginable heartiness; and after a little more pleasantry concerning this same pudding, and the tremendous expectations he made believe to entertain of it, she blushingly resumed her occupation, and he took a chair.

‘I am here much earlier than I intended, Tom; but I will tell you, what brings me, and I think I can answer for your being glad to hear it. Is that anything you wish to show me?’

‘Oh dear no!’ cried Tom, who had forgotten the blotted scrap of paper in his hand, until this inquiry brought it to his recollection. ‘“A respectable young man, aged thirty-five”—The beginning of a description of myself. That’s all.’

‘I don’t think you will have occasion to finish it, Tom. But how is it you never told me you had friends in London?’

Tom looked at his sister with all his might; and certainly his sister looked with all her might at him.

‘Friends in London!’ echoed Tom.

‘Ah!’ said Westlock, ‘to be sure.’

‘Have YOU any friends in London, Ruth, my dear!’ asked Tom.

‘No, Tom.’

‘I am very happy to hear that I have,’ said Tom, ‘but it’s news to me. I never knew it. They must be capital people to keep a secret, John.’

‘You shall judge for yourself,’ returned the other. ‘Seriously, Tom, here is the plain state of the case. As I was sitting at breakfast this morning, there comes a knock at my door.’

‘On which you cried out, very loud, “Come in!”’ suggested Tom.

‘So I did. And the person who knocked, not being a respectable young man, aged thirty-five, from the country, came in when he was invited, instead of standing gaping and staring about him on the landing. Well! When he came in, I found he was a stranger; a grave, business-like, sedate-looking, stranger. “Mr Westlock?” said he. “That is my name,” said I. “The favour of a few words with you?” said he. “Pray be seated, sir,” said I.’

Here John stopped for an instant, to glance towards the table, where Tom’s sister, listening attentively, was still busy with the basin, which by this time made a noble appearance. Then he resumed:

‘The pudding having taken a chair, Tom—’

‘What!’ cried Tom.

‘Having taken a chair.’

‘You said a pudding.’

‘No, no,’ replied John, colouring rather; ‘a chair. The idea of a stranger coming into my rooms at half-past eight o’clock in the morning, and taking a pudding! Having taken a chair, Tom, a chair—amazed me by opening the conversation thus: “I believe you are acquainted, sir, with Mr Thomas Pinch?”

‘No!’ cried Tom.

‘His very words, I assure you. I told him I was. Did I know where you were at present residing? Yes. In London? Yes. He had casually heard, in a roundabout way, that you had left your situation with Mr Pecksniff. Was that the fact? Yes, it was. Did you want another? Yes, you did.’

‘Certainly,’ said Tom, nodding his head.

‘Just what I impressed upon him. You may rest assured that I set that point beyond the possibility of any mistake, and gave him distinctly to understand that he might make up his mind about it. Very well.’

“Then,” said he, “I think I can accommodate him.”’

Tom’s sister stopped short.

‘Lord bless me!’ cried Tom. ‘Ruth, my dear, “think I can accommodate him.”’

‘Of course I begged him,’ pursued John Westlock, glancing at Tom’s sister, who was not less eager in her interest than Tom himself, ‘to proceed, and said that I would undertake to see you immediately. He replied that he had very little to say, being a man of few words, but such as it was, it was to the purpose—and so, indeed, it turned out—for he immediately went on to tell me that a friend of his was in want of a kind of secretary and librarian; and that although the salary was small, being only a hundred pounds a year, with neither board nor lodging, still the duties were not heavy, and there the post was. Vacant, and ready for your acceptance.’

‘Good gracious me!’ cried Tom; ‘a hundred pounds a year! My dear John! Ruth, my love! A hundred pounds a year!’

‘But the strangest part of the story,’ resumed John Westlock, laying his hand on Tom’s wrist, to bespeak his attention, and repress his ecstasies for the moment; ‘the strangest part of the story, Miss Pinch, is this. I don’t know this man from Adam; neither does this man know Tom.’

“Ma per l’amor del cielo, John! Come sei entrato?”

“Perdonatemi,” disse John, “soprattutto perdonate mia sorella. Ma ho incontrato una vecchia signora alla porta di casa che mi ha chiesto di entrare; e poiché non mi avete sentito bussare e la porta era aperta, ho osato farlo. Non so proprio,” aggiunse sorridendo, “perché qualcuno di noi dovrebbe sentirsi imbarazzato dal fatto che io abbia accidentalmente interrotto un’occupazione domestica così piacevole e svolta con tanta abilità. Ma devo ammettere che mi sento davvero a disagio. Tom, potresti venire ad aiutarmi, per favore?”

“Mr John Westlock,” disse Tom. “Mia sorella.”

“Spero”, disse John ridendo, “che, essendo la sorella di un mio amico così anziano, tu abbia la gentilezza di separare le tue prime impressioni su di me da quell’ingresso sfortunato.”

“Mia sorella potrebbe essere disposta a dirvi la stessa cosa in suo nome,” ribatté Tom.

John disse, naturalmente, che tutto ciò era del tutto inutile, poiché era rimasto immobile, perso in un silenzioso ammiramento; e tese la mano a Miss Pinch, ma lei non riuscì ad accettarla a causa della farina e della pasta che aveva addosso. Questo, che potrebbe sembrare un gesto destinato ad aumentare la confusione generale e peggiorare le cose, ebbe in realtà l’effetto migliore possibile: nessuno dei due riuscì a trattenersi dal ridere, e così immediatamente si trovarono in ottimi rapporti.

“Sono molto felice di vederti,” disse Tom. “Siediti.”

“Posso pensare di sedermi solo a una condizione,” rispose il suo amico; “e cioè che tua sorella continui a mangiare la torta, come se tu fossi ancora solo.”

“Sono sicuro che lo farà,” disse Tom. “Ma a una condizione: devi restare e aiutarci a mangiarlo.”

Povera piccola Ruth. Fu colta da un forte battito cardiaco quando Tom commise questa terribile imprudenza, perché sentiva che, se il dolce fosse fallito, non avrebbe mai più potuto guardare in faccia John Westlock. Del tutto ignaro dello stato d’animo di lei, John accettò l’invito con grande entusiasmo; dopo alcune altre battute scherzose riguardo a quel dolce e alle enormi aspettative che fingeva di nutrire al suo riguardo, lei arrossì e riprese il proprio lavoro, mentre lui si sedette su una sedia.

“Sono arrivato molto prima del previsto, Tom; ma ti dirò subito cosa mi ha portato qui. E credo che tu sarai felice di saperlo. C’è qualcosa che vorresti mostrarmi?”

“Oh no!” gridò Tom, che aveva dimenticato quel pezzo di carta macchiato che teneva in mano, finché questa domanda non glielo ricordò. “‘Un rispettabile giovane uomo, di trentacinque anni’. L’inizio della descrizione di me stesso. È tutto.”

“Non credo che avrai l’occasione di finirlo, Tom. Ma come mai non mi hai mai detto di avere degli amici a Londra?”

Tom guardò sua sorella con tutta la sua forza; e sicuramente anche sua sorella lo guardò con tutta la sua forza.

“Amici a Londra!”, echeggiò la voce di Tom.

“Ah!”, esclamò Westlock, “certamente.”

“Hai qualche amico a Londra, Ruth, cara mia?” chiese Tom.

“No, Tom.”

“Sono molto felice di sapere che ce l’ho,” disse Tom, “ma per me è una novità. Non lo sapevo mai. Devono essere persone davvero importanti per riuscire a mantenere un segreto, John.”

“Puoi giudicare da solo,” rispose l’altro. “Sul serio, Tom, ecco la situazione in tutta la sua semplicità. Stavo facendo colazione questa mattina quando qualcuno bussò alla mia porta.”

“E allora hai gridato molto forte: ‘Entra!’” suggerì Tom.

“So che l’ho fatto. E la persona che ha bussato, non essendo un giovane rispettabile di trentacinque anni, proveniente dalla campagna, è entrata quando è stata invitata, invece di stare lì in piedi a fissare intorno a sé nell’atrio. Beh! Quando è entrata, ho capito che era uno sconosciuto: un uomo serio, professionale, dall’aspetto composto, ‘Signor Westlock?’ ha detto. ‘È il mio nome,’ ho risposto. ‘Le dispiacerebbe parlarmi per un momento?’ ha chiesto. ‘Prego, si sieda, signore.’”

Qui John si fermò per un istante, lanciando uno sguardo verso il tavolo, dove la sorella di Tom, ascoltando attentamente, era ancora impegnata con il bacino, che a quel momento aveva assunto un aspetto davvero elegante. Poi riprese a parlare:

“Dopo che il budino si è ‘seduto’, Tom, ”

“Che cosa!” gridò Tom.

“Avendo preso una sedia.”

“Hai detto ‘un budino’, ”

“No, no,” rispose John, arrossendo leggermente; “una sedia. L’idea che uno straniero entri nelle mie stanze alle otto e mezza di mattina e prenda un budino. Dopo aver preso una sedia, Tom, beh, mi ha davvero sorpreso quando ha iniziato la conversazione così: ‘Credo che lei conosca il signor Thomas Pinch, vero?’”

“No!” gridò Tom.

“Sono le sue stesse parole, ve lo assicuro. Gli ho detto che lo ero. Sapevo dove vi trovaste in quel momento? Sì. A Londra? Sì. Aveva sentito per caso, in modo indiretto, che avevate lasciato la vostra situazione con il signor Pecksniff. Era vero? Sì, lo era. Volevate riprovarci di nuovo? Sì, volevate.”

“Certo,” disse Tom, annuendo con la testa.

Esattamente ciò che gli avevo spiegato. Potete stare certi che ho chiarito bene ogni dettaglio, eliminando qualsiasi possibilità di errore, e gli ho fatto capire chiaramente che poteva prendere la sua decisione in merito. Molto bene.

“Allora,” disse, “penso di poterlo ospitare.”

La sorella di Tom si fermò all’improvviso.

“Signore, beneditemi!”, esclamò Tom. “Ruth, cara, credo di poterlo ospitare, ”

“Certo che gli ho pregato,” continuò John Westlock, lanciando un’occhiata alla sorella di Tom, la quale era altrettanto desiderosa di aiutarlo quanto lo stesso Tom, “di procedere e ho detto che mi sarei assicurato di farti incontrare immediatamente. Lui rispose che aveva molto poco da dire, essendo un uomo di poche parole, ma ciò che disse era sufficiente. E infatti così fu: mi spiegò subito che un suo amico aveva bisogno di una persona che svolgesse le funzioni di segretaria e bibliotecaria; che sebbene lo stipendio fosse modesto – soltanto cento sterline all’anno, senza vitto né alloggio – i compiti non erano troppo onerosi e il posto era disponibile. E pronto per essere accettato da te.”

“Mio Dio!” esclamò Tom; “cento sterline all’anno! Mio caro John. Ruth, il mio amore. Cento sterline all’anno!”

“Ma la parte più strana della storia,” continuò John Westlock, posando la mano sul polso di Tom per attirare la sua attenzione e far tacere, per il momento, le sue esclamazioni di entusiasmo; “la parte più strana della storia, signorina Pinch, è questa: non conosco affatto quest’uomo; né lui conosce Tom.”

‘He can’t,’ said Tom, in great perplexity, ‘if he’s a Londoner. I don’t know any one in London.’

‘And on my observing,’ John resumed, still keeping his hand upon Tom’s wrist, ‘that I had no doubt he would excuse the freedom I took in inquiring who directed him to me; how he came to know of the change which had taken place in my friend’s position; and how he came to be acquainted with my friend’s peculiar fitness for such an office as he had described; he drily said that he was not at liberty to enter into any explanations.’

‘Not at liberty to enter into any explanations!’ repeated Tom, drawing a long breath.

‘“I must be perfectly aware,” he said,’ John added, ‘“that to any person who had ever been in Mr Pecksniff’s neighbourhood, Mr Thomas Pinch and his acquirements were as well known as the Church steeple, or the Blue Dragon.”’

‘The Blue Dragon!’ repeated Tom, staring alternately at his friend and his sister.

‘Aye, think of that! He spoke as familiarly of the Blue Dragon, I give you my word, as if he had been Mark Tapley. I opened my eyes, I can tell you, when he did so; but I could not fancy I had ever seen the man before, although he said with a smile, “You know the Blue Dragon, Mr Westlock; you kept it up there, once or twice, yourself.” Kept it up there! So I did. You remember, Tom?’

Tom nodded with great significance, and, falling into a state of deeper perplexity than before, observed that this was the most unaccountable and extraordinary circumstance he had ever heard of in his life.

‘Unaccountable?’ his friend repeated. ‘I became afraid of the man. Though it was broad day, and bright sunshine, I was positively afraid of him. I declare I half suspected him to be a supernatural visitor, and not a mortal, until he took out a common-place description of pocket-book, and handed me this card.’

‘Mr Fips,’ said Tom, reading it aloud. ‘Austin Friars. Austin Friars sounds ghostly, John.’

‘Fips don’t, I think,’ was John’s reply. ‘But there he lives, Tom, and there he expects us to call this morning. And now you know as much of this strange incident as I do, upon my honour.’

Tom’s face, between his exultation in the hundred pounds a year, and his wonder at this narration, was only to be equalled by the face of his sister, on which there sat the very best expression of blooming surprise that any painter could have wished to see. What the beef-steak pudding would have come to, if it had not been by this time finished, astrology itself could hardly determine.

‘Tom,’ said Ruth, after a little hesitation, ‘perhaps Mr Westlock, in his friendship for you, knows more of this than he chooses to tell.’

‘No, indeed!’ cried John, eagerly. ‘It is not so, I assure you. I wish it were. I cannot take credit to myself, Miss Pinch, for any such thing. All that I know, or, so far as I can judge, am likely to know, I have told you.’

‘Couldn’t you know more, if you thought proper?’ said Ruth, scraping the pie-board industriously.

‘No,’ retorted John. ‘Indeed, no. It is very ungenerous in you to be so suspicious of me when I repose implicit faith in you. I have unbounded confidence in the pudding, Miss Pinch.’

She laughed at this, but they soon got back into a serious vein, and discussed the subject with profound gravity. Whatever else was obscure in the business, it appeared to be quite plain that Tom was offered a salary of one hundred pounds a year; and this being the main point, the surrounding obscurity rather set it off than otherwise.

Tom, being in a great flutter, wished to start for Austin Friars instantly, but they waited nearly an hour, by John’s advice, before they departed. Tom made himself as spruce as he could before leaving home, and when John Westlock, through the half-opened parlour door, had glimpses of that brave little sister brushing the collar of his coat in the passage, taking up loose stitches in his gloves and hovering lightly about and about him, touching him up here and there in the height of her quaint, little, old-fashioned tidiness, he called to mind the fancy-portraits of her on the wall of the Pecksniffian workroom, and decided with uncommon indignation that they were gross libels, and not half pretty enough; though, as hath been mentioned in its place, the artists always made those sketches beautiful, and he had drawn at least a score of them with his own hands.

‘Tom,’ he said, as they were walking along, ‘I begin to think you must be somebody’s son.’

‘I suppose I am,’ Tom answered in his quiet way.

‘But I mean somebody’s of consequence.’

‘Bless your heart,’ replied Tom, ‘my poor father was of no consequence, nor my mother either.’

‘You remember them perfectly, then?’

‘Remember them? oh dear yes. My poor mother was the last. She died when Ruth was a mere baby, and then we both became a charge upon the savings of that good old grandmother I used to tell you of. You remember! Oh! There’s nothing romantic in our history, John.’

‘Very well,’ said John in quiet despair. ‘Then there is no way of accounting for my visitor of this morning. So we’ll not try, Tom.’

They did try, notwithstanding, and never left off trying until they got to Austin Friars, where, in a very dark passage on the first floor, oddly situated at the back of a house, across some leads, they found a little blear-eyed glass door up in one corner, with Mr FIPS painted on it in characters which were meant to be transparent. There was also a wicked old sideboard hiding in the gloom hard by, meditating designs upon the ribs of visitors; and an old mat, worn into lattice work, which, being useless as a mat (even if anybody could have seen it, which was impossible), had for many years directed its industry into another channel, and regularly tripped up every one of Mr Fips’s clients.

Mr Fips, hearing a violent concussion between a human hat and his office door, was apprised, by the usual means of communication, that somebody had come to call upon him, and giving that somebody admission, observed that it was ‘rather dark.’

“Non può farlo,” disse Tom, molto perplesso, “se è di Londra. Non conosco nessuno a Londra.”

“E dopo aver osservato,” continuò John, tenendo ancora la mano sul polso di Tom, “non avevo alcun dubbio che avrebbe perdonato la libertà che mi ero preso nel chiedere chi lo avesse indirizzato da me; come fosse venuto a sapere del cambiamento verificatosi nella posizione di mio amico; e come fosse giunto a conoscenza delle particolari qualità di mio amico per un incarico del genere che aveva descritto; lui rispose seccamente che non era libero di fornire alcuna spiegazione.”

“Non sono autorizzato a fornire alcuna spiegazione!”, ripeté Tom, facendo un lungo respiro.

“Devo essere assolutamente consapevole,” aggiunse John, “che per chiunque abbia mai vissuto nei dintorni di Mr Pecksniff, Mr Thomas Pinch e le sue proprietà fossero altrettanto conosciuti quanto la torre della chiesa o il Blue Dragon.”

“Il Drago Blu!”, ripeté Tom, guardando alternativamente il suo amico e sua sorella.

“Ah, pensateci un po’. Parlava del Drago Blu con tale familiarità, vi giuro, come se fosse stato Mark Tapley stesso. Vi dico, quando lo fece, mi resi conto di averlo già visto prima; ma non riuscivo proprio a ricordarmi dove. Anche se lui, sorridendo, disse: ‘Conoscete il Drago Blu, signor Westlock. Voi stesso l’avete tenuto lassù, una o due volte.’ L’avevo tenuto lassù? Beh, sì. Ve lo ricordate, Tom?”

Tom annuì con grande enfasi e, cadendo in uno stato di perplessità ancora maggiore di prima, osservò che questa era la circostanza più inspiegabile ed eccezionale di cui avesse mai sentito parlare nella sua vita.

“Imresponsabile?” ripeté il suo amico. “Ho iniziato ad avere paura di quell’uomo. Anche se era pieno giorno e c’era il sole splendente, avevo davvero paura di lui. Ammetto di aver quasi sospettato che fosse un visitatore sovrannaturale, e non un essere umano, finché non tirò fuori una comune agenda da tasca e mi diede questa carta.”

“Signor Fips,” disse Tom, leggendolo ad alta voce. “Austin Friars. Suona spettrale, John.”

“Penso che i Fips non lo facciano,” rispose John. “Ma lui vive lì, Tom, ed è proprio lì che si aspetta che lo chiamiamo stamattina. Ora sai quanto so io su questo strano incidente, sulla mia onore.”

Il viso di Tom, tra la sua gioia per quei cento sterline all’anno e la sua meraviglia di fronte a questa storia, poteva essere paragonato soltanto al viso di sua sorella, sul quale si leggeva l’espressione di sorpresa più intensa che qualsiasi pittore avrebbe potuto desiderare vedere. Quello che sarebbe successo al budino di manzo se non fosse stato finito entro questo momento, nemmeno l’astrologia avrebbe potuto dirlo con certezza.

“Tom,” disse Ruth, dopo un breve esitare, “forse il signor Westlock, nella sua amicizia per te, sa più di quanto voglia ammettere.”

“No, assolutamente no!” esclamò John con impazienza. “Non è così, ve lo assicuro. Vorrei che fosse vero. Non posso attribuirmi alcun merito per una cosa del genere, signorina Pinch. Tutto ciò che so, o che, per quanto ne so, sono probabile che sappia in futuro, ve l’ho detto.”

“Non potresti saperne di più, se ci pensassi un po’?” disse Ruth, mentre raschiava con impegno la teglia per il dolce.

“No,” ribatté John. “Assolutamente no. È molto ingiusto da parte tua essere così sospettoso di me, quando io ripongo in te tutta la mia fiducia. Ho una fiducia illimitata in quel budino, signorina Pinch.”

Risero di questo, ma presto tornarono su un tono serio e discussero l’argomento con grande gravità. Per quanto ci fosse ancora dell’ambiguo in quella situazione, sembrava abbastanza chiaro che a Tom fosse stato offerto uno stipendio di cento sterline all’anno; e poiché questo era il punto principale, le eventuali incertezze circostanti anzi ne mettevano in risalto l’importanza.

Tom, essere molto agitato, avrebbe voluto partire immediatamente per Austin Friars, ma seguirono il consiglio di John e aspettarono quasi un’ora prima di mettersi in viaggio. Prima di lasciare casa, Tom si sistemò nel modo migliore possibile; e quando John Westlock, attraverso la porta semiaperta del salotto, intravide quella coraggiosa sorellina che lucidava il colletto del suo cappotto nel corridoio, sistemava i punti lenti dei suoi guanti e si muoveva intorno a lui con delicatezza, sistemandolo qui e là nella massima cura e precisione tipica della sua maniera un po’ antiquata di fare le cose, gli vennero in mente i ritratti che di lei erano appesi al muro dello studio di Pecksniff. E decise, con profonda indignazione, che quei ritratti fossero orribili calunnie, e che non fossero nemmeno lontanamente belli; anche se, come già accennato in precedenza, gli artisti che li avevano realizzati li rendevano sempre molto belli. E lui stesso ne aveva disegnati almeno una ventina con le sue mani.

“Tom,” disse mentre camminavano insieme, “comincio a pensare che tu debba essere il figlio di qualcuno.”

“Immagino di sì,” rispose Tom con il suo solito tono tranquillo.

“Ma intendo qualcuno di rilievo, ”

“Povero cuore tuo,” rispose Tom, “mio povero padre non contava nulla, e nemmeno mia madre.”

“Li ricordi perfettamente, allora?”

“Te li ricordi? Oh sì, certo. Mia povera madre è stata l’ultima. È morta quando Ruth era ancora una bambina piccola, e poi entrambe siamo diventate un peso per i risparmi di quella buona vecchia nonna di cui ti parlavo sempre. Te ne ricordi? Oh! Nella nostra storia non c’è nulla di romantico, John, ”

“Molto bene,” disse John con un tranquillo dispero. “Allora non c’è modo di spiegare la visita che ho ricevuto stamattina. Quindi non proveremo nemmeno, Tom.”

Ciononostante, provarono fino alla fine; non smisero mai di cercare finché non arrivarono ad Austin Friars. Lì, in un corridoio molto buio al primo piano, situato in un angolo remoto di una casa, trovarono una piccola porta di vetro appannata; su di essa era scritto “Mr FIPS” con caratteri che avrebbero dovuto essere trasparenti. Nelle vicinanze c’era anche un vecchio comò malandato, nascosto nell’oscurità, pronto a “complottare” contro chiunque vi si avvicinasse; inoltre, c’era un vecchio tappeto logoro, trasformato ormai in una sorta di rete. Inutile come tappeto (e comunque impossibile da vedere), da molti anni serviva a intralciare tutti i clienti di Mr FIPS.

Il signor Fips, sentendo un forte rumore prodotto dall’impatto di un cappello umano contro la porta del suo ufficio, venne informato, attraverso i soliti mezzi di comunicazione, che qualcuno era venuto a trovarlo. Dopo aver fatto entrare quella persona, notò che faceva “abbastanza buio”.

‘Dark indeed,’ John whispered in Tom Pinch’s ear. ‘Not a bad place to dispose of a countryman in, I should think, Tom.’

Tom had been already turning over in his mind the possibility of their having been tempted into that region to furnish forth a pie; but the sight of Mr Fips, who was small and spare, and looked peaceable, and wore black shorts and powder, dispelled his doubts.

‘Walk in,’ said Mr Fips.

They walked in. And a mighty yellow-jaundiced little office Mr Fips had of it; with a great, black, sprawling splash upon the floor in one corner, as if some old clerk had cut his throat there, years ago, and had let out ink instead of blood.

‘I have brought my friend Mr Pinch, sir,’ said John Westlock.

‘Be pleased to sit,’ said Mr Fips.

They occupied the two chairs, and Mr Fips took the office stool from the stuffing whereof he drew forth a piece of horse-hair of immense length, which he put into his mouth with a great appearance of appetite.

He looked at Tom Pinch curiously, but with an entire freedom from any such expression as could be reasonably construed into an unusual display of interest. After a short silence, during which Mr Fips was so perfectly unembarrassed as to render it manifest that he could have broken it sooner without hesitation, if he had felt inclined to do so, he asked if Mr Westlock had made his offer fully known to Mr Pinch.

John answered in the affirmative.

‘And you think it worth your while, sir, do you?’ Mr Fips inquired of Tom.

‘I think it a piece of great good fortune, sir,’ said Tom. ‘I am exceedingly obliged to you for the offer.’

‘Not to me,’ said Mr Fips. ‘I act upon instructions.’

‘To your friend, sir, then,’ said Tom. ‘To the gentleman with whom I am to engage, and whose confidence I shall endeavour to deserve. When he knows me better, sir, I hope he will not lose his good opinion of me. He will find me punctual and vigilant, and anxious to do what is right. That I think I can answer for, and so,’ looking towards him, ‘can Mr Westlock.’

‘Most assuredly,’ said John.

Mr Fips appeared to have some little difficulty in resuming the conversation. To relieve himself, he took up the wafer-stamp, and began stamping capital F’s all over his legs.

‘The fact is,’ said Mr Fips, ‘that my friend is not, at this present moment, in town.’

Tom’s countenance fell; for he thought this equivalent to telling him that his appearance did not answer; and that Fips must look out for somebody else.

‘When do you think he will be in town, sir?’ he asked.

‘I can’t say; it’s impossible to tell. I really have no idea. But,’ said Fips, taking off a very deep impression of the wafer-stamp upon the calf of his left leg, and looking steadily at Tom, ‘I don’t know that it’s a matter of much consequence.’

Poor Tom inclined his head deferentially, but appeared to doubt that.

‘I say,’ repeated Mr Fips, ‘that I don’t know it’s a matter of much consequence. The business lies entirely between yourself and me, Mr Pinch. With reference to your duties, I can set you going; and with reference to your salary, I can pay it. Weekly,’ said Mr Fips, putting down the wafer-stamp, and looking at John Westlock and Tom Pinch by turns, ‘weekly; in this office; at any time between the hours of four and five o’clock in the afternoon.’ As Mr Fips said this, he made up his face as if he were going to whistle. But he didn’t.

‘You are very good,’ said Tom, whose countenance was now suffused with pleasure; ‘and nothing can be more satisfactory or straightforward. My attendance will be required—’

‘From half-past nine to four o’clock or so, I should say,’ interrupted Mr Fips. ‘About that.’

‘I did not mean the hours of attendance,’ retorted Tom, ‘which are light and easy, I am sure; but the place.’

‘Oh, the place! The place is in the Temple.’

Tom was delighted.

‘Perhaps,’ said Mr Fips, ‘you would like to see the place?’

‘Oh, dear!’ cried Tom. ‘I shall only be too glad to consider myself engaged, if you will allow me; without any further reference to the place.’

‘You may consider yourself engaged, by all means,’ said Mr Fips; ‘you couldn’t meet me at the Temple Gate in Fleet Street, in an hour from this time, I suppose, could you?’

Certainly Tom could.

‘Good,’ said Mr Fips, rising. ‘Then I will show you the place; and you can begin your attendance to-morrow morning. In an hour, therefore, I shall see you. You too, Mr Westlock? Very good. Take care how you go. It’s rather dark.’

With this remark, which seemed superfluous, he shut them out upon the staircase, and they groped their way into the street again. The interview had done so little to remove the mystery in which Tom’s new engagement was involved, and had done so much to thicken it, that neither could help smiling at the puzzled looks of the other. They agreed, however, that the introduction of Tom to his new office and office companions could hardly fail to throw a light upon the subject; and therefore postponed its further consideration until after the fulfillment of the appointment they had made with Mr Fips.

After looking at John Westlock’s chambers, and devoting a few spare minutes to the Boar’s Head, they issued forth again to the place of meeting. The time agreed upon had not quite come; but Mr Fips was already at the Temple Gate, and expressed his satisfaction at their punctuality.

He led the way through sundry lanes and courts, into one more quiet and more gloomy than the rest, and, singling out a certain house, ascended a common staircase; taking from his pocket, as he went, a bunch of rusty keys. Stopping before a door upon an upper story, which had nothing but a yellow smear of paint where custom would have placed the tenant’s name, he began to beat the dust out of one of these keys, very deliberately, upon the great broad handrail of the balustrade.

‘You had better have a little plug made,’ he said, looking round at Tom, after blowing a shrill whistle into the barrel of the key. ‘It’s the only way of preventing them from getting stopped up. You’ll find the lock go the better, too, I dare say, for a little oil.’

“Davvero tenebroso,” sussurrò John all’orecchio di Tom Pinch. “Non è certo un cattivo posto per sbarazzarsi di un connazionale, non credi, Tom?”

Tom aveva già preso in considerazione la possibilità che fossero stati indotti ad andare in quella regione proprio per procurare una torta; ma la vista del signor Fips, un uomo piccolo e magro, dall’aspetto pacifico, che indossava pantaloncini neri e polvere sul viso, dissipò i suoi dubbi.

“Entri pure,” disse il signor Fips.

Entrarono. Era un piccolo ufficio giallastro e squallido appartenente al signor Fips; in un angolo del pavimento c’era una grande macchia nera, come se anni prima qualche vecchio impiegato si fosse tagliato la gola lì e avesse versato inchiostro invece di sangue.

“Ho portato con me il mio amico, il signor Pinch, signore,” disse John Westlock.

“Prego, si accomodi,” disse il signor Fips.

Si sedettero sulle due sedie, e il signor Fips prese lo sgabello da ufficio; ne estrasse un pezzo di crina di cavallo di enorme lunghezza e lo mise in bocca con grande appetito.

Lo guardò con curiosità, ma con una totale libertà da qualsiasi espressione che potesse essere interpretata come un interesse insolito. Dopo un breve silenzio, durante il quale il signor Fips rimase così completamente a suo agio da far capire chiaramente che avrebbe potuto interromperlo prima, senza esitazione, se ne fosse sentito il desiderio, chiese se il signor Westlock avesse comunicato pienamente la sua offerta al signor Pinch.

John rispose affermativamente.

“E pensate davvero che ne valga la pena, signore?” chiese il signor Fips a Tom.

“Penso che sia un grande colpo di fortuna, signore,” disse Tom. “Sono estremamente grato per la vostra offerta.”

“Non a me”, disse il signor Fips. “Agisco seguendo istruzioni”.

“Allora, a vostro amico, signore,” disse Tom. “Al gentiluomo con cui intendo fidanzarmi e il cui affetto spero di meritare. Quando mi conoscerà meglio, signore, spero che non perderà la buona opinione che ha di me. Scoprirà che sono puntuale, attento e desideroso di fare ciò che è giusto. Di questo sono sicuro, e lo stesso vale per il signor Westlock.”

“Con certezza,” disse John.

A quanto pare, il signor Fips aveva qualche difficoltà a riprendere la conversazione. Per distrarsi, prese lo stempo a forma di wafer e iniziò a stampare lettere “F” maiuscole su tutte le sue gambe.

“La verità è,” disse il signor Fips, “che mio amico, in questo momento, non si trova in città.”

L’espressione di Tom cambiò; pensò infatti che ciò equivalesse a dirgli che il suo aspetto non era adatto, e che quindi Fips dovesse cercarsi qualcun altro.

“Quando pensa che arriverà in città, signore?”, chiese.

“Non posso dirlo; è impossibile stabilirlo con certezza. Davvero non ne ho idea. Ma,” disse Fips, osservando attentamente l’impronta lasciata dalla stampa su la gamba sinistra di Tom e guardandolo negli occhi, “non credo che sia una questione di grande importanza.”

Povero Tom inclinò la testa in segno di rispetto, ma sembrava che ne dubitasse.

“Dico,” ripeté il signor Fips, “che non credo si tratti di una questione molto importante. L’intera faccenda riguarda soltanto voi e me, signor Pinch. Per quanto riguarda i vostri doveri, posso farvi iniziare; per quanto riguarda lo stipendio, posso pagarvelo. Settimanalmente,” aggiunse il signor Fips, mettendo giù il timbro e guardando alternativamente John Westlock e Tom Pinch, “settimanalmente; in questo ufficio; in qualsiasi momento tra le quattro e le cinque del pomeriggio.” Mentre lo diceva, il signor Fips assunse un’espressione come se stesse per fischiare. Ma non lo fece.

“Sei davvero molto bravo,” disse Tom, il cui volto ora era illuminato dalla gioia; “e non c’è nulla di più soddisfacente o semplice da fare. Sarà necessaria la mia presenza, ”

“Dalle nove e mezza alle quattro circa,” intervenne il signor Fips. “Più o meno.”

“Non intendevo parlare delle ore di servizio,” ribatté Tom, “che sicuramente sono poche e facili da svolgere; ma del luogo in cui si svolgono.”

“Ah, quel posto. Si trova nel Tempio.”

Tom era molto felice.

“Forse,” disse il signor Fips, “vorreste vedere il posto?”

“Oh, mio Dio!” esclamò Tom. “Sarei più che felice di considerarmi impegnato, se mi lo permettete, senza alcun riferimento ulteriore al luogo.”

“Potete considerarvi fidanzati, senza dubbio,” disse il signor Fips; “non potreste incontrarmi alle porte del Tempio, in Fleet Street, tra un’ora da ora, vero?”

Certo che Tom poteva farlo.

“Bene,” disse il signor Fips alzandosi. “Allora vi mostrerò il posto; potrete iniziare a lavorarvi domani mattina. Quindi ci vedremo tra un’ora. E voi, signor Westlock? Ottimo. Fate attenzione quando camminate. È abbastanza buio.”

Con questo commento, che sembrava superfluo, li congedò sulla scala, e loro si avviarono a tentoni verso la strada. L’intervista non aveva fatto quasi nulla per chiarire il mistero legato al nuovo impegno di Tom, anzi lo aveva solo reso ancora più oscuro; per questo entrambi non poterono fare a meno di sorridere davanti agli sguardi perplessi dell’altro. Tuttavia concordarono sul fatto che la presentazione di Tom al suo nuovo ufficio e ai suoi colleghi avrebbe sicuramente gettato luce su quella questione; quindi decisero di rimandare ulteriori discussioni fino a dopo aver rispettato l’appuntamento preso con il signor Fips.

Dopo aver ispezionato le stanze di John Westlock e dedicato qualche minuto in più al Boar’s Head, si recarono nuovamente nel luogo dell’incontro. L’ora concordata non era ancora arrivata; ma il signor Fips era già alla Temple Gate e manifestò la sua soddisfazione per la loro puntualità.

Condusse il cammino attraverso vari vicoli e cortili, fino a uno ancora più tranquillo e cupo degli altri; individuata una certa casa, salì una scala comune, estraendo dal taschino un mazzo di chiavi arrugginite. Si fermò davanti a una porta al piano superiore: su di essa non c’era altro che uno strato giallo di vernice al posto del nome del proprietario. Iniziò quindi a pulire con cura una di quelle chiavi, battendola contro la larga ringhiera della balaustra.

“Farai meglio a far fare un piccolo tappo,” disse, guardandosi intorno e osservando Tom, dopo aver soffiato in un fischietto all’interno del manico della chiave. “È l’unico modo per evitare che si intasino. Scommetto anche che la serratura funzionerà meglio se ci si aggiunge un po’ di olio.”

Tom thanked him; but was too much occupied with his own speculations, and John Westlock’s looks, to be very talkative. In the meantime Mr Fips opened the door, which yielded to his hand very unwillingly, and with a horribly discordant sound. He took the key out, when he had done so, and gave it to Tom.

‘Aye, aye!’ said Mr Fips. ‘The dust lies rather thick here.’

Truly, it did. Mr Fips might have gone so far as to say, very thick. It had accumulated everywhere; lay deep on everything, and in one part, where a ray of sun shone through a crevice in the shutter and struck upon the opposite wall, it went twirling round and round, like a gigantic squirrel-cage.

Dust was the only thing in the place that had any motion about it. When their conductor admitted the light freely, and lifting up the heavy window-sash, let in the summer air, he showed the mouldering furniture, discoloured wainscoting and ceiling, rusty stove, and ashy hearth, in all their inert neglect. Close to the door there stood a candlestick, with an extinguisher upon it; as if the last man who had been there had paused, after securing a retreat, to take a parting look at the dreariness he left behind, and then had shut out light and life together, and closed the place up like a tomb.

There were two rooms on that floor; and in the first or outer one a narrow staircase, leading to two more above. These last were fitted up as bed-chambers. Neither in them, nor in the rooms below, was any scarcity of convenient furniture observable, although the fittings were of a bygone fashion; but solitude and want of use seemed to have rendered it unfit for any purposes of comfort, and to have given it a grisly, haunted air.

Movables of every kind lay strewn about, without the least attempt at order, and were intermixed with boxes, hampers, and all sorts of lumber. On all the floors were piles of books, to the amount, perhaps, of some thousands of volumes: these, still in bales; those, wrapped in paper, as they had been purchased; others scattered singly or in heaps; not one upon the shelves which lined the walls. To these Mr Fips called Tom’s attention.

‘Before anything else can be done, we must have them put in order, catalogued, and ranged upon the book-shelves, Mr Pinch. That will do to begin with, I think, sir.’

Tom rubbed his hands in the pleasant anticipation of a task so congenial to his taste, and said:

‘An occupation full of interest for me, I assure you. It will occupy me, perhaps, until Mr—’

‘Until Mr—’ repeated Fips; as much as to ask Tom what he was stopping for.

‘I forgot that you had not mentioned the gentleman’s name,’ said Tom.

‘Oh!’ cried Mr Fips, pulling on his glove, ‘didn’t I? No, by-the-bye, I don’t think I did. Ah! I dare say he’ll be here soon. You will get on very well together, I have no doubt. I wish you success I am sure. You won’t forget to shut the door? It’ll lock of itself if you slam it. Half-past nine, you know. Let us say from half-past nine to four, or half-past four, or thereabouts; one day, perhaps, a little earlier, another day, perhaps, a little later, according as you feel disposed, and as you arrange your work. Mr Fips, Austin Friars of course you’ll remember? And you won’t forget to slam the door, if you please!’

He said all this in such a comfortable, easy manner, that Tom could only rub his hands, and nod his head, and smile in acquiescence which he was still doing, when Mr Fips walked coolly out.

‘Why, he’s gone!’ cried Tom.

‘And what’s more, Tom,’ said John Westlock, seating himself upon a pile of books, and looking up at his astonished friend, ‘he is evidently not coming back again; so here you are, installed. Under rather singular circumstances, Tom!’

It was such an odd affair throughout, and Tom standing there among the books with his hat in one hand and the key in the other, looked so prodigiously confounded, that his friend could not help laughing heartily. Tom himself was tickled; no less by the hilarity of his friend than by the recollection of the sudden manner in which he had been brought to a stop, in the very height of his urbane conference with Mr Fips; so by degrees Tom burst out laughing too; and each making the other laugh more, they fairly roared.

When they had had their laugh out, which did not happen very soon, for give John an inch that way and he was sure to take several ells, being a jovial, good-tempered fellow, they looked about them more closely, groping among the lumber for any stray means of enlightenment that might turn up. But no scrap or shred of information could they find. The books were marked with a variety of owner’s names, having, no doubt, been bought at sales, and collected here and there at different times; but whether any one of these names belonged to Tom’s employer, and, if so, which of them, they had no means whatever of determining. It occurred to John as a very bright thought to make inquiry at the steward’s office, to whom the chambers belonged, or by whom they were held; but he came back no wiser than he went, the answer being, ‘Mr Fips, of Austin Friars.’

‘After all, Tom, I begin to think it lies no deeper than this. Fips is an eccentric man; has some knowledge of Pecksniff; despises him, of course; has heard or seen enough of you to know that you are the man he wants; and engages you in his own whimsical manner.’

‘But why in his own whimsical manner?’ asked Tom.

‘Oh! why does any man entertain his own whimsical taste? Why does Mr Fips wear shorts and powder, and Mr Fips’s next-door neighbour boots and a wig?’

Tom, being in that state of mind in which any explanation is a great relief, adopted this last one (which indeed was quite as feasible as any other) readily, and said he had no doubt of it. Nor was his faith at all shaken by his having said exactly the same thing to each suggestion of his friend’s in turn, and being perfectly ready to say it again if he had any new solution to propose.

Tom gli ringraziò; ma era troppo impegnato nelle sue riflessioni e nei gesti di John Westlock per essere molto loquace. Nel frattempo, il signor Fips aprì la porta, che si aprì con estrema riluttanza, emettendo un suono terribilmente stridulo. Dopo averla aperta, prese la chiave e la diede a Tom.

“Sì, sì!” disse il signor Fips. “Qui la polvere è piuttosto fitta.”

Davvero, era così. Il signor Fips avrebbe potuto persino dire, con molta enfasi. Si era accumulato ovunque; si trovava in quantità abbondanti su ogni cosa. In una certa parte, però, quando un raggio di sole filtrava attraverso una fessura nella tenda e colpiva il muro opposto, quel materiale iniziava a girare vorticosamente, come una gigantesca gabbia per scoiattoli.

Polvere era l’unica cosa in quel luogo che si muovesse. Quando il loro conducente lasciò entrare liberamente la luce e sollevò le pesanti persiane delle finestre, facendo entrare l’aria estiva, mostrò i mobili marciti, le cornici e il soffitto ingialliti, la stufa arrugginita e il focolare pieno di cenere, in tutto il loro stato di abbandono. Vicino alla porta c’era un candelabro, con un estintore sopra; sembrava che l’ultima persona che era stata lì si fosse fermata, dopo essersi assicurata di essere al sicuro, per dare un ultimo sguardo a quella desolazione che lasciava alle spalle, e poi avesse spento sia la luce che la vita, chiudendo quel luogo come una tomba.

C’erano due stanze in quel piano; nella prima, quella esterna, c’era una stretta scala che conduceva ad altre due stanze al piano di sopra. Queste ultime erano state allestite come camere da letto. Né in esse, né nelle stanze sottostanti, si notava alcuna mancanza di mobili comodi, anche se l’arredamento era di moda passata; tuttavia, la solitudine e il fatto che non venissero utilizzate sembravano renderle inadatte a qualsiasi scopo confortevole, conferendogli un aspetto cupo e sinistro.

Mobili di ogni tipo erano sparsi dappertutto, senza alcun tentativo di metterli in ordine; erano mescolati con scatole, cesti e ogni sorta di oggetti ingombranti. Su tutti i piani c’erano mucchi di libri, forse addirittura migliaia di volumi: alcuni ancora impacchettati, altri avvolti in carta, proprio come erano stati acquistati; altri ancora sparsi singolarmente o a mucchi; nessuno sugli scaffali che correvano lungo le pareti. Fu su questi oggetti che il signor Fips attirò l’attenzione di Tom.

“Prima di poter fare qualsiasi altra cosa, dobbiamo sistemarli, catalogarli e disporli sugli scaffali, signor Pinch. Penso che questo sia sufficiente per iniziare, signore.”

Tom si strofinò le mani, pieno di piacevole anticipazione all’idea di intraprendere un compito che gli piacesse così tanto, e disse:

“Un’occupazione davvero interessante per me, ve lo assicuro. Mi occuperà, forse, fino a quando il signor, ”

“Fino a quando il signor, ” ripeté Fips, come se stesse chiedendo a Tom per quale motivo si fosse fermato.

“Ho dimenticato che non avessi menzionato il nome di quel signore,” disse Tom.

“Oh!” esclamò il signor Fips, infilando il guanto, “Non l’ho fatto, vero? No, anzi, forse non l’ho fatto. Ah! Immagino che arriverà presto. Vi troverete molto bene insieme, ne sono sicuro. Vi auguro tutto il successo possibile. Non dimenticherete di chiudere la porta, vero? Si chiuderà da sola se la sbattete forte. Alle nove e mezza, ricordatevelo. Diciamo dalle nove e mezza alle quattro, o poco dopo le quattro. Un giorno forse un po’ prima, un altro giorno un po’ più tardi, a seconda di come vi sentite e di come organizzate il vostro lavoro. Signor Fips, ovviamente ricorderete Austin Friars, vero? E non dimenticherete di chiudere la porta, per favore!”

Disse tutto questo in modo così naturale e disinvolto che Tom poté solo strofinarsi le mani, annuire e sorridere in segno di assenso; continuò a farlo anche quando il signor Fips se ne andò con calma.

“Ma è andato via!” gridò Tom.

“E inoltre, Tom,” disse John Westlock, sedendosi su un mucchio di libri e guardando il suo amico stupito, “è evidente che non tornerà più; quindi eccoti qui, sistemato nella tua nuova casa. In circostanze piuttosto insolite, Tom, ”

Fu davvero un’esperienza strana: Tom, lì in piedi tra i libri, con il cappello in una mano e la chiave nell’altra, sembrava così completamente confuso che il suo amico non poté fare a meno di ridere di cuore. Anche Tom si trovò divertito; tanto dall’ilarità dell’amico quanto dal ricordo del modo improvviso in cui era stato interrotto, proprio nel bel mezzo della sua “conversazione” con il signor Fips. Così, poco a poco, anche lui iniziò a ridere; e man mano che si rideva di più, finirono per scoppiare in una vera e propria risata.

Dopo essersi divertiti a sufficienza – il che non accadde subito, poiché John, essendo una persona allegra e di buon carattere, tendeva ad approfittare ogni occasione per scherzare – si guardarono intorno più attentamente, cercando tra i mobili qualche indizio che potesse aiutarli a capire la situazione. Ma non trovarono alcuna informazione utile. I libri portavano diversi nomi di proprietari; senza dubbio erano stati acquistati durante delle vendite e raccolti in momenti diversi. Tuttavia, non c’era modo di sapere se uno di quei nomi appartenesse al datore di lavoro di Tom, né quale fosse esattamente. A John venne l’idea di informarsi presso l’amministratore delle stanze, ma tornò indietro senza aver ottenuto alcuna risposta: il proprietario era “il signor Fips, di Austin Friars”.

“Dopo tutto, Tom, comincio a pensare che non ci sia nulla di più complicato dietro a tutto questo. Fips è un uomo eccentrico; conosce qualcosa riguardo a Pecksniff; naturalmente lo disprezza; ha sentito o visto abbastanza di te da capire che sei l’uomo che cerca, e quindi ti coinvolge nel suo modo stravagante.”

“Ma perché, nel suo modo così stravagante?” chiese Tom.

“Oh! Perché mai un uomo si ostina a seguire i propri capricci e gusti stravaganti? Perché il signor Fips indossa pantaloncini corti e polvere per il viso, mentre il suo vicino di casa porta stivali e parrucca?”

Tom, essendo in quello stato d’animo in cui qualsiasi spiegazione rappresenti un grande sollievo, accettò immediatamente questa ultima (che del resto era altrettanto plausibile quanto qualsiasi altra) e dichiarò di non averne alcun >dubbio. La sua >fede non venne affatto scossa dal fatto che avesse detto esattamente la stessa cosa per ogni suggerimento del suo amico, e fosse perfettamente disposto a ripeterlo di nuovo se quest’ultimo avesse proposto una nuova soluzione.

As he had not, Tom drew down the window-sash, and folded the shutter; and they left the rooms. He closed the door heavily, as Mr Fips had desired him; tried it, found it all safe, and put the key in his pocket.

They made a pretty wide circuit in going back to Islington, as they had time to spare, and Tom was never tired of looking about him. It was well he had John Westlock for his companion, for most people would have been weary of his perpetual stoppages at shop-windows, and his frequent dashes into the crowded carriage-way at the peril of his life, to get the better view of church steeples, and other public buildings. But John was charmed to see him so much interested, and every time Tom came back with a beaming face from among the wheels of carts and hackney-coaches, wholly unconscious of the personal congratulations addressed to him by the drivers, John seemed to like him better than before.

There was no flour on Ruth’s hands when she received them in the triangular parlour, but there were pleasant smiles upon her face, and a crowd of welcomes shining out of every smile, and gleaming in her bright eyes. By the bye, how bright they were! Looking into them for but a moment, when you took her hand, you saw, in each, such a capital miniature of yourself, representing you as such a restless, flashing, eager, brilliant little fellow—

Ah! if you could only have kept them for your own miniature! But, wicked, roving, restless, too impartial eyes, it was enough for any one to stand before them, and, straightway, there he danced and sparkled quite as merrily as you!

The table was already spread for dinner; and though it was spread with nothing very choice in the way of glass or linen, and with green-handled knives, and very mountebanks of two-pronged forks, which seemed to be trying how far asunder they could possibly stretch their legs without converting themselves into double the number of iron toothpicks, it wanted neither damask, silver, gold, nor china; no, nor any other garniture at all. There it was; and, being there, nothing else would have done as well.

The success of that initiative dish; that first experiment of hers in cookery; was so entire, so unalloyed and perfect, that John Westlock and Tom agreed she must have been studying the art in secret for a long time past; and urged her to make a full confession of the fact. They were exceedingly merry over this jest, and many smart things were said concerning it; but John was not as fair in his behaviour as might have been expected, for, after luring Tom Pinch on for a long time, he suddenly went over to the enemy, and swore to everything his sister said. However, as Tom observed the same night before going to bed, it was only in joke, and John had always been famous for being polite to ladies, even when he was quite a boy. Ruth said, ‘Oh! indeed!’ She didn’t say anything else.

It is astonishing how much three people may find to talk about. They scarcely left off talking once. And it was not all lively chat which occupied them; for when Tom related how he had seen Mr Pecksniff’s daughters, and what a change had fallen on the younger, they were very serious.

John Westlock became quite absorbed in her fortunes; asking many questions of Tom Pinch about her marriage, inquiring whether her husband was the gentleman whom Tom had brought to dine with him at Salisbury; in what degree of relationship they stood towards each other, being different persons; and taking, in short, the greatest interest in the subject. Tom then went into it, at full length; he told how Martin had gone abroad, and had not been heard of for a long time; how Dragon Mark had borne him company; how Mr Pecksniff had got the poor old doting grandfather into his power; and how he basely sought the hand of Mary Graham. But not a word said Tom of what lay hidden in his heart; his heart, so deep, and true, and full of honour, and yet with so much room for every gentle and unselfish thought; not a word.

Tom, Tom! The man in all this world most confident in his sagacity and shrewdness; the man in all this world most proud of his distrust of other men, and having most to show in gold and silver as the gains belonging to his creed; the meekest favourer of that wise doctrine, Every man for himself, and God for us all (there being high wisdom in the thought that the Eternal Majesty of Heaven ever was, or can be, on the side of selfish lust and love!); shall never find, oh, never find, be sure of that, the time come home to him, when all his wisdom is an idiot’s folly, weighed against a simple heart!

Well, well, Tom, it was simple too, though simple in a different way, to be so eager touching that same theatre, of which John said, when tea was done, he had the absolute command, so far as taking parties in without the payment of a sixpence was concerned; and simpler yet, perhaps, never to suspect that when he went in first, alone, he paid the money! Simple in thee, dear Tom, to laugh and cry so heartily at such a sorry show, so poorly shown; simple to be so happy and loquacious trudging home with Ruth; simple to be so surprised to find that merry present of a cookery-book awaiting her in the parlour next morning, with the beef-steak-pudding-leaf turned down and blotted out. There! Let the record stand! Thy quality of soul was simple, simple, quite contemptible, Tom Pinch!

Poiché non l’aveva fatto, Tom abbassò la persiana della finestra e piegò la tenda; poi lasciarono le stanze. Chiuse la porta con forza, come il signor Fips gli aveva chiesto di fare; verificò che tutto fosse a posto e mise la chiave in tasca.

Fecero un giro abbastanza lungo tornando a Islington, poiché avevano tempo in abbondanza; Tom non si stancava mai di guardarsi intorno. Era davvero una fortuna che avesse John Westlock come compagno: la maggior parte delle persone, infatti, si sarebbe stancata delle sue continue soste davanti ai negozi, e dei suoi frequenti balzi nei traffici affollati, rischiando la vita pur di godersi una vista migliore delle guglie delle chiese e di altri edifici pubblici. Ma John era incantato dal vedere Tom così interessato; ogni volta che tornava, con il viso sorridente tra le ruote dei carri e delle carrozze a noleggio, completamente ignaro degli auguri personali che gli rivolgevano i conducenti, sembrava che John lo apprezzasse ancora di più.

Le mani di Ruth non avevano farina quando le prese nella stanza triangolare, ma sul suo viso c’erano sorrisi piacevoli; da ogni sorriso emanava un’onda di benvenuti, e i suoi occhi luminosi brillavano di gioia. Del resto, che occhi splendidi erano! Se li guardavi per un attimo solo, mentre le prendevi la mano, in ciascuno di essi vedevi una piccola rappresentazione di te stesso: un giovane irrequieto, vivace, desideroso e brillante.

Ah! Se solo avessi potuto tenerle per la tua propria miniatura. Ma quegli occhi malvagi, erranti, inquieti e troppo imparziali. Bastava che qualcuno si presentasse davanti a loro, ed ecco che subito quel “qualcuno” iniziava a danzare e brillare altrettanto felicemente di te!

La tavola era già pronta per la cena; e sebbene non fosse imbandita con stoviglie molto eleganti – né bicchieri né tovaglie di lino raffinate, né coltelli con manici verdi, né forchette di scarsa qualità che sembravano cercare di allungarsi il più possibile senza trasformarsi in un doppio numero di stuzzicadenti di ferro – non c’era bisogno né di damasco, né d’argento, né d’oro, né di porcellana. No, nessun altro tipo di decorazione sarebbe stato necessario. Era così com’era, e proprio così andava bene.

Il successo di quell’iniziativa; quel primo esperimento suo nella cucina; fu così completo, così puro e perfetto, che John Westlock e Tom convennero che doveva aver studiato quell’arte in segreto per molto tempo; e la esortarono a confessare apertamente la verità. Risero moltissimo di questa “burla”, e ne dissero molte cose divertenti; ma John non si comportò con la stessa gentilezza che ci si sarebbe aspettati, perché, dopo aver attirato l’attenzione di Tom Pinch per molto tempo, all’improvviso passò dalla loro parte e confermò tutto ciò che sua sorella aveva detto. Tuttavia, come osservò Tom la stessa notte prima di andare a letto, si trattava soltanto di una battuta; inoltre, John era sempre stato noto per essere molto cortese con le donne, anche da ragazzo. Ruth disse: “Oh, davvero!” Non aggiunse altro.

È sorprendente quante cose tre persone possano trovare da parlare. Non smisero mai di conversare nemmeno per un attimo. E non si trattava solo di chiacchiere leggere; infatti, quando Tom raccontò di aver visto le figlie del signor Pecksniff e di quanto fosse cambiata la più giovane, loro furono molto seri.

John Westlock si interessò molto alle sue vicende: fece molte domande a Tom Pinch riguardo al suo matrimonio, chiedendo se suo marito fosse lo stesso gentiluomo che Tom aveva invitato a cena a Salisbury, e in quale rapporto si trovassero, essendo persone diverse; insomma, mostrò un grande interesse per l’argomento. Allora Tom iniziò a raccontare tutto nei dettagli: spiegò come Martin fosse partito all’estero e non se ne avesse più sentita parlare da molto tempo, come Dragon Mark lo avesse accompagnato nel suo viaggio, come il signor Pecksniff avesse preso in suo potere quel povero vecchio nonno affettuoso, e come avesse cercato in modo disonesto di ottenere la mano di Mary Graham. Ma Tom non disse una parola di ciò che nascondeva nel proprio cuore: un cuore profondo, sincero, pieno di onore, eppure capace di contenere ogni pensiero gentile e altruista. Nessuna parola.

Tom, Tom! L’uomo al mondo più fiducioso nella propria saggezza e astuzia; l’uomo al mondo più orgoglioso della propria diffidenza verso gli altri, e quello che possiede di più in oro e argento come frutto delle sue convinzioni; il più fervente sostenitore di quella dottrina secondo cui “ognuno per sé e Dio per tutti”, (In effetti, c’è grande saggezza nel pensare che la Maestà Eterna del Cielo sia sempre stata, o possa mai essere, dalla parte dei desideri egoistici e dell’amore!). Ma Tom non troverà mai, oh no, mai, quando arriverà il momento in cui dovrà affrontare la realtà, che tutta la sua saggezza non sia altro che follia, rispetto a un cuore semplice e sincero!

Beh, Tom, era semplice anche questo, sebbene in un modo diverso. Era semplice essere così desiderosi di assistere a quel stesso spettacolo di cui John aveva detto, dopo aver preparato il tè, di avere il pieno controllo su tutto ciò che riguardava l’organizzazione degli spettacoli senza dover pagare nemmeno sei pence; e forse ancora più semplice era non sospettare mai che, quando lui entrava per primo, da solo, era lui a pagare i soldi! Era semplice, caro Tom, ridere e piangere così sinceramente davanti a uno spettacolo così misero e mal eseguito; era semplice essere così felici e chiacchieroni mentre tornavamo a casa con Ruth; era semplice rimanere sorpresi nel trovare, la mattina seguente, in salotto quel regalo divertente: un libro di cucina, con la pagina relativa al budino di bistecca di manzo piegata e cancellata. Ecco! Lasciamo che questa testimonianza resti. La tua natura d’anima era semplice, davvero semplice, Tom Pinch!

CHAPTER FORTY

THE PINCHES MAKE A NEW ACQUAINTANCE, AND HAVE FRESH OCCASION FOR SURPRISE AND WONDER

There was a ghostly air about these uninhabited chambers in the Temple, and attending every circumstance of Tom’s employment there, which had a strange charm in it. Every morning when he shut his door at Islington, he turned his face towards an atmosphere of unaccountable fascination, as surely as he turned it to the London smoke; and from that moment it thickened round and round him all day long, until the time arrived for going home again, and leaving it, like a motionless cloud, behind.

It seemed to Tom, every morning, that he approached this ghostly mist, and became enveloped in it, by the easiest succession of degrees imaginable. Passing from the roar and rattle of the streets into the quiet court-yards of the Temple, was the first preparation. Every echo of his footsteps sounded to him like a sound from the old walls and pavements, wanting language to relate the histories of the dim, dismal rooms; to tell him what lost documents were decaying in forgotten corners of the shut-up cellars, from whose lattices such mouldy sighs came breathing forth as he went past; to whisper of dark bins of rare old wine, bricked up in vaults among the old foundations of the Halls; or mutter in a lower tone yet darker legends of the cross-legged knights, whose marble effigies were in the church. With the first planting of his foot upon the staircase of his dusty office, all these mysteries increased; until, ascending step by step, as Tom ascended, they attained their full growth in the solitary labours of the day.

Every day brought one recurring, never-failing source of speculation. This employer; would he come to-day, and what would he be like? For Tom could not stop short at Mr Fips; he quite believed that Mr Fips had spoken truly, when he said he acted for another; and what manner of man that other was, became a full-blown flower of wonder in the garden of Tom’s fancy, which never faded or got trodden down.

At one time, he conceived that Mr Pecksniff, repenting of his falsehood, might, by exertion of his influence with some third person have devised these means of giving him employment. He found this idea so insupportable after what had taken place between that good man and himself, that he confided it to John Westlock on the very same day; informing John that he would rather ply for hire as a porter, than fall so low in his own esteem as to accept the smallest obligation from the hands of Mr Pecksniff. But John assured him that he (Tom Pinch) was far from doing justice to the character of Mr Pecksniff yet, if he supposed that gentleman capable of performing a generous action; and that he might make his mind quite easy on that head until he saw the sun turn green and the moon black, and at the same time distinctly perceived with the naked eye, twelve first-rate comets careering round those planets. In which unusual state of things, he said (and not before), it might become not absolutely lunatic to suspect Mr Pecksniff of anything so monstrous. In short he laughed the idea down completely; and Tom, abandoning it, was thrown upon his beam-ends again, for some other solution.

In the meantime Tom attended to his duties daily, and made considerable progress with the books; which were already reduced to some sort of order, and made a great appearance in his fairly-written catalogue. During his business hours, he indulged himself occasionally with snatches of reading; which were often, indeed, a necessary part of his pursuit; and as he usually made bold to carry one of these goblin volumes home at night (always bringing it back again next morning, in case his strange employer should appear and ask what had become of it), he led a happy, quiet, studious kind of life, after his own heart.

But though the books were never so interesting, and never so full of novelty to Tom, they could not so enchain him, in those mysterious chambers, as to render him unconscious, for a moment, of the lightest sound. Any footstep on the flags without set him listening attentively and when it turned into that house, and came up, up, up the stairs, he always thought with a beating heart, ‘Now I am coming face to face with him at last!’ But no footstep ever passed the floor immediately below: except his own.

This mystery and loneliness engendered fancies in Tom’s mind, the folly of which his common sense could readily discover, but which his common sense was quite unable to keep away, notwithstanding; that quality being with most of us, in such a case, like the old French Police—quick at detection, but very weak as a preventive power. Misgivings, undefined, absurd, inexplicable, that there was some one hiding in the inner room—walking softly overhead, peeping in through the door-chink, doing something stealthy, anywhere where he was not—came over him a hundred times a day, making it pleasant to throw up the sash, and hold communication even with the sparrows who had built in the roof and water-spout, and were twittering about the windows all day long.

He sat with the outer door wide open, at all times, that he might hear the footsteps as they entered, and turned off into the chambers on the lower floor. He formed odd prepossessions too, regarding strangers in the streets; and would say within himself of such or such a man, who struck him as having anything uncommon in his dress or aspect, ‘I shouldn’t wonder, now, if that were he!’ But it never was. And though he actually turned back and followed more than one of these suspected individuals, in a singular belief that they were going to the place he was then upon his way from, he never got any other satisfaction by it, than the satisfaction of knowing it was not the case.

Mr Fips, of Austin Friars, rather deepened than illumined the obscurity of his position; for on the first occasion of Tom’s waiting on him to receive his weekly pay, he said:

CAPITOLO QUARANTA

Le dita fanno una nuova conoscenza e hanno nuove occasioni per sorprendere e suscitare stupore.

C’era un’atmosfera spettrale in queste stanze disabitate del Tempio; ogni aspetto della vita di Tom lì era avvolto da un fascino strano e misterioso. Ogni mattina, quando chiudeva la porta a Islington, si rivolgeva verso quell’atmosfera di incanto inspiegabile, proprio come si rivolgeva verso il fumo di Londra; da quel momento in poi, quell’atmosfera lo avvolgeva per tutta la giornata, fino al momento in cui doveva tornare a casa, lasciandola alle sue spalle come una nuvola immobile.

Ogni mattina, a Tom sembrava di avvicinarsi gradualmente a quella nebbia spettrale, di essere avvolto da essa attraverso una serie di passaggi progressivi e immaginabili. Passare dal frastuono delle strade ai tranquilli cortili del Tempio rappresentava già il primo passo in questa esperienza misteriosa. Ogni eco dei suoi passi gli sembrava provenire dalle vecchie mura e dai pavimenti, come se volesse raccontargli le storie di quelle stanze oscure e desolate; dirgli quali documenti perduti stavano marcendo in angoli dimenticati delle cantine chiuse, da cui provenivano sospiri umidi e muffiti ogni volta che lui vi passava accanto; sussurrargli di bottiglie di vino antico e raro, sigillate nelle volte tra le vecchie fondamenta del Tempio. O ancora mormorare leggende oscure sui cavalieri dalle gambe incrociate, le cui statue di marmo si trovavano nella chiesa. Man mano che Tom saliva i gradini del suo ufficio polveroso, tutti questi misteri diventavano sempre più intensi; fino a raggiungere il loro apice durante le ore solitarie e silenziose della giornata.

Ogni giorno portava con sé una fonte di speculazioni costante e mai fallace. Questo datore di lavoro: sarebbe venuto oggi? E com’era veramente? Perché Tom non riusciva a fermarsi solo a Mr Fips; credeva davvero che Mr Fips avesse detto la verità quando aveva affermato di agire per conto di un altro; e chi fosse questo “altro” divenne il fulcro di una serie di fantasie che non appassirono mai né furono mai soffocate.

A un certo momento, pensò che il signor Pecksniff, pentitosi delle sue menzogne, potesse, esercitando la sua influenza su qualcun altro, aver trovato questi modi per dargli lavoro. Tuttavia, considerando ciò che era accaduto tra quel gentiluomo e lui stesso, ritenne quell’idea del tutto inaccettabile e ne parlò subito a John Westlock, dicendogli che preferiva guadagnarsi da vivere come facchino piuttosto che abbassarsi al punto di accettare anche la minima gratitudine dal signor Pecksniff. Ma John gli assicurò che stava certamente sottovalutando il carattere del signor Pecksniff e che, se pensava davvero che quel gentiluomo fosse capace di compiere un atto generoso, allora poteva stare tranquillo su quella questione, a meno che non vedesse il sole diventare verde, la luna nera, e contemporaneamente dodici comete di prim’ordine orbitare intorno ai pianeti. In una situazione del genere, aggiunse John, sospettare qualcosa di così mostruoso nel signor Pecksniff non sarebbe affatto pazzesco. Insomma, rise della sua idea e Tom, abbandonandola, si ritrovò nuovamente senza soluzione.

Nel frattempo, Tom svolgeva quotidianamente i propri doveri e faceva notevoli progressi con i libri; questi erano ormai stati sistemati in un certo ordine e apparivano molto bene nel suo catalogo ben redatto. Durante le ore di lavoro, si concedeva occasionalmente qualche momento di lettura; che spesso rappresentava davvero una parte indispensabile delle sue attività. Poiché osava portare a casa uno di quei libri la sera (tornandolo sempre il giorno dopo, nel caso in cui il suo strano datore di lavoro potesse comparire e chiedere cosa ne fosse stato), conduceva una vita felice, tranquilla e studiosa, proprio come desiderava.

Ma anche se quei libri non erano mai stati così interessanti, né così pieni di novità per Tom, non riuscivano comunque a intrappolarlo in quelle misteriose stanze al punto da fargli perdere, anche solo per un momento, coscienza del minimo rumore. Qualsiasi passo sulle scale lo faceva ascoltare attentamente; e quando quel passo si avvicinava a quella casa, salendo sempre di più le scale, lui pensava sempre con il cuore che batteva forte: “Ora finalmente lo incontrerò faccia a faccia!” Ma nessun altro passo oltrepassava mai il piano immediatamente sottostante, tranne il suo.

Questo mistero e questa solitudine suscitarono in Tom mille fantasie; la follia di quelle fantasie era facilmente percepibile dal suo buon senso, ma egli non riusciva comunque a scacciarle. Questa caratteristica, infatti, è tipica della maggior parte di noi in situazioni del genere: il nostro buon senso è veloce nel individuare i problemi, ma assolutamente incapace di prevenirli. Dubbi indefiniti, assurdi, inspiegabili, che qualcuno si nascondesse nella stanza interna, che camminasse silenziosamente sopra la sua testa, che spiasse attraverso le fessure della porta, che compisse attività segrete ovunque non fosse presente, questi pensieri gli venivano in mente centinaia di volte al giorno. E così gli piaceva sollevare la tenda e “conversare” anche con i passeri che avevano costruito il nido sul tetto e intorno alla bocca dell’acqua, cinguettando tutto il giorno davanti alle finestre.

Se ne stava seduto con la porta esterna completamente aperta, sempre pronto ad ascoltare i passi di chiunque entrasse e si dirigesse verso le stanze al piano inferiore. Aveva anche delle strane preoccupazioni riguardo agli sconosciuti per le strade; quando notava un uomo il cui abbigliamento o aspetto gli sembravano insoliti, pensava tra sé: “Non mi sorprenderebbe affatto se fosse lui, ”, ma in realtà non lo era mai. Anche se a volte tornava indietro e seguiva uno di questi sospettati, convinto che stessero andando proprio nel posto verso cui lui stesso si stava dirigendo, non otteneva mai alcuna conferma delle sue supposizioni, se non quella di constatare che in realtà non era così.

Il signor Fips, di Austin Friars, non fece altro che rendere ancora più oscura la complessità della sua posizione; infatti, la prima volta che Tom andò da lui per ricevere lo stipendio settimanale, lui disse:

‘Oh! by the bye, Mr Pinch, you needn’t mention it, if you please!’

Tom thought he was going to tell him a secret; so he said that he wouldn’t on any account, and that Mr Fips might entirely depend upon him. But as Mr Fips said ‘Very good,’ in reply, and nothing more, Tom prompted him:

‘Not on any account,’ repeated Tom.

Mr Fips repeated: ‘Very good.’

‘You were going to say’—Tom hinted.

‘Oh dear no!’ cried Fips. ‘Not at all.’ However, seeing Tom confused, he added, ‘I mean that you needn’t mention any particulars about your place of employment, to people generally. You’ll find it better not.’

‘I have not had the pleasure of seeing my employer yet, sir,’ observed Tom, putting his week’s salary in his pocket.

‘Haven’t you?’ said Fips. ‘No, I don’t suppose you have though.’

‘I should like to thank him, and to know that what I have done so far, is done to his satisfaction,’ faltered Tom.

‘Quite right,’ said Mr Fips, with a yawn. ‘Highly creditable. Very proper.’

Tom hastily resolved to try him on another tack.

‘I shall soon have finished with the books,’ he said. ‘I hope that will not terminate my engagement, sir, or render me useless?’

‘Oh dear no!’ retorted Fips. ‘Plenty to do; plen-ty to do! Be careful how you go. It’s rather dark.’

This was the very utmost extent of information Tom could ever get out of HIM. So it was dark enough in all conscience; and if Mr Fips expressed himself with a double meaning, he had good reason for doing so.

But now a circumstance occurred, which helped to divert Tom’s thoughts from even this mystery, and to divide them between it and a new channel, which was a very Nile in itself.

The way it came about was this. Having always been an early riser and having now no organ to engage him in sweet converse every morning, it was his habit to take a long walk before going to the Temple; and naturally inclining, as a stranger, towards those parts of the town which were conspicuous for the life and animation pervading them, he became a great frequenter of the market-places, bridges, quays, and especially the steam-boat wharves; for it was very lively and fresh to see the people hurrying away upon their many schemes of business or pleasure, and it made Tom glad to think that there was that much change and freedom in the monotonous routine of city lives.

In most of these morning excursions Ruth accompanied him. As their landlord was always up and away at his business (whatever that might be, no one seemed to know) at a very early hour, the habits of the people of the house in which they lodged corresponded with their own. Thus they had often finished their breakfast, and were out in the summer air, by seven o’clock. After a two hours’ stroll they parted at some convenient point; Tom going to the Temple, and his sister returning home, as methodically as you please.

Many and many a pleasant stroll they had in Covent Garden Market; snuffing up the perfume of the fruits and flowers, wondering at the magnificence of the pineapples and melons; catching glimpses down side avenues, of rows and rows of old women, seated on inverted baskets, shelling peas; looking unutterable things at the fat bundles of asparagus with which the dainty shops were fortified as with a breastwork; and, at the herbalist’s doors, gratefully inhaling scents as of veal-stuffing yet uncooked, dreamily mixed up with capsicums, brown-paper, seeds, even with hints of lusty snails and fine young curly leeches. Many and many a pleasant stroll they had among the poultry markets, where ducks and fowls, with necks unnaturally long, lay stretched out in pairs, ready for cooking; where there were speckled eggs in mossy baskets, white country sausages beyond impeachment by surviving cat or dog, or horse or donkey; new cheeses to any wild extent, live birds in coops and cages, looking much too big to be natural, in consequence of those receptacles being much too little; rabbits, alive and dead, innumerable. Many a pleasant stroll they had among the cool, refreshing, silvery fish-stalls, with a kind of moonlight effect about their stock-in-trade, excepting always for the ruddy lobsters. Many a pleasant stroll among the waggon-loads of fragrant hay, beneath which dogs and tired waggoners lay fast asleep, oblivious of the pieman and the public-house. But never half so good a stroll as down among the steamboats on a bright morning.

There they lay, alongside of each other; hard and fast for ever, to all appearance, but designing to get out somehow, and quite confident of doing it; and in that faith shoals of passengers, and heaps of luggage, were proceeding hurriedly on board. Little steam-boats dashed up and down the stream incessantly. Tiers upon tiers of vessels, scores of masts, labyrinths of tackle, idle sails, splashing oars, gliding row-boats, lumbering barges, sunken piles, with ugly lodgings for the water-rat within their mud-discoloured nooks; church steeples, warehouses, house-roofs, arches, bridges, men and women, children, casks, cranes, boxes, horses, coaches, idlers, and hard-labourers; there they were, all jumbled up together, any summer morning, far beyond Tom’s power of separation.

In the midst of all this turmoil there was an incessant roar from every packet’s funnel, which quite expressed and carried out the uppermost emotion of the scene. They all appeared to be perspiring and bothering themselves, exactly as their passengers did; they never left off fretting and chafing, in their own hoarse manner, once; but were always panting out, without any stops, ‘Come along do make haste I’m very nervous come along oh good gracious we shall never get there how late you are do make haste I’m off directly come along!’

Even when they had left off, and had got safely out into the current, on the smallest provocation they began again; for the bravest packet of them all, being stopped by some entanglement in the river, would immediately begin to fume and pant afresh, ‘oh here’s a stoppage what’s the matter do go on there I’m in a hurry it’s done on purpose did you ever oh my goodness DO go on here!’ and so, in a state of mind bordering on distraction, would be last seen drifting slowly through the mist into the summer light beyond, that made it red.

“Ah, a proposito, signor Pinch, non occorre nemmeno che lo menzioni, la prego!”

Tom pensava che gli avrebbe rivelato un segreto; così disse che non l’avrebbe fatto per nessun motivo e che il signor Fips poteva fidarsi completamente di lui. Ma poiché il signor Fips rispose soltanto “Molto bene”, senza aggiungere altro, Tom lo incitò a continuare.

“Assolutamente no,” ripeté Tom.

“Molto bene”, ripeté il signor Fips.

“Stavi per dire, ” – suggerì Tom.

“Oddio no!”, esclamò Fips. “Assolutamente no.” Tuttavia, vedendo che Tom era confuso, aggiunse: “Voglio dire che in generale non è necessario menzionare i dettagli del proprio lavoro alle persone. Sarà meglio così.”

“Non ho ancora avuto il piacere di incontrare il mio datore di lavoro, signore,” osservò Tom, mettendosi in tasca lo stipendio della settimana.

“Non l’hai mai fatto, vero?” disse Fips. “No, immagino che tu non l’abbia mai fatto.”

“Vorrei ringraziarlo e sapere che ciò che ho fatto finora è stato fatto a suo piacimento,” balbettò Tom.

“Assolutamente giusto,” disse il signor Fips, sbadigliando. “Molto lodevole. Davvero appropriato.”

Tom decise all’improvviso di provare un altro approccio.

“Finirò presto di leggere questi libri,” disse. “Spero che questo non interrompa il mio impegno, signore, né mi renda inutile, ”

“Oddio, no!” ribatté Fips. “C’è un sacco da fare. Attenta a come cammini: fa abbastanza buio.”

Questo era esattamente il massimo delle informazioni che Tom riusciva ad ottenere da lui. Quindi, nella sua coscienza, tutto era abbastanza oscuro; e se il signor Fips si esprimeva con un doppio significato, aveva tutte le ragioni per farlo.

Ma poi accadde una circostanza che aiutò a distogliere i pensieri di Tom anche da questo mistero, facendoli dividere tra esso e un nuovo argomento, che di per sé rappresentava un vero “fiume” di informazioni.

Ecco come è successo. Essendo sempre stato una persona mattiniera e ora non avendo più nessuno con cui intrattenersi ogni mattina, aveva preso l’abitudine di fare lunghe passeggiate prima di andare al Tempio; essendo naturalmente attratto, da estraneo, dalle zone della città caratterizzate da vita e movimento, iniziò a frequentare spesso i mercati, i ponti, i moli, soprattutto le banchine dei battelli a vapore. Vedere la gente affrettarsi verso i propri impegni lavorativi o per il divertimento lo rallegrava molto; gli sembrava che ci fosse così tanta varietà e libertà nella monotona routine della vita urbana.

Nella maggior parte di queste escursioni mattutine, Ruth lo accompagnava. Poiché il loro padrone di casa si alzava sempre molto presto per andare a svolgere i suoi affari (che cosa fossero, nessuno sembrava saperlo), le abitudini delle persone che vivevano nella >casa in cui soggiornavano corrispondevano alle loro. Così, spesso finivano di fare colazione entro le sette del mattino e uscivano all’aria fresca della estate. Dopo una passeggiata di due ore, si separavano in un punto conveniente: Tom andava al Tempio, mentre sua sorella tornava a >casa, con la stessa regolarità che si possa desiderare.

Fecero molte e piacevoli passeggiate nel mercato del Covent Garden: annusavano il profumo dei frutti e dei fiori, ammiravano la magnificenza delle ananas e dei meloni; intravedevano lungo le strade file intere di anziane sedute su cesti capovolti, che sgusciavano piselli; osservavano quei mucchi di asparagi con cui i negozi erano “fortificati” come se fossero bastioni. E, davanti alle botteghe degli erboristi, inalavano con piacere profumi che sembravano mescolare carne di vitello cruda con peperoncini, semi e persino indizi di lumache e lombrichi. Fecero anche molte piacevoli passeggiate tra i mercati degli uccelli: anatre e polli con colli insolitamente lunghi giacevano pronti per essere cucinati; c’erano uova maculate in cesti di muschio, salsicce bianche indistruttibili, formaggi di ogni tipo. Uccelli vivi nelle gabbie, che sembravano troppo grandi per essere naturali. Conigli, vivi e morti, innumerevoli. Fecero anche molte piacevoli passeggiate tra i banchi freschi e argentati dei pesci, dove il loro prodotto aveva un’atmosfera quasi lunare, tranne che per quei gamberi rossi. E poi, ancora molte piacevoli passeggiate tra carri pieni di fieno profumato, sotto i quali cani e conducenti stanchi dormivano profondamente, ignari del venditore di musica e dei pub. Ma nessuna di queste passeggiate era paragonabile a quella lungo i battelli a vapore in una mattina luminosa.

Lì giacevano, uno accanto all’altro; immobili e saldamente uniti per sempre, a prima vista, ma con l’intenzione di riuscire in qualche modo a separarsi, e pieni di fiducia nel farlo. Con quella stessa fiducia, folle di passeggeri e mucchi di bagagli proseguivano affrettatamente verso le imbarcazioni. Piccoli vaporetti si muovevano incessantemente su e giù lungo il fiume. Strati su strati di navi, dozzine di alberi maestri, labirinti di attrezzature navali, vele inutilizzate, remi che schizzavano acqua, barche a remi che scivolavano silenziosamente, chiatte pesanti, mucchi di detriti sommersi, e in quei recessi color fango si nascondevano orribili rifugi per i ratti d’acqua. Campanili di chiese, magazzini, tetti di case, archi, ponti, uomini, donne, bambini, barili, gru, scatole, cavalli, carrozze, tutto era mescolato insieme, in una confusione indescrivibile, ogni mattina d’estate, al di là di qualsiasi capacità Tom avesse di separare le cose.

In mezzo a tutto questo caos, c’era un ruggito incessante proveniente dalle “fionde” di ogni pacchetto; quel suono esprimeva perfettamente l’emozione più intensa della scena. Sembravano tutti sudare e agitarsi, proprio come i loro passeggeri; non smettevano mai di muoversi freneticamente, con i loro toni rochi e ansimanti, continuando a ripetere senza sosta: “Forza, sbrigati! Sono molto nervoso. Forza, oh mio Dio, non arriveremo mai in tempo. Che ritardo. Sbrigati, vado subito!”

Anche quando smettevano e riuscivano a raggiungere senza problemi la corrente principale, alla minima provocazione ricominciavano; infatti, anche il più coraggioso di loro, se si imbatteva in qualche ostacolo nel fiume, iniziava immediatamente a lamentarsi e ad ansimare: “Oh, un altro intoppo. Cosa succede? Andate avanti! Ho fretta. È stato fatto apposta? Oddio mio. Andate avanti!” E così, in uno stato di mente quasi delirante, veniva visto per l’ultima volta mentre galleggiava lentamente nella nebbia, verso la luce estiva che tingeva tutto di rosso.

Tom’s ship, however; or, at least, the packet-boat in which Tom and his sister took the greatest interest on one particular occasion; was not off yet, by any means; but was at the height of its disorder. The press of passengers was very great; another steam-boat lay on each side of her; the gangways were choked up; distracted women, obviously bound for Gravesend, but turning a deaf ear to all representations that this particular vessel was about to sail for Antwerp, persisted in secreting baskets of refreshments behind bulk-heads, and water-casks, and under seats; and very great confusion prevailed.

It was so amusing, that Tom, with Ruth upon his arm, stood looking down from the wharf, as nearly regardless as it was in the nature of flesh and blood to be, of an elderly lady behind him, who had brought a large umbrella with her, and didn’t know what to do with it. This tremendous instrument had a hooked handle; and its vicinity was first made known to him by a painful pressure on the windpipe, consequent upon its having caught him round the throat. Soon after disengaging himself with perfect good humour, he had a sensation of the ferule in his back; immediately afterwards, of the hook entangling his ankles; then of the umbrella generally, wandering about his hat, and flapping at it like a great bird; and, lastly, of a poke or thrust below the ribs, which give him such exceeding anguish, that he could not refrain from turning round to offer a mild remonstrance.

Upon his turning round, he found the owner of the umbrella struggling on tip-toe, with a countenance expressive of violent animosity, to look down upon the steam-boats; from which he inferred that she had attacked him, standing in the front row, by design, and as her natural enemy.

‘What a very ill-natured person you must be!’ said Tom.

The lady cried out fiercely, ‘Where’s the pelisse!’—meaning the constabulary—and went on to say, shaking the handle of the umbrella at Tom, that but for them fellers never being in the way when they was wanted, she’d have given him in charge, she would.

‘If they greased their whiskers less, and minded the duties which they’re paid so heavy for, a little more,’ she observed, ‘no one needn’t be drove mad by scrouding so!’

She had been grievously knocked about, no doubt, for her bonnet was bent into the shape of a cocked hat. Being a fat little woman, too, she was in a state of great exhaustion and intense heat. Instead of pursuing the altercation, therefore, Tom civilly inquired what boat she wanted to go on board of?

‘I suppose,’ returned the lady, ‘as nobody but yourself can want to look at a steam package, without wanting to go a-boarding of it, can they! Booby!’

‘Which one do you want to look at then?’ said Tom. ‘We’ll make room for you if we can. Don’t be so ill-tempered.’

‘No blessed creetur as ever I was with in trying times,’ returned the lady, somewhat softened, ‘and they’re a many in their numbers, ever brought it as a charge again myself that I was anythin’ but mild and equal in my spirits. Never mind a contradicting of me, if you seem to feel it does you good, ma’am, I often says, for well you know that Sairey may be trusted not to give it back again. But I will not denige that I am worrited and wexed this day, and with good reagion, Lord forbid!’

By this time, Mrs Gamp (for it was no other than that experienced practitioner) had, with Tom’s assistance, squeezed and worked herself into a small corner between Ruth and the rail; where, after breathing very hard for some little time, and performing a short series of dangerous evolutions with her umbrella, she managed to establish herself pretty comfortably.

‘And which of all them smoking monsters is the Ankworks boat, I wonder. Goodness me!’ cried Mrs Gamp.

‘What boat did you want?’ asked Ruth.

‘The Ankworks package,’ Mrs Gamp replied. ‘I will not deceive you, my sweet. Why should I?’

‘That is the Antwerp packet in the middle,’ said Ruth.

‘And I wish it was in Jonadge’s belly, I do,’ cried Mrs Gamp; appearing to confound the prophet with the whale in this miraculous aspiration.

Ruth said nothing in reply; but, as Mrs Gamp, laying her chin against the cool iron of the rail, continued to look intently at the Antwerp boat, and every now and then to give a little groan, she inquired whether any child of hers was going aboard that morning? Or perhaps her husband, she said kindly.

‘Which shows,’ said Mrs Gamp, casting up her eyes, ‘what a little way you’ve travelled into this wale of life, my dear young creetur! As a good friend of mine has frequent made remark to me, which her name, my love, is Harris, Mrs Harris through the square and up the steps a-turnin’ round by the tobacker shop, “Oh Sairey, Sairey, little do we know wot lays afore us!” “Mrs Harris, ma’am,” I says, “not much, it’s true, but more than you suppoge. Our calcilations, ma’am,” I says, “respectin’ wot the number of a family will be, comes most times within one, and oftener than you would suppoge, exact.” “Sairey,” says Mrs Harris, in a awful way, “Tell me wot is my indiwidgle number.” “No, Mrs Harris,” I says to her, “ex-cuge me, if you please. My own,” I says, “has fallen out of three-pair backs, and had damp doorsteps settled on their lungs, and one was turned up smilin’ in a bedstead unbeknown. Therefore, ma’am,” I says, “seek not to proticipate, but take ‘em as they come and as they go.” Mine,’ says Mrs Gamp, ‘mine is all gone, my dear young chick. And as to husbands, there’s a wooden leg gone likeways home to its account, which in its constancy of walkin’ into wine vaults, and never comin’ out again ‘till fetched by force, was quite as weak as flesh, if not weaker.’

When she had delivered this oration, Mrs Gamp leaned her chin upon the cool iron again; and looking intently at the Antwerp packet, shook her head and groaned.

La nave di Tom, tuttavia; o, almeno, quel battello a vapore su cui Tom e sua sorella avevano mostrato particolare interesse in un’occasione specifica; non era ancora partita affatto; anzi, versava nel caos più totale. La pressione dei passeggeri era estremamente alta: c’era un altro battello a vapore su entrambi i lati di quello di Tom; i corridoi erano intasati; donne sconvolte, chiaramente dirette verso Gravesend, ignoravano completamente le avvertenze secondo cui quella nave stava per salpare per Anversa, e continuavano a nascondere cesti di cibo dietro paratie, barili d’acqua e sotto i sedili; insomma, regnava un vero disordine.

Era così divertente che Tom, con Ruth al suo braccio, stava in piedi a guardare giù dal molo, quasi completamente ignaro dell’esistenza di una signora anziana alle sue spalle. Questa ultima aveva portato con sé un grande ombrello, ma non sapeva proprio come utilizzarlo. Quell’enorme strumento aveva un manico a uncino; la sua presenza fu per lui evidente solo quando gli causò un dolore intenso alla trachea, essendo rimasto impigliato attorno al suo collo. Dopo essersi liberato con perfetto spirito umoristico, Tom sentì l’ombrello colpirsi contro il suo cappello, agitarsi come un grande uccello. E infine, una spinta sotto le costole che gli provocò un dolore insopportabile; non poté fare a meno di girarsi per rimproverarla gentilmente.

Voltandosi, vide la proprietaria dell’ombrello che cercava disperatamente di guardare giù dai vapori, in punta di piedi, con un’espressione piena di violenta ostilità; da questo dedusse che lei lo aveva attaccato apposta, essendo il suo nemico naturale e trovandosi nella prima fila.

“Devi essere davvero una persona molto malvagia!” disse Tom.

La signora gridò con furia: “Dov’è il mantello!” – intendendo naturalmente la polizia – e continuò dicendo, agitando l’impugnatura dell’ombrello verso Tom, che se solo quei ragazzi non si fossero sempre messi di mezzo quando ne aveva bisogno, gli avrebbe affidato tutto in mano a lui, sì.

“Se si spalmassero meno creme sulle loro barbe e si impegnassero un po’ di più nelle mansioni per cui vengono pagati così bene, nessuno sarebbe costretto a impazzire a causa di tutte queste ristrettezze!” osservò.

Era stata gravemente colpita; non c’era >dubbio al riguardo, poiché il suo cappello era piegato a forma di cilindro. Essendo inoltre una donna piccola e grassoccia, si trovava in uno stato di estrema stanchezza e calore intenso. Pertanto, invece di continuare la discussione, Tom le chiese gentilmente su quale barca volesse imbarcarsi.

“Suppongo,” rispose la signora, “che nessuno, tranne te, possa voler guardare un pacchetto a vapore senza desiderare di salirci sopra. Che sciocco!”

“Allora, quale vuoi guardare?” disse Tom. “Ci faremo spazio per te, se possibile. Non essere così di cattivo umore.”

“Nessun altro essere benedetto è mai stato al mio fianco nei momenti difficili,” rispose la signora, con tono un po’ più morbido. “Sono molte le persone che mi hanno sempre accusata di essere troppo mite e equilibrata nel carattere. Non importa se qualcuno mi contraddice; se vi fa bene farlo, mia cara, non me ne lamento. Dopotutto, sapete bene che a Sairey si può affidare il segreto. Ma devo ammettere che oggi sono davvero preoccupata e angosciata. Per l’amor del cielo, non fatemelo dire!”

A quell’ora, la signora Gamp – poiché non era altri che quella esperta praticante – si era, con l’aiuto di Tom, infilata in un piccolo angolo tra Ruth e la ringhiera; lì, dopo aver respirato molto affannosamente per qualche momento e aver eseguito una serie di movimenti pericolosi con il suo ombrello, riuscì a sistemarsi abbastanza comodamente.

“E quale di tutti quei mostri fumanti è la barca degli Ankworks? Me lo chiedo davvero, ”, pensai.
“Oh mio Dio!”, esclamò la signora Gamp.

“Quale barca volevi?” chiese Ruth.

“Il pacchetto Ankworks,” rispose la signora Gamp. “Non vi ingannerò, mio caro. Perché dovrei?”

“Quello è il pacco di Anversa nel mezzo,” disse Ruth.

“E vorrei che fosse nello stomaco di Jonadge, davvero,” gridò la signora Gamp; sembrava confondere il profeta con la balena in questa miracolosa aspirazione.

Ruth non disse nulla in risposta; ma poiché la signora Gamp, appoggiando il mento al freddo ferro della ringhiera, continuava a fissare attentamente la barca di Anversa e di tanto in tanto emetteva un lieve gemito, Ruth le chiese se qualche suo bambino stesse per imbarcarsi quella mattina. O forse suo marito, aggiunse gentilmente.

“Questo dimostra,” disse la signora Gamp alzando gli occhi, “quanto poco tu abbia percorso nel cammino di questa vita, mia cara giovane creatura! Come una mia buona amica mi ha spesso detto, il suo nome è Harris, la signora Harris, attraverso la piazza e su per le scale, passando davanti al negozio del rigattiere: ‘Oh Sairey, Sairey, quanto poco sappiamo ciò che ci aspetta!’ ‘Signora Harris,’ rispondo io, ‘non molto, è vero, ma di più di quanto lei possa immaginare. Le nostre previsioni riguardo al numero dei membri di una famiglia, spesso si rivelano esatte.’ ‘Sairey,’ dice la signora Harris con un tono grave, ‘dimmi qual è il mio numero personale.’ ‘No, signora Harris,’ le rispondo io, ‘per favore mi perdoni. Il mio numero personale, beh, è andato perso tra tante altre cose. Uno di quei numeri che sembrano sempre sbagliati. Quindi, signora, non cerchi di anticipare gli eventi. Accetti semplicemente ciò che viene e ciò che se ne va.’ Il mio numero personale,” aggiunse la signora Gamp, “il mio numero personale è completamente andato perso. Mia cara giovane creatura. E per quanto riguarda i mariti, beh, ce n’è uno che è tornato a casa su una gamba di legno. A causa della sua costante abitudine di entrare nelle cantine dove si conserva il vino, e di non uscirne mai più, se non con la forza. Era proprio debole come carne, anzi, ancora più debole.”

Dopo aver pronunciato questo discorso, la signora Gamp appoggiò di nuovo il mento sul freddo ferro; fissando attentamente il pacco proveniente da Anversa, scosse la testa e sospirò.

‘I wouldn’t,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘I wouldn’t be a man and have such a think upon my mind!—but nobody as owned the name of man, could do it!’

Tom and his sister glanced at each other; and Ruth, after a moment’s hesitation, asked Mrs Gamp what troubled her so much.

‘My dear,’ returned that lady, dropping her voice, ‘you are single, ain’t you?’

Ruth laughed blushed, and said ‘Yes.’

‘Worse luck,’ proceeded Mrs Gamp, ‘for all parties! But others is married, and in the marriage state; and there is a dear young creetur a-comin’ down this mornin’ to that very package, which is no more fit to trust herself to sea, than nothin’ is!’

She paused here to look over the deck of the packet in question, and on the steps leading down to it, and on the gangways. Seeming to have thus assured herself that the object of her commiseration had not yet arrived, she raised her eyes gradually up to the top of the escape-pipe, and indignantly apostrophised the vessel:

‘Oh, drat you!’ said Mrs Gamp, shaking her umbrella at it, ‘you’re a nice spluttering nisy monster for a delicate young creetur to go and be a passinger by; ain’t you! YOU never do no harm in that way, do you? With your hammering, and roaring, and hissing, and lamp-iling, you brute! Them Confugion steamers,’ said Mrs Gamp, shaking her umbrella again, ‘has done more to throw us out of our reg’lar work and bring ewents on at times when nobody counted on ‘em (especially them screeching railroad ones), than all the other frights that ever was took. I have heerd of one young man, a guard upon a railway, only three years opened—well does Mrs Harris know him, which indeed he is her own relation by her sister’s marriage with a master sawyer—as is godfather at this present time to six-and-twenty blessed little strangers, equally unexpected, and all on ‘um named after the Ingeines as was the cause. Ugh!’ said Mrs Gamp, resuming her apostrophe, ‘one might easy know you was a man’s inwention, from your disregardlessness of the weakness of our naturs, so one might, you brute!’

It would not have been unnatural to suppose, from the first part of Mrs Gamp’s lamentations, that she was connected with the stage-coaching or post-horsing trade. She had no means of judging of the effect of her concluding remarks upon her young companion; for she interrupted herself at this point, and exclaimed:

‘There she identically goes! Poor sweet young creetur, there she goes, like a lamb to the sacrifige! If there’s any illness when that wessel gets to sea,’ said Mrs Gamp, prophetically, ‘it’s murder, and I’m the witness for the persecution.’

She was so very earnest on the subject, that Tom’s sister (being as kind as Tom himself) could not help saying something to her in reply.

‘Pray, which is the lady,’ she inquired, ‘in whom you are so much interested?’

‘There!’ groaned Mrs Gamp. ‘There she goes! A-crossin’ the little wooden bridge at this minute. She’s a-slippin’ on a bit of orangepeel!’ tightly clutching her umbrella. ‘What a turn it give me.’

‘Do you mean the lady who is with that man wrapped up from head to foot in a large cloak, so that his face is almost hidden?’

‘Well he may hide it!’ Mrs Gamp replied. ‘He’s good call to be ashamed of himself. Did you see him a-jerking of her wrist, then?’

‘He seems to be hasty with her, indeed.’

‘Now he’s a-taking of her down into the close cabin!’ said Mrs Gamp, impatiently. ‘What’s the man about! The deuce is in him, I think. Why can’t he leave her in the open air?’

He did not, whatever his reason was, but led her quickly down and disappeared himself, without loosening his cloak, or pausing on the crowded deck one moment longer than was necessary to clear their way to that part of the vessel.

Tom had not heard this little dialogue; for his attention had been engaged in an unexpected manner. A hand upon his sleeve had caused him to look round, just when Mrs Gamp concluded her apostrophe to the steam-engine; and on his right arm, Ruth being on his left, he found their landlord, to his great surprise.

He was not so much surprised at the man’s being there, as at his having got close to him so quietly and swiftly; for another person had been at his elbow one instant before; and he had not in the meantime been conscious of any change or pressure in the knot of people among whom he stood. He and Ruth had frequently remarked how noiselessly this landlord of theirs came into and went out of his own house; but Tom was not the less amazed to see him at his elbow now.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr Pinch,’ he said in his ear. ‘I am rather infirm, and out of breath, and my eyes are not very good. I am not as young as I was, sir. You don’t see a gentleman in a large cloak down yonder, with a lady on his arm; a lady in a veil and a black shawl; do you?’

If HE did not, it was curious that in speaking he should have singled out from all the crowd the very people whom he described; and should have glanced hastily from them to Tom, as if he were burning to direct his wandering eyes.

‘A gentleman in a large cloak!’ said Tom, ‘and a lady in a black shawl! Let me see!’

‘Yes, yes!’ replied the other, with keen impatience. ‘A gentleman muffled up from head to foot—strangely muffled up for such a morning as this—like an invalid, with his hand to his face at this minute, perhaps. No, no, no! not there,’ he added, following Tom’s gaze; ‘the other way; in that direction; down yonder.’ Again he indicated, but this time in his hurry, with his outstretched finger, the very spot on which the progress of these persons was checked at that moment.

‘There are so many people, and so much motion, and so many objects,’ said Tom, ‘that I find it difficult to—no, I really don’t see a gentleman in a large cloak, and a lady in a black shawl. There’s a lady in a red shawl over there!’

‘No, no, no!’ cried his landlord, pointing eagerly again, ‘not there. The other way; the other way. Look at the cabin steps. To the left. They must be near the cabin steps. Do you see the cabin steps? There’s the bell ringing already! DO you see the steps?’

“Non lo farei,” disse la signora Gamp, “non sarei certo un uomo se avessi un pensiero del genere in mente. Ma nessuno che si chiami uomo potrebbe mai farlo!”

Tom e sua sorella si scambiarono uno sguardo; poi Ruth, dopo un attimo di esitazione, chiese alla signora Gamp cosa la turbasse così tanto.

“Mio caro,” rispose quella signora, abbassando la voce, “sei single, vero?”

“Ruth rise in risate, arrossì e disse: ‘Sì’.”

“Peggio per tutti,” proseguì la signora Gamp, “ma altre sono già sposate e in stato di matrimonio; c’è anche una cara giovane ragazza che stamattina arriverà proprio lì. Quella ragazza non è affatto adatta a viaggiare per mare, proprio come nessun altro!”

Si fermò lì per esaminare attentamente il ponte del velivolo in questione, i gradini che conducevano ad esso e le passerelle. Dopo essersi assicurata che la persona verso cui provava compassione non fosse ancora arrivata, alzò gradualmente lo sguardo fino alla sommità della tubazione di fuga, e poi esclamò indignata contro quella nave:

“Ah, maledizione!” disse la signora Gamp, scuotendo il suo ombrello verso di esso. “Sei proprio un brutto mostro che fa un sacco di rumore. Perché mai una giovane creatura delicata dovrebbe passare accanto a te? Non fai mai del male in quel modo, vero? Con i tuoi colpi, i tuoi ruggiti, i tuoi sibili. Mostro! Quei treni a vapore,” continuò la signora Gamp, scuotendo di nuovo l’ombrello, “hanno causato più problemi nel nostro lavoro regolare e hanno creato disordini proprio nei momenti in cui nessuno se li aspettava. Soprattutto quei treni ferroviari che fanno un tale baccano. Ho sentito parlare di un giovane, un guardiano delle ferrovie. Solo tre anni fa la signora Harris lo conosceva bene; in realtà è suo cugino per via del matrimonio di sua sorella con un taglialegna. E ora è padrino di ventisei bambini. Tutti nati in momenti inaspettati, e tutti chiamati come quegli ingegneri che ne sono stati la causa. Ugh!” concluse la signora Gamp. “Si capisce subito che sei un’invenzione dell’uomo. Perché ignori completamente le debolezze della nostra natura. Mostro!”

Non sarebbe stato affatto strano supporre, a partire dalla prima parte delle lamentazioni della signora Gamp, che lei fosse coinvolta nel commercio dei trasporti notturni o nell’attività di conducente di carrozze. Non aveva modo di valutare l’effetto delle sue ultime parole sulla sua giovane compagna; infatti, in quel punto interruppe il suo discorso e esclamò:

‘Eccola che va di nuovo! Povera, cara giovane creatura. Via lei, come una agnella destinata al sacrificio! Se in quel vascello dovesse verificarsi qualche malattia non appena salpa in mare,’ disse la signora Gamp con tono profetico, ‘sarebbe omicidio. E io sarò la testimone di questa persecuzione.’

Era così seria riguardo a questa questione che la sorella di Tom (essendo altrettanto gentile quanto Tom stesso) non poté fare a meno di risponderle qualcosa.

“Chi è questa signora di cui parlate con tanto interesse?” chiese lei.

“Lì!” gemette la signora Gamp. “È proprio lì, sta attraversando quel piccolo ponte di legno in questo momento. Sta scivolando su un pezzo di buccia d’arancia!” Stringeva forte il suo ombrello. “Che sorpresa, ”

“Intendi quella signora che è con quell’uomo, avvolto dalla testa ai piedi in un grande mantello, così che il suo viso è quasi completamente nascosto?”

“Beh, forse riuscirà a nasconderlo!”, rispose la signora Gamp. “È giusto che si vergogni di se stesso. L’hai visto mentre le torceva il polso, vero?”

“Sembra davvero essere troppo affrettato con lei, ”

“Ora la sta portando giù nella cabina chiusa!” disse la signora Gamp, impaziente. “Che cosa sta facendo quell’uomo? Penso che abbia il diavolo dentro. Perché non può lasciarla all’aperto?”

Non lo fece, qualunque fosse la sua ragione; la portò rapidamente giù e scomparve lui stesso, senza nemmeno slacciare il suo mantello, né soffermarsi un attimo di più sul ponte affollato del veliero, se non quanto necessario per farli passare in quella parte della nave.

Tom non aveva sentito questo breve dialogo; la sua attenzione era stata catturata in modo inaspettato. Una mano che gli aveva toccato il braccio lo aveva fatto girare, proprio nel momento in cui la signora Gamp stava concludendo il suo discorso riguardo alla macchina a vapore; e sul suo braccio destro, dato che Ruth era sul sinistro, trovò il loro padrone di casa, con sua grande sorpresa.

Non era tanto sorpreso dal fatto che quell’uomo si trovasse lì, quanto dal fatto che fosse riuscito ad avvicinarsi a lui in modo così silenzioso e rapido; un attimo prima, infatti, c’era un’altra persona al suo fianco, e lui non aveva percepito alcun cambiamento né alcuna pressione tra la folla in cui si trovava. Lui e Ruth avevano spesso notato quanto silenziosamente quel loro padrone di casa entrasse e uscisse dalla propria casa; ma Tom rimase comunque molto sorpreso nel vederlo ora al proprio fianco.

“Perdonatemi, signor Pinch,” disse sussurrandogli all’orecchio. “Sono piuttosto malato, senza fiato, e la mia vista non è più quella di una volta. Non sono più giovane come un tempo, signore. Non vedete laggiù quel gentiluomo avvolto in un grande mantello, con una signora al suo braccio. Una signora con il velo e uno scialle nero. La vedete?”

Se non l’avesse fatto, sarebbe stato curioso che, parlando, avesse individuato proprio tra tutta la folla le persone di cui stava parlando; e che poi avesse lanciato uno sguardo veloce verso Tom, come se fosse ansioso di rivolgere i suoi occhi erranti verso di lui.

“Un gentiluomo con un grande mantello!”, disse Tom, “e una signora con uno scialle nero. Lasciami pensare!”

“Sì, sì!” rispose l’altro con impazienza. “Un gentiluomo completamente avvolto dalla testa ai piedi, stranamente avvolto per una mattina come questa, come un malato, che in questo momento si copre il viso con la mano. No, no, non là!” aggiunse, seguendo lo sguardo di Tom; “dall’altra parte, in quella direzione, laggiù.” Indicò di nuovo, ma questa volta, nella sua fretta, con il dito teso, proprio il punto in cui il movimento di quelle persone era stato fermato in quel momento.

“Ci sono così tante persone, così tanto movimento, così tanti oggetti,” disse Tom, “che trovo difficile, no, davvero non riesco a vedere un gentiluomo con un grande mantello e una signora con uno scialle nero. Là c’è una signora con uno scialle rosso!”

“No, no, no!” gridò il suo padrone di casa, indicando con impazienza ancora una volta, “Non lì. Dall’altra parte; guardate i gradini della capanna. A sinistra. Devono essere vicino ai gradini. Vedete i gradini? La campanella sta già suonando! Vedete davvero i gradini?”

‘Stay!’ said Tom, ‘you’re right. Look! there they go now. Is that the gentleman you mean? Descending at this minute, with the folds of a great cloak trailing down after him?’

‘The very man!’ returned the other, not looking at what Tom pointed out, however, but at Tom’s own face. ‘Will you do me a kindness, sir, a great kindness? Will you put that letter in his hand? Only give him that! He expects it. I am charged to do it by my employers, but I am late in finding him, and, not being as young as I have been, should never be able to make my way on board and off the deck again in time. Will you pardon my boldness, and do me that great kindness?’

His hands shook, and his face bespoke the utmost interest and agitation, as he pressed the letter upon Tom, and pointed to its destination, like the Tempter in some grim old carving.

To hesitate in the performance of a good-natured or compassionate office was not in Tom’s way. He took the letter; whispered Ruth to wait till he returned, which would be immediately; and ran down the steps with all the expedition he could make. There were so many people going down, so many others coming up, such heavy goods in course of transit to and fro, such a ringing of bell, blowing-off of steam, and shouting of men’s voices, that he had much ado to force his way, or keep in mind to which boat he was going. But he reached the right one with good speed, and going down the cabin-stairs immediately, described the object of his search standing at the upper end of the saloon, with his back towards him, reading some notice which was hung against the wall. As Tom advanced to give him the letter, he started, hearing footsteps, and turned round.

What was Tom’s astonishment to find in him the man with whom he had had the conflict in the field—poor Mercy’s husband. Jonas!

Tom understood him to say, what the devil did he want; but it was not easy to make out what he said; he spoke so indistinctly.

‘I want nothing with you for myself,’ said Tom; ‘I was asked, a moment since, to give you this letter. You were pointed out to me, but I didn’t know you in your strange dress. Take it!’

He did so, opened it, and read the writing on the inside. The contents were evidently very brief; not more perhaps than one line; but they struck upon him like a stone from a sling. He reeled back as he read.

His emotion was so different from any Tom had ever seen before that he stopped involuntarily. Momentary as his state of indecision was, the bell ceased while he stood there, and a hoarse voice calling down the steps, inquired if there was any to go ashore?

‘Yes,’ cried Jonas, ‘I—I am coming. Give me time. Where’s that woman! Come back; come back here.’

He threw open another door as he spoke, and dragged, rather than led, her forth. She was pale and frightened, and amazed to see her old acquaintance; but had no time to speak, for they were making a great stir above; and Jonas drew her rapidly towards the deck.

‘Where are we going? What is the matter?’

‘We are going back,’ said Jonas. ‘I have changed my mind. I can’t go. Don’t question me, or I shall be the death of you, or some one else. Stop there! Stop! We’re for the shore. Do you hear? We’re for the shore!’

He turned, even in the madness of his hurry, and scowling darkly back at Tom, shook his clenched hand at him. There are not many human faces capable of the expression with which he accompanied that gesture.

He dragged her up, and Tom followed them. Across the deck, over the side, along the crazy plank, and up the steps, he dragged her fiercely; not bestowing any look on her, but gazing upwards all the while among the faces on the wharf. Suddenly he turned again, and said to Tom with a tremendous oath:

‘Where is he?’

Before Tom, in his indignation and amazement, could return an answer to a question he so little understood, a gentleman approached Tom behind, and saluted Jonas Chuzzlewit by name. He has a gentleman of foreign appearance, with a black moustache and whiskers; and addressed him with a polite composure, strangely different from his own distracted and desperate manner.

‘Chuzzlewit, my good fellow!’ said the gentleman, raising his hat in compliment to Mrs Chuzzlewit, ‘I ask your pardon twenty thousand times. I am most unwilling to interfere between you and a domestic trip of this nature (always so very charming and refreshing, I know, although I have not the happiness to be a domestic man myself, which is the great infelicity of my existence); but the beehive, my dear friend, the beehive—will you introduce me?’

‘This is Mr Montague,’ said Jonas, whom the words appeared to choke.

‘The most unhappy and most penitent of men, Mrs Chuzzlewit,’ pursued that gentleman, ‘for having been the means of spoiling this excursion; but as I tell my friend, the beehive, the beehive. You projected a short little continental trip, my dear friend, of course?’

Jonas maintained a dogged silence.

‘May I die,’ cried Montague, ‘but I am shocked! Upon my soul I am shocked. But that confounded beehive of ours in the city must be paramount to every other consideration, when there is honey to be made; and that is my best excuse. Here is a very singular old female dropping curtseys on my right,’ said Montague, breaking off in his discourse, and looking at Mrs Gamp, ‘who is not a friend of mine. Does anybody know her?’

‘Ah! Well they knows me, bless their precious hearts!’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘not forgettin’ your own merry one, sir, and long may it be so! Wishin’ as every one’ (she delivered this in the form of a toast or sentiment) ‘was as merry, and as handsome-lookin’, as a little bird has whispered me a certain gent is, which I will not name for fear I give offence where none is doo! My precious lady,’ here she stopped short in her merriment, for she had until now affected to be vastly entertained, ‘you’re too pale by half!’

“Resta!” disse Tom, “hai ragione. Guarda! Ora stanno scendendo. È quell’uomo che intendi? Sta scendendo proprio in questo momento, con le pieghe di un grande mantello che gli pendono dietro?”

“Proprio quell’uomo!” rispose l’altro, senza guardare ciò che Tom indicava, ma fissando il viso di Tom stesso. “Potrebbe fare una grande gentilezza per me, signore? Potrebbe dare quella lettera a lui? Solo quella. Lui se l’aspetta. I miei datori di lavoro mi hanno incaricato di farlo, ma sono in ritardo nel trovarlo, e, non essendo più giovane come una volta, probabilmente non riuscirei mai più ad andare avanti e indietro sul ponte in tempo. Permetterà che io sia così audace e mi faccia questa grande gentilezza?”

Le sue mani tremavano; il suo viso esprimeva un interesse e un’agitazione estremi mentre porgeva la lettera a Tom, indicandone la destinazione, proprio come il Tentatore in qualche antica scultura cupa.

Esitare nell’eseguire un compito gentile o compassionevole non era nel carattere di Tom. Prese la lettera, sussurrò a Ruth di aspettarlo al suo ritorno, il quale sarebbe stato immediato, e corse giù per le scale con tutta la velocità possibile. C’erano così tante persone che scendevano, altre che salivano, merci pesanti in movimento avanti e indietro, il suono incessante delle campane, lo sbuffo del vapore e le grida delle persone. Che gli fu molto difficile farsi strada e ricordare a quale barca stesse andando. Ma raggiunse quella giusta con notevole velocità; scese subito per la scala interna della cabina e indicò l’oggetto della sua ricerca: si trovava all’estremità superiore del salone, con le spalle rivolte verso di lui, mentre leggeva un avviso appeso al muro. Mentre Tom gli si avvicinava per consegnargli la lettera, l’uomo sobbalzò, sentendo dei passi alle sue spalle, e si girò.

Quanto fu sorpreso Tom nel scoprire che quell’uomo con cui aveva avuto lo scontro in campo era proprio il marito di povera Mercy. Jonas!

Tom capì che stava dicendo: “Ma che diavolo vuole?”; ma non era facile comprendere esattamente cosa avesse detto; parlava in modo molto poco chiaro.

“Non voglio nulla da te per me stesso,” disse Tom; “Poco fa mi è stato chiesto di darti questa lettera. Mi hanno indicato te, ma non ti ho riconosciuto con quel vestito strano. Prendila!”

Lo fece, lo aprì e lesse ciò che c’era scritto all’interno. Il contenuto era evidentemente molto breve; forse non più di una riga; ma ebbe su di lui l’effetto di una pietra lanciata con una fionda. Si ritrasse, sbalordito, mentre leggeva.

La sua emozione era così diversa da qualsiasi altra Tom avesse mai visto prima che si fermò involontariamente. Per quanto breve fosse stato il suo stato di indecisione, la campanella smise di suonare mentre lui stava lì fermo; una voce rauca, che proveniva dal basso delle scale, chiese se ci fosse qualcuno che desiderasse sbarcare.

“Sì,” gridò Jonas, “io, io sto venendo. Dammi un po’ di tempo. Dove si trova quella donna! Torna indietro, torna qui.”

Mentre parlava, aprì un’altra porta e la trascinò fuori, piuttosto che condurla. Era pallida e spaventata, e rimase sorpresa nel rivedere il suo vecchio conoscente; ma non ebbe il tempo di parlare, perché sopra c’era un gran trambusto; Jonas la portò rapidamente verso il ponte.

“Dove stiamo andando? Cosa succede?”

“Torniamo indietro,” disse Jonas. “Ho cambiato idea. Non posso andare. Non mettermi in dubbio, altrimenti sarò la tua morte, o quella di qualcun altro. Fermati! Siamo quasi arrivati sulla riva. Capisci? Siamo quasi alla riva!”

Si girò, anche nella follia della sua fretta, e guardando Tom con un’espressione cupa, gli scosse la mano stretta a pugno. Non ci sono molte facce umane capaci di esprimere ciò che lui mostrò in quel gesto.

La trascinò su, e Tom li seguì. Attraverso il ponte, oltre il bordo, lungo quella striscia di legno pericolosa, e poi su per le scale, la trascinò con forza; non le rivolse nemmeno uno sguardo, ma fissava continuamente le facce presenti sul molo. All’improvviso si girò di nuovo e, pronunciando un terribile giuramento, disse a Tom:

“Dove è?”

Prima che Tom, nella sua indignazione e meraviglia, potesse rispondere a una domanda che non comprendeva affatto, un gentiluomo gli si avvicinò da dietro e chiamò per nome Jonas Chuzzlewit. Quell’uomo aveva un aspetto straniero, con baffi e mustache neri; parlava con una calma e cortesia insolite, molto diverse dal proprio modo di comportarsi, distratto e disperato.

“Chuzzlewit, mio caro amico!” disse il gentiluomo, alzando il cappello in segno di rispetto verso la signora Chuzzlewit. “Vi chiedo mille scuse. Non vorrei assolutamente intromettermi tra voi e questo viaggio domestico di natura così piacevole e rinfrescante (so bene quanto sia sempre incantevole, anche se non ho la fortuna di essere un uomo di casa io stesso, il che rappresenta la più grande sfortuna della mia esistenza); ma quella arnia, mio caro amico, quella arnia, potreste presentarmela?”

“Questo è il signor Montague,” disse Jonas, che sembrava avere difficoltà a parlare.

“L’uomo più infelice e più pentito di tutti, signora Chuzzlewit,” continuò quel gentiluomo, “perché è stato lui ad aver rovinato questa gita; ma come dico sempre al mio amico, la colonia di api, la colonia di api. Voi avevate pianificato un piccolo viaggio in Europa, vero, mia cara amica?”

Jonas mantenne un ostinato silenzio.

“Posso morire,” gridò Montague, “ma sono sconvolto! Sul mio ‘anima, sono sconvolto. Ma quella maledetta colonia di api nella nostra >città deve avere la massima priorità, quando c’è miele da raccogliere; ed è questa la mia migliore scusa. Ecco una vecchia donna molto strana che si inchina davanti a me,” disse Montague interrompendo il suo discorso e guardando la signora Gamp, “che non è affatto mia amica. Qualcuno la conosce?”

“Ah! Beh, loro mi conoscono, che il cielo benedica i loro preziosi cuori!” disse la signora Gamp. “Non dimenticano certo anche voi, signore. E possa questa felicità durare a lungo! Desidero, come tutti,” proseguì in tono festoso, “che siate altrettanto felici e attraenti quanto quel gentiluomo di cui una piccola creatura mi ha sussurrato il nome. Ma non oso nominarlo, per paura di offendere qualcuno, quando in realtà non c’è alcun motivo! Mia cara signora, ” Si interruppe all’improvviso, rendendosi conto che il suo atteggiamento festoso sembrava eccessivo. “Siete pallida da morire, ”

‘YOU are here too, are you?’ muttered Jonas. ‘Ecod, there are enough of you.’

‘I hope, sir,’ returned Mrs Gamp, dropping an indignant curtsey, ‘as no bones is broke by me and Mrs Harris a-walkin’ down upon a public wharf. Which was the very words she says to me (although they was the last I ever had to speak) was these: “Sairey,” she says, “is it a public wharf?” “Mrs Harris,” I makes answer, “can you doubt it? You have know’d me now, ma’am, eight and thirty year; and did you ever know me go, or wish to go, where I was not made welcome, say the words.” “No, Sairey,” Mrs Harris says, “contrairy quite.” And well she knows it too. I am but a poor woman, but I’ve been sought after, sir, though you may not think it. I’ve been knocked up at all hours of the night, and warned out by a many landlords, in consequence of being mistook for Fire. I goes out workin’ for my bread, ‘tis true, but I maintains my independency, with your kind leave, and which I will till death. I has my feelins as a woman, sir, and I have been a mother likeways; but touch a pipkin as belongs to me, or make the least remarks on what I eats or drinks, and though you was the favouritest young for’ard hussy of a servant-gal as ever come into a house, either you leaves the place, or me. My earnins is not great, sir, but I will not be impoged upon. Bless the babe, and save the mother, is my mortar, sir; but I makes so free as add to that, Don’t try no impogician with the Nuss, for she will not abear it!’

Mrs Gamp concluded by drawing her shawl tightly over herself with both hands, and, as usual, referring to Mrs Harris for full corroboration of these particulars. She had that peculiar trembling of the head which, in ladies of her excitable nature, may be taken as a sure indication of their breaking out again very shortly; when Jonas made a timely interposition.

‘As you ARE here,’ he said, ‘you had better see to her, and take her home. I am otherwise engaged.’ He said nothing more; but looked at Montague as if to give him notice that he was ready to attend him.

‘I am sorry to take you away,’ said Montague.

Jonas gave him a sinister look, which long lived in Tom’s memory, and which he often recalled afterwards.

‘I am, upon my life,’ said Montague. ‘Why did you make it necessary?’

With the same dark glance as before, Jonas replied, after a moment’s silence:

‘The necessity is none of my making. You have brought it about yourself.’

He said nothing more. He said even this as if he were bound, and in the other’s power, but had a sullen and suppressed devil within him, which he could not quite resist. His very gait, as they walked away together, was like that of a fettered man; but, striving to work out at his clenched hands, knitted brows, and fast-set lips, was the same imprisoned devil still.

They got into a handsome cabriolet which was waiting for them and drove away.

The whole of this extraordinary scene had passed so rapidly and the tumult which prevailed around as so unconscious of any impression from it, that, although Tom had been one of the chief actors, it was like a dream. No one had noticed him after they had left the packet. He had stood behind Jonas, and so near him, that he could not help hearing all that passed. He had stood there, with his sister on his arm, expecting and hoping to have an opportunity of explaining his strange share in this yet stranger business. But Jonas had not raised his eyes from the ground; no one else had even looked towards him; and before he could resolve on any course of action, they were all gone.

He gazed round for his landlord. But he had done that more than once already, and no such man was to be seen. He was still pursuing this search with his eyes, when he saw a hand beckoning to him from a hackney-coach; and hurrying towards it, found it was Merry’s. She addressed him hurriedly, but bent out of the window, that she might not be overheard by her companion, Mrs Gamp.

‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Good heaven, what is it? Why did he tell me last night to prepare for a long journey, and why have you brought us back like criminals? Dear Mr Pinch!’ she clasped her hands distractedly, ‘be merciful to us. Whatever this dreadful secret is, be merciful, and God will bless you!’

‘If any power of mercy lay with me,’ cried Tom, ‘trust me, you shouldn’t ask in vain. But I am far more ignorant and weak than you.’

She withdrew into the coach again, and he saw the hand waving towards him for a moment; but whether in reproachfulness or incredulity or misery, or grief, or sad adieu, or what else, he could not, being so hurried, understand. SHE was gone now; and Ruth and he were left to walk away, and wonder.

Had Mr Nadgett appointed the man who never came, to meet him upon London Bridge that morning? He was certainly looking over the parapet, and down upon the steamboat-wharf at that moment. It could not have been for pleasure; he never took pleasure. No. He must have had some business there.

“Anche tu sei qui, vero?”, mormorò Jonas. “Ehi, ne avete già abbastanza di voi, ”

“Le mie speranze, signore,” rispose la signora Gamp, facendo un inchino indignato, “sono che nessun osso mi sia rotto e che la signora Harris stia camminando su un molo pubblico. Esattamente queste furono le sue parole (sebbene siano state le ultime che ho mai sentito): ‘Sairey,’ disse, ‘è davvero un molo pubblico?’ ‘Signora Harris,’ risposi io, ‘come potreste dubitarne? Mi conoscete da ottantatré anni ormai; avete mai visto me andare, o desiderare andare, in luoghi dove non fossi benvenuta?’ ‘No, Sairey,’ disse la signora Harris, ‘anzi, proprio il contrario.’ E lei lo sa bene. Sono solo una donna povera, ma sono stata corteggiata, signore, anche se forse voi non lo pensate. Mi hanno importunata a tutte le ore della notte, e molti proprietari di case mi hanno cacciata, perché mi scambiavano per una prostituta. È vero che lavoro per guadagnarmi da vivere, ma mantengo la mia indipendenza, con il vostro permesso, naturalmente, e lo farò fino alla morte. Ho i miei sentimenti di donna, signore, e sono anche stata madre. Ma se toccate qualcosa che mi appartiene, o fate commenti su ciò che mangio o bevo, allora, anche se foste la più affascinante ragazza mai entrata in questa casa, dovete andarvene voi, o me. Il mio guadagno non è molto, signore, ma non permetterò che mi si opprima. Che il bambino sia benedetto e la madre salva, questo è il mio principio. Ma aggiungo anche: ‘Non provate a fare scherzi con me, perché non li tollererò!’”

La signora Gamp concluse avvolgendo strettamente il proprio scialle con entrambe le mani e, come al solito, fece riferimento alla signora Harris per ottenere una conferma completa di questi dettagli. Aveva quel particolare tremore della testa che, nelle donne della sua natura eccitabile, può essere considerato un segno certo del fatto che presto avrebbe ripreso a comportarsi in modo irragionevole; fortunatamente, Jonas intervenne tempestivamente.

“Poiché sei qui,” disse, “è meglio che tu ti occupi di lei e la porti a >casa. Sono impegnato in altro.” Non aggiunse nulla di più; ma guardò Montague come per fargli capire che era pronto ad aiutarlo.

“Mi dispiace doverti portare via,” disse Montague.

Jonas gli lanciò uno sguardo sinistro, che rimase a lungo nella memoria di Tom e al quale spesso ripensava in seguito.

“Lo giuro sulla mia vita,” disse Montague. “Perché avete reso questa cosa necessaria?”

Con lo stesso sguardo cupo di prima, dopo un momento di silenzio, Jonas rispose:

“La necessità non è colpa mia. L’avete creata voi stessi.”

Non disse più nulla. Anche queste parole le pronunciò come se fosse costretto e sotto il controllo di un altro; dentro di lui, però, c’era un demone cupo e represso che non riusciva del tutto a dominare. Anche il suo modo di camminare, mentre si allontanavano insieme, sembrava quello di una persona incatenata. Ma nonostante i suoi sforzi – le mani strette a pugno, le sopracciglia corrugate, le labbra serrate – quel demone imprigionato continuava ad esistere.

Salirono in un bellissimo cabriolet che li stava aspettando e partirono.

Tutta questa straordinaria scena era passata così rapidamente, e il tumulto che regnava intorno a loro sembrava del tutto indifferente ad essa; perciò, sebbene Tom fosse stato uno dei protagonisti principali, tutto sembrava un >sogno. Nessuno si era accorto di lui dopo che avevano lasciato il pacchetto. Era rimasto in piedi dietro Jonas, così vicino a lui da non poter fare a meno di sentire tutto ciò che accadeva. Era lì, con sua sorella al braccio, aspettando con speranza un’occasione per spiegare il proprio strano ruolo in questa ancora più strana situazione. Ma Jonas non aveva mai alzato lo sguardo dal terreno; nessun altro si era nemmeno voltato verso di lui; e prima che potesse decidere cosa fare, tutti se n’erano andati.

Guardò intorno alla ricerca del suo padrone di casa. Ma l’aveva già fatto più volte senza successo; continuava comunque a cercare con lo sguardo quando vide una mano che gli faceva segno da un calesse. Correndo verso di essa, scoprì che era quella di Merry. Lei gli parlò in fretta, ma si sporse fuori dalla finestra per evitare che la sua compagna, la signora Gamp, potesse sentire.

“Che cos’è?” disse lei. “Mio Dio, che cos’è? Perché ieri notte mi ha detto di prepararmi per un lungo viaggio, e perché ci avete riportato indietro come se fossimo criminali? Caro signor Pinch!” si strinse le mani, confusa, “siate misericordioso con noi. Qualunque sia questo terribile segreto, abbiate pietà. E Dio vi benedirà!”

“Se avessi anche solo un briciolo di miseria in me,” gridò Tom, “credetemi, non chiedereste invano. Ma io sono molto più ignorante e debole di voi.”

Si ritirò di nuovo nell’ carrozza, e lui vide per un momento quella mano che gli faceva segno; ma se fosse un gesto di rimprovero, di incredulità, di dolore, di tristezza o semplicemente un addio malinconico, non riuscì a capirlo, essendo così in fretta. Ora lei se n’era andata; e Ruth ed lui rimasero soli ad allontanarsi, pieni di meraviglia.

Se il signor Nadgett avesse incaricato quell’uomo che non si era mai presentato di incontrarlo quel mattino sul London Bridge, sicuramente stava guardando giù dal parapetto, verso il molo dei piroscafi. Non poteva essere per divertimento. Lui non provava mai piacere. No: doveva esserci qualche motivo legato a degli affari.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND, ARRIVING AT A PLEASANT UNDERSTANDING, SET FORTH UPON AN ENTERPRISE

The office of the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company being near at hand, and Mr Montague driving Jonas straight there, they had very little way to go. But the journey might have been one of several hours’ duration, without provoking a remark from either; for it was clear that Jonas did not mean to break the silence which prevailed between them, and that it was not, as yet, his dear friend’s cue to tempt them into conversation.

He had thrown aside his cloak, as having now no motive for concealment, and with that garment huddled on his knees, sat as far removed from his companion as the limited space in such a carriage would allow. There was a striking difference in his manner, compared with what it had been, within a few minutes, when Tom encountered him so unexpectedly on board the packet, or when the ugly change had fallen on him in Mr Montague’s dressing-room. He had the aspect of a man found out and held at bay; of being baffled, hunted, and beset; but there was now a dawning and increasing purpose in his face, which changed it very much. It was gloomy, distrustful, lowering; pale with anger and defeat; it still was humbled, abject, cowardly and mean; but, let the conflict go on as it would, there was one strong purpose wrestling with every emotion of his mind, and casting the whole series down as they arose.

Not prepossessing in appearance at the best of times, it may be readily supposed that he was not so now. He had left deep marks of his front teeth in his nether lip; and those tokens of the agitation he had lately undergone improved his looks as little as the heavy corrugations in his forehead. But he was self-possessed now; unnaturally self-possessed, indeed, as men quite otherwise than brave are known to be in desperate extremities; and when the carriage stopped, he waited for no invitation, but leapt hardily out, and went upstairs.

The chairman followed him; and closing the board-room door as soon as they had entered, threw himself upon a sofa. Jonas stood before the window, looking down into the street; and leaned against the sash, resting his head upon his arms.

‘This is not handsome, Chuzzlewit!’ said Montague at length. ‘Not handsome upon my soul!’

‘What would you have me do?’ he answered, looking round abruptly; ‘What do you expect?’

‘Confidence, my good fellow. Some confidence!’ said Montague in an injured tone.

‘Ecod! You show great confidence in me,’ retorted Jonas. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Do I not?’ said his companion, raising his head, and looking at him, but he had turned again. ‘Do I not? Have I not confided to you the easy schemes I have formed for our advantage; OUR advantage, mind; not mine alone; and what is my return? Attempted flight!’

‘How do you know that? Who said I meant to fly?’

‘Who said? Come, come. A foreign boat, my friend, an early hour, a figure wrapped up for disguise! Who said? If you didn’t mean to jilt me, why were you there? If you didn’t mean to jilt me, why did you come back?’

‘I came back,’ said Jonas, ‘to avoid disturbance.’

‘You were wise,’ rejoined his friend.

Jonas stood quite silent; still looking down into the street, and resting his head upon his arms.

‘Now, Chuzzlewit,’ said Montague, ‘notwithstanding what has passed I will be plain with you. Are you attending to me there? I only see your back.’

‘I hear you. Go on!’

‘I say that notwithstanding what has passed, I will be plain with you.’

‘You said that before. And I have told you once I heard you say it. Go on.’

‘You are a little chafed, but I can make allowance for that, and am, fortunately, myself in the very best of tempers. Now, let us see how circumstances stand. A day or two ago, I mentioned to you, my dear fellow, that I thought I had discovered—’

‘Will you hold your tongue?’ said Jonas, looking fiercely round, and glancing at the door.

‘Well, well!’ said Montague. ‘Judicious! Quite correct! My discoveries being published, would be like many other men’s discoveries in this honest world; of no further use to me. You see, Chuzzlewit, how ingenuous and frank I am in showing you the weakness of my own position! To return. I make, or think I make, a certain discovery which I take an early opportunity of mentioning in your ear, in that spirit of confidence which I really hoped did prevail between us, and was reciprocated by you. Perhaps there is something in it; perhaps there is nothing. I have my knowledge and opinion on the subject. You have yours. We will not discuss the question. But, my good fellow, you have been weak; what I wish to point out to you is, that you have been weak. I may desire to turn this little incident to my account (indeed, I do—I’ll not deny it), but my account does not lie in probing it, or using it against you.’

‘What do you call using it against me?’ asked Jonas, who had not yet changed his attitude.

‘Oh!’ said Montague, with a laugh. ‘We’ll not enter into that.’

‘Using it to make a beggar of me. Is that the use you mean?’

‘No.’

‘Ecod,’ muttered Jonas, bitterly. ‘That’s the use in which your account DOES lie. You speak the truth there.’

‘I wish you to venture (it’s a very safe venture) a little more with us, certainly, and to keep quiet,’ said Montague. ‘You promised me you would; and you must. I say it plainly, Chuzzlewit, you MUST. Reason the matter. If you don’t, my secret is worthless to me: and being so, it may as well become the public property as mine; better, for I shall gain some credit, bringing it to light. I want you, besides, to act as a decoy in a case I have already told you of. You don’t mind that, I know. You care nothing for the man (you care nothing for any man; you are too sharp; so am I, I hope); and could bear any loss of his with pious fortitude. Ha, ha, ha! You have tried to escape from the first consequence. You cannot escape it, I assure you. I have shown you that to-day. Now, I am not a moral man, you know. I am not the least in the world affected by anything you may have done; by any little indiscretion you may have committed; but I wish to profit by it if I can; and to a man of your intelligence I make that free confession. I am not at all singular in that infirmity. Everybody profits by the indiscretion of his neighbour; and the people in the best repute, the most. Why do you give me this trouble? It must come to a friendly agreement, or an unfriendly crash. It must. If the former, you are very little hurt. If the latter—well! you know best what is likely to happen then.’

CAPITOLO QUARANTUNO

Il signor Jonas e il suo amico, avendo raggiunto un accordo soddisfacente, intrapresero un’impresa.

L’ufficio della Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company era situato molto vicino, e poiché il signor Montague guidò Jonas direttamente lì, non dovettero percorrere una lunga distanza. Tuttavia, il Viaggio potrebbe essere durato diverse ore, senza che nessuno dei due facesse alcun commento; era evidente infatti che Jonas non intendeva rompere il Silenzio che regnava tra loro, e che ancora non fosse giunto il momento, per parte del suo caro amico, di incoraggiarli a conversare.

Aveva gettato da parte il suo mantello, poiché ormai non aveva più motivo di nascondersi; avvolto in quella stessa veste, sedeva sulle ginocchia, il più lontano possibile dal suo compagno, per quanto lo spazio ristretto di quel veicolo lo permettesse. C’era una notevole differenza nel suo comportamento rispetto a quello che era stato pochi minuti prima: quando Tom lo aveva incontrato inaspettatamente a bordo del treno espresso, o quando quel brutale cambiamento gli era avvenuto nella stanza da vestire di Mr Montague. Sembrava un uomo scoperto e costretto alla fuga; uno che si sentiva confuso, inseguito e assediato. Ma ora sul suo volto si leggeva una determinazione crescente, che lo trasformava completamente. Il suo sguardo era cupo, diffidente, pieno di rabbia e sconfitta; ancora umiliante, spregevole, codardo e meschino. Tuttavia, qualunque fosse il corso degli eventi, c’era una forte volontà che lottava contro tutte le sue emozioni, sovrastandole una dopo l’altra.

Non essendo mai stato particolarmente attraente nell’aspetto, si poteva facilmente supporre che lo fosse ancora meno ora. I suoi denti anteriori avevano lasciato profonde impronte sulle sue labbra inferiori; inoltre, i segni dell’agitazione che aveva recentemente attraversato non miglioravano affatto il suo aspetto, proprio come le profonde rughe sulla sua fronte. Ma ora era padrone di sé, anzi, un controllo su se stesso insolitamente forte, proprio come accade spesso in persone del tutto diverse da quelle coraggiose quando si trovano in situazioni disperate. Quando la carrozza si fermò, senza aspettare alcun invito, saltò fuori e salì al piano di sopra.

Il presidente lo seguì; non appena entrarono nella sala riunioni, chiuse la porta e si gettò su un divano. Jonas rimase davanti alla finestra, guardando giù per la strada; si appoggiò al davanzale, con la testa sulle braccia.

“Non è affatto bello, Chuzzlewit!” disse finalmente Montague. “Assolutamente non bello, per la mia ‘anima!”

“Cosa vuoi che faccia?”, rispose, guardandosi intorno all’improvviso; “Cosa ti aspetti?”

“Fiducia, mio caro amico. Un po’ di fiducia!” disse Montague con tono offeso.

“Ecod! Dimostri davvero molta fiducia in me, vero?” ribatté Jonas. “Non è così?”

“Non è vero?” disse il suo compagno, alzando la testa e guardandolo, ma lui si era già girato di nuovo. “Non è vero? Non ti ho forse confidato i piani semplici che ho ideato per il nostro vantaggio. IL nostro vantaggio, intendo; non il mio solo; e qual è la mia ricompensa? Un tentativo di fuga!”

“Come fai a saperlo? Chi ha detto che volessi volare?”

“Chi l’ha detto? Vieni, vieni. Una barca straniera, amico mio. Ore tarde della notte. Una figura avvolta per nascondersi. Chi l’ha detto? Se non volevi abbandonarmi, perché eri lì? Se non volevi abbandonarmi, perché sei tornato?”

“Sono tornato,” disse Jonas, “per evitare disturbi.”

“Sei stato saggio,” ribatté il suo amico.

Jonas rimase in silenzio; continuava a guardare la strada sotto di sé, appoggiando la testa sulle braccia.

“Ora, Chuzzlewit,” disse Montague, “nonostante quanto è accaduto, sarò franco con te. Mi stai ascoltando? Vedo solo la tua schiena.”

“Ti capisco. Continua!”

“Dico che, nonostante tutto ciò che è accaduto, sarò franco con voi.”

“L’hai già detto prima. E ti ho già detto che ti ho sentito dirlo. Continua.”

“Sei un po’ irritato, ma posso capirlo, e fortunatamente anch’io sono di ottimo umore. Ora, vediamo come stanno le cose. Un giorno o due fa, ti ho detto, caro amico, che pensavo di aver scoperto, ”

“Ti terrai zitto?” disse Jonas, guardandosi intorno con aria minacciosa e lanciando un’occhiata verso la porta.

“Beh, davvero bene!” disse Montague. “Saggio! Assolutamente corretto! Se le mie scoperte venissero pubblicate, sarebbero come quelle di molti altri uomini in questo mondo onesto; non mi sarebbero più di alcuna utilità. Vedi, Chuzzlewit, quanto io sia sincero e franco nel mostrarti la debolezza della mia posizione! Tornando al discorso. Ho fatto, o credo di aver fatto, una certa scoperta, e ho colto l’occasione per menzionarla subito a te, con quel spirito di fiducia che davvero speravo esistesse tra noi e che tu ricambiassi. Forse c’è qualcosa di vero in essa; forse no. Io ho la mia conoscenza e il mio parere al riguardo. Tu hai il tuo. Non discuteremo della questione. Ma, caro amico, sei stato debole. Quello che voglio farti notare è che sei stato debole. Forse desidero trarre vantaggio da questo piccolo episodio (infatti lo faccio, non lo negherò), ma il mio scopo non è certo indagare su di esso o usarlo contro di te.”

“Come chiami il fatto di usarlo contro di me?” chiese Jonas, che ancora non aveva cambiato atteggiamento.

“Ah!” esclamò Montague, ridendo. “Non entreremo in quell’argomento.”

“Usarlo per ridurmi in povertà. È questo che intendi?”

‘No.’

“Ecod,” mormorò Jonas, amaramente. “È proprio in questo senso che il tuo discorso ha un senso. Lì parli davvero la verità.”

“Vorrei che tu ti avventurassi ancora un po’ con noi, certamente, e che rimanessi in silenzio,” disse Montague. “Mi hai promesso che lo avresti fatto; e devi farlo. Te lo dico chiaramente, Chuzzlewit: DEVI farlo. Pensaci bene. Se non lo fai, il mio segreto perde ogni valore per me; e in tal caso, potrebbe benissimo diventare di dominio pubblico. Anzi, probabilmente lo diventerà, perché otterrò qualche credito rivelandolo. Inoltre, vorrei che tu agissi come esca in un piano di cui ti ho già parlato. So che non ti dispiace. Non ti importa nulla di quell’uomo (non ti importa nulla degli uomini in generale; sei troppo astuto. E anch’io, spero, ); e potresti sopportare senza problemi la sua perdita con grande stoicismo. Ha, ha, ha! Hai cercato di evitare le conseguenze. Ma non ci riuscirai, te lo assicuro. Oggi stesso ti ho dimostrato che è impossibile. Ora, non sono certo un uomo morale, sai. Non mi interessa affatto quello che hai potuto fare. Nessuna piccola imprudenza da parte tua può influenzarmi in alcun modo. Ma vorrei trarne profitto, se possibile. E a una persona della tua intelligenza faccio questa confessione aperta. Non sono affatto un caso unico in questo senso. Tutti traggono vantaggio dalle imprudenze altrui. Anche le persone di maggior reputazione. Perché mi causi tutti questi problemi? Dovremo arrivare a un accordo amichevole. O a uno scontro spiacevole. È inevitabile. Se sarà l’accordo, non ne subirai alcun danno. Se sarà lo scontro, beh, tu sai meglio di chiunque cosa potrebbe accadere, ”

Jonas left the window, and walked up close to him. He did not look him in the face; it was not his habit to do that; but he kept his eyes towards him—on his breast, or thereabouts—and was at great pains to speak slowly and distinctly in reply. Just as a man in a state of conscious drunkenness might be.

‘Lying is of no use now,’ he said. ‘I DID think of getting away this morning, and making better terms with you from a distance.’

‘To be sure! to be sure!’ replied Montague. ‘Nothing more natural. I foresaw that, and provided against it. But I am afraid I am interrupting you.’

‘How the devil,’ pursued Jonas, with a still greater effort, ‘you made choice of your messenger, and where you found him, I’ll not ask you. I owed him one good turn before to-day. If you are so careless of men in general, as you said you were just now, you are quite indifferent to what becomes of such a crop-tailed cur as that, and will leave me to settle my account with him in my own manner.’

If he had raised his eyes to his companion’s face, he would have seen that Montague was evidently unable to comprehend his meaning. But continuing to stand before him, with his furtive gaze directed as before, and pausing here only to moisten his dry lips with his tongue, the fact was lost upon him. It might have struck a close observer that this fixed and steady glance of Jonas’s was a part of the alteration which had taken place in his demeanour. He kept it riveted on one spot, with which his thoughts had manifestly nothing to do; like as a juggler walking on a cord or wire to any dangerous end, holds some object in his sight to steady him, and never wanders from it, lest he trip.

Montague was quick in his rejoinder, though he made it at a venture. There was no difference of opinion between him and his friend on THAT point. Not the least.

‘Your great discovery,’ Jonas proceeded, with a savage sneer that got the better of him for the moment, ‘may be true, and may be false. Whichever it is, I dare say I’m no worse than other men.’

‘Not a bit,’ said Tigg. ‘Not a bit. We’re all alike—or nearly so.’

‘I want to know this,’ Jonas went on to say; ‘is it your own? You’ll not wonder at my asking the question.’

‘My own!’ repeated Montague.

‘Aye!’ returned the other, gruffly. ‘Is it known to anybody else? Come! Don’t waver about that.’

‘No!’ said Montague, without the smallest hesitation. ‘What would it be worth, do you think, unless I had the keeping of it?’

Now, for the first time, Jonas looked at him. After a pause, he put out his hand, and said, with a laugh:

‘Come! make things easy to me, and I’m yours. I don’t know that I may not be better off here, after all, than if I had gone away this morning. But here I am, and here I’ll stay now. Take your oath!’

He cleared his throat, for he was speaking hoarsely and said in a lighter tone:

‘Shall I go to Pecksniff? When? Say when!’

‘Immediately!’ cried Montague. ‘He cannot be enticed too soon.’

‘Ecod!’ cried Jonas, with a wild laugh. ‘There’s some fun in catching that old hypocrite. I hate him. Shall I go to-night?’

‘Aye! This,’ said Montague, ecstatically, ‘is like business! We understand each other now! To-night, my good fellow, by all means.’

‘Come with me,’ cried Jonas. ‘We must make a dash; go down in state, and carry documents, for he’s a deep file to deal with, and must be drawn on with an artful hand, or he’ll not follow. I know him. As I can’t take your lodgings or your dinners down, I must take you. Will you come to-night?’

His friend appeared to hesitate; and neither to have anticipated this proposal, nor to relish it very much.

‘We can concert our plans upon the road,’ said Jonas. ‘We must not go direct to him, but cross over from some other place, and turn out of our way to see him. I may not want to introduce you, but I must have you on the spot. I know the man, I tell you.’

‘But what if the man knows me?’ said Montague, shrugging his shoulders.

‘He know!’ cried Jonas. ‘Don’t you run that risk with fifty men a day! Would your father know you? Did I know you? Ecod! You were another figure when I saw you first. Ha, ha, ha! I see the rents and patches now! No false hair then, no black dye! You were another sort of joker in those days, you were! You even spoke different then. You’ve acted the gentleman so seriously since, that you’ve taken in yourself. If he should know you, what does it matter? Such a change is a proof of your success. You know that, or you would not have made yourself known to me. Will you come?’

‘My good fellow,’ said Montague, still hesitating, ‘I can trust you alone.’

‘Trust me! Ecod, you may trust me now, far enough. I’ll try to go away no more—no more!’ He stopped, and added in a more sober tone, ‘I can’t get on without you. Will you come?’

‘I will,’ said Montague, ‘if that’s your opinion.’ And they shook hands upon it.

The boisterous manner which Jonas had exhibited during the latter part of this conversation, and which had gone on rapidly increasing with almost every word he had spoken, from the time when he looked his honourable friend in the face until now, did not now subside, but, remaining at its height, abided by him. Most unusual with him at any period; most inconsistent with his temper and constitution; especially unnatural it would appear in one so darkly circumstanced; it abided by him. It was not like the effect of wine, or any ardent drink, for he was perfectly coherent. It even made him proof against the usual influence of such means of excitement; for, although he drank deeply several times that day, with no reserve or caution, he remained exactly the same man, and his spirits neither rose nor fell in the least observable degree.

Deciding, after some discussion, to travel at night, in order that the day’s business might not be broken in upon, they took counsel together in reference to the means. Mr Montague being of opinion that four horses were advisable, at all events for the first stage, as throwing a great deal of dust into people’s eyes, in more senses than one, a travelling chariot and four lay under orders for nine o’clock. Jonas did not go home; observing, that his being obliged to leave town on business in so great a hurry, would be a good excuse for having turned back so unexpectedly in the morning. So he wrote a note for his portmanteau, and sent it by a messenger, who duly brought his luggage back, with a short note from that other piece of luggage, his wife, expressive of her wish to be allowed to come and see him for a moment. To this request he sent for answer, ‘she had better;’ and one such threatening affirmative being sufficient, in defiance of the English grammar, to express a negative, she kept away.

Jonas uscì dalla finestra e si avvicinò a lui. Non gli guardò in faccia; non era sua abitudine farlo; ma tenne lo sguardo fisso su di lui, sul suo petto o nelle vicinanze, e si sforzò molto di parlare lentamente e chiaramente per rispondere. Proprio come un uomo in uno stato di ubriachezza consapevole potrebbe fare.

“Mentire ormai non serve a nulla,” disse. “In effetti, stamattina ho pensato di scappare e di cercare di raggiungerti per parlare in modo più sereno da lontano.”

“Certo! Certo!” rispose Montague. “Niente di più naturale. L’avevo previsto e avevo preso le contromisure. Ma temo di starmi intromettendo.”

“Come diavolo, ”, continuò Jonas con ancora maggiore determinazione, “hai scelto tu stesso il tuo messaggero, e dove l’abbia trovato non te lo chiederò. Gli dovevo già un favore prima d’oggi. Se sei davvero così negligente nei confronti delle persone, come hai appena detto, allora devi essere completamente indifferente a ciò che accadrà a uno come lui. Lasciami quindi sistemare le cose a modo mio.”

Se avesse alzato lo sguardo sul viso del suo compagno, avrebbe visto che Montague evidentemente non riusciva a comprendere il suo significato. Ma continuando a stare davanti a lui, con quello sguardo furtivo rivolto verso lo stesso punto di prima, e fermandosi solo per inumidire le labbra secche con la lingua, Montague non si rese conto di nulla. Un osservatore attento avrebbe potuto notare che quell’attenzione fisso e costante da parte di Jonas faceva parte del cambiamento nel suo comportamento. Manteneva lo sguardo fissato su un punto che, chiaramente, non aveva alcun rapporto con i suoi pensieri; proprio come un giocoliere che cammina su una corda o su un filo, tenendo d’occhio un oggetto per mantenersi in equilibrio e senza mai distogliere lo sguardo, per evitare di inciampare.

Montague rispose prontamente, anche se lo fece con cautela. Non c’era alcuna divergenza di opinione tra lui e il suo amico su quel punto. Nemmeno la minima.

“La tua grande scoperta,” proseguì Jonas, con un sorriso crudele che per il momento prevalse su di lui, “potrebbe essere vera, o potrebbe essere falsa. In ogni caso, oserei dire di non essere peggiore degli altri uomini.”

“Nemmeno un po’,” disse Tigg. “Nemmeno un po’. Siamo tutti simili, o quasi.”

“Voglio saperlo,” continuò Jonas; “è tuo? Non ti sorprenderà che io faccia questa domanda.”

“Mia!” ripeté Montague.

“Sì!” rispose l’altro in tono brusco. “Lo sa qualcun altro? Forza! Non esitare su questo.”

“No!”, disse Montague senza il minimo esitazione. “A cosa servirebbe, secondo te, se non fossi io a tenerla?”

Ora, per la prima volta, Jonas lo guardò. Dopo una pausa, tese la mano e disse, ridendo:

“Mio caro, rendimi le cose facili e sarò tua. Non so, forse qui sto meglio di quanto non sarei stato se fossi partito stamattina. Ma ora sono qui, e resterò qui. Giura!”

“Si schiarì la voce, poiché parlava con una voce rauca, e disse poi con un tono più leggero, ”

“Devo andare da Pecksniff? Quando? Ditemi quando!”

“Subito!”, esclamò Montague. “Non può essere attirato troppo presto.”

“Ecod!”, gridò Jonas, ridendo follemente. “C’è davvero divertimento nell’inseguire quel vecchio ipocrita. Lo odio. Devo andare stasera?”

“Sì! Questo,” disse Montague, estaticamente, “è proprio come fare affari! Ora ci capiamo a vicenda! Stasera, amico mio, senza dubbio.”

“Vieni con me,” gridò Jonas. “Dobbiamo agire in fretta; dobbiamo andare subito e portare con noi i documenti, perché si tratta di una questione complessa che richiede un approccio abile, altrimenti non collaborerà. Lo conosco bene. Poiché non posso trasferirmi a casa tua o mangiare con te, devo portarti via io stesso. Verrai con me stasera?”

Suo amico sembrava esitare; né aveva previsto questa proposta, né la trovava particolarmente allettante.

“Possiamo coordinare i nostri piani lungo la strada,” disse Jonas. “Non dobbiamo andare direttamente da lui, ma attraversare da qualche altro posto e deviare per incontrarlo. Forse non voglio presentarvi, ma devo assolutamente che siate lì. Conosco quell’uomo, ve lo dico.”

“Ma cosa succederà se quell’uomo mi riconoscerà?” disse Montague, alzando le spalle.

“Lo sa!” gridò Jonas. “Non correre quel rischio con cinquanta uomini al giorno! Tuo padre ti riconoscerebbe? Io ti ho riconosciuto? Ecod. Quando ti ho visto per la prima volta, eri un’altra persona. Ahahah. Ora capisco tutto: nessun capello finto, nessuna tintura nera. Allora eri davvero un tipo diverso di buffone. Parlavi anche in modo diverso. Da allora hai interpretato il ruolo del gentiluomo con tale serietà che ti sei quasi preso sul serio. Se dovesse riconoscerti, che importanza avrebbe? Un cambiamento del genere è la prova del tuo successo. Lo sai bene, altrimenti non saresti mai venuto da me. Vieni?”

“Mio caro amico,” disse Montague, ancora esitante, “posso fidarmi di te da solo.”

“Fidati di me! Ecod, ora puoi fidarti abbastanza di me. Cercherò di non allontanarmi più, mai più!” Si fermò e aggiunse con tono più serio: “Non riesco a farcela senza di te. Verrai?”

“Lo farò,” disse Montague, “se questa è la tua opinione.” E si strinsero la mano a tal fine.

Il comportamento turbolento che Jonas aveva dimostrato nella seconda parte di questa conversazione, e che era aumentato progressivamente con ogni parola pronunciata da quando aveva guardato in faccia il suo onorevole amico fino ad ora, non diminuì affatto; anzi, rimase al suo apice per tutto il tempo. Era del tutto insolito per lui in qualsiasi circostanza; assolutamente incompatibile con il suo temperamento e la sua natura; sembrava particolarmente innaturale in una persona che si trovava in situazioni così difficili. Eppure rimase tale. Non era certo l’effetto dell’alcol o di alcun altro sostanza eccitante, poiché Jonas manteneva pienamente la propria lucidità mentale. Anzi, quel comportamento lo rendeva persino immune all’influenza abituale di tali stimoli: nonostante avesse bevuto abbondantemente più volte quel giorno, senza alcuna moderazione o precauzione, rimase esattamente lo stesso. E il suo umore non cambiò minimamente.

Dopo alcune discussioni, decisero di viaggiare di notte per non interrompere le attività del giorno; si consultarono insieme riguardo ai mezzi da utilizzare. Il signor Montague riteneva che quattro cavalli fossero opportuni, almeno per la prima tappa del viaggio, poiché avrebbero sollevato una grande quantità di polvere davanti agli occhi delle persone. Una carrozza da viaggio con quattro cavalli fu quindi preparata alle nove di ore. Jonas non tornò a >casa; osservò infatti che dover lasciare la città in tutta fretta per un affare rappresentava una buona scusa per il suo improvviso ritorno al mattino. Così scrisse un biglietto e lo inviò tramite un messaggero, il quale gli riportò i bagagli insieme a un breve messaggio da parte di sua moglie, nella quale esprimeva il desiderio di vederlo per un momento. A questa richiesta rispose semplicemente: “Farebbe meglio che non venisse”; e poiché una risposta del genere era sufficiente, nonostante contraddicesse le regole della grammatica inglese, per esprimere un rifiuto, lei decise di non presentarsi.

Mr Montague being much engaged in the course of the day, Jonas bestowed his spirits chiefly on the doctor, with whom he lunched in the medical officer’s own room. On his way thither, encountering Mr Nadgett in the outer room, he bantered that stealthy gentleman on always appearing anxious to avoid him, and inquired if he were afraid of him. Mr Nadgett slyly answered, ‘No, but he believed it must be his way as he had been charged with much the same kind of thing before.’

Mr Montague was listening to, or, to speak with greater elegance, he overheard, this dialogue. As soon as Jonas was gone he beckoned Nadgett to him with the feather of his pen, and whispered in his ear.

‘Who gave him my letter this morning?’

‘My lodger, sir,’ said Nadgett, behind the palm of his hand.

‘How came that about?’

‘I found him on the wharf, sir. Being so much hurried, and you not arrived, it was necessary to do something. It fortunately occurred to me, that if I gave it him myself I could be of no further use. I should have been blown upon immediately.’

‘Mr Nadgett, you are a jewel,’ said Montague, patting him on the back. ‘What’s your lodger’s name?’

‘Pinch, sir. Thomas Pinch.’

Montague reflected for a little while, and then asked:

‘From the country, do you know?’

‘From Wiltshire, sir, he told me.’

They parted without another word. To see Mr Nadgett’s bow when Montague and he next met, and to see Mr Montague acknowledge it, anybody might have undertaken to swear that they had never spoken to each other confidentially in all their lives.

In the meanwhile, Mr Jonas and the doctor made themselves very comfortable upstairs, over a bottle of the old Madeira and some sandwiches; for the doctor having been already invited to dine below at six o’clock, preferred a light repast for lunch. It was advisable, he said, in two points of view: First, as being healthy in itself. Secondly as being the better preparation for dinner.

‘And you are bound for all our sakes to take particular care of your digestion, Mr Chuzzlewit, my dear sir,’ said the doctor smacking his lips after a glass of wine; ‘for depend upon it, it is worth preserving. It must be in admirable condition, sir; perfect chronometer-work. Otherwise your spirits could not be so remarkable. Your bosom’s lord sits lightly on its throne, Mr Chuzzlewit, as what’s-his-name says in the play. I wish he said it in a play which did anything like common justice to our profession, by the bye. There is an apothecary in that drama, sir, which is a low thing; vulgar, sir; out of nature altogether.’

Mr Jobling pulled out his shirt-frill of fine linen, as though he would have said, ‘This is what I call nature in a medical man, sir;’ and looked at Jonas for an observation.

Jonas not being in a condition to pursue the subject, took up a case of lancets that was lying on the table, and opened it.

‘Ah!’ said the doctor, leaning back in his chair, ‘I always take ‘em out of my pocket before I eat. My pockets are rather tight. Ha, ha, ha!’

Jonas had opened one of the shining little instruments; and was scrutinizing it with a look as sharp and eager as its own bright edge.

‘Good steel, doctor. Good steel! Eh!’

‘Ye-es,’ replied the doctor, with the faltering modesty of ownership. ‘One might open a vein pretty dexterously with that, Mr Chuzzlewit.’

‘It has opened a good many in its time, I suppose?’ said Jonas looking at it with a growing interest.

‘Not a few, my dear sir, not a few. It has been engaged in a—in a pretty good practice, I believe I may say,’ replied the doctor, coughing as if the matter-of-fact were so very dry and literal that he couldn’t help it. ‘In a pretty good practice,’ repeated the doctor, putting another glass of wine to his lips.

‘Now, could you cut a man’s throat with such a thing as this?’ demanded Jonas.

‘Oh certainly, certainly, if you took him in the right place,’ returned the doctor. ‘It all depends upon that.’

‘Where you have your hand now, hey?’ cried Jonas, bending forward to look at it.

‘Yes,’ said the doctor; ‘that’s the jugular.’

Jonas, in his vivacity, made a sudden sawing in the air, so close behind the doctor’s jugular that he turned quite red. Then Jonas (in the same strange spirit of vivacity) burst into a loud discordant laugh.

‘No, no,’ said the doctor, shaking his head; ‘edge tools, edge tools; never play with ‘em. A very remarkable instance of the skillful use of edge-tools, by the way, occurs to me at this moment. It was a case of murder. I am afraid it was a case of murder, committed by a member of our profession; it was so artistically done.’

‘Aye!’ said Jonas. ‘How was that?’

‘Why, sir,’ returned Jobling, ‘the thing lies in a nutshell. A certain gentleman was found, one morning, in an obscure street, lying in an angle of a doorway—I should rather say, leaning, in an upright position, in the angle of a doorway, and supported consequently by the doorway. Upon his waistcoat there was one solitary drop of blood. He was dead and cold; and had been murdered, sir.’

‘Only one drop of blood!’ said Jonas.

‘Sir, that man,’ replied the doctor, ‘had been stabbed to the heart. Had been stabbed to the heart with such dexterity, sir, that he had died instantly, and had bled internally. It was supposed that a medical friend of his (to whom suspicion attached) had engaged him in conversation on some pretence; had taken him, very likely, by the button in a conversational manner; had examined his ground at leisure with his other hand; had marked the exact spot; drawn out the instrument, whatever it was, when he was quite prepared; and—’

‘And done the trick,’ suggested Jonas.

‘Exactly so,’ replied the doctor. ‘It was quite an operation in its way, and very neat. The medical friend never turned up; and, as I tell you, he had the credit of it. Whether he did it or not I can’t say. But, having had the honour to be called in with two or three of my professional brethren on the occasion, and having assisted to make a careful examination of the wound, I have no hesitation in saying that it would have reflected credit on any medical man; and that in an unprofessional person it could not but be considered, either as an extraordinary work of art, or the result of a still more extraordinary, happy, and favourable conjunction of circumstances.’

His hearer was so much interested in this case, that the doctor went on to elucidate it with the assistance of his own finger and thumb and waistcoat; and at Jonas’s request, he took the further trouble of going into a corner of the room, and alternately representing the murdered man and the murderer; which he did with great effect. The bottle being emptied and the story done, Jonas was in precisely the same boisterous and unusual state as when they had sat down. If, as Jobling theorized, his good digestion were the cause, he must have been a very ostrich.

At dinner it was just the same; and after dinner too; though wine was drunk in abundance, and various rich meats eaten. At nine o’clock it was still the same. There being a lamp in the carriage, he swore they would take a pack of cards, and a bottle of wine; and with these things under his cloak, went down to the door.

‘Out of the way, Tom Thumb, and get to bed!’

This was the salutation he bestowed on Mr Bailey, who, booted and wrapped up, stood at the carriage door to help him in.

‘To bed, sir! I’m a-going, too,’ said Bailey.

He alighted quickly, and walked back into the hall, where Montague was lighting a cigar; conducting Mr Bailey with him, by the collar.

‘You are not a-going to take this monkey of a boy, are you?’

‘Yes,’ said Montague.

He gave the boy a shake, and threw him roughly aside. There was more of his familiar self in the action, than in anything he had done that day; but he broke out laughing immediately afterwards, and making a thrust at the doctor with his hand, in imitation of his representation of the medical friend, went out to the carriage again, and took his seat. His companion followed immediately. Mr Bailey climbed into the rumble. ‘It will be a stormy night!’ exclaimed the doctor, as they started.

Poiché il signor Montague era molto impegnato durante la giornata, Jonas dedicò la sua attenzione principalmente al dottore, con cui pranzò nella stanza dell’ufficiale medico. Lungo la strada, incontrando il signor Nadgett nella stanza esterna, scherzò con quel gentiluomo furtivo, dicendogli che sembrava sempre cercare di evitarlo e chiese se avesse paura di lui. Il signor Nadgett rispose astutamente: “No, ma credo sia semplicemente il mio destino, visto che in passato mi sono già stato incaricato di compiti simili.”

Il signor Montague stava ascoltando, o, per esprimersi con maggiore eleganza, aveva sentito casualmente quel dialogo. Non appena Jonas se ne fu andato, chiamò Nadgett con la penna e gli sussurrò qualcosa all’orecchio.

“Chi gli ha dato la mia lettera stamattina?”

“Mio inquilino, signore,” disse Nadgett, nascondendo la bocca dietro la mano.

“Come è potuto succedere?”

“L’ho trovato sul molo, signore. Essendo così in fretta e visto che lei non era ancora arrivato, era necessario fare qualcosa. Fortunatamente mi è venuto in mente che, se glielo dessi io stesso, non avrei potuto essere d’aiuto ulteriormente. Altrimenti sarei stato scoperto immediatamente.”

“Signor Nadgett, lei è davvero un gioiello,” disse Montague, dandogli una pacca sulla schiena. “Come si chiama il suo inquilino?”

“Thomas Pinch, signore.”

Montague rifletté per un po’, poi chiese:

“Dalla campagna, capisci?”

“Da Wiltshire, signore, mi ha detto.”

Si separarono senza dire una parola in più. Chiunque avrebbe potuto giurare che i signori Nadgett e Montague non avessero mai parlato tra loro in modo confidenziale in tutta la loro vita, vedendo il modo in cui si salutarono quando si incontrarono di nuovo.

Nel frattempo, il signor Jonas e il dottore si sistemarono molto comodamente al piano di sopra, davanti a una bottiglia dell’antico Madeira e alcuni panini; poiché il dottore era già stato invitato a pranzare al piano di sotto alle sei in orario, preferì un pasto leggero per il pranzo. Disse che questo fosse consigliabile da due punti di vista: innanzitutto, perché salutare in sé; e in secondo luogo, perché rappresentasse una migliore preparazione per la cena.

“E per il nostro bene, signor Chuzzlewit, è assolutamente necessario che si prenda particolare cura della propria digestione,” disse il dottore, schioccandosi le labbra dopo aver bevuto un bicchiere di vino; “perché credetemi, è davvero importante preservarla in ottimo stato. Deve funzionare alla perfezione, signor mio. Altrimenti i suoi spiriti non sarebbero così eccezionali. Il ‘sovrano’ del suo stomaco riposa tranquillamente sul proprio trono, signor Chuzzlewit. Proprio come dice quel personaggio nel dramma. Vorrei solo che lo dicesse in un dramma che rispettasse almeno un po’ la nostra professione. Nel quel dramma c’è un farmacista, ma è una figura davvero meschina e volgare. Del tutto fuori dalla ‘natura’, per così dire.”

Il signor Jobling tirò fuori il bordo della sua camicia fatto di lino fine, come se volesse dire: “Ecco cosa io chiamo ‘natura’ quando si tratta di un medico, signore”; poi guardò Jonas in attesa di una sua osservazione.

Poiché Jonas non era in condizioni di continuare quella discussione, prese un contenitore di lancette che si trovava sul tavolo e lo aprì.

“Ah!” disse il dottore, appoggiandosi allo schienale della sedia, “Le tiro sempre fuori dalle tasche prima di mangiare. Le mie tasche sono abbastanza strette, eh. Ha, ha, ha!”

Jonas aveva aperto uno di quegli strumenti luminosi e lo stava esaminando con uno sguardo altrettanto acuto ed attento quanto il filo tagliente dello stesso strumento.

“Buon acciaio, dottore. Buon acciaio! Eh!”

“Sì, sì,” rispose il dottore, con quella timida e incerta modestia tipica di chi si riconosce nel proprio ruolo.
“Con quell’attrezzo si potrebbe anche praticare un prelievo venoso in modo abbastanza abile, signor Chuzzlewit.”

“Dev’essere aperto molte volte nel suo periodo di attività, immagino, ”, disse Jonas, osservandolo con sempre maggiore interesse.

“Non pochi, mio caro signore, non pochi. Si è dedicato a una, a una pratica abbastanza frequente, direi,” rispose il dottore, tossendo come se quella constatazione fosse così banale e letterale da non poter essere altrimenti espressa. “A una pratica abbastanza frequente,” ripeté il dottore, portando un altro bicchiere di vino alle labbra.

“Ora, potresti davvero tagliare la gola a un uomo con una cosa del genere?” chiese Jonas.

“Certo, certamente, se lo portaste nel posto giusto,” rispose il dottore. “Tutto dipende da questo.”

“Dove hai la mano adesso, eh?”, gridò Jonas, chinandosi per guardarla.

“Sì,” disse il dottore; “è la vena giugulare.”

Jonas, con la sua vivacità, fece un movimento improvviso con le mani nell’aria, così vicino alla giugulare del dottore che quest’ultimo arrossì immediatamente. Poi Jonas, nello stesso strano stato di eccitazione, scoppiò in una risata forte e disarmoniosa.

“No, no,” disse il dottore scuotendo la testa; “strumenti affilati, mai giocarci. A proposito, mi viene in mente un esempio molto notevole di uso abile di strumenti affilati: si trattava di un caso di omicidio, temo fosse un omicidio commesso da un membro della nostra professione; l’omicidio è stato compiuto con estrema maestria.”

“Ah sì!” disse Jonas. “Com’è andata?”

“Perché, signore,” rispose Jobling, “la cosa è molto semplice. Una certa mattina, un gentiluomo fu trovato in una strada poco frequentata, appoggiato nell’angolo di un portone. Per essere precisi, era in posizione eretta e si reggeva contro il portone stesso. Sul suo gilet c’era una sola goccia di sangue. Era morto e freddo; era stato assassinato, signore.”

“Solo una goccia di sangue!” disse Jonas.

“Signore,” rispose il dottore, “quell’uomo era stato pugnalato al cuore. Il colpo era stato inferto con tale abilità che era morto all’istante e aveva iniziato a sanguinare internamente. Si presume che un suo amico medico – su cui pendeva il sospetto – lo avesse attirato in conversazione con qualche pretesto; probabilmente lo aveva afferrato per il bavero mentre chiacchieravano; poi, con l’altra mano, aveva esaminato attentamente la zona interessata; aveva individuato con precisione il punto esatto dove colpire; e infine aveva estratto l’arma utilizzata, qualunque essa fosse, nel momento giusto, ”

“Ecco fatto,” suggerì Jonas.

“Esattamente,” rispose il dottore. “È stata un’operazione piuttosto complessa, ma eseguita con grande perizia. Quel medico non si è mai presentato; e, come vi dico, gli è stato attribuito tutto il merito. Non so se l’abbia davvero eseguita lui o no. Ma avendo avuto l’onore di essere chiamato insieme a due o tre miei colleghi professionisti in quell’occasione, e avendo assistito personalmente all’esame accurato della ferita, non esito ad affermare che un risultato del genere sarebbe stato degno di qualsiasi medico; mentre per una persona non qualificata, non può che essere considerato o come un’opera d’arte straordinaria, oppure il risultato di una combinazione di circostanze ancora più eccezionale, fortunata e favorevole.”

Il suo ascoltatore era così interessato a questa storia che il dottore continuò ad illustrarla utilizzando il proprio dito mignolo, l’indice e la manica della giacca; su richiesta di Jonas, si prese anche la briga di andare in un angolo della stanza per rappresentare alternativamente la vittima e l’assassino, con grande efficacia. Una volta svuotata la bottiglia e terminata la storia, Jonas era esattamente nello stesso stato di agitazione e stranezza in cui si trovava all’inizio dell’incontro. Se, come teorizzava Jobling, la sua buona digestione fosse stata la causa di tutto ciò, allora doveva essere davvero un “uccello struzzo”.

A cena fu esattamente la stessa cosa; e anche dopo cena; nonostante si bevesse abbondantemente vino e si mangiassero vari cibi prelibati. Alle nove in punto era ancora tutto come prima. Poiché nella carrozza c’era una lampada, giurò che avrebbero preso un mazzo di carte e una bottiglia di vino; con queste cose sotto il mantello, scese fino alla porta.

“Via di mezzo, Tomino Mignolo, vai a letto!”

Questo fu il saluto che rivolse al signor Bailey, il quale, con gli stivali indossati e avvolto nel suo mantello, stava alla porta della carrozza pronto ad aiutarlo a salire.

“Andiamo a letto, signore! Anche io me ne vado,” disse Bailey.

Scese rapidamente e tornò nel salone, dove Montague stava accendendo un sigaro; accompagnava il signor Bailey tenendolo per il colletto.

“Non penserai mica di portarti via questo ragazzo birichino, vero?”

“Sì,” disse Montague.

Scosse il ragazzo e lo gettò via bruscamente. In quel gesto c’era molto di quell’aspetto del suo carattere che gli era familiare, più di quanto ci fosse stato in qualsiasi altra cosa avesse fatto quel giorno; ma subito dopo scoppiò a ridere e, imitando il modo in cui il dottore si comportava, fece un gesto con la mano verso di lui, poi tornò nella carrozza e prese il suo posto. Il suo compagno lo seguì immediatamente. Il signor Bailey salì sulla carrozza. “Sarà una notte tempestosa!”, esclamò il dottore mentre partivano.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CONTINUATION OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND

The doctor’s prognostication in reference to the weather was speedily verified. Although the weather was not a patient of his, and no third party had required him to give an opinion on the case, the quick fulfilment of his prophecy may be taken as an instance of his professional tact; for, unless the threatening aspect of the night had been perfectly plain and unmistakable, Mr Jobling would never have compromised his reputation by delivering any sentiments on the subject. He used this principle in Medicine with too much success to be unmindful of it in his commonest transactions.

It was one of those hot, silent nights, when people sit at windows listening for the thunder which they know will shortly break; when they recall dismal tales of hurricanes and earthquakes; and of lonely travellers on open plains, and lonely ships at sea, struck by lightning. Lightning flashed and quivered on the black horizon even now; and hollow murmurings were in the wind, as though it had been blowing where the thunder rolled, and still was charged with its exhausted echoes. But the storm, though gathering swiftly, had not yet come up; and the prevailing stillness was the more solemn, from the dull intelligence that seemed to hover in the air, of noise and conflict afar off.

It was very dark; but in the murky sky there were masses of cloud which shone with a lurid light, like monstrous heaps of copper that had been heated in a furnace, and were growing cold. These had been advancing steadily and slowly, but they were now motionless, or nearly so. As the carriage clattered round the corners of the streets, it passed at every one a knot of persons who had come there—many from their houses close at hand, without hats—to look up at that quarter of the sky. And now a very few large drops of rain began to fall, and thunder rumbled in the distance.

Jonas sat in a corner of the carriage with his bottle resting on his knee, and gripped as tightly in his hand as if he would have ground its neck to powder if he could. Instinctively attracted by the night, he had laid aside the pack of cards upon the cushion; and with the same involuntary impulse, so intelligible to both of them as not to occasion a remark on either side, his companion had extinguished the lamp. The front glasses were down; and they sat looking silently out upon the gloomy scene before them.

They were clear of London, or as clear of it as travellers can be whose way lies on the Western Road, within a stage of that enormous city. Occasionally they encountered a foot-passenger, hurrying to the nearest place of shelter; or some unwieldy cart proceeding onward at a heavy trot, with the same end in view. Little clusters of such vehicles were gathered round the stable-yard or baiting-place of every wayside tavern; while their drivers watched the weather from the doors and open windows, or made merry within. Everywhere the people were disposed to bear each other company rather than sit alone; so that groups of watchful faces seemed to be looking out upon the night AND THEM, from almost every house they passed.

It may appear strange that this should have disturbed Jonas, or rendered him uneasy; but it did. After muttering to himself, and often changing his position, he drew up the blind on his side of the carriage, and turned his shoulder sulkily towards it. But he neither looked at his companion, nor broke the silence which prevailed between them, and which had fallen so suddenly upon himself, by addressing a word to him.

The thunder rolled, the lightning flashed; the rain poured down like Heaven’s wrath. Surrounded at one moment by intolerable light, and at the next by pitchy darkness, they still pressed forward on their journey. Even when they arrived at the end of the stage, and might have tarried, they did not; but ordered horses out immediately. Nor had this any reference to some five minutes’ lull, which at that time seemed to promise a cessation of the storm. They held their course as if they were impelled and driven by its fury. Although they had not exchanged a dozen words, and might have tarried very well, they seemed to feel, by joint consent, that onward they must go.

Louder and louder the deep thunder rolled, as through the myriad halls of some vast temple in the sky; fiercer and brighter became the lightning, more and more heavily the rain poured down. The horses (they were travelling now with a single pair) plunged and started from the rills of quivering fire that seemed to wind along the ground before them; but there these two men sat, and forward they went as if they were led on by an invisible attraction.

The eye, partaking of the quickness of the flashing light, saw in its every gleam a multitude of objects which it could not see at steady noon in fifty times that period. Bells in steeples, with the rope and wheel that moved them; ragged nests of birds in cornices and nooks; faces full of consternation in the tilted waggons that came tearing past; their frightened teams ringing out a warning which the thunder drowned; harrows and ploughs left out in fields; miles upon miles of hedge-divided country, with the distant fringe of trees as obvious as the scarecrow in the bean-field close at hand; in a trembling, vivid, flickering instant, everything was clear and plain; then came a flush of red into the yellow light; a change to blue; a brightness so intense that there was nothing else but light; and then the deepest and profoundest darkness.

The lightning being very crooked and very dazzling may have presented or assisted a curious optical illusion, which suddenly rose before the startled eyes of Montague in the carriage, and as rapidly disappeared. He thought he saw Jonas with his hand lifted, and the bottle clenched in it like a hammer, making as if he would aim a blow at his head. At the same time he observed (or so believed) an expression in his face—a combination of the unnatural excitement he had shown all day, with a wild hatred and fear—which might have rendered a wolf a less terrible companion.

CAPITOLO QUARANTADUE

Continuazione dell’impresa del signor Jonas e del suo amico

La previsione del medico riguardo al tempo si avverò rapidamente. Anche se il tempo non rientrava tra gli argomenti di sua competenza, e nessuna terza parte gli aveva chiesto di esprimere un parere in merito, l’immediata realizzazione della sua previsione può essere considerata un esempio del suo tatto professionale. Infatti, se non fosse stato evidente e inequivocabile il pericolo rappresentato dalle condizioni meteorologiche di quella notte, il signor Jobling non avrebbe mai messo a rischio la sua reputazione esprimendo opinioni in merito. Applicava questo principio con troppo successo in ambito medico, per non tenerlo presente nemmeno nelle sue attività quotidiane più banali.

Era una di quelle calde e silenziose notti, quando le persone si siedono davanti alle finestre ascoltando il tuono che sanno arriverà presto; quando ricordano storie tristi di uragani e terremoti; di viaggiatori solitari nelle pianure aperte, di navi solitarie in mare colpite dal fulmine. Il fulmine lampeggiava e tremolava sull’orizzonte nero anche in quel momento; nel vento si udivano suoni cupi, come se soffiasse nei luoghi dove rimbombava il tuono, ancora carico dei suoi echi spenti. Ma la Tempesta, sebbene si stesse accumulando rapidamente, non era ancora arrivata; e il silenzio che regnava sembrava ancora più solenne, a causa di quella vaga percezione di rumori e conflitti lontani nell’aria.

Era molto buio; ma nel cielo torbido c’erano masse di nuvole che brillavano con una luce sinistra, come enormi mucchi di rame arroventati in un forno e ora in via di raffreddarsi. Queste nuvole si erano mosse lentamente e costantemente, ma ora erano ferme, o quasi. Mentre la carrozza procedeva sobbalzando lungo le strade, passava accanto a gruppi di persone che si erano radunate lì – molte delle quali provenivano dalle case vicine, senza cappello – per alzare lo sguardo verso quella parte del cielo. Poi iniziarono a cadere poche grosse gocce di pioggia, e in lontananza rimbombò il tuono.

Jonas sedeva in un angolo della carrozza, con la bottiglia appoggiata sul ginocchio e stretta nella sua mano con tale forza che avrebbe potuto frantumarne il collo se solo ne avesse avuto la possibilità. Attratto istintivamente dall’notte, aveva messo da parte il mazzo di carte posato sul cuscino; e con lo stesso impulso involontario, così comprensibile per entrambi da non richiedere alcun commento, il suo compagno aveva spento la lampada. I finestrini anteriori erano abbassati; e sedevano in silenzio, osservando la scena cupa che si apriva davanti a loro.

Erano ormai lontani da Londra, o almeno quanto possono esserlo i viaggiatori la cui strada attraversa la Western Road, entro un raggio di una giornata di viaggio da quella enorme città. Di tanto in tanto incontravano viandanti che si affrettavano verso il rifugio più vicino, o carri ingombranti che procedevano a passo lento con lo stesso scopo. Piccoli gruppi di questi veicoli si radunavano intorno ai cortili delle stalle o ai luoghi dove venivano offerti cibi e bevande nelle taverne lungo la strada; i loro conducenti osservavano il tempo dalle porte e dalle finestre aperte, oppure si divertivano all’interno. Dappertutto la gente preferiva stare in compagnia piuttosto che rimanere da sola; così, da quasi ogni casa che attraversavano, sembrava che gruppi di volti attenti li osservassero sia nella notte che di giorno.

Potrebbe sembrare strano che questo avesse dovuto disturbare Jonas o renderlo inquieto; ma infatti fu così. Dopo aver mormorato tra sé e cambiato spesso posizione, tirò giù le tende dal suo lato della carrozza e si girò di malumore verso di esse. Tuttavia non guardò il suo compagno né ruppe il silenzio che regnava tra loro, silenzio che era calato improvvisamente su di lui dopo aver cercato di rivolgergli la parola.

Il tuono rimbombava, i fulmini lampeggiavano; la pioggia cadeva a dirotto come la furia del cielo. Per un momento circondati da una luce insopportabile, e subito dopo avvolti nell’oscurità più fitta, continuarono comunque il loro viaggio. Anche quando raggiunsero la fine della strada e avrebbero potuto fermarsi, non lo fecero; ordinarono immediatamente di preparare i cavalli. Questo non aveva nulla a che fare con una possibile pausa di cinque minuti, che in quel momento sembrava promettere la fine della tempesta. Proseguirono lungo il loro percorso come se fossero spinti dalla furia stessa della tempesta. Non avevano scambiato nemmeno una dozzina di parole, e avrebbero potuto tranquillamente fermarsi, ma sembrava che tutti concordassero sul fatto che dovevano andare avanti.

Sempre più forte rimbombava il tuono profondo, come se provenisse dalle innumerevoli sale di un vasto tempio nel cielo; sempre più intensa e luminosa diventava la luce dei fulmini, e sempre più copiosa scendeva la pioggia. I cavalli (ora viaggiavano in coppia) inciampavano e si spaventavano di fronte ai filamenti tremolanti di fuoco che sembravano serpeggiare sul terreno davanti a loro; ma quei due uomini rimanevano seduti immobili, proseguendo il loro cammino come se fossero guidati da una forza invisibile.

L’occhio, partecipando alla rapidità del lampo, scorgeva in ogni suo bagliore una miriade di oggetti che non avrebbe potuto vedere a mezzogiorno, nemmeno in cinquanta volte tale lasso di tempo. Campane sui campanili, con la corda e la ruota che le facevano suonare; nidi disordinati di uccelli sulle cornici e negli angoli; volti pieni di terrore nei carri che sfrecciavano via; i loro team spaventati che emettevano segnali d’allarme, sovrastati dal rombo del tuono; aratri e falci abbandonati nei campi; chilometri e chilometri di terreni delimitati da siepi, con il bordo lontano degli alberi visibile tanto chiaramente quanto lo spaventapasseri nel campo di fagioli vicino a mano. In un istante tremolante, vivido e sfocato, tutto diventava chiaro e nitido; poi arrivava un bagliore rosso nel colore giallo; un cambiamento verso il blu; una luminosità così intensa da far sì che non ci fosse più nulla se non luce. E infine, l’oscurità più profonda e totale.

Il fulmine, essendo molto tortuoso e abbagliante, potrebbe aver creato o favorito un curioso effetto ottico: davanti agli occhi sorpresi di Montague nella carrozza, qualcosa apparve improvvisamente per poi scomparire altrettanto rapidamente. Lui credette di vedere Jonas con la mano alzata, stringendo una bottiglia come se fosse un martello, pronto a colpirlo alla testa. Nello stesso istante notò (o così pensò) un’espressione sul suo volto: una combinazione di eccitazione innaturale, odio selvaggio e paura, tale da rendere persino un lupo un compagno meno terribile.

He uttered an involuntary exclamation, and called to the driver, who brought his horses to a stop with all speed.

It could hardly have been as he supposed, for although he had not taken his eyes off his companion, and had not seen him move, he sat reclining in his corner as before.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Jonas. ‘Is that your general way of waking out of your sleep?’

‘I could swear,’ returned the other, ‘that I have not closed my eyes!’

‘When you have sworn it,’ said Jonas, composedly, ‘we had better go on again, if you have only stopped for that.’

He uncorked the bottle with the help of his teeth; and putting it to his lips, took a long draught.

‘I wish we had never started on this journey. This is not,’ said Montague, recoiling instinctively, and speaking in a voice that betrayed his agitation; ‘this is not a night to travel in.’

‘Ecod! you’re right there,’ returned Jonas, ‘and we shouldn’t be out in it but for you. If you hadn’t kept me waiting all day, we might have been at Salisbury by this time; snug abed and fast asleep. What are we stopping for?’

His companion put his head out of window for a moment, and drawing it in again, observed (as if that were his cause of anxiety), that the boy was drenched to the skin.

‘Serve him right,’ said Jonas. ‘I’m glad of it. What the devil are we stopping for? Are you going to spread him out to dry?’

‘I have half a mind to take him inside,’ observed the other with some hesitation.

‘Oh! thankee!’ said Jonas. ‘We don’t want any damp boys here; especially a young imp like him. Let him be where he is. He ain’t afraid of a little thunder and lightning, I dare say; whoever else is. Go on, driver. We had better have HIM inside perhaps,’ he muttered with a laugh; ‘and the horses!’

‘Don’t go too fast,’ cried Montague to the postillion; ‘and take care how you go. You were nearly in the ditch when I called to you.’

This was not true; and Jonas bluntly said so, as they moved forward again. Montague took little or no heed of what he said, but repeated that it was not a night for travelling, and showed himself, both then and afterwards, unusually anxious.

From this time Jonas recovered his former spirits, if such a term may be employed to express the state in which he had left the city. He had his bottle often at his mouth; roared out snatches of songs, without the least regard to time or tune or voice, or anything but loud discordance; and urged his silent friend to be merry with him.

‘You’re the best company in the world, my good fellow,’ said Montague with an effort, ‘and in general irresistible; but to-night—do you hear it?’

‘Ecod! I hear and see it too,’ cried Jonas, shading his eyes, for the moment, from the lightning which was flashing, not in any one direction, but all around them. ‘What of that? It don’t change you, nor me, nor our affairs. Chorus, chorus,

It may lighten and storm, Till it hunt the red worm From the grass where the gibbet is driven; But it can’t hurt the dead, And it won’t save the head That is doom’d to be rifled and riven.

That must be a precious old song,’ he added with an oath, as he stopped short in a kind of wonder at himself. ‘I haven’t heard it since I was a boy, and how it comes into my head now, unless the lightning put it there, I don’t know. “Can’t hurt the dead”! No, no. “And won’t save the head”! No, no. No! Ha, ha, ha!’

His mirth was of such a savage and extraordinary character, and was, in an inexplicable way, at once so suited to the night, and yet such a coarse intrusion on its terrors, that his fellow-traveller, always a coward, shrunk from him in positive fear. Instead of Jonas being his tool and instrument, their places seemed to be reversed. But there was reason for this too, Montague thought; since the sense of his debasement might naturally inspire such a man with the wish to assert a noisy independence, and in that licence to forget his real condition. Being quick enough, in reference to such subjects of contemplation, he was not long in taking this argument into account and giving it its full weight. But still, he felt a vague sense of alarm, and was depressed and uneasy.

He was certain he had not been asleep; but his eyes might have deceived him; for, looking at Jonas now in any interval of darkness, he could represent his figure to himself in any attitude his state of mind suggested. On the other hand, he knew full well that Jonas had no reason to love him; and even taking the piece of pantomime which had so impressed his mind to be a real gesture, and not the working of his fancy, the most that could be said of it was, that it was quite in keeping with the rest of his diabolical fun, and had the same impotent expression of truth in it. ‘If he could kill me with a wish,’ thought the swindler, ‘I should not live long.’

He resolved that when he should have had his use of Jonas, he would restrain him with an iron curb; in the meantime, that he could not do better than leave him to take his own way, and preserve his own peculiar description of good-humour, after his own uncommon manner. It was no great sacrifice to bear with him; ‘for when all is got that can be got,’ thought Montague, ‘I shall decamp across the water, and have the laugh on my side—and the gains.’

Such were his reflections from hour to hour; his state of mind being one in which the same thoughts constantly present themselves over and over again in wearisome repetition; while Jonas, who appeared to have dismissed reflection altogether, entertained himself as before. They agreed that they would go to Salisbury, and would cross to Mr Pecksniff’s in the morning; and at the prospect of deluding that worthy gentleman, the spirits of his amiable son-in-law became more boisterous than ever.

Emise un’esclamazione involontaria e chiamò il conducente, che fermò i cavalli al massimo della velocità.

Quasi certamente non era come lui aveva immaginato, perché sebbene non avesse mai distolto lo sguardo dal suo compagno e non l’avesse visto muoversi, quest’ultimo sedeva ancora appoggiato al muro, proprio come prima.

“Che c’è?” disse Jonas. “È questo il tuo solito modo per svegliarti dal sonno?”

“Potrei giurarlo,” rispose l’altro, “che non ho mai chiuso gli occhi!”

“Quando avrai giurato,” disse Jonas con calma, “dovremmo riprendere, se ti sei fermato solo per questo.”

Scoprì il tappo della bottiglia con l’aiuto dei denti; poi la portò alle labbra e bevve a lungo.

“Vorrei che non avessimo mai iniziato questo viaggio. Non è la notte adatta per viaggiare,” disse Montague, ritraendosi istintivamente e con una voce che tradiva la sua agitazione.

“Ecod! Sei proprio lì,” rispose Jonas, “e non saremmo mai usciti se non fosse stato per te. Se non mi avessi fatto aspettare tutto il giorno, a quest’ora potremmo essere già a Salisbury, al caldo sotto le coperte e profondamente addormentati. Perché ci fermiamo?”

Il suo compagno mise la testa fuori dalla finestra per un momento; poi, ritirandola dentro, osservò (come se questo fosse il motivo della sua ansia) che il ragazzo era fradicio fino alla pelle.

“Gli è proprio quello che merita,” disse Jonas. “Ne sono felice. Ma per quale diavolo ci stiamo fermando? Vuoi forse stenderlo ad asciugare?”

“Sto quasi per portarlo dentro,” osservò l’altro con un certo esitare.

“Oh, grazie!” disse Jonas. “Non vogliamo ragazzi bagnati qui dentro; soprattutto un monello come lui. Lasciatelo dove è. Scommetto che non ha paura di un po’ di tuono e fulmini; gli altri forse sì. Andiamo, cocchiere. Forse sarebbe meglio portarlo dentro,” mormorò ridendo; “e anche i cavalli!”

“Non andare troppo velocemente,” gridò Montague al cocchiere; “fai attenzione a come guidi. Saresti quasi finito nel fossato se non ti avessi chiamato.”

Questo non era vero; e Jonas lo disse apertamente mentre continuavano il loro cammino. Montague prestò poca o nessuna attenzione a ciò che aveva detto, ma ribadì che non era la notte adatta per viaggiare, mostrandosi, sia allora che in seguito, insolitamente ansioso.

Da quel momento in poi, Jonas ritrovò il suo vecchio spirito, se si può usare questo termine per descrivere lo stato in cui si trovava quando aveva lasciato la città. Teneva sempre una bottiglia vicino a sé; cantava a squarciagola brani di canzoni, senza curarsi affatto del tempo, della melodia o del tono della voce. Solo del suono dissonante che produceva. E incoraggiava il suo silenzioso compagno a divertirsi insieme a lui.

“Sei la migliore compagnia al mondo, mio caro amico,” disse Montague con sforzo, “e in generale irresistibile. Ma stanotte, senti?”

“Ecod! Anche io lo sento e lo vedo,” gridò Jonas, proteggendosi gli occhi per un momento dal fulmine che lampeggiava non in una direzione precisa, ma dappertutto intorno a loro. “E allora? Non cambia te, né me, né le nostre faccende. Coro, coro, ”

Può schiarirsi e scatenare una tempesta,
finché non insegue quel verme rosso
dalla erba dove è piantata la forca;
ma non può ferire i morti,
e non salverà quella testa
destinata a essere squarciata e distrutta.

“Deve essere una vecchia canzone molto preziosa,” aggiunse con un sospiro, fermandosi per un momento, colpito da una sorta di stupore nei confronti di se stesso. “Non la sentivo da quando ero ragazzo. Come mai mi è venuta in mente ora? A meno che non sia stata la fulmine a farla arrivare qui. Non so. ‘Non può fare del male ai morti’. No, no, ‘E non salverà nemmeno la vita’. No, no. No! Ahahah!”

La sua allegria aveva un carattere così selvaggio ed eccezionale che, in modo inspiegabile, sembrava adattarsi perfettamente alla notte, pur rappresentando al contempo una sorta di invasione grossolana dei suoi terrore. Il suo compagno di viaggio, sempre un codardo, si allontanava da lui per vero e proprio timore. Invece di Jonas essere lo strumento al suo servizio, sembrava che i loro ruoli fossero invertiti. Ma anche questo aveva una sua ragione, pensò Montague: il senso della propria umiliazione poteva naturalmente spingere un uomo del genere a desiderare di affermare con forza la propria indipendenza, concedendosi così il lusso di dimenticare la propria reale condizione. Essendo abbastanza rapido nel riflettere su queste questioni, non impiegò molto tempo per prendere in considerazione questo aspetto e attribuirgli tutto il suo peso. Tuttavia, provava ancora una vaga sensazione di allarme, ed era depresso e a disagio.

Era certo di non aver dormito; ma i suoi occhi forse lo avevano ingannato: perché, ogni volta che guardava Jonas nel buio, riusciva a immaginare la sua figura in qualsiasi posizione gli suggerisse il proprio stato d’animo. D’altra parte, sapeva molto bene che Jonas non aveva alcun motivo per amarlo; e anche ammettendo che quel gesto teatrale che lo aveva così colpito fosse reale e non frutto della sua fantasia, al massimo si poteva dire che fosse in linea con il resto delle sue azioni malvagie, ma che contenesse comunque un’espressione di verità altrettanto inefficace. “Se potesse uccidermi con un solo desiderio,” pensò lo scaltro, “non vivrei a lungo.”

Decise che, una volta ottenuto ciò di cui aveva bisogno da Jonas, lo avrebbe controllato con fermezza; intanto, non poteva fare di meglio che lasciarlo agire a modo suo e permettergli di mantenere quel suo particolare umore allegro, secondo i suoi modi insoliti. Non era certo un grande sacrificio tollerarlo; “Perché, una volta ottenuto tutto ciò che si può ottenere,” pensò Montague, “mi trasferirò dall’altra parte dell’fiume e avrò io la meglio, e anche i vantaggi.”

Tali erano i suoi pensieri, ora dopo ora; il suo stato d’animo era caratterizzato dal fatto che gli stessi pensieri si ripetevano continuamente in modo noioso e fastidioso; mentre Jonas, che sembrava aver completamente abbandonato ogni forma di riflessione, si divertiva come al solito. Concordarono sul fatto che avrebbero raggiunto Salisbury e che la mattina dopo sarebbero andati da Mr Pecksniff; e all’idea di ingannare quel gentiluomo onesto, lo spirito del suo affabile genero divenne ancora più vivace che mai.

As the night wore on, the thunder died away, but still rolled gloomily and mournfully in the distance. The lightning too, though now comparatively harmless, was yet bright and frequent. The rain was quite as violent as it had ever been.

It was their ill-fortune, at about the time of dawn and in the last stage of their journey, to have a restive pair of horses. These animals had been greatly terrified in their stable by the tempest; and coming out into the dreary interval between night and morning, when the glare of the lightning was yet unsubdued by day, and the various objects in their view were presented in indistinct and exaggerated shapes which they would not have worn by night, they gradually became less and less capable of control; until, taking a sudden fright at something by the roadside, they dashed off wildly down a steep hill, flung the driver from his saddle, drew the carriage to the brink of a ditch, stumbled headlong down, and threw it crashing over.

The travellers had opened the carriage door, and had either jumped or fallen out. Jonas was the first to stagger to his feet. He felt sick and weak, and very giddy, and reeling to a five-barred gate, stood holding by it; looking drowsily about as the whole landscape swam before his eyes. But, by degrees, he grew more conscious, and presently observed that Montague was lying senseless in the road, within a few feet of the horses.

In an instant, as if his own faint body were suddenly animated by a demon, he ran to the horses’ heads; and pulling at their bridles with all his force, set them struggling and plunging with such mad violence as brought their hoofs at every effort nearer to the skull of the prostrate man; and must have led in half a minute to his brains being dashed out on the highway.

As he did this, he fought and contended with them like a man possessed, making them wilder by his cries.

‘Whoop!’ cried Jonas. ‘Whoop! again! another! A little more, a little more! Up, ye devils! Hillo!’

As he heard the driver, who had risen and was hurrying up, crying to him to desist, his violence increased.

‘Hiilo! Hillo!’ cried Jonas.

‘For God’s sake!’ cried the driver. ‘The gentleman—in the road—he’ll be killed!’

The same shouts and the same struggles were his only answer. But the man darting in at the peril of his own life, saved Montague’s, by dragging him through the mire and water out of the reach of present harm. That done, he ran to Jonas; and with the aid of his knife they very shortly disengaged the horses from the broken chariot, and got them, cut and bleeding, on their legs again. The postillion and Jonas had now leisure to look at each other, which they had not had yet.

‘Presence of mind, presence of mind!’ cried Jonas, throwing up his hands wildly. ‘What would you have done without me?’

‘The other gentleman would have done badly without ME,’ returned the man, shaking his head. ‘You should have moved him first. I gave him up for dead.’

‘Presence of mind, you croaker, presence of mind’ cried Jonas with a harsh loud laugh. ‘Was he struck, do you think?’

They both turned to look at him. Jonas muttered something to himself, when he saw him sitting up beneath the hedge, looking vacantly around.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Montague. ‘Is anybody hurt?’

‘Ecod!’ said Jonas, ‘it don’t seem so. There are no bones broken, after all.’

They raised him, and he tried to walk. He was a good deal shaken, and trembled very much. But with the exception of a few cuts and bruises this was all the damage he had sustained.

‘Cuts and bruises, eh?’ said Jonas. ‘We’ve all got them. Only cuts and bruises, eh?’

‘I wouldn’t have given sixpence for the gentleman’s head in half-a-dozen seconds more, for all he’s only cut and bruised,’ observed the post-boy. ‘If ever you’re in an accident of this sort again, sir; which I hope you won’t be; never you pull at the bridle of a horse that’s down, when there’s a man’s head in the way. That can’t be done twice without there being a dead man in the case; it would have ended in that, this time, as sure as ever you were born, if I hadn’t come up just when I did.’

Jonas replied by advising him with a curse to hold his tongue, and to go somewhere, whither he was not very likely to go of his own accord. But Montague, who had listened eagerly to every word, himself diverted the subject, by exclaiming: ‘Where’s the boy?’

‘Ecod! I forgot that monkey,’ said Jonas. ‘What’s become of him?’ A very brief search settled that question. The unfortunate Mr Bailey had been thrown sheer over the hedge or the five-barred gate; and was lying in the neighbouring field, to all appearance dead.

‘When I said to-night, that I wished I had never started on this journey,’ cried his master, ‘I knew it was an ill-fated one. Look at this boy!’

‘Is that all?’ growled Jonas. ‘If you call THAT a sign of it—’

‘Why, what should I call a sign of it?’ asked Montague, hurriedly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean,’ said Jonas, stooping down over the body, ‘that I never heard you were his father, or had any particular reason to care much about him. Halloa. Hold up there!’

But the boy was past holding up, or being held up, or giving any other sign of life than a faint and fitful beating of the heart. After some discussion the driver mounted the horse which had been least injured, and took the lad in his arms as well as he could; while Montague and Jonas, leading the other horse, and carrying a trunk between them, walked by his side towards Salisbury.

‘You’d get there in a few minutes, and be able to send assistance to meet us, if you went forward, post-boy,’ said Jonas. ‘Trot on!’

‘No, no,’ cried Montague; ‘we’ll keep together.’

‘Why, what a chicken you are! You are not afraid of being robbed; are you?’ said Jonas.

Con il passare della notte, il tuono si attenuò, ma continuava a risuonare cupamente e tristemente in lontananza. Anche i fulmini, sebbene ora relativamente innocui, erano ancora intensi e frequenti. La pioggia, invece, era altrettanto violenta come sempre.

Fu sfortuna loro che, proprio all’‘alba e nella fase finale del loro Viaggio, avessero a disposizione due cavalli irrequieti. Questi animali erano stati profondamente spaventati nella stalla durante la tempesta; e usciti nel cupo intervallo tra notte e mattina, quando il bagliore dei fulmini non era ancora completamente soppiantato dalla luce del giorno e gli oggetti intorno apparivano in forme distorte ed esagerate, persero gradualmente il controllo. Alla fine, spaventati improvvisamente da qualcosa sul ciglio della strada, scattarono follemente giù per una ripida collina, scaraventando il conducente dalla sella e facendo rovesciare la carrozza nel burrone.

I viaggiatori avevano aperto la porta del carro e si erano gettati fuori, saltando o cadendo. Jonas fu il primo ad alzarsi barcollando. Si sentiva malato, debole e molto stordito; raggiunto un cancello a cinque sbarre, vi si appoggiò, guardandosi intorno con occhi assonnati mentre tutto il paesaggio sembrava ondeggiare davanti ai suoi occhi. Ma gradualmente riprese i sensi e notò che Montague giaceva privo di conoscenza sulla strada, a pochi piedi dai cavalli.

In un istante, come se il suo stesso debole -corpo fosse stato improvvisamente animato da un demone, corse verso le teste dei cavalli; e tirando con tutte le sue forze le redini, li fece iniziare a lottare e a impennarsi con tale violenza che i loro zoccoli, ad ogni movimento, si avvicinavano sempre di più al cranio dell’uomo disteso a terra; probabilmente in mezzo minuto il suo cervello sarebbe stato schiacciato sulla strada.

Mentre faceva questo, lottava e si scontrava con loro come un uomo posseduto, rendendoli ancora più furiosi con i suoi gridi.

“Urrà!” gridò Jonas. “Urrà! Ancora una volta! Un po’ di più, solo un po’ di più! Forza, voi diavoli! Ehi!”

Quando sentì il conducente, che si era alzato e si stava affrettando verso di lui, chiedergli di smettere, la sua violenza aumentò ancora di più.

“Hiilo! Hillo!” gridò Jonas.

“Per l’amor di Dio!” gridò il conducente. “Quel signore, in mezzo alla strada, verrà ucciso!”

Gli stessi gridi e le stesse lotte furono la sua unica risposta. Ma quell’uomo, correndo a rischio della propria vita, salvò quella di Montague, trascinandolo fuori dal fango e dall’acqua, lontano da ogni pericolo immediato. Una volta fatto ciò, corse da Jonas; con l’aiuto del suo coltello riuscirono rapidamente a liberare i cavalli dalla carriola distrutta e a farli alzare in piedi, nonostante fossero feriti e sanguinanti. Il postiglione e Jonas ebbero finalmente il tempo di guardarsi l’un l’altro, cosa che fino ad allora non avevano potuto fare.

“Presenza di spirito, presenza di spirito!” gridò Jonas, alzando le mani disperatamente. “Cosa avresti fatto senza di me?”

“Quell’altro signore avrebbe avuto molte difficoltà senza di ME,” rispose l’uomo scuotendo la testa. “Avresti dovuto portarlo via prima tu. L’avevo dato per morto.”

“Presenza di spirito, maledetto! Presenza di spirito!” gridò Jonas con una risata forte e stridula. “Pensi che sia stato colpito?”

Entrambi si girarono a guardarlo. Jonas mormorò qualcosa tra sé e sé quando lo vide seduto sotto la siepe, con lo sguardo vuoto intorno a lui.

“Che cos’è successo?” chiese Montague. “C’è qualcuno ferito?”

“Ecod!”, disse Jonas, “non sembra così. Dopo tutto, non ci sono ossa rotte.”

Lo hanno cresciuto loro, e lui ha provato a camminare. Era piuttosto scosso e tremava molto. Ma ad eccezione di alcune ferite superficiali e lividi, questo era tutto il danno che aveva subito.

“Tagli e lividi, eh?”, disse Jonas. “Li abbiamo tutti. Solo tagli e lividi, eh?”

“Non avrei dato nemmeno sei pence per la testa di quel signore, anche se gli fossero serviti altri mezzo minuto. Dopotutto, si è solo tagliato e ha preso qualche livido,” osservò il postiglione. “Se mai doveste trovarvi di nuovo in una situazione del genere, il che spero non accada mai, non tirate mai le redini di un cavallo a terra quando c’è la testa di qualcuno nel mezzo. Non si può fare due volte senza che qualcuno muoia. Questa volta sarebbe finita allo stesso modo, se non fossi arrivato proprio in quel momento.”

Jonas rispose consigliandogli, con un’imprecazione, di tenere la bocca chiusa e di andare da qualche parte dove molto probabilmente non avrebbe voluto andare di sua iniziativa. Ma Montague, che aveva ascoltato attentamente ogni parola, cambiò argomento esclamando: “Dove è quel ragazzo?”

“Ecod! Mi sono dimenticato di quel monello,” disse Jonas. “Che fine ha fatto?” Una rapida ricerca risolse la questione: il povero signor Bailey era stato gettato oltre la siepe o la recinzione a cinque sbarre; giaceva nel campo adiacente, apparentemente morto.

“Quando quella notte dissi che avrei voluto non aver mai iniziato questo viaggio”, gridò il suo padrone, “sapevo che sarebbe stato un viaggio sfortunato. Guardate questo ragazzo!”

“È tutto qui?” ringhiò Jonas. “Se tu chiami QUESTO un segno, ”

“Ma come dovrei chiamare questo segno?”, chiese Montague in fretta. “A cosa ti riferisci?”

“Voglio dire,” disse Jonas, chinandosi sul corpo, “che non avevo mai sentito dire che fossi suo padre, né che avessi qualche motivo particolare per preoccuparmi molto di lui. Ehi! Aspetta un attimo!”

Ma il ragazzo non era più in grado di muoversi, né di dare alcun segno di vita se non un debole e irregolare battito del cuore. Dopo qualche discussione, il conducente montò sul cavallo che aveva riportato i danni minori e prese il ragazzo tra le braccia, facendo del suo meglio; mentre Montague e Jonas, guidando l’altro cavallo e portando con sé un baule, camminavano al suo fianco verso Salisbury.

“Ci arriveresti in pochi minuti e potresti inviare aiuto per incontrarci, se continui ad andare avanti, ragazzo corriere,” disse Jonas. “Muoviti!”

“No, no,” gridò Montague; “resteremo insieme.”

“Ma che codardo sei! Non hai paura di essere derubato, vero?” disse Jonas.

‘I am not afraid of anything,’ replied the other, whose looks and manner were in flat contradiction to his words. ‘But we’ll keep together.’

‘You were mighty anxious about the boy, a minute ago,’ said Jonas. ‘I suppose you know that he may die in the meantime?’

‘Aye, aye. I know. But we’ll keep together.’

As it was clear that he was not to be moved from this determination, Jonas made no other rejoinder than such as his face expressed; and they proceeded in company. They had three or four good miles to travel; and the way was not made easier by the state of the road, the burden by which they were embarrassed, or their own stiff and sore condition. After a sufficiently long and painful walk, they arrived at the Inn; and having knocked the people up (it being yet very early in the morning), sent out messengers to see to the carriage and its contents, and roused a surgeon from his bed to tend the chief sufferer. All the service he could render, he rendered promptly and skillfully. But he gave it as his opinion that the boy was labouring under a severe concussion of the brain, and that Mr Bailey’s mortal course was run.

If Montague’s strong interest in the announcement could have been considered as unselfish in any degree, it might have been a redeeming trait in a character that had no such lineaments to spare. But it was not difficult to see that, for some unexpressed reason best appreciated by himself, he attached a strange value to the company and presence of this mere child. When, after receiving some assistance from the surgeon himself, he retired to the bedroom prepared for him, and it was broad day, his mind was still dwelling on this theme.

‘I would rather have lost,’ he said, ‘a thousand pounds than lost the boy just now. But I’ll return home alone. I am resolved upon that. Chuzzlewit shall go forward first, and I will follow in my own time. I’ll have no more of this,’ he added, wiping his damp forehead. ‘Twenty-four hours of this would turn my hair grey!’

After examining his chamber, and looking under the bed, and in the cupboards, and even behind the curtains, with unusual caution (although it was, as has been said, broad day), he double-locked the door by which he had entered, and retired to rest. There was another door in the room, but it was locked on the outer side; and with what place it communicated, he knew not.

His fears or evil conscience reproduced this door in all his dreams. He dreamed that a dreadful secret was connected with it; a secret which he knew, and yet did not know, for although he was heavily responsible for it, and a party to it, he was harassed even in his vision by a distracting uncertainty in reference to its import. Incoherently entwined with this dream was another, which represented it as the hiding-place of an enemy, a shadow, a phantom; and made it the business of his life to keep the terrible creature closed up, and prevent it from forcing its way in upon him. With this view Nadgett, and he, and a strange man with a bloody smear upon his head (who told him that he had been his playfellow, and told him, too, the real name of an old schoolmate, forgotten until then), worked with iron plates and nails to make the door secure; but though they worked never so hard, it was all in vain, for the nails broke, or changed to soft twigs, or what was worse, to worms, between their fingers; the wood of the door splintered and crumbled, so that even nails would not remain in it; and the iron plates curled up like hot paper. All this time the creature on the other side—whether it was in the shape of man, or beast, he neither knew nor sought to know—was gaining on them. But his greatest terror was when the man with the bloody smear upon his head demanded of him if he knew this creatures name, and said that he would whisper it. At this the dreamer fell upon his knees, his whole blood thrilling with inexplicable fear, and held his ears. But looking at the speaker’s lips, he saw that they formed the utterance of the letter ‘J’; and crying out aloud that the secret was discovered, and they were all lost, he awoke.

Awoke to find Jonas standing at his bedside watching him. And that very door wide open.

As their eyes met, Jonas retreated a few paces, and Montague sprang out of bed.

‘Heyday!’ said Jonas. ‘You’re all alive this morning.’

‘Alive!’ the other stammered, as he pulled the bell-rope violently. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘It’s your room to be sure,’ said Jonas; ‘but I’m almost inclined to ask you what YOU are doing here? My room is on the other side of that door. No one told me last night not to open it. I thought it led into a passage, and was coming out to order breakfast. There’s—there’s no bell in my room.’

Montague had in the meantime admitted the man with his hot water and boots, who hearing this, said, yes, there was; and passed into the adjoining room to point it out, at the head of the bed.

‘I couldn’t find it, then,’ said Jonas; ‘it’s all the same. Shall I order breakfast?’

Montague answered in the affirmative. When Jonas had retired, whistling, through his own room, he opened the door of communication, to take out the key and fasten it on the inner side. But it was taken out already.

He dragged a table against the door, and sat down to collect himself, as if his dreams still had some influence upon his mind.

‘An evil journey,’ he repeated several times. ‘An evil journey. But I’ll travel home alone. I’ll have no more of this.’

His presentiment, or superstition, that it was an evil journey, did not at all deter him from doing the evil for which the journey was undertaken. With this in view, he dressed himself more carefully than usual to make a favourable impression on Mr Pecksniff; and, reassured by his own appearance, the beauty of the morning, and the flashing of the wet boughs outside his window in the merry sunshine, was soon sufficiently inspirited to swear a few round oaths, and hum the fag-end of a song.

But he still muttered to himself at intervals, for all that: ‘I’ll travel home alone!’

“Non ho paura di nulla,” rispose l’altro, il cui aspetto e comportamento erano in totale contraddizione con quelle parole. “Ma resteremo insieme.”

“Un minuto fa eri molto preoccupato per quel ragazzo,” disse Jonas. “Immagino sappia che potrebbe morire nel frattempo, ”

“Sì, sì. Lo so. Ma resteremo insieme.”

Poiché era evidente che non si poteva far cambiare idea a Jonas riguardo a questa decisione, egli non rispose altro se non ciò che il suo volto esprimeva; e continuarono il loro viaggio insieme. Avevano ancora da percorrere tre o quattro miglia; e il cammino non risultava certo più agevole a causa dello stato della strada, del carico oneroso che dovevano trasportare, né delle loro stesse condizioni fisiche, rigide e doloranti. Dopo una lunga e faticosa camminata, arrivarono all’ostello; bussarono alle porte (era ancora molto presto al mattino) e inviarono messaggeri per occuparsi della carrozza e dei suoi contenuti; inoltre svegliarono un chirurgo perché curasse il ferito più grave. Quest’ultimo fornì immediatamente tutto l’aiuto possibile, con competenza e rapidità. Tuttavia, esprimette l’opinione che il ragazzo soffrisse di una grave commozione cerebrale e che la vita del signor Bailey fosse ormai in pericolo.

Se l’ forte interesse di Montague per questa notizia potesse essere considerato, anche solo in minima misura, altruistico, sarebbe stato un tratto positivo in un personaggio che altrimenti non ne possedeva affatto. Ma non era difficile intuire che, per qualche motivo inespresso e compreso soltanto da lui stesso, attribuiva un valore particolare alla compagnia e alla presenza di questo semplice bambino. Anche dopo aver ricevuto aiuto dal chirurgo stesso e essersi ritirato nella stanza preparata per lui, a pieno giorno, i suoi pensieri continuavano ad essere fissi su questo argomento.

“Preferirei perdere mille sterline piuttosto che aver perso quel ragazzo poco fa,” disse. “Ma tornerò a >casa da solo. Ne sono deciso. Chuzzlewit andrà avanti per primo, e io lo seguirò quando sarà il mio turno. Non ne voglio più sapere nulla,” aggiunse asciugandosi la fronte sudata. “Ventiquattro ore di questa situazione mi farebbero diventare grigio i capelli!”

Dopo aver esaminato la sua stanza, guardato sotto il letto, nei mobili e persino dietro le tende, con una cautela insolita (sebbene fosse, come si è detto, pieno giorno), chiuse a doppio chiave la porta da cui era entrato e andò a riposare. C’era un’altra porta nella stanza, ma era chiusa dall’esterno; non sapeva con quale ambiente fosse comunicata.

I suoi timori o la sua malvagia coscienza riproducevano questa porta in tutti i suoi >sogni. Sognava che un terribile segreto fosse legato a essa; un segreto che conosceva, eppure non conosceva davvero, perché sebbene ne fosse profondamente responsabile e ne facesse parte, anche nei suoi sogni era tormentato da un’incertezza confusa riguardo al suo vero significato. Intrecciato in modo incoerente a questo sogno c’era un altro, che lo rappresentava come il nascondiglio di un nemico, di una ombra, di un fantasma; e rendeva il suo compito principale quello di tenere questa terribile creatura rinchiusa e impedirle di entrare nella sua vita. Con questo scopo, Nadgett, insieme a lui e a un uomo strano con una macchia di sangue sulla testa (che gli disse di essere stato il suo compagno di giochi e gli rivelò anche il vero nome di un vecchio compagno di scuola, dimenticato fino ad allora), lavorarono con lastre di ferro e chiodi per rendere la porta sicura; ma nonostante si impegnassero al massimo, tutto fu inutile: i chiodi si rompevano o si trasformavano in rametti morbidi, o peggio ancora, in vermi tra le loro dita; il legno della porta si scheggiava e si sbriciolava, tanto che nemmeno i chiodi riuscivano a rimanervi fissati; le lastre di ferro si arricciavano come carta calda. Durante tutto questo tempo, la creatura dall’altra parte – che fosse umana o animale, lui non lo sapeva né cercava di saperlo – continuava ad avvicinarsi a loro. Ma il suo terrore più grande era quando quell’uomo con la macchia di sangue sulla testa gli chiedeva se conoscesse il nome di quella creatura, dicendo che glielo sussurrerebbe. Allora il sognatore cadeva in ginocchio, tutto il suo >sangue tremava per un terrore inesplicabile, e si teneva le orecchie. Ma guardando le labbra di colui che parlava, vedeva che formavano la lettera ‘J’; e gridando che il segreto era stato scoperto e che erano tutti perduti, si svegliava.

Si svegliò e trovò Jonas in piedi accanto al suo letto che lo guardava. E quella porta era completamente aperta.

Non appena i loro sguardi si incrociarono, Jonas indietreggiò di qualche passo, mentre Montague saltò giù dal letto.

“L’apice della nostra gloria!”, disse Jonas. “Questo mattino siete tutti ancora vivi, ”

“Vivo!”, balbettò l’altro, tirando con forza la corda del campanello. “Cosa ci fai qui?”

“Di certo è la tua stanza,” disse Jonas; “ma sono quasi tentato di chiederti cosa TU stia facendo qui. La mia stanza si trova dall’altra parte di quella porta. Nessuno mi ha detto ieri notte di non aprirla. Pensavo che portasse in un corridoio e sono uscito per preparare la colazione. Non c’è alcuna campanella nella mia stanza.”

Nel frattempo, Montague aveva fatto entrare quell’uomo con l’acqua calda e le scarpe; quest’ultimo, sentendo ciò, rispose di sì, che quelle cose c’erano davvero, e andò nella stanza accanto per indicarle, precisamente vicino alla testata del letto.

“Non riuscivo a trovarlo, quindi, fa lo stesso. Ordino la colazione?” disse Jonas.

Montague rispose affermativamente. Quando Jonas se ne fu andato, fischiettando nella sua stanza, aprì la porta di comunicazione per prendere la chiave e attaccarla sul lato interno. Ma la chiave era già stata presa.

Trascinò un tavolo davanti alla porta e si sedette per riprendersi, come se i suoi >sogni avessero ancora qualche influenza sulla sua mente.

“Un viaggio malvagio, ”, ripeté più volte. “Un viaggio davvero malvagio. Ma tornerò a casa da solo. Non ne voglio più sapere nulla.”

Il suo presentimento, o superstizione, che si trattasse di un viaggio nefasto, non lo dissuase affatto dal compiere l’azione malvagia per cui quel viaggio era stato intrapreso. Con questo in mente, si vestì con maggiore cura del solito per fare una buona impressione su Mr Pecksniff; e, rassicurato dal proprio aspetto, dalla bellezza della mattina e dal bagliore dei rami bagnati fuori dalla sua finestra sotto il sole splendente, presto si sentì abbastanza ispirato da pronunciare alcune oscure imprese e canticchiare le ultime strofe di una canzone.

Ma nonostante tutto, di tanto in tanto mormorava tra sé: “Tornerò a casa da solo!”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

HAS AN INFLUENCE ON THE FORTUNES OF SEVERAL PEOPLE. MR PECKSNIFF IS EXHIBITED IN THE PLENITUDE OF POWER; AND WIELDS THE SAME WITH FORTITUDE AND MAGNANIMITY

On the night of the storm, Mrs Lupin, hostess of the Blue Dragon, sat by herself in her little bar. Her solitary condition, or the bad weather, or both united, made Mrs Lupin thoughtful, not to say sorrowful. As she sat with her chin upon her hand, looking out through a low back lattice, rendered dim in the brightest day-time by clustering vine-leaves, she shook her head very often, and said, ‘Dear me! Oh, dear, dear me!’

It was a melancholy time, even in the snugness of the Dragon bar. The rich expanse of corn-field, pasture-land, green slope, and gentle undulation, with its sparkling brooks, its many hedgerows, and its clumps of beautiful trees, was black and dreary, from the diamond panes of the lattice away to the far horizon, where the thunder seemed to roll along the hills. The heavy rain beat down the tender branches of vine and jessamine, and trampled on them in its fury; and when the lightning gleamed it showed the tearful leaves shivering and cowering together at the window, and tapping at it urgently, as if beseeching to be sheltered from the dismal night.

As a mark of her respect for the lightning, Mrs Lupin had removed her candle to the chimney-piece. Her basket of needle-work stood unheeded at her elbow; her supper, spread on a round table not far off, was untasted; and the knives had been removed for fear of attraction. She had sat for a long time with her chin upon her hand, saying to herself at intervals, ‘Dear me! Ah, dear, dear me!’

She was on the eve of saying so, once more, when the latch of the house-door (closed to keep the rain out), rattled on its well-worn catch, and a traveller came in, who, shutting it after him, and walking straight up to the half-door of the bar, said, rather gruffly:

‘A pint of the best old beer here.’

He had some reason to be gruff, for if he had passed the day in a waterfall, he could scarcely have been wetter than he was. He was wrapped up to the eyes in a rough blue sailor’s coat, and had an oil-skin hat on, from the capacious brim of which the rain fell trickling down upon his breast, and back, and shoulders. Judging from a certain liveliness of chin—he had so pulled down his hat, and pulled up his collar, to defend himself from the weather, that she could only see his chin, and even across that he drew the wet sleeve of his shaggy coat, as she looked at him—Mrs Lupin set him down for a good-natured fellow, too.

‘A bad night!’ observed the hostess cheerfully.

The traveller shook himself like a Newfoundland dog, and said it was, rather.

‘There’s a fire in the kitchen,’ said Mrs Lupin, ‘and very good company there. Hadn’t you better go and dry yourself?’

‘No, thankee,’ said the man, glancing towards the kitchen as he spoke; he seemed to know the way.

‘It’s enough to give you your death of cold,’ observed the hostess.

‘I don’t take my death easy,’ returned the traveller; ‘or I should most likely have took it afore to-night. Your health, ma’am!’

Mrs Lupin thanked him; but in the act of lifting the tankard to his mouth, he changed his mind, and put it down again. Throwing his body back, and looking about him stiffly, as a man does who is wrapped up, and has his hat low down over his eyes, he said:

‘What do you call this house? Not the Dragon, do you?’

Mrs Lupin complacently made answer, ‘Yes, the Dragon.’

‘Why, then, you’ve got a sort of a relation of mine here, ma’am,’ said the traveller; ‘a young man of the name of Tapley. What! Mark, my boy!’ apostrophizing the premises, ‘have I come upon you at last, old buck!’

This was touching Mrs Lupin on a tender point. She turned to trim the candle on the chimney-piece, and said, with her back towards the traveller:

‘Nobody should be made more welcome at the Dragon, master, than any one who brought me news of Mark. But it’s many and many a long day and month since he left here and England. And whether he’s alive or dead, poor fellow, Heaven above us only knows!’

She shook her head, and her voice trembled; her hand must have done so too, for the light required a deal of trimming.

‘Where did he go, ma’am?’ asked the traveller, in a gentler voice.

‘He went,’ said Mrs Lupin, with increased distress, ‘to America. He was always tender-hearted and kind, and perhaps at this moment may be lying in prison under sentence of death, for taking pity on some miserable black, and helping the poor runaway creetur to escape. How could he ever go to America! Why didn’t he go to some of those countries where the savages eat each other fairly, and give an equal chance to every one!’

Quite subdued by this time, Mrs Lupin sobbed, and was retiring to a chair to give her grief free vent, when the traveller caught her in his arms, and she uttered a glad cry of recognition.

‘Yes, I will!’ cried Mark, ‘another—one more—twenty more! You didn’t know me in that hat and coat? I thought you would have known me anywheres! Ten more!’

‘So I should have known you, if I could have seen you; but I couldn’t, and you spoke so gruff. I didn’t think you could speak gruff to me, Mark, at first coming back.’

‘Fifteen more!’ said Mr Tapley. ‘How handsome and how young you look! Six more! The last half-dozen warn’t a fair one, and must be done over again. Lord bless you, what a treat it is to see you! One more! Well, I never was so jolly. Just a few more, on account of there not being any credit in it!’

When Mr Tapley stopped in these calculations in simple addition, he did it, not because he was at all tired of the exercise, but because he was out of breath. The pause reminded him of other duties.

CAPITOLO QUARANTATRE

Ha un’influenza sulle fortune di molte persone. Il signor Pecksniff, nella pienezza del suo potere, lo esercita con forza e magnanimità.

Nella notte della tempesta, la signora Lupin, proprietaria del Blue Dragon, sedeva da sola nel suo piccolo bar. La sua solitudine, o il cattivo tempo, o entrambi insieme, rendevano la signora Lupin pensierosa, per non dire triste. Mentre sedeva con il mento appoggiato sulla mano, guardando fuori attraverso una griglia bassa e oscurata, nella luce più intensa del giorno a causa dei rami di vite intrecciati, scuoteva spesso la testa e diceva: “Dio mio! Oh, mio Dio, ”

Era un’melanconica epoca; anche nel calore accogliente del bar Dragon. L’ampia distesa di campi di mais, pascoli, pendii verdi e dolci ondulazioni, con i suoi ruscelli scintillanti, i numerosi siepi e gli alberi bellissimi, appariva tutta nera e desolata; da quelle finestre a griglia fino all’orizzonte lontano, dove il tuono sembrava rotolare lungo le colline. La pioggia battente schiacciava i teneri rami di vite e gelsomino, calpestandoli con furia; quando la luce dei fulmini lampeggiava, si vedevano le foglie tremanti e accovacciate davanti alle finestre, come se chiedessero disperatamente di essere protette da quella cupa notte.

Come segno del suo rispetto per la lampo, la signora Lupin aveva spostato la sua candela vicino alla mensola del camino. Il cestino con i suoi lavori a maglia giaceva ignorato accanto a lei; la cena, preparata su un tavolo rotondo poco lontano, non era stata toccata; e i coltelli erano stati allontanati per paura che attirassero qualcosa. Era rimasta seduta per molto tempo, con il mento appoggiato sulla mano, ripetendo di tanto in tanto: “Mio Dio! Ah, mio caro Dio, ”

Era sul punto di dirlo ancora una volta quando il chiavistello della porta di casa – chiusa per tenere fuori la pioggia – si mosse sulla sua serratura logora; un viaggiatore entrò, la richiuse alle sue spalle e, dirigendosi direttamente verso la porta semiaperta del bar, disse in tono piuttosto brusco:

“Una pinta della migliore birra vecchia di qui.”

Aveva sicuramente qualche motivo per essere scortese, perché se avesse trascorso la giornata vicino a una cascata, difficilmente sarebbe potuto bagnarsi di più di quanto non fosse già. Era avvolto fino agli occhi in un ruvido cappotto blu da marinaio e indossava un cappello di tela oleata; dalla sua ampia tesa la pioggia gocciolava giù sul suo petto, sulla schiena e sulle spalle. Guardandolo e notando una certa vivacità nel suo mento – aveva tirato così giù il cappello e alzato il colletto per proteggersi dal maltempo che lei riusciva a vedere solo il mento – la signora Lupin concluse che dovesse essere un tipo di buon carattere.

“Una brutta notte!”, osservò allegramente la padrona di casa.

Il viaggiatore si scosse come un cane di Terranova e disse che era piuttosto così.

“C’è un incendio in cucina,” disse la signora Lupin, “e c’è anche gente molto simpatica lì. Non sarebbe meglio che tu andassi a asciugarti?”

“No, grazie,” disse l’uomo, guardando verso la cucina mentre parlava; sembrava conoscere la strada.

“È sufficiente per farvi morire di freddo,” osservò la padrona di casa.

“Non affronto la mia morte con facilità,” rispose il viaggiatore; “altrimenti probabilmente l’avrei già accettata prima di questa notte. Come state, signora?”

La signora Lupin gli ringraziò; ma nel momento in cui alzò la brocca alle labbra, cambiò idea e la posò di nuovo giù. Appoggiando di nuovo il suo corpo all’indietro e guardandosi intorno con aria rigida, come fa una persona avvolta in strati di vestiti e con il cappello che le copre gli occhi, disse:

“Come chiami questa casa? Non ‘Il Drago’, vero?”

“Sì, il Drago”, rispose con soddisfazione la signora Lupin.

“Dunque, signora, avete qui una sorta di parente mio,” disse il viaggiatore; “un giovane di nome Tapley. Che sorpresa! Mark, ragazzo mio!” esclamò, rivolgendosi al ragazzo presente, “Finalmente ti ho ritrovato, vecchio birichino!”

Questo toccò una parte sensibile della signora Lupin. Si girò per accorciare la candela sul camino e disse, con le spalle rivolte al viaggiatore:

“Nessuno dovrebbe essere accolto con maggiore entusiasmo al Dragon di chiunque mi porti notizie di Mark. Ma sono trascorsi molti giorni e mesi da quando se n’è andato da qui e dall’Inghilterra. E se sia vivo o morto, poveretto. Solo il cielo lo sa!”

Scosse la testa, la sua voce tremava; anche la sua mano doveva tremare, perché la lampada aveva bisogno di alcune regolazioni.

“Dove è andato, signora?” chiese il viaggiatore con voce più gentile.

“È andato,” disse la signora Lupin con ancora maggiore angoscia, “in America. Era sempre così compassionevole e gentile. Forse in questo momento si trova in prigione, condannato a morte per aver avuto pietà di qualche misero nero e aver aiutato quel povero fuggitivo a scappare. Come ha potuto mai andare in America? Perché non è andato in uno di quei paesi dove i selvaggi si mangiano a vicenda, dove tutti abbiano le stesse opportunità?”

Del tutto sopraffatta da questo momento, la signora Lupin singhiozzava; stava per andare a sedersi su una sedia per dare libero sfogo al suo dolore quando il viaggiatore l’abbracciò, e lei emise un grido di gioia nel riconoscerlo.

“Sì, lo farò!” gridò Mark. “Un altro, ancora uno, altri venti! Non mi hai riconosciuto con quel cappello e quel cappotto? Pensavo che mi avresti riconosciuto ovunque! Ancora dieci!”

“Avrei dovuto riconoscerti, se solo fossi riuscito a vederti; ma non ci sono riuscito, e inoltre parlavi in modo così brusco. Non avrei mai pensato che potessi parlarmi in quel modo, Mark, al tuo ritorno.”

“Ancora quindici!” disse il signor Tapley. “Che bell’aspetto che avete, e quanto siete giovani. Altre sei! Gli ultimi sei non sono venuti bene e dobbiamo rifarli. Che gioia rivedervi, mio Dio! Un’altra ancora. Beh, non mi sono mai divertito così tanto. Solo un paio in più, perché altrimenti non ci sarebbe stato nessun credito, ”

Quando il signor Tapley si fermò a questi calcoli, limitandosi semplicemente ad addizionare, lo fece non perché fosse affatto stanco di quel compito, ma perché era senza fiato. Quella pausa gli ricordò altre responsabilità da svolgere.

‘Mr Martin Chuzzlewit’s outside,’ he said. ‘I left him under the cartshed, while I came on to see if there was anybody here. We want to keep quiet to-night, till we know the news from you, and what it’s best for us to do.’

‘There’s not a soul in the house, except the kitchen company,’ returned the hostess. ‘If they were to know you had come back, Mark, they’d have a bonfire in the street, late as it is.’

‘But they mustn’t know it to-night, my precious soul,’ said Mark; ‘so have the house shut, and the kitchen fire made up; and when it’s all ready, put a light in the winder, and we’ll come in. One more! I long to hear about old friends. You’ll tell me all about ‘em, won’t you; Mr Pinch, and the butcher’s dog down the street, and the terrier over the way, and the wheelwright’s, and every one of ‘em. When I first caught sight of the church to-night, I thought the steeple would have choked me, I did. One more! Won’t you? Not a very little one to finish off with?’

‘You have had plenty, I am sure,’ said the hostess. ‘Go along with your foreign manners!’

‘That ain’t foreign, bless you!’ cried Mark. ‘Native as oysters, that is! One more, because it’s native! As a mark of respect for the land we live in! This don’t count as between you and me, you understand,’ said Mr Tapley. ‘I ain’t a-kissing you now, you’ll observe. I have been among the patriots; I’m a-kissin’ my country.’

It would have been very unreasonable to complain of the exhibition of his patriotism with which he followed up this explanation, that it was at all lukewarm or indifferent. When he had given full expression to his nationality, he hurried off to Martin; while Mrs Lupin, in a state of great agitation and excitement, prepared for their reception.

The company soon came tumbling out; insisting to each other that the Dragon clock was half an hour too fast, and that the thunder must have affected it. Impatient, wet, and weary though they were, Martin and Mark were overjoyed to see these old faces, and watched them with delighted interest as they departed from the house, and passed close by them.

‘There’s the old tailor, Mark!’ whispered Martin.

‘There he goes, sir! A little bandier than he was, I think, sir, ain’t he? His figure’s so far altered, as it seems to me, that you might wheel a rather larger barrow between his legs as he walks, than you could have done conveniently when we know’d him. There’s Sam a-coming out, sir.’

‘Ah, to be sure!’ cried Martin; ‘Sam, the hostler. I wonder whether that horse of Pecksniff’s is alive still?’

‘Not a doubt on it, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘That’s a description of animal, sir, as will go on in a bony way peculiar to himself for a long time, and get into the newspapers at last under the title of “Sing’lar Tenacity of Life in a Quadruped.” As if he had ever been alive in all his life, worth mentioning! There’s the clerk, sir—wery drunk, as usual.’

‘I see him!’ said Martin, laughing. ‘But, my life, how wet you are, Mark!’

‘I am! What do you consider yourself, sir?’

‘Oh, not half as bad,’ said his fellow-traveller, with an air of great vexation. ‘I told you not to keep on the windy side, Mark, but to let us change and change about. The rain has been beating on you ever since it began.’

‘You don’t know how it pleases me, sir,’ said Mark, after a short silence, ‘if I may make so bold as say so, to hear you a-going on in that there uncommon considerate way of yours; which I don’t mean to attend to, never, but which, ever since that time when I was floored in Eden, you have showed.’

‘Ah, Mark!’ sighed Martin, ‘the less we say of that the better. Do I see the light yonder?’

‘That’s the light!’ cried Mark. ‘Lord bless her, what briskness she possesses! Now for it, sir. Neat wines, good beds, and first-rate entertainment for man or beast.’

The kitchen fire burnt clear and red, the table was spread out, the kettle boiled; the slippers were there, the boot-jack too, sheets of ham were there, cooking on the gridiron; half-a-dozen eggs were there, poaching in the frying-pan; a plethoric cherry-brandy bottle was there, winking at a foaming jug of beer upon the table; rare provisions were there, dangling from the rafters as if you had only to open your mouth, and something exquisitely ripe and good would be glad of the excuse for tumbling into it. Mrs Lupin, who for their sakes had dislodged the very cook, high priestess of the temple, with her own genial hands was dressing their repast.

It was impossible to help it—a ghost must have hugged her. The Atlantic Ocean and the Red Sea being, in that respect, all one, Martin hugged her instantly. Mr Tapley (as if the idea were quite novel, and had never occurred to him before), followed, with much gravity, on the same side.

‘Little did I ever think,’ said Mrs Lupin, adjusting her cap and laughing heartily; yes, and blushing too; ‘often as I have said that Mr Pecksniff’s young gentlemen were the life and soul of the Dragon, and that without them it would be too dull to live in—little did I ever think I am sure, that any one of them would ever make so free as you, Mr Martin! And still less that I shouldn’t be angry with him, but should be glad with all my heart to be the first to welcome him home from America, with Mark Tapley for his—’

‘For his friend, Mrs Lupin,’ interposed Martin.

‘For his friend,’ said the hostess, evidently gratified by this distinction, but at the same time admonishing Mr Tapley with a fork to remain at a respectful distance. ‘Little did I ever think that! But still less, that I should ever have the changes to relate that I shall have to tell you of, when you have done your supper!’

‘Good Heaven!’ cried Martin, changing colour, ‘what changes?’

‘SHE,’ said the hostess, ‘is quite well, and now at Mr Pecksniff’s. Don’t be at all alarmed about her. She is everything you could wish. It’s of no use mincing matters, or making secrets, is it?’ added Mrs Lupin. ‘I know all about it, you see!’

“Il signor Martin Chuzzlewit è fuori,” disse. “L’ho lasciato sotto il capanno delle carrozze, mentre venivo a vedere se c’era qualcuno qui. Vogliamo mantenere il silenzio di notte, finché non avremo notizie da voi e non sapremo cosa sia meglio fare per noi.”

“Non c’è anima viva in quella casa, tranne la compagnia di cucina,” rispose la padrona di casa. “Se sapessero che sei tornato, Mark, organizzerebbero una festa in strada, anche a quest’ora tarda.”

“Ma non devono saperlo, di notte, mia cara anima,” disse Mark; “quindi chiudi la casa e accendi il fuoco in cucina; quando tutto sarà pronto, accendi una lampada nel caminetto e poi entreremo. Un’ultima cosa! Non vedo l’ora di sentire parlare degli vecchi amici. Mi racconterai di loro, vero? Del signor Pinch, del cane del macellaio laggiù in strada, del terrier dall’altra parte, del fabbro di ruote, e di tutti quanti. Quando ho visto per la prima volta quella chiesa, di notte, ho pensato che la guglia mi avrebbe soffocato, davvero. Un’ultima cosa. Non sarà troppo breve per concludere, vero?”

“Avrete sicuramente avuto abbastanza,” disse la padrona di casa. “Lasciate perdere queste vostre usanze straniere!”

“Quello non è affatto qualcosa di straniero, grazie al cielo!” esclamò Mark. “È proprio qualcosa che appartiene naturalmente a questo posto! Ne prendo un altro ancora, perché è davvero originario di qui. Come segno di rispetto per la terra in cui viviamo! Questo bacio non significa nulla tra te e me, capisci?” disse il signor Tapley. “Ora non ti sto baciando, osserva bene. Ho fatto parte dei patrioti; sto baciando il mio paese.”

Sarebbe stato del tutto irragionevole lamentarsi dell’espressione del suo patriottismo con cui aveva accompagnato quella spiegazione, sostenendo che fosse stata in qualche modo tiepida o indifferente. Dopo aver espresso appieno i propri sentimenti nazionali, si affrettò a recarsi da Martin; intanto la signora Lupin, in uno stato di grande agitazione ed eccitazione, si preparava ad accoglierli.

La compagnia uscì rapidamente; ognuno insisteva con gli altri sul fatto che l’orologio a forma di drago fosse indietro di mezz’ora, e che il tuono dovesse esserne la causa. Nonostante fossero impazienti, bagnati e stanchi, Martin e Mark furono estremamente felici di rivedere quei vecchi volti, e li osservarono con grande interesse mentre lasciavano la casa e passavano loro vicino.

“Ecco il vecchio sarto, Mark!” sussurrò Martin.

‘Eccolo che va, signore! Penso che ora sia un po’ più magro di prima, vero? Sembra che il suo aspetto sia cambiato così tanto che, camminando, si potrebbe far passare tra le sue gambe una carriola piuttosto grande, qualcosa che non sarebbe stato possibile fare quando lo conoscevamo bene. Ecco Sam che arriva, signore.’

“Ah, sicuramente!” esclamò Martin; “Sam, il stalliere. Mi chiedo se quel cavallo di Pecksniff sia ancora vivo.”

“Nessun dubbio al riguardo, signore,” rispose Mark. “Si tratta di una descrizione di un animale, che continuerà ad apparire sui giornali per molto tempo, con il titolo ‘Singolare tenacia della vita in un quadrupede’. Come se quell’animale avesse mai davvero vissuto, cosa degna di essere menzionata! Ecco il impiegato, signore, ubriaco fradicio, come al solito.”

“Lo vedo!” disse Martin ridendo. “Ma, mio Dio, quanto sei bagnato, Mark!”

“Sono io! E voi, signore, che cosa vi considerate?”

“Ah, niente affatto così grave,” disse il suo compagno di viaggio con un tono di grande frustrazione. “Ti avevo detto di non stare sempre sul lato esposto al vento, Mark. Di cambiare spesso posizione. La pioggia ti ha colpito senza sosta da quando è iniziata.”

“Non sapete quanto mi faccia piacere, signore,” disse Mark, dopo un breve silenzio, “se posso osare dirlo, ascoltarvi parlare con quel vostro modo così insolito e premuroso; non intendo certo prestarci attenzione, mai, ma da quando, da quella volta in cui sono stato colpito a Eden, voi avete sempre dimostrato questo atteggiamento.”

“Ah, Mark!” sospirò Martin, “più non ne parliamo, meglio è. Vedo quella luce laggiù?”

“È quella la luce!” esclamò Mark. “Dio la benedica, che energia possiede! Ora siamo a posto, signore: vini raffinati, letti confortevoli e intrattenimenti di prim’ordine, per uomini e animali.”

Il fuoco della cucina ardeva chiaro e rosso; il tavolo era preparato, la pentola bolliva; c’erano le pantofole, anche lo stivale da riscaldare i piedi, fette di prosciutto pronte per essere cotte sulla griglia; mezza dozzina di uova stavano cuocendosi nella padella; c’era una bottiglia enorme di cherry-brandy che sembrava fare l’occhiolino a una brocca di birra schiumosa sul tavolo; c’erano anche provviste rare, appese ai soffitti come se bastasse aprire la bocca per riceverle. E qualcosa di estremamente maturo e delizioso sembrava aspettare solo l’occasione per cadere dentro. La signora Lupin, che per loro aveva persino allontanato la vera cuoca, la “sacerdotessa” del tempio della cucina, stava preparando il loro pasto con le sue mani gentili e premurose.

Era impossibile evitarlo: un fantasma doveva averla abbracciata. Poiché l’Oceano Atlantico e il Mar Rosso, in quel senso, erano considerati una cosa sola, Martin la abbracciò immediatamente. Il signor Tapley (come se l’idea fosse davvero novella e non gli fosse mai passata per la mente prima), lo imitò subito, con grande serietà.

“Che cosa avrei mai potuto pensare,” disse la signora Lupin, sistemandosi il cappello e ridendo di cuore; sì, e arrossendo anche, “Anche se spesso dicevo che i giovani signori di Mr Pecksniff erano la vita stessa del ‘Drago’, e che senza di loro vivere sarebbe stato troppo noioso. Che cosa avrei mai potuto immaginare che uno di loro si sarebbe comportato con tanta libertà come hai fatto tu, signor Martin! E ancora meno che non mi sarei arrabbiata con lui, ma che anzi avrei accolto con tutto il cuore il suo ritorno in casa da America, insieme a Mark Tapley, ”

“Per il suo amico, la signora Lupin,” intervenne Martin.

“Per il suo amico,” disse la padrona di casa, chiaramente compiaciuta da questa distinzione, ma allo stesso tempo ammonì il signor Tapley con una forchetta a mantenere una distanza rispettosa. “Non avrei mai pensato a una cosa del genere. E tantomeno che avrei dovuto raccontarvi tutte queste cose, dopo che avrete finito di cenare!”

“Mio Dio!”, esclamò Martin, cambiando colore, “che cambiamenti, ”

“Lei,” disse la padrona di casa, “sta molto bene, e ora è da Mr Pecksniff. Non preoccupatevi affatto per lei: è esattamente ciò che potreste desiderare. Non ha senso tergiversare o creare segreti, vero?” aggiunse Mrs Lupin. “Io so tutto, capite!”

‘My good creature,’ returned Martin, ‘you are exactly the person who ought to know all about it. I am delighted to think you DO know about that! But what changes do you hint at? Has any death occurred?’

‘No, no!’ said the hostess. ‘Not as bad as that. But I declare now that I will not be drawn into saying another word till you have had your supper. If you ask me fifty questions in the meantime, I won’t answer one.’

She was so positive, that there was nothing for it but to get the supper over as quickly as possible; and as they had been walking a great many miles, and had fasted since the middle of the day, they did no great violence to their own inclinations in falling on it tooth and nail. It took rather longer to get through than might have been expected; for, half-a-dozen times, when they thought they had finished, Mrs Lupin exposed the fallacy of that impression triumphantly. But at last, in the course of time and nature, they gave in. Then, sitting with their slippered feet stretched out upon the kitchen hearth (which was wonderfully comforting, for the night had grown by this time raw and chilly), and looking with involuntary admiration at their dimpled, buxom, blooming hostess, as the firelight sparkled in her eyes and glimmered in her raven hair, they composed themselves to listen to her news.

Many were the exclamations of surprise which interrupted her, when she told them of the separation between Mr Pecksniff and his daughters, and between the same good gentleman and Mr Pinch. But these were nothing to the indignant demonstrations of Martin, when she related, as the common talk of the neighbourhood, what entire possession he had obtained over the mind and person of old Mr Chuzzlewit, and what high honour he designed for Mary. On receipt of this intelligence, Martin’s slippers flew off in a twinkling, and he began pulling on his wet boots with that indefinite intention of going somewhere instantly, and doing something to somebody, which is the first safety-valve of a hot temper.

‘He!’ said Martin, ‘smooth-tongued villain that he is! He! Give me that other boot, Mark?’

‘Where was you a-thinking of going to, sir?’ inquired Mr Tapley drying the sole at the fire, and looking coolly at it as he spoke, as if it were a slice of toast.

‘Where!’ repeated Martin. ‘You don’t suppose I am going to remain here, do you?’

The imperturbable Mark confessed that he did.

You do!’ retorted Martin angrily. ‘I am much obliged to you. What do you take me for?’

‘I take you for what you are, sir,’ said Mark; ‘and, consequently, am quite sure that whatever you do will be right and sensible. The boot, sir.’

Martin darted an impatient look at him, without taking it, and walked rapidly up and down the kitchen several times, with one boot and a stocking on. But, mindful of his Eden resolution, he had already gained many victories over himself when Mark was in the case, and he resolved to conquer now. So he came back to the book-jack, laid his hand on Mark’s shoulder to steady himself, pulled the boot off, picked up his slippers, put them on, and sat down again. He could not help thrusting his hands to the very bottom of his pockets, and muttering at intervals, ‘Pecksniff too! That fellow! Upon my soul! In-deed! What next?’ and so forth; nor could he help occasionally shaking his fist at the chimney, with a very threatening countenance; but this did not last long; and he heard Mrs Lupin out, if not with composure, at all events in silence.

‘As to Mr Pecksniff himself,’ observed the hostess in conclusion, spreading out the skirts of her gown with both hands, and nodding her head a great many times as she did so, ‘I don’t know what to say. Somebody must have poisoned his mind, or influenced him in some extraordinary way. I cannot believe that such a noble-spoken gentleman would go and do wrong of his own accord!’

A noble-spoken gentleman! How many people are there in the world, who, for no better reason, uphold their Pecksniffs to the last and abandon virtuous men, when Pecksniffs breathe upon them!

‘As to Mr Pinch,’ pursued the landlady, ‘if ever there was a dear, good, pleasant, worthy soul alive, Pinch, and no other, is his name. But how do we know that old Mr Chuzzlewit himself was not the cause of difference arising between him and Mr Pecksniff? No one but themselves can tell; for Mr Pinch has a proud spirit, though he has such a quiet way; and when he left us, and was so sorry to go, he scorned to make his story good, even to me.’

‘Poor old Tom!’ said Martin, in a tone that sounded like remorse.

‘It’s a comfort to know,’ resumed the landlady, ‘that he has his sister living with him, and is doing well. Only yesterday he sent me back, by post, a little’—here the colour came into her cheeks—‘a little trifle I was bold enough to lend him when he went away; saying, with many thanks, that he had good employment, and didn’t want it. It was the same note; he hadn’t broken it. I never thought I could have been so little pleased to see a bank-note come back to me as I was to see that.’

‘Kindly said, and heartily!’ said Martin. ‘Is it not, Mark?’

‘She can’t say anything as does not possess them qualities,’ returned Mr Tapley; ‘which as much belongs to the Dragon as its licence. And now that we have got quite cool and fresh, to the subject again, sir; what will you do? If you’re not proud, and can make up your mind to go through with what you spoke of, coming along, that’s the course for you to take. If you started wrong with your grandfather (which, you’ll excuse my taking the liberty of saying, appears to have been the case), up with you, sir, and tell him so, and make an appeal to his affections. Don’t stand out. He’s a great deal older than you, and if he was hasty, you was hasty too. Give way, sir, give way.’

The eloquence of Mr Tapley was not without its effect on Martin but he still hesitated, and expressed his reason thus:

“Mia cara creatura,” rispose Martin, “sei proprio la persona che dovrebbe sapere tutto al riguardo. Sono felice di pensare che tu ne sappia davvero qualcosa! Ma a quali cambiamenti alludi? È accaduta qualche morte?”

“No, no!” disse la padrona di casa. “Non è così grave. Ma dichiaro ora che non dirò una parola finché non avrete mangiato la cena. Anche se mi fate cinquanta domande in questo lasso di tempo, non risponderò nemmeno a una.”

Era così piena di ottimismo che non restava altro da fare se non finire la cena il prima possibile; e poiché avevano percorso molte miglia e non avevano mangiato nulla dal pomeriggio, non si opposero troppo alle loro stesse voglie e si gettarono sul cibo con grande appetito. Tuttavia ci volle più tempo del previsto: per sei volte, quando pensavano di aver finito, la signora Lupin smascherava con successo quell’illusione. Alla fine, col passare del tempo e grazie alla natura stessa delle cose, cedettero. Poi, seduti con i piedi calzati nelle pantofole distesi sul camino della cucina – il che era davvero confortante, poiché la notte ormai era diventata fredda e pungente – guardarono con ammirazione la loro ospite, dai tratti dolci e pieni di vita; mentre la luce del fuoco brillava nei suoi occhi e scintillava tra i suoi capelli neri, si prepararono ad ascoltare le sue notizie.

Molte furono le esclamazioni di sorpresa che interruppero lei mentre raccontava loro della separazione tra il signor Pecksniff e sue figlie, nonché tra lo stesso gentiluomo e il signor Pinch. Ma nulla di tutto ciò poteva paragonarsi alle indignate reazioni di Martin quando lei riferì, seguendo le voci del quartiere, quale totale controllo avesse ottenuto su mente e persona dell’anziano signor Chuzzlewit, e quale alto onore intendesse concedere a Mary. Alla ricezione di questa notizia, le pantofole di Martin volarono via in un istante; egli iniziò allora ad infilarsi gli stivali bagnati, con l’intenzione vaga ma immediata di andare da qualche parte e fare qualcosa contro qualcuno. Il che rappresenta, in fondo, il primo “sistema di sicurezza” di un temperamento irascibile.

“Ehi!” disse Martin, “quel bugiardo eloquente che è. Dammi anche l’altra scarpa, Mark.”

“Dove pensava di andare, signore?”, chiese il signor Tapley mentre asciugava la suola delle sue scarpe davanti al focolare, guardandola con aria distaccata, come se fosse un pezzo di pane tostato.

“Dove?”, ripeté Martin. “Non penserete mica che resterò qui, vero?”

Il tranquillo Mark ammise di averlo fatto.

“Lo fai davvero!”, ribatté Martin arrabbiato. “Sono molto grato a te. Ma cosa pensi che io sia?”

“Vi considero per quello che siete, signore,” disse Mark; “e quindi sono assolutamente certo che qualsiasi cosa facciate sarà giusta e sensata. Il punto è proprio questo, signore.”

Martin gli lanciò uno sguardo impaziente, ma non vi fece caso, e camminò rapidamente avanti e indietro per la cucina diverse volte, con un solo stivale e una calza addosso. Tuttavia, ricordando la sua risoluzione presa a “Eden”, aveva già ottenuto molte vittorie su se stesso in situazioni simili in passato, e questa volta era determinato a riuscirci di nuovo. Così tornò vicino al mobile dove teneva i libri, posò una mano sulla spalla di Mark per reggersi, si tolse lo stivale, prese le pantofole e se le infilò, poi si sedette di nuovo. Non poté fare a meno di infilare le mani fino in fondo alle tasche, mormorando di tanto in tanto: “Pecksniff. Quel tipo! Per la mia anima. Cosa succederà ora?”, e così via. Di tanto in tanto scuoteva anche il pugno verso la cappa del camino, con un’espressione minacciosa; ma questo durò poco. Poco dopo sentì Mrs Lupin uscire di casa, se non con calma, almeno in silenzio.

“Per quanto riguarda il signor Pecksniff stesso,” osservò la padrona di casa alla fine, spiegando le falde del suo abito con entrambe le mani e annuendo ripetutamente mentre lo faceva, “non so cosa dire. Qualcuno deve aver avvelenato il suo modo di pensare o influenzato lui in qualche modo straordinario. Non riesco a credere che un gentiluomo così nobile nei suoi discorsi possa agire male di sua spontanea volontà!”

Un gentiluomo di nobili parole. Quante persone ci sono al mondo che, senza alcun motivo valido, sostengono fino alla fine coloro che si comportano in modo meschino e abbandonano gli uomini virtuosi, solo perché questi ultimi li “influenzano” con il loro esempio!

“Per quanto riguarda il signor Pinch,” proseguì la padrona di casa, “se mai esistette una persona cara, gentile, piacevole e meritevole, quel nome è proprio Pinch. Ma come possiamo sapere se non sia stato proprio il vecchio signor Chuzzlewit a causare i dissidi tra lui e il signor Pecksniff? Solo loro possono saperlo; perché il signor Pinch ha un carattere orgoglioso, anche se si comporta in modo molto tranquillo. E quando ci ha lasciati, pur essendo così riluttante ad andarsene, si è rifiutato di raccontarmi la verità.”

“Povero vecchio Tom!”, disse Martin con un tono che sembrava pieno di rimorso.

“È un conforto saperlo,” continuò la padrona di casa, “che abbia sua sorella che vive con lui e che stia bene. Solo ieri mi ha inviato per posta una piccola, ” – il suo viso si arrossì – “, una piccola somma che ho avuto il coraggio di prestargli quando se n’è andato; mi ringraziava molto, dicendo che aveva trovato un buon lavoro e non ne aveva bisogno. Era lo stesso biglietto. Non l’aveva strappato. Non avrei mai pensato di essere così felice nel vedere tornare a me un biglietto da banca, ”

“Ditele con gentilezza e dal profondo del cuore!”, disse Martin. “Non è vero, Mark?”

“Non può dire nulla, visto che non possiede quelle qualità,” rispose il signor Tapley; “quelle qualità appartengono tanto al Drago quanto alla sua licenza. Ora che ci siamo completamente raffreddati e ripresi fiato, torniamo all’argomento: cosa farà? Se non è orgoglioso e riesce a prendere la decisione di portare avanti ciò di cui ha parlato, allora quella è la strada da seguire. Se ha iniziato male con suo nonno (mi scusi se mi permetto di dirlo, ma sembra proprio che sia stato così), allora si faccia avanti e glielo dica, chiedendo il suo aiuto. Non ostacoli le cose: lui è molto più vecchio di lei, e se lui ha agito in modo affrettato, lo stesso vale per lei. Ceda il passo, la prego.”

L’eloquenza del signor Tapley ebbe il suo effetto su Martin, ma egli esitò ancora e espresse il proprio ragionamento nel seguente modo:

‘That’s all very true, and perfectly correct, Mark; and if it were a mere question of humbling myself before HIM, I would not consider it twice. But don’t you see, that being wholly under this hypocrite’s government, and having (if what we hear be true) no mind or will of his own, I throw myself, in fact, not at his feet, but at the feet of Mr Pecksniff? And when I am rejected and spurned away,’ said Martin, turning crimson at the thought, ‘it is not by him; my own blood stirred against me; but by Pecksniff—Pecksniff, Mark!’

‘Well, but we know beforehand,’ returned the politic Mr Tapley, ‘that Pecksniff is a wagabond, a scoundrel, and a willain.’

‘A most pernicious villain!’ said Martin.

‘A most pernicious willain. We know that beforehand, sir; and, consequently, it’s no shame to be defeated by Pecksniff. Blow Pecksniff!’ cried Mr Tapley, in the fervour of his eloquence. ‘Who’s he! It’s not in the natur of Pecksniff to shame US, unless he agreed with us, or done us a service; and, in case he offered any audacity of that description, we could express our sentiments in the English language, I hope. Pecksniff!’ repeated Mr Tapley, with ineffable disdain. ‘What’s Pecksniff, who’s Pecksniff, where’s Pecksniff, that he’s to be so much considered? We’re not a-calculating for ourselves;’ he laid uncommon emphasis on the last syllable of that word, and looked full in Martin’s face; ‘we’re making a effort for a young lady likewise as has undergone her share; and whatever little hope we have, this here Pecksniff is not to stand in its way, I expect. I never heard of any act of Parliament, as was made by Pecksniff. Pecksniff! Why, I wouldn’t see the man myself; I wouldn’t hear him; I wouldn’t choose to know he was in company. I’d scrape my shoes on the scraper of the door, and call that Pecksniff, if you liked; but I wouldn’t condescend no further.’

The amazement of Mrs Lupin, and indeed of Mr Tapley himself for that matter, at this impassioned flow of language, was immense. But Martin, after looking thoughtfully at the fire for a short time, said:

‘You are right, Mark. Right or wrong, it shall be done. I’ll do it.’

‘One word more, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘Only think of him so far as not to give him a handle against you. Don’t you do anything secret that he can report before you get there. Don’t you even see Miss Mary in the morning, but let this here dear friend of ours’—Mr Tapley bestowed a smile upon the hostess—‘prepare her for what’s a-going to happen, and carry any little message as may be agreeable. She knows how. Don’t you?’ Mrs Lupin laughed and tossed her head. ‘Then you go in, bold and free as a gentleman should. “I haven’t done nothing under-handed,” says you. “I haven’t been skulking about the premises, here I am, for-give me, I ask your pardon, God Bless You!”’

Martin smiled, but felt that it was good advice notwithstanding, and resolved to act upon it. When they had ascertained from Mrs Lupin that Pecksniff had already returned from the great ceremonial at which they had beheld him in his glory; and when they had fully arranged the order of their proceedings; they went to bed, intent upon the morrow.

In pursuance of their project as agreed upon at this discussion, Mr Tapley issued forth next morning, after breakfast, charged with a letter from Martin to his grandfather, requesting leave to wait upon him for a few minutes. And postponing as he went along the congratulations of his numerous friends until a more convenient season, he soon arrived at Mr Pecksniff’s house. At that gentleman’s door; with a face so immovable that it would have been next to an impossibility for the most acute physiognomist to determine what he was thinking about, or whether he was thinking at all; he straightway knocked.

A person of Mr Tapley’s observation could not long remain insensible to the fact that Mr Pecksniff was making the end of his nose very blunt against the glass of the parlour window, in an angular attempt to discover who had knocked at the door. Nor was Mr Tapley slow to baffle this movement on the part of the enemy, by perching himself on the top step, and presenting the crown of his hat in that direction. But possibly Mr Pecksniff had already seen him, for Mark soon heard his shoes creaking, as he advanced to open the door with his own hands.

Mr Pecksniff was as cheerful as ever, and sang a little song in the passage.

‘How d’ye do, sir?’ said Mark.

‘Oh!’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘Tapley, I believe? The Prodigal returned! We don’t want any beer, my friend.’

‘Thankee, sir,’ said Mark. ‘I couldn’t accommodate you if you did. A letter, sir. Wait for an answer.’

‘For me?’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘And an answer, eh?’

‘Not for you, I think, sir,’ said Mark, pointing out the direction. ‘Chuzzlewit, I believe the name is, sir.’

‘Oh!’ returned Mr Pecksniff. ‘Thank you. Yes. Who’s it from, my good young man?’

‘The gentleman it comes from wrote his name inside, sir,’ returned Mr Tapley with extreme politeness. ‘I see him a-signing of it at the end, while I was a-waitin’.’

‘And he said he wanted an answer, did he?’ asked Mr Pecksniff in his most persuasive manner.

Mark replied in the affirmative.

‘He shall have an answer. Certainly,’ said Mr Pecksniff, tearing the letter into small pieces, as mildly as if that were the most flattering attention a correspondent could receive. ‘Have the goodness to give him that, with my compliments, if you please. Good morning!’ Whereupon he handed Mark the scraps; retired, and shut the door.

Mark thought it prudent to subdue his personal emotions, and return to Martin at the Dragon. They were not unprepared for such a reception, and suffered an hour or so to elapse before making another attempt. When this interval had gone by, they returned to Mr Pecksniff’s house in company. Martin knocked this time, while Mr Tapley prepared himself to keep the door open with his foot and shoulder, when anybody came, and by that means secure an enforced parley. But this precaution was needless, for the servant-girl appeared almost immediately. Brushing quickly past her as he had resolved in such a case to do, Martin (closely followed by his faithful ally) opened the door of that parlour in which he knew a visitor was most likely to be found; passed at once into the room; and stood, without a word of notice or announcement, in the presence of his grandfather.

“Tutto ciò è assolutamente vero e corretto, Mark; e se si trattasse semplicemente di umiliarmi davanti a LUI, non esiterei un attimo. Ma non capisci? Essendo completamente sotto il controllo di questo ipocrita, e non avendo (se quanto sentiamo è vero) alcuna volontà propria, in realtà non mi sto gettando ai suoi piedi, ma ai piedi di Mr Pecksniff. E quando verrò rifiutato e respinto,” disse Martin, arrossendo al solo pensiero, “non sarà per colpa sua; sarà il mio stesso sangue a tradirmi. Ma sarà Pecksniff, Mark!”

“Beh,” rispose il politico signor Tapley, “sappiamo già in anticipo che Pecksniff è un vagabondo, un farabutto e un individuo spregevole.”

“Un malvagio davvero pericoloso!” disse Martin.

“Un individuo davvero pernicioso. Lo sapevamo già in anticipo, signore; quindi non c’è alcuna vergogna nel essere sconfitti da Pecksniff. Colpite Pecksniff!” gridò il signor Tapley, con fervore. “Chi è mai questo Pecksniff? Non è certo nella sua natura umiliarci, a meno che non sia d’accordo con noi o ci abbia reso un servizio. E se mai osasse comportarsi in modo così audace, potremmo esprimere i nostri sentimenti in inglese, spero, ” Ripeté il signor Tapley, con disprezzo infinito. “Che cos’è Pecksniff? Dove si trova? Perché dovrebbe essere considerato così importante? Noi non pensiamo mai a noi stessi. Stiamo facendo del nostro meglio per una giovane donna che ha subito le stesse difficoltà. E qualsiasi piccola speranza abbiamo, Pecksniff di certo non verrà a ostacolarla. Non ho mai sentito parlare di alcuna legge emanata dal Parlamento come quella proposta da Pecksniff. Pecksniff! Beh, io stesso non vorrei nemmeno vederlo. Non vorrei sentirlo parlare. Non vorrei nemmeno sapere che è nella stessa stanza con me. Mi pulirei le scarpe sullo strigilino della porta, e chiamerei quel tizio Pecksniff, se volete. Ma non mi abbasserei mai a farlo.”

Lo stupore della signora Lupin, e in realtà anche di Mr Tapley stesso riguardo a quella questione, di fronte a quel flusso appassionato di parole, fu immenso. Ma Martin, dopo aver fissato pensierosamente il fuoco per un breve istante, disse:

“Hai ragione, Mark. Che sia giusto o sbagliato, deve essere fatto. Lo farò io.”

“Una parola ancora, signore,” rispose Mark. “Pensate solo a non dargli alcun pretesto per usarvi contro di voi. Non fate nulla di segreto che possa riferire prima che arrivi lì. Nemmeno vedete Miss Mary al mattino; lasciate invece che questo nostro caro amico” – il signor Tapley sorrise alla padrona di casa – “la prepari a ciò che sta per accadere e le porti eventuali messaggi utili. Lei sa come fare. Non è vero?”
La signora Lupin rise e scosse la testa. “Allora entrate, con coraggio e libertà, come si addice a un gentiluomo. Dite: ‘Non ho fatto nulla di losco. Non mi sono aggirato furtivamente in questi luoghi. Ecco qui, perdonatemi, chiedo il vostro perdono. Che Dio vi benedica!’”

Martin sorrise, ma riconobbe che si trattava comunque di un buon consiglio e decise di seguirlo. Dopo essersi assicurati dalla signora Lupin che Pecksniff era già tornato dal grande evento cerimoniale in cui lo avevano visto nel suo splendore, e dopo aver pianificato completamente l’ordine dei loro prossimi passi, andarono a letto, con l’intenzione di concentrarsi sul giorno seguente.

Nel seguito del progetto concordato durante questa discussione, il signor Tapley uscì la mattina seguente, dopo colazione, portando con sé una lettera di Martin indirizzata a suo nonno, nella quale si chiedeva il permesso di poterlo assistere per qualche minuto. Posticipando i complimenti dei suoi numerosi amici a un momento più appropriato, arrivò presto alla casa del signor Pecksniff. Alla porta di quel gentiluomo, con un’espressione del viso così immobile che sarebbe stato quasi impossibile per il più acuto fisionomista capire a cosa stesse pensando, o se stesse davvero pensando a qualcosa; bussò immediatamente.

Una persona con l’acume di osservazione del signor Tapley non poteva rimanere indifferente a lungo al fatto che il signor Pecksniff stesse premendo il proprio naso contro il vetro della finestra, nel tentativo di scoprire chi avesse bussato alla porta. Il signor Tapley non esitò nemmeno un attimo ad ostacolare questo movimento del “nemico”, posizionandosi sul gradino più alto e puntando la tesa del proprio cappello in quella direzione. Tuttavia, forse il signor Pecksniff lo aveva già visto, perché poco dopo Mark sentì i suoi stivali scricchiolare mentre si avvicinava per aprire la porta di persona.

Il signor Pecksniff era come sempre di buon umore, e cantò una piccola -canzone nel corso del cammino.

“Come state, signore?” disse Mark.

“Oh!” esclamò il signor Pecksniff. “Tapley, giusto? Il figlio prodigo è tornato! Non vogliamo alcuna birra, amico mio.”

“Grazie, signore,” disse Mark. “Non avrei potuto accoglierla nemmeno se lo avessi voluto. Una lettera, signore. Aspetti la risposta.”

“Per me?”, esclamò il signor Pecksniff. “E anche una risposta, vero?”

“Non è per voi, credo, signore,” disse Mark, indicando la direzione.
“Chuzzlewit, credo che sia questo il nome, signore.”

“Ah!” rispose il signor Pecksniff. “Grazie. Sì. Da chi viene, mio buon giovane?”

“Il gentiluomo da cui proviene ha scritto il suo nome all’interno, signore,” rispose il signor Tapley con estrema cortesia. “Lo vedo averlo firmato in fondo, mentre aspettavo.”

“E ha detto che voleva una risposta, vero?” chiese il signor Pecksniff con il suo tono più persuasivo.

Mark rispose affermativamente.

“Gli verrà data una risposta. Certamente,” disse il signor Pecksniff, strappando la lettera in pezzetti piccoli, con estrema gentilezza, come se si trattasse della più lusinghiera attenzione che un corrispondente potesse ricevere. “Per favore, consegnategli questo messaggio insieme ai miei saluti. Buongiorno!” Dopo aver detto ciò, diede i pezzetti di carta a Mark, si ritirò e chiuse la porta.

Mark ritenne prudente reprimere le proprie emozioni personali e tornare da Martin al Dragon. Non erano impreparati ad un simile accogliimento, quindi dovettero attendere circa un’ora prima di tentare nuovamente. Trascorso questo lasso di tempo, tornarono insieme alla casa del signor Pecksniff. Quella volta fu Martin a bussare; intanto il signor Tapley si preparò ad tenere la porta aperta con il piede e con la spalla, nel caso qualcuno arrivasse, al fine di garantire un colloquio forzato. Ma questa precauzione risultò inutile: la serva apparve quasi immediatamente. Martin, seguito da vicino dal suo fedele alleato, entrò rapidamente nella stanza dove probabilmente si sarebbe trovata la visita, e si presentò senza dire una parola davanti a suo nonno.

Mr Pecksniff also was in the room; and Mary. In the swift instant of their mutual recognition, Martin saw the old man droop his grey head, and hide his face in his hands.

It smote him to the heart. In his most selfish and most careless day, this lingering remnant of the old man’s ancient love, this buttress of a ruined tower he had built up in the time gone by, with so much pride and hope, would have caused a pang in Martin’s heart. But now, changed for the better in his worst respect; looking through an altered medium on his former friend, the guardian of his childhood, so broken and bowed down; resentment, sullenness, self-confidence, and pride, were all swept away, before the starting tears upon the withered cheeks. He could not bear to see them. He could not bear to think they fell at sight of him. He could not bear to view reflected in them, the reproachful and irrevocable Past.

He hurriedly advanced to seize the old man’s hand in his, when Mr Pecksniff interposed himself between them.

‘No, young man!’ said Mr Pecksniff, striking himself upon the breast, and stretching out his other arm towards his guest as if it were a wing to shelter him. ‘No, sir. None of that. Strike here, sir, here! Launch your arrows at me, sir, if you’ll have the goodness; not at Him!’

‘Grandfather!’ cried Martin. ‘Hear me! I implore you, let me speak!’

‘Would you, sir? Would you?’ said Mr Pecksniff, dodging about, so as to keep himself always between them. ‘Is it not enough, sir, that you come into my house like a thief in the night, or I should rather say, for we can never be too particular on the subject of Truth, like a thief in the day-time; bringing your dissolute companions with you, to plant themselves with their backs against the insides of parlour doors, and prevent the entrance or issuing forth of any of my household’—Mark had taken up this position, and held it quite unmoved—‘but would you also strike at venerable Virtue? Would you? Know that it is not defenceless. I will be its shield, young man. Assail me. Come on, sir. Fire away!’

‘Pecksniff,’ said the old man, in a feeble voice. ‘Calm yourself. Be quiet.’

‘I can’t be calm,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, ‘and I won’t be quiet. My benefactor and my friend! Shall even my house be no refuge for your hoary pillow!’

‘Stand aside!’ said the old man, stretching out his hand; ‘and let me see what it is I used to love so dearly.’

‘It is right that you should see it, my friend,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘It is well that you should see it, my noble sir. It is desirable that you should contemplate it in its true proportions. Behold it! There it is, sir. There it is!’

Martin could hardly be a mortal man, and not express in his face something of the anger and disdain with which Mr Pecksniff inspired him. But beyond this he evinced no knowledge whatever of that gentleman’s presence or existence. True, he had once, and that at first, glanced at him involuntarily, and with supreme contempt; but for any other heed he took of him, there might have been nothing in his place save empty air.

As Mr Pecksniff withdrew from between them, agreeably to the wish just now expressed (which he did during the delivery of the observations last recorded), old Martin, who had taken Mary Graham’s hand in his, and whispered kindly to her, as telling her she had no cause to be alarmed, gently pushed her from him, behind his chair; and looked steadily at his grandson.

‘And that,’ he said, ‘is he. Ah! that is he! Say what you wish to say. But come no nearer,’

‘His sense of justice is so fine,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘that he will hear even him, although he knows beforehand that nothing can come of it. Ingenuous mind!’ Mr Pecksniff did not address himself immediately to any person in saying this, but assuming the position of the Chorus in a Greek Tragedy, delivered his opinion as a commentary on the proceedings.

‘Grandfather!’ said Martin, with great earnestness. ‘From a painful journey, from a hard life, from a sick-bed, from privation and distress, from gloom and disappointment, from almost hopelessness and despair, I have come back to you.’

‘Rovers of this sort,’ observed Mr Pecksniff, as Chorus, ‘very commonly come back when they find they don’t meet with the success they expected in their marauding ravages.’

‘But for this faithful man,’ said Martin, turning towards Mark, ‘whom I first knew in this place, and who went away with me voluntarily, as a servant, but has been, throughout, my zealous and devoted friend; but for him, I must have died abroad. Far from home, far from any help or consolation; far from the probability even of my wretched fate being ever known to any one who cared to hear it—oh, that you would let me say, of being known to you!’

The old man looked at Mr Pecksniff. Mr Pecksniff looked at him. ‘Did you speak, my worthy sir?’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a smile. The old man answered in the negative. ‘I know what you thought,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with another smile. ‘Let him go on my friend. The development of self-interest in the human mind is always a curious study. Let him go on, sir.’

‘Go on!’ observed the old man; in a mechanical obedience, it appeared, to Mr Pecksniff’s suggestion.

‘I have been so wretched and so poor,’ said Martin, ‘that I am indebted to the charitable help of a stranger, in a land of strangers, for the means of returning here. All this tells against me in your mind, I know. I have given you cause to think I have been driven here wholly by want, and have not been led on, in any degree, by affection or regret. When I parted from you, Grandfather, I deserved that suspicion, but I do not now. I do not now.’

The Chorus put its hand in its waistcoat, and smiled. ‘Let him go on, my worthy sir,’ it said. ‘I know what you are thinking of, but don’t express it prematurely.’

Anche il signor Pecksniff era nella stanza, insieme a Mary. Nel breve istante in cui si riconobbero a vicenda, Martin vide l’uomo anziano abbassare la testa grigia e nascondere il viso tra le mani.

Lo colpì dritto al cuore. Nel giorno più egoista e più negligente della sua vita, quel residuo persistente dell’antico amore di quell’uomo anziano, quella “colonna portante” di una torre in rovina che aveva costruito nel passato con tanto orgoglio e speranza, avrebbe certamente causato dolore nel cuore di Martin. Ma ora, cambiato per il meglio, anche nei suoi aspetti peggiori; guardando attraverso un contesto diverso il suo vecchio amico, il custode della sua infanzia, così spezzato e umiliato, risentimento, malinconia, autostima e orgoglio erano tutti svaniti, davanti alle lacrime che iniziavano a scorrere sulle sue guance avvizzite. Non riusciva a sopportare di vederle. Non riusciva a pensare che cadessero non appena lo vedevano. Non riusciva a tollerare che in esse si riflettesse quel Passato pieno di rimproveri e irrevocabili errori.

Si affrettò ad avvicinarsi per prendere la mano dell’uomo anziano nella sua, quando il signor Pecksniff si intromise tra loro.

“No, giovane uomo!” disse il signor Pecksniff, battendosi il petto e tendendo l’altra mano verso il suo ospite, come se fosse un’ala per proteggerlo. “No, signore. Niente del genere. Colpitemi qui, signore, proprio qui! Scoccate le vostre frecce contro di me, se vi compiacete; ma non contro di Lui!”

“Nonno!” gridò Martin. “Ascoltatemi! Vi supplico, lasciatemi parlare!”

“Lo fareste davvero, signore? Lo fareste?” disse il signor Pecksniff, muovendosi continuamente in modo da restare sempre tra di loro. “Non basta forse che entri nella mia casa come un ladro di notte, o meglio, dato che non possiamo mai essere abbastanza attenti quando si tratta della verità, come un ladro di giorno; portando con voi i vostri compagni dissoluti, che si piazzano lì, con le spalle appoggiate alle porte delle stanze, impedendo l’ingresso o l’uscita a chiunque della mia famiglia, ” Mark aveva assunto questa posizione e la manteneva immobile, “Ma vorreste anche attaccare la venerabile Virtù? Lo fareste davvero? Sappiate che non è indifesa. Io sarò il suo scudo, giovane uomo. Attaccatemi pure. Avanti, signore. Lanciatevi!”

“Pecksniff,” disse l’uomo anziano con voce debole. “Calmati. Stai tranquillo.”

“Non riesco a stare calmo,” gridò il signor Pecksniff, “e non resterò in silenzio. Il mio benefattore e il mio amico. Anche la mia casa non dovrà essere un rifugio per la tua testa canuta!”

“Fai da parte!” disse l’uomo anziano, tendendo la mano; “lasciami vedere cosa era ciò che un tempo amavo così profondamente.”

“È giusto che tu lo veda, mio caro amico,” disse il signor Pecksniff. “È davvero bene che tu lo veda, mio nobile signore. È auspicabile che tu possa contemplarlo nelle sue vere proporzioni. Ecco! Lì è, signore. Lì!”

Martin difficilmente poteva essere un uomo mortale e non mostrare sul proprio volto quella rabbia e quel disprezzo che il signor Pecksniff suscitava in lui. Tuttavia, oltre a questo, non dimostrò alcuna consapevolezza della presenza o dell’esistenza di quell’uomo. È vero, una volta lo aveva guardato involontariamente, con estremo disprezzo; ma se non fosse stato per quel breve sguardo, al suo posto non ci sarebbe stata nulla, se non aria vuota.

Mentre il signor Pecksniff si allontanava da loro, in accordo con il desiderio appena espresso (che egli aveva manifestato durante le osservazioni registrate in precedenza), il vecchio Martin, che teneva la mano di Mary Graham nella sua e le sussurrava parole gentili per rassicurarla, la spinse dolcemente indietro, dietro la sua sedia; poi fissò con attenzione suo nipote.

“Ecco lui,” disse, “ah, è proprio lui! Dite pure quello che volete dire. Ma non avvicinatevi.”

“Il suo senso della giustizia è davvero delicato,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “al punto che ascolterà anche lui, pur sapendo in anticipo che non ne verrà nulla di buono. Che mente ingenua, ” Il signor Pecksniff non si rivolgeva a nessuno in particolare mentre lo diceva, ma assumeva la posizione del Coro in una tragedia greca, esprimendo il proprio parere come commento agli eventi che stavano avvenendo.

“Nonno!” disse Martin con grande sincerità. “Dopo un viaggio doloroso, dopo una vita difficile, dopo essere stato a letto malato, dopo privazioni e sofferenze, dopo oscurità e delusioni, dopo quasi speranza e disperazione, sono tornato da te.”

“Rovinatori di questo genere,” osservò il signor Pecksniff, “molto spesso tornano indietro quando si rendono conto di non aver ottenuto il successo che si aspettavano dalle loro razzie e devastazioni.”

“Se non fosse stato per quest’uomo fedele,” disse Martin, rivolgendosi a Mark, “che ho conosciuto per la prima volta in questo luogo e che è andato via con me volontariamente, come servitore, ma che è sempre stato il mio amico devoto e leale; se non fosse stato per lui, sarei morto all’estero. Lontano da casa, lontano da qualsiasi aiuto o consolazione; lontano anche dalla possibilità che la mia misera sorte venisse mai conosciuta da qualcuno che avesse voglia di ascoltarla. Oh, se solo mi permettessi di dire che voi ne sappiate!”

L’uomo anziano guardò il signor Pecksniff. Il signor Pecksniff lo guardò a sua volta. “Ha parlato, mio nobile signore?”, chiese il signor Pecksniff sorridendo. L’uomo anziano rispose di no. “So cosa stava pensando”, disse il signor Pecksniff con un altro sorriso. “Lasciatelo continuare, amico mio. Lo sviluppo dell’interesse per se stesso nella mente umana è sempre un argomento interessante da studiare. Lasciatelo proseguire, signore.”

“Vai avanti!”, osservò l’uomo anziano; sembrava che, in modo meccanico e obbediente, il signor Pecksniff avesse dato quell’ordine.

“Sono stato così sfortunato e povero,” disse Martin, “che ho dovuto ringraziare la caritatevole aiuto di uno straniero, in una terra di estranei, per avere i mezzi per tornare qui. So che tutto questo deve farvi pensare male di me. Vi ho dato motivo di credere che sia stato spinto qui soltanto dalla povertà, e non affatto da sentimenti o rimpianti. Quando mi sono separato da voi, Nonno, meritavo quella sospetto. Ma ora no. Ora davvero no.”

Il Coro mise la mano nella giacca e sorrise. “Lasciatelo continuare, mio nobile signore,” disse. “So a cosa state pensando, ma non esprimetelo troppo presto.”

Old Martin raised his eyes to Mr Pecksniff’s face, and appearing to derive renewed instruction from his looks and words, said, once again:

‘Go on!’

‘I have little more to say,’ returned Martin. ‘And as I say it now, with little or no hope, Grandfather; whatever dawn of hope I had on entering the room; believe it to be true. At least, believe it to be true.’

‘Beautiful Truth!’ exclaimed the Chorus, looking upward. ‘How is your name profaned by vicious persons! You don’t live in a well, my holy principle, but on the lips of false mankind. It is hard to bear with mankind, dear sir’—addressing the elder Mr Chuzzlewit; ‘but let us do so meekly. It is our duty so to do. Let us be among the Few who do their duty. If,’ pursued the Chorus, soaring up into a lofty flight, ‘as the poet informs us, England expects Every man to do his duty, England is the most sanguine country on the face of the earth, and will find itself continually disappointed.’

‘Upon that subject,’ said Martin, looking calmly at the old man as he spoke, but glancing once at Mary, whose face was now buried in her hands, upon the back of his easy-chair; ‘upon that subject which first occasioned a division between us, my mind and heart are incapable of change. Whatever influence they have undergone, since that unhappy time, has not been one to weaken but to strengthen me. I cannot profess sorrow for that, nor irresolution in that, nor shame in that. Nor would you wish me, I know. But that I might have trusted to your love, if I had thrown myself manfully upon it; that I might have won you over with ease, if I had been more yielding and more considerate; that I should have best remembered myself in forgetting myself, and recollecting you; reflection, solitude, and misery, have taught me. I came resolved to say this, and to ask your forgiveness; not so much in hope for the future, as in regret for the past; for all that I would ask of you is, that you would aid me to live. Help me to get honest work to do, and I would do it. My condition places me at the disadvantage of seeming to have only my selfish ends to serve, but try if that be so or not. Try if I be self-willed, obdurate, and haughty, as I was; or have been disciplined in a rough school. Let the voice of nature and association plead between us, Grandfather; and do not, for one fault, however thankless, quite reject me!’

As he ceased, the grey head of the old man drooped again; and he concealed his face behind his outspread fingers.

‘My dear sir,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, bending over him, ‘you must not give way to this. It is very natural, and very amiable, but you must not allow the shameless conduct of one whom you long ago cast off, to move you so far. Rouse yourself. Think,’ said Pecksniff, ‘think of Me, my friend.’

‘I will,’ returned old Martin, looking up into his face. ‘You recall me to myself. I will.’

‘Why, what,’ said Mr Pecksniff, sitting down beside him in a chair which he drew up for the purpose, and tapping him playfully on the arm, ‘what is the matter with my strong-minded compatriot, if I may venture to take the liberty of calling him by that endearing expression? Shall I have to scold my coadjutor, or to reason with an intellect like this? I think not.’

‘No, no. There is no occasion,’ said the old man. ‘A momentary feeling. Nothing more.’

‘Indignation,’ observed Mr Pecksniff, ‘WILL bring the scalding tear into the honest eye, I know’—he wiped his own elaborately. ‘But we have highest duties to perform than that. Rouse yourself, Mr Chuzzlewit. Shall I give expression to your thoughts, my friend?’

‘Yes,’ said old Martin, leaning back in his chair, and looking at him, half in vacancy and half in admiration, as if he were fascinated by the man. ‘Speak for me, Pecksniff, Thank you. You are true to me. Thank you!’

‘Do not unman me, sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, shaking his hand vigorously, ‘or I shall be unequal to the task. It is not agreeable to my feelings, my good sir, to address the person who is now before us, for when I ejected him from this house, after hearing of his unnatural conduct from your lips, I renounced communication with him for ever. But you desire it; and that is sufficient. Young man! The door is immediately behind the companion of your infamy. Blush if you can; begone without a blush, if you can’t.’

Martin looked as steadily at his grandfather as if there had been a dead silence all this time. The old man looked no less steadily at Mr Pecksniff.

‘When I ordered you to leave this house upon the last occasion of your being dismissed from it with disgrace,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘when, stung and stimulated beyond endurance by your shameless conduct to this extraordinarily noble-minded individual, I exclaimed “Go forth!” I told you that I wept for your depravity. Do not suppose that the tear which stands in my eye at this moment, is shed for you. It is shed for him, sir. It is shed for him.’

Here Mr Pecksniff, accidentally dropping the tear in question on a bald part of Mr Chuzzlewit’s head, wiped the place with his pocket-handkerchief, and begged pardon.

‘It is shed for him, sir, whom you seek to make the victim of your arts,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘whom you seek to plunder, to deceive, and to mislead. It is shed in sympathy with him, and admiration of him; not in pity for him, for happily he knows what you are. You shall not wrong him further, sir, in any way,’ said Mr Pecksniff, quite transported with enthusiasm, ‘while I have life. You may bestride my senseless corse, sir. That is very likely. I can imagine a mind like yours deriving great satisfaction from any measure of that kind. But while I continue to be called upon to exist, sir, you must strike at him through me. Awe!’ said Mr Pecksniff, shaking his head at Martin with indignant jocularity; ‘and in such a cause you will find me, my young sir, an Ugly Customer!’

Il vecchio Martin alzò lo sguardo sul viso del signor Pecksniff e, sembrando trarre nuove indicazioni dai suoi modi e dalle sue parole, disse ancora una volta:

‘Go on!’

“Non ho molto altro da dire,” rispose Martin. “E mentre lo dico ora, con pochissima o nessuna speranza, nonno. Qualunque ‘alba di speranza avessi avuto entrando in questa stanza, credetemi: è vera. Almeno, credetemelo.”

“Bella Verità!”, esclamò il Coro, alzando lo sguardo. “Come il tuo nome viene profanato da persone malvagie! Non vivi in un pozzo di virtù, mio sacro principio, ma sulle labbra dell’uomo ingannevole. È difficile sopportare l’umanità, caro signore” – si rivolgeva al più anziano signor Chuzzlewit – “ma dobbiamo comportarci con umiltà. È nostro dovere farlo. Sia tra coloro che adempiono ai loro doveri. Se”, proseguì il Coro, elevandosi in un canto solenne, “come ci dice il poeta, l’Inghilterra si aspetta che ogni uomo adempia al proprio dovere. L’Inghilterra è il paese più generoso della terra, ma continuerà a rimanere delusa”.

“Su quell’argomento,” disse Martin, guardando con calma l’uomo anziano mentre parlava, ma lanciando un’occhiata a Mary, la cui faccia era ora nascosta tra le mani sullo schienale della sua poltrona; “su quell’argomento che per primo causò una separazione tra di noi, la mia mente e il mio cuore sono incapaci di cambiare. Qualunque influenza abbiano avuto da allora, non ha fatto altro che rafforzarmi. Non posso provare rimorso per questo, né incertezza, né vergogna. E so che nemmeno voi lo vorreste. Vorrei soltanto aver potuto fidarmi del vostro amore, se me ne fossi appoggiato con coraggio; vorrei aver potuto conquistare facilmente il vostro cuore, se fossi stato più arrendevole e più premuroso. La riflessione, la solitudine e la sofferenza mi hanno insegnato. Sono venuto qui deciso a dirvi tutto questo e a chiedervi il vostro perdono; non tanto nella speranza per il futuro, quanto nel rimorso per il passato. Tutto ciò che vi chiedo è che mi aiutiate a vivere. Aiutatemi a trovare un lavoro onesto da svolgere, e lo farò con impegno. La mia situazione potrebbe far pensare che io abbia come unico obiettivo il mio interesse personale. Ma provateci! Provate a vedere se sono davvero così, se sono testardo, ostinato e arrogante. O se invece ho imparato qualcosa in una scuola dura. Lasciate che la voce della natura e delle relazioni umane intercedano tra di noi, nonno. E per favore, non rifiutatemi del tutto a causa di un errore, per quanto imperdonabile, ”

Non appena smise di parlare, la testa grigia dell’uomo anziano si abbassò di nuovo; nascose il viso dietro le dita distese.

“Mio caro signore,” esclamò il signor Pecksniff, chinandosi su di lui, “non deve cedere a queste emozioni. È molto naturale e molto gentile da parte sua, ma non deve permettere che il comportamento vergognoso di una persona che ha da tempo abbandonato la possa influenzarlo così tanto. Si riprenda. Pensi,” disse Pecksniff, “pensi a me, mio amico.”

“Lo farò,” rispose il vecchio Martin, alzando lo sguardo verso di lui. “Mi fai ricordare chi sono veramente. Lo farò.”

“Perché, cosa, ” disse il signor Pecksniff, sedendosi accanto a lui su una sedia che aveva tirato vicino apposta, e dandogli scherzosamente una pacca sul braccio. “Che cos’è successo al mio compatriota dal forte carattere, se posso permettermi di chiamarlo con quell’espressione affettuosa? Dovrò rimproverare il mio assistente, o cercare di ragionare con un’intelligenza del genere? Penso di no.”

“No, no. Non c’è alcuna ragione,” disse l’uomo anziano. “È solo un momento di emozione. Nient’altro.”

“L’indignazione,” osservò il signor Pecksniff, “farà sicuramente scendere una lacrima di rabbia negli occhi onesti. Lo so bene” – si asciugò gli occhi con cura. “Ma abbiamo doveri molto più importanti da compiere. Svegliati, signor Chuzzlewit. Devo esprimere i tuoi pensieri, amico mio?”

“Sì,” disse il vecchio Martin, appoggiandosi allo schienale della sedia e guardandolo, metà con distacco e metà con ammirazione, come se fosse affascinato da quell’uomo. “Parla tu per me, Pecksniff. Grazie. Sei fedele a me. Grazie!”

“Non mi privino della mia dignità, signore,” disse il signor Pecksniff scuotendogli vigorosamente la mano, “altrimenti non sarò all’altezza della situazione. Non è affatto piacevole per i miei sentimenti, mio buon signore, rivolgermi alla persona che ora si trova davanti a noi; infatti, quando lo ho cacciato da questa casa, dopo aver sentito dalle sue stesse parole il suo comportamento inappropriato, ho deciso di interrompere per sempre ogni rapporto con lui. Ma voi lo desiderate. E questo basta. Giovane uomo! La porta si trova proprio dietro al compagno della sua infamia. Arrossite, se potete; andatevene senza arrossire, se non potete.”

Martin guardava suo nonno con tale fermezza, come se in tutto quel tempo fosse regnata una totale silenzio. Anche l’uomo anziano fissava il signor Pecksniff con la stessa determinazione.

“Quando vi ordinai di lasciare questa casa l’ultima volta che foste cacciati da essa con disonore,” disse il signor Pecksniff; “quando, offeso e stimolato oltre ogni sopportazione dal vostro comportamento senza vergogna verso quest’uomo di animo straordinariamente nobile, esclamai ‘Andatevene!’ Vi dissi che piangevo per la vostra depravazione. Non pensiate che la lacrima che ora mi brilla negli occhi sia versata per voi. È versata per lui, signore. È versata per lui.”

Ecco il signor Pecksniff: accidentalmente, fece cadere quella lacrima su una parte calva della testa del signor Chuzzlewit, pulì quel punto con il fazzoletto da tasca e chiese scusa.

“Viene versata per lui, signore, colui che voi cercate di rendere vittima delle vostre arti, colui che voi cercate di derubare, ingannare e trarre in errore. Viene versata per compassione verso di lui, per ammirazione nei suoi confronti, non per pietà, poiché fortunatamente lui sa chi siete realmente. Non lo offenderete più in alcun modo, signore,” disse il signor Pecksniff, completamente trasportato dall’entusiasmo. “Potete calpestare la mia anima insensibile, è molto probabile che lo facciate. Posso immaginare che una mente come la vostra traggia grande soddisfazione da simili atti. Ma finché sarò costretto a esistere, signore, dovrete colpire lui attraverso di me. Ahimè!” disse il signor Pecksniff, scuotendo la testa con indignata ironia verso Martin; “e in una causa del genere, mio giovane signore, vi troverete di fronte a un cliente davvero ‘spietato’, ”

Still Martin looked steadily and mildly at his grandfather. ‘Will you give me no answer,’ he said, at length, ‘not a word?’

‘You hear what has been said,’ replied the old man, without averting his eyes from the face of Mr Pecksniff; who nodded encouragingly.

‘I have not heard your voice. I have not heard your spirit,’ returned Martin.

‘Tell him again,’ said the old man, still gazing up in Mr Pecksniff’s face.

‘I only hear,’ replied Martin, strong in his purpose from the first, and stronger in it as he felt how Pecksniff winced and shrunk beneath his contempt; ‘I only hear what you say to me, grandfather.’

Perhaps it was well for Mr Pecksniff that his venerable friend found in his (Mr Pecksniff’s) features an exclusive and engrossing object of contemplation, for if his eyes had gone astray, and he had compared young Martin’s bearing with that of his zealous defender, the latter disinterested gentleman would scarcely have shown to greater advantage than on the memorable afternoon when he took Tom Pinch’s last receipt in full of all demands. One really might have thought there was some quality in Mr Pecksniff—an emanation from the brightness and purity within him perhaps—which set off and adorned his foes; they looked so gallant and so manly beside him.

‘Not a word?’ said Martin, for the second time.

‘I remember that I have a word to say, Pecksniff,’ observed the old man. ‘But a word. You spoke of being indebted to the charitable help of some stranger for the means of returning to England. Who is he? And what help in money did he render you?’

Although he asked this question of Martin, he did not look towards him, but kept his eyes on Mr Pecksniff as before. It appeared to have become a habit with him, both in a literal and figurative sense, to look to Mr Pecksniff alone.

Martin took out his pencil, tore a leaf from his pocket-book, and hastily wrote down the particulars of his debt to Mr Bevan. The old man stretched out his hand for the paper, and took it; but his eyes did not wander from Mr Pecksniff’s face.

‘It would be a poor pride and a false humility,’ said Martin, in a low voice, ‘to say, I do not wish that to be paid, or that I have any present hope of being able to pay it. But I never felt my poverty so deeply as I feel it now.’

‘Read it to me, Pecksniff,’ said the old man.

Mr Pecksniff, after approaching the perusal of the paper as if it were a manuscript confession of a murder, complied.

‘I think, Pecksniff,’ said old Martin, ‘I could wish that to be discharged. I should not like the lender, who was abroad, who had no opportunity of making inquiry, and who did (as he thought) a kind action, to suffer.’

‘An honourable sentiment, my dear sir. Your own entirely. But a dangerous precedent,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘permit me to suggest.’

‘It shall not be a precedent,’ returned the old man. ‘It is the only recognition of him. But we will talk of it again. You shall advise me. There is nothing else?’

‘Nothing else,’ said Mr Pecksniff buoyantly, ‘but for you to recover this intrusion—this cowardly and indefensible outrage on your feelings—with all possible dispatch, and smile again.’

‘You have nothing more to say?’ inquired the old man, laying his hand with unusual earnestness on Mr Pecksniff’s sleeve.

Mr Pecksniff would not say what rose to his lips. For reproaches he observed, were useless.

‘You have nothing at all to urge? You are sure of that! If you have, no matter what it is, speak freely. I will oppose nothing that you ask of me,’ said the old man.

The tears rose in such abundance to Mr Pecksniff’s eyes at this proof of unlimited confidence on the part of his friend, that he was fain to clasp the bridge of his nose convulsively before he could at all compose himself. When he had the power of utterance again, he said with great emotion, that he hoped he should live to deserve this; and added, that he had no other observation whatever to make.

For a few moments the old man sat looking at him, with that blank and motionless expression which is not uncommon in the faces of those whose faculties are on the wane, in age. But he rose up firmly too, and walked towards the door, from which Mark withdrew to make way for him.

The obsequious Mr Pecksniff proffered his arm. The old man took it. Turning at the door, he said to Martin, waving him off with his hand,

‘You have heard him. Go away. It is all over. Go!’

Mr Pecksniff murmured certain cheering expressions of sympathy and encouragement as they retired; and Martin, awakening from the stupor into which the closing portion of this scene had plunged him, to the opportunity afforded by their departure, caught the innocent cause of all in his embrace, and pressed her to his heart.

‘Dear girl!’ said Martin. ‘He has not changed you. Why, what an impotent and harmless knave the fellow is!’

‘You have restrained yourself so nobly! You have borne so much!’

‘Restrained myself!’ cried Martin, cheerfully. ‘You were by, and were unchanged, I knew. What more advantage did I want? The sight of me was such a bitterness to the dog, that I had my triumph in his being forced to endure it. But tell me, love—for the few hasty words we can exchange now are precious—what is this which has been rumoured to me? Is it true that you are persecuted by this knave’s addresses?’

‘I was, dear Martin, and to some extent am now; but my chief source of unhappiness has been anxiety for you. Why did you leave us in such terrible suspense?’

‘Sickness, distance; the dread of hinting at our real condition, the impossibility of concealing it except in perfect silence; the knowledge that the truth would have pained you infinitely more than uncertainty and doubt,’ said Martin, hurriedly; as indeed everything else was done and said, in those few hurried moments, ‘were the causes of my writing only once. But Pecksniff? You needn’t fear to tell me the whole tale; for you saw me with him face to face, hearing him speak, and not taking him by the throat; what is the history of his pursuit of you? Is it known to my grandfather?’

Ancora una volta, Martin guardò il proprio nonno con occhi tranquilli e gentili. “Non mi darai alcuna risposta?”, disse infine, “nemmeno una parola?”

“Avete sentito ciò che è stato detto,” rispose l’uomo anziano, senza distogliere lo sguardo dal volto di Mr Pecksniff, il quale annuì incoraggiandolo.

“Non ho sentito la tua voce. Non ho percepito il tuo spirito,” rispose Martin.

“Ripetiglielo ancora,” disse l’uomo anziano, continuando a fissare il viso di Mr Pecksniff.

“Riesco solo a sentire,” rispose Martin, deciso fin dall’inizio e ancora più determinato quando vide come Pecksniff si ritraesse e si accasciasse sotto il suo disprezzo; “Riesco solo a sentire ciò che mi dici, nonno.”

Forse fu davvero un bene per il signor Pecksniff che il suo venerabile amico trovasse nelle sue sembianze un oggetto di contemplazione così affascinante e attirante: perché se i suoi occhi si fossero allontanati da quella realtà, e avesse paragonato l’aspetto del giovane Martin a quello del suo zelante difensore, quest’ultimo gentiluomo disinteressato probabilmente non sarebbe apparso così vantaggiosamente come in quel pomeriggio memorabile in cui esaminò attentamente l’ultima ricevuta di Tom Pinch, piena di tutte le richieste presenti. Si sarebbe davvero potuto pensare che nel signor Pecksniff ci fosse qualche qualità – forse un’emanazione della sua intelligenza e purezza interiore – che metteva in risalto i suoi avversari, facendoli apparire così eleganti e virili al suo fianco.

“Nemuna parola?”, disse Martin, per la seconda volta.

“Ricordo di avere qualcosa da dire, Pecksniff,” osservò l’uomo anziano.
“Ma solo una parola. Avete detto di essere in debito con l’aiuto caritatevole di qualche sconosciuto per poter tornare in Inghilterra. Chi è quest’uomo? E quale aiuto finanziario vi ha fornito?”

Anche se pose questa domanda a Martin, non lo guardò, ma tenne gli occhi fissi su Mr Pecksniff, come prima. Sembrava essere diventata una sua abitudine, sia in senso letterale che figurato, rivolgersi soltanto a Mr Pecksniff.

Martin tirò fuori la sua penna, strappò una pagina dal suo portafoglio e scrisse in fretta i dettagli del suo debito con il signor Bevan. L’uomo anziano tese la mano per prendere il foglio, ma i suoi occhi non lasciarono mai il viso del signor Pecksniff.

“Sarebbe una misera orgoglio e una falsa umiltà dire che non desidero che mi venga pagato, o che abbia alcuna speranza attuale di poterlo fare. Ma non ho mai sentito la mia povertà così profonda come ora.”

“Leggimelo ad alta voce, Pecksniff,” disse l’uomo anziano.

Il signor Pecksniff, avvicinandosi alla lettura del documento come se si trattasse di una confessione scritta di un omicidio, obbedì alle istruzioni.

“Penso, Pecksniff,” disse il vecchio Martin, “che mi piacerebbe se quella responsabilità potesse essere eliminata. Non vorrei che il creditore, che si trovava all’estero e non aveva modo di informarsi, e che comunque (secondo lui) aveva agito in modo gentile, soffrisse a causa di questo.”

“Un sentimento onorevole, mio caro signore. Assolutamente vostro. Ma un pericoloso precedente,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “permettetemi di suggerire, ”

“Non dovrà diventare un precedente,” rispose l’uomo anziano. “È l’unica forma di riconoscimento che gli viene concessa. Ma ne parleremo ancora. Mi darai tu il tuo parere. Non c’è altro?”

“Nient’altro,” disse il signor Pecksniff con entusiasmo, “se non che tu rimuova al più presto questa intrusione, questo oltraggio codardo e insostenibile ai tuoi sentimenti, e che torni a sorridere.”

“Non hai più nulla da dire?”, chiese l’uomo anziano, posando la sua mano con insolita serietà sul braccio del signor Pecksniff.

Il signor Pecksniff non voleva dire quale parola avesse sulle labbra. Secondo lui, le rimproveri erano inutili.

“Non hai proprio nulla da chiedermi? Ne sei sicuro? Se c’è qualcosa, qualsiasi cosa sia, parla liberamente. Non mi opporrò a nulla di ciò che mi chiederai,” disse l’uomo anziano.

Le lacrime scorrevano copiose lungo le guance di Mr Pecksniff di fronte a questa dimostrazione di fiducia illimitata da parte del suo amico; tanto che fu costretto ad afferrarsi il naso con forza, cercando di riprendersi. Quando finalmente riuscì a parlare, disse con grande emozione che sperava di meritare davvero una tale dimostrazione di affetto; e aggiunse che non aveva altro da dire.

Per alcuni momenti l’uomo anziano rimase seduto a fissarlo, con quell’espressione vuota e immobile che non è affatto insolita sul volto di coloro le cui facoltà mentali declinano con l’età. Ma poi si alzò deciso e si diresse verso la porta; Mark si fece da parte per lasciarlo passare.

Il servile signor Pecksniff gli tese il braccio; l’uomo anziano lo accettò. Girandosi verso la porta, disse a Martin, facendogli segno con la mano di andarsene.

“L’hai sentito. Vattene. È finita. Va’!”

Mister Pecksniff mormorò alcune parole di comprensione e incoraggiamento mentre loro si allontanavano; e Martin, uscendo dallo stordimento in cui l’ultima parte di quella scena lo aveva gettato, approfittò dell’occasione offerta dalla loro partenza per stringere tra le braccia la causa innocente di tutto ciò che era accaduto e premersela contro il cuore.

“Carina ragazza!” disse Martin. “Lui non ti ha cambiata affatto. Che individuo debole e inoffensivo!”

“Ti sei trattenuto in modo così nobile. Hai sopportato così tanto!”

“Mi sono trattenuto!”, esclamò Martin, felice. “Eri lì, e non eri cambiato. Che altro vantaggio potevo desiderare? La mia presenza rappresentava un tale tormento per quel cane. Il mio trionfo è stato vedere che ha dovuto sopportarla. Ma dimmi, amore, poiché queste poche parole affrettate che possiamo scambiare ora sono preziose. Che cos’è questa storia che mi hanno raccontato? È vero che sei perseguitata a causa delle sue insinuazioni?”

“Lo ero, caro Martin, e in un certo senso lo sono ancora oggi; ma la mia principale fonte di infelicità è stata l’ansia per te. Perché ci hai lasciati in una tale angosciosa incertezza?”

“Malattia, distanza. La paura di accennare alla nostra vera condizione, l’impossibilità di nasconderla se non nel perfetto silenzio. Il sapere che la verità ti avrebbe causato dolore infinitamente maggiore dell’incertezza e del >dubbio”, disse Martin in fretta; infatti, tutto ciò che fu fatto e detto in quei pochi momenti frenetici rappresentava davvero la ragione per cui scriveva. Ma Pecksniff? Non c’è bisogno che tu abbia paura di raccontarmi tutta la storia; perché tu mi hai visto di fronte a lui, l’hai sentito parlare. E non gli hai afferrato la gola. Qual è dunque la vera storia della sua persecuzione nei tuoi confronti? Lo sa anche mio nonno?”

‘Yes.’

‘And he assists him in it?’

‘No,’ she answered eagerly.

‘Thank Heaven!’ cried Martin, ‘that it leaves his mind unclouded in that one respect!’

‘I do not think,’ said Mary, ‘it was known to him at first. When this man had sufficiently prepared his mind, he revealed it to him by degrees. I think so, but I only know it from my own impression: now from anything they told me. Then he spoke to me alone.’

‘My grandfather did?’ said Martin.

‘Yes—spoke to me alone, and told me—’

‘What the hound had said,’ cried Martin. ‘Don’t repeat it.’

‘And said I knew well what qualities he possessed; that he was moderately rich; in good repute; and high in his favour and confidence. But seeing me very much distressed, he said that he would not control or force my inclinations, but would content himself with telling me the fact. He would not pain me by dwelling on it, or reverting to it; nor has he ever done so since, but has truly kept his word.’

‘The man himself?—’ asked Martin.

‘He has had few opportunities of pursuing his suit. I have never walked out alone, or remained alone an instant in his presence. Dear Martin, I must tell you,’ she continued, ‘that the kindness of your grandfather to me remains unchanged. I am his companion still. An indescribable tenderness and compassion seem to have mingled themselves with his old regard; and if I were his only child, I could not have a gentler father. What former fancy or old habit survives in this, when his heart has turned so cold to you, is a mystery I cannot penetrate; but it has been, and it is, a happiness to me, that I remained true to him; that if he should wake from his delusion, even at the point of death, I am here, love, to recall you to his thoughts.’

Martin looked with admiration on her glowing face, and pressed his lips to hers.

‘I have sometimes heard, and read,’ she said, ‘that those whose powers had been enfeebled long ago, and whose lives had faded, as it were, into a dream, have been known to rouse themselves before death, and inquire for familiar faces once very dear to them; but forgotten, unrecognized, hated even, in the meantime. Think, if with his old impressions of this man, he should suddenly resume his former self, and find in him his only friend!’

‘I would not urge you to abandon him, dearest,’ said Martin, ‘though I could count the years we are to wear out asunder. But the influence this fellow exercises over him has steadily increased, I fear.’

She could not help admitting that. Steadily, imperceptibly, and surely, until it was paramount and supreme. She herself had none; and yet he treated her with more affection than at any previous time. Martin thought the inconsistency a part of his weakness and decay.

‘Does the influence extend to fear?’ said Martin. ‘Is he timid of asserting his own opinion in the presence of this infatuation? I fancied so just now.’

‘I have thought so, often. Often when we are sitting alone, almost as we used to do, and I have been reading a favourite book to him or he has been talking quite cheerfully, I have observed that the entrance of Mr Pecksniff has changed his whole demeanour. He has broken off immediately, and become what you have seen to-day. When we first came here he had his impetuous outbreaks, in which it was not easy for Mr Pecksniff with his utmost plausibility to appease him. But these have long since dwindled away. He defers to him in everything, and has no opinion upon any question, but that which is forced upon him by this treacherous man.’

Such was the account, rapidly furnished in whispers, and interrupted, brief as it was, by many false alarms of Mr Pecksniff’s return; which Martin received of his grandfather’s decline, and of that good gentleman’s ascendancy. He heard of Tom Pinch too, and Jonas too, with not a little about himself into the bargain; for though lovers are remarkable for leaving a great deal unsaid on all occasions, and very properly desiring to come back and say it, they are remarkable also for a wonderful power of condensation, and can, in one way or other, give utterance to more language—eloquent language—in any given short space of time, than all the six hundred and fifty-eight members in the Commons House of Parliament of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland; who are strong lovers no doubt, but of their country only, which makes all the difference; for in a passion of that kind (which is not always returned), it is the custom to use as many words as possible, and express nothing whatever.

A caution from Mr Tapley; a hasty interchange of farewells, and of something else which the proverb says must not be told of afterwards; a white hand held out to Mr Tapley himself, which he kissed with the devotion of a knight-errant; more farewells, more something else’s; a parting word from Martin that he would write from London and would do great things there yet (Heaven knows what, but he quite believed it); and Mark and he stood on the outside of the Pecksniffian halls.

‘A short interview after such an absence!’ said Martin, sorrowfully. ‘But we are well out of the house. We might have placed ourselves in a false position by remaining there, even so long, Mark.’

‘I don’t know about ourselves, sir,’ he returned; ‘but somebody else would have got into a false position, if he had happened to come back again, while we was there. I had the door all ready, sir. If Pecksniff had showed his head, or had only so much as listened behind it, I would have caught him like a walnut. He’s the sort of man,’ added Mr Tapley, musing, ‘as would squeeze soft, I know.’

A person who was evidently going to Mr Pecksniff’s house, passed them at this moment. He raised his eyes at the mention of the architect’s name; and when he had gone on a few yards, stopped and gazed at them. Mr Tapley, also, looked over his shoulder, and so did Martin; for the stranger, as he passed, had looked very sharply at them.

“Sì, davvero.”

“E lo aiuta in questo?”

“No,” rispose lei con entusiasmo.

“Grazie al cielo!”, esclamò Martin, “che in quel senso la sua mente rimanga serena!”

“Non credo,” disse Mary, “che all’inizio lui ne fosse a conoscenza. Quando quest’uomo ebbe preparato a dovere la propria mente, glielo rivelò gradualmente. Io penso così, ma lo so soltanto in base alla mia impressione personale; ora, invece, lo so grazie a ciò che mi hanno detto. Poi lui parlò con me da solo.”

“Mio nonno l’ha fatto?” disse Martin.

“Sì, mi ha parlato da solo e mi ha detto, ”

“Cosa ha detto quel cane, ”, gridò Martin. “Non ripetetelo.”

“E disse che sapeva molto bene quali qualità possedesse; che era moderatamente ricco, aveva una buona reputazione e godeva di grande stima e fiducia da parte degli altri. Ma vedendomi molto angosciato, aggiunse che non avrebbe cercato di controllare o forzare le mie inclinazioni, ma si sarebbe accontentato di rivelarmi la verità. Non volle tormentarmi ripetendo l’argomento, né tornarci sopra in seguito; e infatti ha sempre mantenuto la sua parola.”

“L’uomo stesso?, ” chiese Martin.

“Ha avuto poche opportunità di perseguire i suoi sentimenti. Non sono mai uscita da sola, né sono rimasta un attimo da sola in sua presenza. Caro Martin,” continuò, “devo dirti che la gentilezza di tuo nonno verso di me è rimasta immutata. Sono ancora la sua compagna. Una tenerezza e una compassione indescrivibili sembrano essersi mescolate al suo vecchio affetto; e se fossi l’unica sua figlia, non potrei desiderare un padre più gentile. Qualunque vecchia abitudine o immaginazione possa ancora esistere in lui, ora che il suo cuore è diventato così freddo nei tuoi confronti, rimane un mistero che non riesco a comprendere. Ma per me è stata una grande felicità essere rimasta fedele a lui; se dovesse svegliarsi da questa illusione, anche all’ultimo momento della sua vita, io sarò qui, con il mio amore, ad aiutarlo a ricordarti.”

Martin guardò con ammirazione il suo viso radioso e posò le sue labbra sulle sue.

“A volte ho sentito e letto,” disse lei, “che coloro la cui forza era stata indebolita da tempo, e le cui vite sembravano essersi trasformate in un sogno, sono stati capaci di risvegliarsi prima della morte e di cercare volti un tempo molto cari per loro; ma ormai dimenticati, non riconosciuti, persino odiati nel frattempo. Pensate: se, con i suoi vecchi ricordi di quest’uomo, lui dovesse improvvisamente riprendere il controllo della propria identità passata e trovarvi l’unico amico che gli rimane, ”

“Non ti esorterei ad abbandonarlo, carissima,” disse Martin, “anche se potrei contare con precisione gli anni che ci separeranno. Ma temo che l’influenza che quest’uomo ha su di lui stia aumentando costantemente.”

Non poté fare a meno di ammetterlo. Lentamente, in modo impercettibile e sicuro, fino a quando divenne qualcosa di fondamentale e supremo. Lei stessa non ne aveva alcuna; eppure lui la trattava con più affetto che in qualsiasi altro momento precedente. Martin considerava questa contraddizione parte della sua debolezza e del suo declino.

“Quel tipo di influenza si estende anche alla paura?” chiese Martin. “È forse timido nel esprimere la propria opinione davanti a questa ossessione? Proprio adesso me lo sono chiesto.”

“L’ho pensato spesso. Molte volte, quando siamo seduti da soli, proprio come facevamo un tempo, e io gli leggo un libro che gli piace o lui parla con grande allegria, noto che l’arrivo di Mr Pecksniff cambia completamente il suo comportamento. Si interrompe immediatamente e diventa quello che avete visto oggi. Quando siamo arrivati qui per la prima volta, aveva quelle sue esplosioni d’impulsività; a quel tempo non era facile per Mr Pecksniff, con tutta la sua capacità di persuasione, calmarlo. Ma ormai queste reazioni sono da tempo scomparse. Ora obbedisce a lui in tutto e non ha alcuna opinione su nulla, se non quella che gli viene imposta da quest’uomo traditore.”

Ecco il racconto che gli fu rapidamente riferito sottovoce, e che, per quanto breve, venne interrotto da molte false notizie riguardo al ritorno di Mr Pecksniff; questo era ciò che Martin veniva a sapere sulla malattia di suo nonno e sull’ascesa sociale di quel gentiluomo. Sentì parlare anche di Tom Pinch e di Jonas, e naturalmente anche di sé stesso; perché sebbene gli innamorati siano noti per lasciare molte cose inespresse in ogni occasione, desiderando ardentemente tornare su di esse in un secondo momento, sono anche straordinari nella loro capacità di sintesi: riescono, in qualche modo, a esprimere in pochissimo tempo molto più di quanto possano fare i seicento cinquantotto membri della Casa dei Comuni del Parlamento del Regno Unito di Gran Bretagna e Irlanda; questi ultimi, senza dubbio, sono forti innamorati, ma solo del loro paese, il che fa tutta la differenza. Perché in un sentimento del genere (che non sempre è ricambiato), si ha l’abitudine di usare quante più parole possibile, per non esprimere assolutamente nulla.

Un avvertimento da parte del signor Tapley; un rapido scambio di addii, e qualcos’altro di cui il proverbio dice che non si dovrebbe parlare in seguito; una mano bianca tesa al signor Tapley stesso, che egli baciò con la devozione di un cavaliere errante; ancora addii, e ancora qualcos’altro. Un ultimo saluto da parte di Martin: avrebbe scritto da Londra e lì avrebbe compiuto grandi imprese (Dio solo sa quali, ma lui ci credeva davvero); infine, Mark ed egli si trovarono fuori dalle sale di Pecksniff.

“Un breve colloquio dopo una tale assenza, ”, disse Martin con tristezza.
“Ma ormai siamo completamente fuori da quella casa. Rimanerci anche solo per poco tempo avrebbe potuto metterci in una situazione difficile, Mark.”

“Non so cosa ne sarebbe stato di noi, signore,” rispose; “ma qualcun altro si sarebbe trovato in una situazione imbarazzante, se fosse tornato di nuovo mentre eravamo lì. Avevo già preparato la porta, signore. Se Pecksniff avesse messo fuori la testa, o anche solo ascoltato da dietro, lo avrei catturato all’istante. È quel tipo di uomo,” aggiunse Mr Tapley, riflettendo, “che è capace di fare qualsiasi cosa.”

Una persona che evidentemente stava dirigendosi verso la casa del signor Pecksniff li superò in quel momento. Alzò lo sguardo quando sentì menzionare il nome dell’architetto; dopo aver camminato per qualche metro, si fermò e li fissò. Anche il signor Tapley e Martin si girarono a guardare: l’estraneo, infatti, mentre li superava, li aveva osservati con molta attenzione.

‘Who may that be, I wonder!’ said Martin. ‘The face seems familiar to me, but I don’t know the man.’

‘He seems to have a amiable desire that his face should be tolerable familiar to us,’ said Mr Tapley, ‘for he’s a-staring pretty hard. He’d better not waste his beauty, for he ain’t got much to spare.’

Coming in sight of the Dragon, they saw a travelling carriage at the door.

‘And a Salisbury carriage, eh?’ said Mr Tapley. ‘That’s what he came in depend upon it. What’s in the wind now? A new pupil, I shouldn’t wonder. P’raps it’s a order for another grammar-school, of the same pattern as the last.’

Before they could enter at the door, Mrs Lupin came running out; and beckoning them to the carriage showed them a portmanteau with the name of CHUZZLEWIT upon it.

‘Miss Pecksniff’s husband that was,’ said the good woman to Martin. ‘I didn’t know what terms you might be on, and was quite in a worry till you came back.’

‘He and I have never interchanged a word yet,’ observed Martin; ‘and as I have no wish to be better or worse acquainted with him, I will not put myself in his way. We passed him on the road, I have no doubt. I am glad he timed his coming as he did. Upon my word! Miss Pecksniff’s husband travels gayly!’

‘A very fine-looking gentleman with him—in the best room now,’ whispered Mrs Lupin, glancing up at the window as they went into the house. ‘He has ordered everything that can be got for dinner; and has the glossiest moustaches and whiskers ever you saw.’

‘Has he?’ cried Martin, ‘why then we’ll endeavour to avoid him too, in the hope that our self-denial may be strong enough for the sacrifice. It is only for a few hours,’ said Martin, dropping wearily into a chair behind the little screen in the bar. ‘Our visit has met with no success, my dear Mrs Lupin, and I must go to London.’

‘Dear, dear!’ cried the hostess.

‘Yes, one foul wind no more makes a winter, than one swallow makes a summer. I’ll try it again. Tom Pinch has succeeded. With his advice to guide me, I may do the same. I took Tom under my protection once, God save the mark!’ said Martin, with a melancholy smile; ‘and promised I would make his fortune. Perhaps Tom will take me under HIS protection now, and teach me how to earn my bread.’

“Chi può essere? Mi chiedo, ” disse Martin. “Quel viso mi sembra familiare, ma non ricordo chi sia quell’uomo.”

“Sembra che abbia il desiderio di far sì che il suo viso ci appaia attraente e familiare,” disse il signor Tapley, “perché sta fissandoci con molta insistenza. Sarebbe meglio che non sprecasse la sua bellezza, visto che non ne ha molto in abbondanza.”

Avvicinandosi al Drago, videro una carrozza ferma davanti alla porta.

“E una carrozza di Salisbury, eh?” disse il signor Tapley. “Di sicuro è con quella che è arrivato. Cosa c’è in giro adesso? Un nuovo alunno, non mi sorprenderebbe. Forse è un ordine per un’altra scuola elementare, dello stesso modello della precedente.”

Prima che potessero entrare dalla porta, la signora Lupin uscì di corsa e, facendo loro segno di avvicinarsi alla carrozza, mostrò loro una valigia sulla quale era scritto il nome “CHUZZLEWIT”.

“Era il marito di Miss Pecksniff,” disse la brava donna a Martin. “Non sapevo quali fossero i vostri rapporti e ero davvero preoccupata finché non siete tornato.”

“Non abbiamo mai scambiato una parola,” osservò Martin; “e poiché non ho alcun desiderio di entrare in rapporti più stretti con lui, non intendo ostacolarlo. L’abbiamo incrociato sulla strada, ne sono sicuro. Sono contento che abbia scelto proprio quel momento per arrivare. Davvero! Il marito di Miss Pecksniff viaggia con grande allegria!”

“Un gentiluomo molto distinto, adesso è nella stanza migliore,” sussurrò la signora Lupin, alzando lo sguardo verso la finestra mentre entravano nella casa. “Ha ordinato tutto ciò che si possa trovare per cena, e ha le basette e i baffi più lucidi che abbiate mai visto.”

“Davvero?” esclamò Martin. “Allora cercheremo anche noi di evitarlo, nella speranza che il nostro auto-sacrificio sia abbastanza forte da sopportare questa perdita. È solo per poche ore,” aggiunse, lasciandosi cadere stancamente su una sedia dietro lo schermo del bar. “La nostra visita non ha avuto alcun successo, mia cara signora Lupin. Devo andare a Londra.”

“Caro, caro!” gridò la padrona di casa.

“Sì, un solo soffio di vento non basta a creare un Inverno, così come un solo uccello che mangia le farfalle non basta a creare un Estate. Proverò ancora. Tom Pinch ci è riuscito. Con i suoi consigli, forse anch’io ce la farò. Una volta l’ho preso sotto la mia protezione; che Dio mi perdoni se ho sbagliato,” disse Martin con un sorriso melancolico. “Gli avevo promesso di farlo diventare ricco. Forse ora Tom prenderà me sotto la SUA protezione e mi insegnerà a guadagnarmi da vivere.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

FURTHER CONTINUATION OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND

It was a special quality, among the many admirable qualities possessed by Mr Pecksniff, that the more he was found out, the more hypocrisy he practised. Let him be discomfited in one quarter, and he refreshed and recompensed himself by carrying the war into another. If his workings and windings were detected by A, so much the greater reason was there for practicing without loss of time on B, if it were only to keep his hand in. He had never been such a saintly and improving spectacle to all about him, as after his detection by Thomas Pinch. He had scarcely ever been at once so tender in his humanity, and so dignified and exalted in his virtue, as when young Martin’s scorn was fresh and hot upon him.

Having this large stock of superfluous sentiment and morality on hand which must positively be cleared off at any sacrifice, Mr Pecksniff no sooner heard his son-in-law announced, than he regarded him as a kind of wholesale or general order, to be immediately executed. Descending, therefore, swiftly to the parlour, and clasping the young man in his arms, he exclaimed, with looks and gestures that denoted the perturbation of his spirit:

‘Jonas. My child—she is well! There is nothing the matter?’

‘What, you’re at it again, are you?’ replied his son-in-law. ‘Even with me? Get away with you, will you?’

‘Tell me she is well then,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Tell me she is well my boy!’

‘She’s well enough,’ retorted Jonas, disengaging himself. ‘There’s nothing the matter with HER.’

‘There is nothing the matter with her!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, sitting down in the nearest chair, and rubbing up his hair. ‘Fie upon my weakness! I cannot help it, Jonas. Thank you. I am better now. How is my other child; my eldest; my Cherrywerrychigo?’ said Mr Pecksniff, inventing a playful little name for her, in the restored lightness of his heart.

‘She’s much about the same as usual,’ returned Jonas. ‘She sticks pretty close to the vinegar-bottle. You know she’s got a sweetheart, I suppose?’

‘I have heard of it,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘from headquarters; from my child herself I will not deny that it moved me to contemplate the loss of my remaining daughter, Jonas—I am afraid we parents are selfish, I am afraid we are—but it has ever been the study of my life to qualify them for the domestic hearth; and it is a sphere which Cherry will adorn.’

‘She need adorn some sphere or other,’ observed the son-in-law, for she ain’t very ornamental in general.’

‘My girls are now provided for,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘They are now happily provided for, and I have not laboured in vain!’

This is exactly what Mr Pecksniff would have said, if one of his daughters had drawn a prize of thirty thousand pounds in the lottery, or if the other had picked up a valuable purse in the street, which nobody appeared to claim. In either of these cases he would have invoked a patriarchal blessing on the fortunate head, with great solemnity, and would have taken immense credit to himself, as having meant it from the infant’s cradle.

‘Suppose we talk about something else, now,’ observed Jonas, drily. ‘just for a change. Are you quite agreeable?’

‘Quite,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Ah, you wag, you naughty wag! You laugh at poor old fond papa. Well! He deserves it. And he don’t mind it either, for his feelings are their own reward. You have come to stay with me, Jonas?’

‘No. I’ve got a friend with me,’ said Jonas.

‘Bring your friend!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, in a gush of hospitality. ‘Bring any number of your friends!’

‘This ain’t the sort of man to be brought,’ said Jonas, contemptuously. ‘I think I see myself “bringing” him to your house, for a treat! Thank’ee all the same; but he’s a little too near the top of the tree for that, Pecksniff.’

The good man pricked up his ears; his interest was awakened. A position near the top of the tree was greatness, virtue, goodness, sense, genius; or, it should rather be said, a dispensation from all, and in itself something immeasurably better than all; with Mr Pecksniff. A man who was able to look down upon Mr Pecksniff could not be looked up at, by that gentleman, with too great an amount of deference, or from a position of too much humility. So it always is with great spirits.

‘I’ll tell you what you may do, if you like,’ said Jonas; ‘you may come and dine with us at the Dragon. We were forced to come down to Salisbury last night, on some business, and I got him to bring me over here this morning, in his carriage; at least, not his own carriage, for we had a breakdown in the night, but one we hired instead; it’s all the same. Mind what you’re about, you know. He’s not used to all sorts; he only mixes with the best!’

‘Some young nobleman who has been borrowing money of you at good interest, eh?’ said Mr Pecksniff, shaking his forefinger facetiously. ‘I shall be delighted to know the gay sprig.’

‘Borrowing!’ echoed Jonas. ‘Borrowing! When you’re a twentieth part as rich as he is, you may shut up shop! We should be pretty well off if we could buy his furniture, and plate, and pictures, by clubbing together. A likely man to borrow: Mr Montague! Why since I was lucky enough (come! and I’ll say, sharp enough, too) to get a share in the Assurance office that he’s President of, I’ve made—never mind what I’ve made,’ said Jonas, seeming to recover all at once his usual caution. ‘You know me pretty well, and I don’t blab about such things. But, Ecod, I’ve made a trifle.’

‘Really, my dear Jonas,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, with much warmth, ‘a gentleman like this should receive some attention. Would he like to see the church? or if he has a taste for the fine arts—which I have no doubt he has, from the description you give of his circumstances—I can send him down a few portfolios. Salisbury Cathedral, my dear Jonas,’ said Mr Pecksniff; the mention of the portfolios and his anxiety to display himself to advantage, suggesting his usual phraseology in that regard, ‘is an edifice replete with venerable associations, and strikingly suggestive of the loftiest emotions. It is here we contemplate the work of bygone ages. It is here we listen to the swelling organ, as we stroll through the reverberating aisles. We have drawings of this celebrated structure from the North, from the South, from the East, from the West, from the South-East, from the Nor’West—’

CAPITOLO QUARANTAQUATTRO

Ulteriore continuazione dell’impresa del signor Jonas e del suo amico

Tra le molte qualità ammirevoli che possedeva il signor Pecksniff, c’era una particolarità: più veniva smascherato, più praticava l’ipocrisia. Se in un ambito veniva messo in imbarazzo, si rinfrescava e si compensava portando avanti le sue manovre in un altro ambito. Se le sue azioni venivano scoperte da A, c’era ancora più motivo per continuare a comportarsi allo stesso modo con B, anche solo per non perdere l’occasione di agire. Dopo essere stato smascherato da Thomas Pinch, non era mai stato un esempio così “santo” e “impegnato nel miglioramento personale” agli occhi di tutti quelli che lo circondavano. Quasi mai prima d’allora era stato così compassionevole nella sua umanità, e allo stesso tempo così dignitoso ed elevato nelle sue virtù, come quando il disprezzo di Martin giovane era ancora fresco e intenso nei suoi confronti.

Avendo a disposizione questa grande quantità di sentimenti superflui e di moralità che dovevano assolutamente essere eliminati a tutti i costi, non appena il signor Pecksniff seppe dell’arrivo di suo genero, lo considerò come un ordine da eseguire immediatamente. Così, scese rapidamente in salotto e, abbracciando il giovane, esclamò con sguardi e gesti che rivelavano la profonda agitazione del suo spirito:

“Jonas. Miei figli. Stanno bene, vero? Non c’è nessun problema?”

“Cosa, ci riprovi di nuovo, vero?” rispose suo genero. “Anche con me? Lasciami in pace, per favore.”

“Allora ditemi che sta bene,” disse il signor Pecksniff. “Ditemi che sta davvero bene, mio ragazzo!”

“È abbastanza in forma,” ribatté Jonas, liberandosi da lui. “Non c’è nulla che non vada IN LEI.”

“Non le è successo nulla!” esclamò il signor Pecksniff, sedendosi sulla sedia più vicina e strofinandosi i capelli. “Che debo fare. Non riesco a controllarmi, Jonas. Grazie. Ora sto meglio. E come sta la mia altra figlia? La mia maggiore. Cherrywerrychigo, ” disse il signor Pecksniff, inventando un nome giocoso per lei, ora che il suo cuore si era finalmente rasserenato.

“È più o meno la solita,” rispose Jonas. “Si attiene sempre molto strettamente alle regole. Sai che ha un innamorato, vero?”

“Ne ho sentito parlare,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “dalla sede centrale; non nego che la notizia della perdita della mia unica figlia rimasta, Jonas, mi abbia fatto riflettere. Temo che noi genitori siamo egoisti, temo proprio. Ma lo scopo principale della mia vita è sempre stato quello di prepararle ad assumersi i compiti domestici; e Cherry sarà sicuramente all’altezza.”

“Le serve qualche ornamento, o qualcos’altro del genere,” osservò il genero, “perché in generale non è molto decorativa.”

“Le mie ragazze ora sono ben provvedute,” disse il signor Pecksniff. “Sono felicemente sistemate, e non ho lavorato invano!”

Ecco esattamente ciò che il signor Pecksniff avrebbe detto, se una delle sue figlie avesse vinto trentamila sterline alla lotteria, o se l’altra avesse trovato in strada un borsellino prezioso di cui nessuno sembrava volersi impossessare. In entrambi i casi, avrebbe invocato con grande solennità una benedizione patriarcale sulla testa della figlia fortunata, attribuendosi tutto il merito, come se tale desiderio fosse stato suo fin dall’infanzia della bambina.

“Supponiamo di parlare di qualcos’altro adesso,” osservò Jonas in tono secco. “Solo per cambiare argomento. Sei d’accordo?”

“Proprio così,” disse il signor Pecksniff. “Ah, che birichino, che cattivo birichino! Ridi di quel povero vecchio papà sentimentale. Beh, se lo merita. E a lui non dispiace nemmeno, perché i suoi sentimenti sono la sua stessa ricompensa. Sei venuto a stare da me, Jonas?”

“No. Ho un amico con me,” disse Jonas.

“Portate anche il vostro amico!” esclamò il signor Pecksniff, con grande ospitalità.
“Potete portare quanti amici volete!”

“Questo non è il tipo di uomo che si possa portare con sé,” disse Jonas con disprezzo.
“Penso proprio di portarlo da voi a casa vostra, per farvi un piacere!
Grazie comunque. Ma lui è un po’ troppo in alto sull’albero, per questo, Pecksniff.”

L’uomo buono tese le orecchie; il suo interesse era stato destato. Una posizione vicina alla cima dell’albero rappresentava grandezza, virtù, bontà, intelligenza, genio. O, forse sarebbe meglio dire, l’esenzione da tutto ciò; qualcosa di incomparabilmente superiore a tutto. Parliamo del signor Pecksniff: un uomo che fosse in grado di disprezzare il signor Pecksniff non avrebbe mai potuto essere considerato con troppa reverenza da quel gentiluomo, né occupare una posizione di troppa umiltà. È sempre così per le grandi personalità.

“Ti dirò cosa puoi fare, se vuoi,” disse Jonas; “puoi venire a cena da noi al Dragon. Siamo stati costretti ad andare a Salisbury ieri notte per un certo affare, e io l’ho convinto a portarmi qui stamattina con la sua carrozza. Be’, non proprio la sua, perché ieri notte si è guastata, quindi ne abbiamo noleggiata un’altra; comunque vada, fai attenzione a come ti comporti. Lui non è abituato a queste cose; frequenta solo le persone migliori!”

“Qualche giovane nobile che vi ha preso in prestito del denaro a buoni interessi, eh?”, disse il signor Pecksniff, scuotendo scherzosamente il dito indice. “Sarò felice di conoscere questo giovanotto.”

“Prendere in prestito!” ripeté Jonas. “Prendere in prestito! Quando sarai solo un ventesimo della sua ricchezza, allora potrai chiudere il negozio! Saremmo davvero abbastanza benestanti se riuscissimo a comprare i suoi mobili, le sue stoviglie e i suoi quadri mettendo insieme i nostri soldi. Che tipo è mai questo signor Montague da chiedere in prestito denaro. Beh, visto che sono stato abbastanza fortunato (e devo dire anche abbastanza astuto) da ottenere una quota nell’ufficio di assicurazioni di cui è presidente, ho guadagnato qualcosa, ” disse Jonas, sembrando all’improvviso riprendere tutta la sua solita prudenza. “Mi conosci abbastanza bene, e non parlo mai di queste cose. Ma, Ecod, ho guadagnato davvero un po’.”

“Davvero, mio caro Jonas,” esclamò il signor Pecksniff con grande calore, “un gentiluomo del genere merita sicuramente un po’ di attenzione. Gli piacerebbe visitare la chiesa? O, se apprezza le belle arti – e non ho alcun >dubbio che le apprezzi, a giudicare dalle descrizioni delle sue condizioni che mi hai dato – posso fargli avere alcuni album di disegni. La Cattedrale di Salisbury,” continuò il signor Pecksniff, “è un edificio pieno di memorie venerabili e capace di suscitare le emozioni più nobili. Qui possiamo ammirare le opere di epoche lontane; qui possiamo ascoltare il suono potente dell’organo mentre camminiamo lungo le navate risuonanti. Abbiamo disegni di questa celebre struttura provenienti dal Nord, dal Sud, dall’Est, dall’Ovest, da tutte le direzioni.”

During this digression, and indeed during the whole dialogue, Jonas had been rocking on his chair, with his hands in his pockets and his head thrown cunningly on one side. He looked at Mr Pecksniff now with such shrewd meaning twinkling in his eyes, that Mr Pecksniff stopped, and asked him what he was going to say.

‘Ecod!’ he answered. ‘Pecksniff if I knew how you meant to leave your money, I could put you in the way of doubling it in no time. It wouldn’t be bad to keep a chance like this snug in the family. But you’re such a deep one!’

‘Jonas!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, much affected, ‘I am not a diplomatical character; my heart is in my hand. By far the greater part of the inconsiderable savings I have accumulated in the course of—I hope—a not dishonourable or useless career, is already given, devised, and bequeathed (correct me, my dear Jonas, if I am technically wrong), with expressions of confidence, which I will not repeat; and in securities which it is unnecessary to mention to a person whom I cannot, whom I will not, whom I need not, name.’ Here he gave the hand of his son-in-law a fervent squeeze, as if he would have added, ‘God bless you; be very careful of it when you get it!’

Mr Jonas only shook his head and laughed, and, seeming to think better of what he had had in his mind, said, ‘No. He would keep his own counsel.’ But as he observed that he would take a walk, Mr Pecksniff insisted on accompanying him, remarking that he could leave a card for Mr Montague, as they went along, by way of gentleman-usher to himself at dinner-time. Which he did.

In the course of their walk, Mr Jonas affected to maintain that close reserve which had operated as a timely check upon him during the foregoing dialogue. And as he made no attempt to conciliate Mr Pecksniff, but, on the contrary, was more boorish and rude to him than usual, that gentleman, so far from suspecting his real design, laid himself out to be attacked with advantage. For it is in the nature of a knave to think the tools with which he works indispensable to knavery; and knowing what he would do himself in such a case, Mr Pecksniff argued, ‘if this young man wanted anything of me for his own ends, he would be polite and deferential.’

The more Jonas repelled him in his hints and inquiries, the more solicitous, therefore, Mr Pecksniff became to be initiated into the golden mysteries at which he had obscurely glanced. Why should there be cold and worldly secrets, he observed, between relations? What was life without confidence? If the chosen husband of his daughter, the man to whom he had delivered her with so much pride and hope, such bounding and such beaming joy; if he were not a green spot in the barren waste of life, where was that oasis to be bound?

Little did Mr Pecksniff think on what a very green spot he planted one foot at that moment! Little did he foresee when he said, ‘All is but dust!’ how very shortly he would come down with his own!

Inch by inch, in his grudging and ill-conditioned way; sustained to the life, for the hope of making Mr Pecksniff suffer in that tender place, the pocket, where Jonas smarted so terribly himself, gave him an additional and malicious interest in the wiles he was set on to practise; inch by inch, and bit by bit, Jonas rather allowed the dazzling prospects of the Anglo-Bengalee establishment to escape him, than paraded them before his greedy listener. And in the same niggardly spirit, he left Mr Pecksniff to infer, if he chose (which he DID choose, of course), that a consciousness of not having any great natural gifts of speech and manner himself, rendered him desirous to have the credit of introducing to Mr Montague some one who was well endowed in those respects, and so atone for his own deficiencies. Otherwise, he muttered discontentedly, he would have seen his beloved father-in-law ‘far enough off,’ before he would have taken him into his confidence.

Primed in this artful manner, Mr Pecksniff presented himself at dinner-time in such a state of suavity, benevolence, cheerfulness, politeness, and cordiality, as even he had perhaps never attained before. The frankness of the country gentleman, the refinement of the artist, the good-humoured allowance of the man of the world; philanthropy, forbearance, piety, toleration, all blended together in a flexible adaptability to anything and everything; were expressed in Mr Pecksniff, as he shook hands with the great speculator and capitalist.

‘Welcome, respected sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘to our humble village! We are a simple people; primitive clods, Mr Montague; but we can appreciate the honour of your visit, as my dear son-in-law can testify. It is very strange,’ said Mr Pecksniff, pressing his hand almost reverentially, ‘but I seem to know you. That towering forehead, my dear Jonas,’ said Mr Pecksniff aside, ‘and those clustering masses of rich hair—I must have seen you, my dear sir, in the sparkling throng.’

Nothing was more probable, they all agreed.

‘I could have wished,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘to have had the honour of introducing you to an elderly inmate of our house: to the uncle of our friend. Mr Chuzzlewit, sir, would have been proud indeed to have taken you by the hand.’

‘Is the gentleman here now?’ asked Montague, turning deeply red. ‘He is,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘You said nothing about that, Chuzzlewit.’

‘I didn’t suppose you’d care to hear of it,’ returned Jonas. ‘You wouldn’t care to know him, I can promise you.’

‘Jonas! my dear Jonas!’ remonstrated Mr Pecksniff. ‘Really!’

‘Oh! it’s all very well for you to speak up for him,’ said Jonas. ‘You have nailed him. You’ll get a fortune by him.’

‘Oho! Is the wind in that quarter?’ cried Montague. ‘Ha, ha, ha!’ and here they all laughed—especially Mr Pecksniff.

‘No, no!’ said that gentleman, clapping his son-in-law playfully upon the shoulder. ‘You must not believe all that my young relative says, Mr Montague. You may believe him in official business, and trust him in official business, but you must not attach importance to his flights of fancy.’

Durante questa digressione, e infatti per tutto il corso del dialogo, Jonas continuava a dondolarsi sulla sedia, con le mani in tasca e la testa inclinata di lato in un atteggiamento apparentemente distratto. Ora guardava il signor Pecksniff con uno sguardo così astuto che quest’ultimo si fermò e gli chiese cosa stesse per dire.

“Ecod!”, rispose. “Pecksniff, se solo sapessi come intendi lasciare i tuoi soldi, potrei aiutarti a raddoppiarli in poco tempo. Non sarebbe affatto male tenere un’opportunità del genere all’interno della famiglia. Ma tu sei davvero troppo complicato!”

“Jonas!” esclamò il signor Pecksniff, molto commosso. “Non sono certo una persona diplomatica; il mio cuore è aperto e sincero. La maggior parte dei risparmi insignificanti che ho accumulato nel corso di, beh, spero in una carriera onesta e utile, è già stata donata, destinata e lasciata in eredità (correggetemi, caro Jonas, se sbaglio tecnicamente), accompagnata da espressioni di fiducia che non intendo ripetere; e tutto ciò attraverso garanzie di cui non c’è bisogno parlare a una persona che non posso, non voglio e non ho bisogno di nominare.” Qui strinse con forza la mano di suo genero, come se volesse aggiungere: “Dio ti benedica, prenditi cura bene di tutto ciò quando lo riceverai!”

Il signor Jonas si limitò ad scuotere la testa e ridere; sembrava aver cambiato idea su ciò che aveva in mente e disse: “No, seguirà il proprio consiglio.” Ma poiché osservò che avrebbe fatto una passeggiata, il signor Pecksniff insistette per accompagnarlo, aggiungendo che poteva lasciare un biglietto al signor Montague lungo la strada, come se fosse lui stesso l’ospite d’onore a cena. E così fece.

Durante il loro cammino, il signor Jonas fingeva di mantenere quella riservatezza che fino ad allora lo aveva frenato durante i dialoghi precedenti. Poiché non cercò in alcun modo di conciliarsi con il signor Pecksniff, anzi si comportò con lui in modo ancora più grossolano e scortese del solito, quel gentiluomo, lontano dal sospettare le sue vere intenzioni, si mise deliberatamente nella condizione di essere attaccato a proprio vantaggio. Infatti, è nella >natura di un furfante ritenere che gli strumenti con cui agisce siano indispensabili per compiere i propri misfatti; e conoscendo ciò che lui stesso avrebbe fatto in una situazione del genere, il signor Pecksniff concluse: “Se questo giovane volesse qualcosa da me per i suoi scopi personali, si comporterebbe con cortesia e rispetto”.

Più Jonas lo allontanava con i suoi suggerimenti e le sue domande, più il signor Pecksniff diventava ansioso di venire introdotto in quei “misteri dorati” ai quali aveva solo gettato uno sguardo vago. “Perché dovrebbero esistere segreti freddi e mondani tra le persone che si amano?”, si chiedeva. “Che senso ha la vita senza fiducia reciproca? Se l’uomo scelto per sua figlia, l’uomo a cui l’aveva affidata con tanto orgoglio e >speranza, non rappresentava una fonte di gioia e felicità, dove mai si poteva trovare un’oasi in quel deserto arido della vita?”

Poco si immaginava il signor Pecksniff che in quel momento stesse piantando qualcosa di molto prezioso. Poco previde, quando disse “Tutto non è che polvere, ”, quanto presto anche lui stesso ne avrebbe subito le conseguenze.

Inch dopo inch, con quel suo modo riluttante e maldestro; tenendosi in vita soltanto per la >speranza di far soffrire il signor Pecksniff in quel punto particolarmente sensibile, il portafoglio, proprio quello da cui Jonas aveva tratto tali dolori, gli dava un interesse ulteriore e malvagio nei piani che stava architettando. Inch dopo inch, Jonas preferiva lasciare che le promesse allettanti offerte dall’impresa anglo-bengalese gli sfuggissero, piuttosto che esporle davanti al suo ascoltatore avido. Con lo stesso spirito avaro, lasciava che il signor Pecksniff deducesse, se voleva (e naturalmente lo fece), che la consapevolezza di non possedere grandi doti naturali nel parlare e nel comportarsi lo spingesse ad cercare qualcuno che fosse davvero ben dotato in quei campi, per poter così compensare le proprie carenze. Altrimenti, borbottava scontento: avrebbe preferito lasciare il suo amato suocero “molto lontano” prima di confidargli qualcosa.

Preparato in questo modo abile, il signor Pecksniff si presentò a cena in uno stato di dolcezza, benevolenza, allegria, cortesia e cordialità tale che forse non aveva mai raggiunto prima. La franchezza del gentiluomo di campagna, la raffinatezza dell’artista, l’atteggiamento bonario dell’uomo di mondo; filantropia, tolleranza, pietà, tutto ciò si fondeva in una capacità flessibile di adattarsi a qualsiasi situazione; e tutto questo si rifletteva nel comportamento del signor Pecksniff mentre stringeva la mano al grande speculatore e capitalista.

“Benvenuto, rispettabile signore,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “nel nostro umile villaggio! Siamo gente semplice; persone primitive, signor Montague; ma possiamo apprezzare l’onore della sua visita, come può testimoniare mio caro genero. È molto strano,” aggiunse il signor Pecksniff, stringendogli la mano quasi con reverenza, “ma sembra che io la conosca. Quel fronte maestoso, mio caro Jonas, ” disse sottovoce il signor Pecksniff, “e quelle folte ciocche di capelli neri. Devo averla vista, mio caro signore, tra quella folla brillante.”

Niente era più probabile, erano tutti d’accordo.

“Avrei voluto,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “avere l’onore di presentarvi un anziano residente della nostra casa: lo zio del nostro amico. Il signor Chuzzlewit sarebbe stato davvero orgoglioso di accompagnarvi personalmente.”

“Il signore è qui adesso?” chiese Montague, arrossendo profondamente. “Sì,” rispose il signor Pecksniff.

“Non ne hai mai parlato, Chuzzlewit.”

“Non pensavo che ti interessasse saperlo,” rispose Jonas. “Posso garantirti che non avresti alcun interesse a conoscerlo.”

“Jonas! mio caro Jonas!” esclamò con rimprovero il signor Pecksniff. “Davvero!”

“Oh! È davvero molto facile per te difenderlo,” disse Jonas. “L’hai in pugno. Farai una fortuna con lui.”

“Oho! C’è il >vento da quella parte?” esclamò Montague. “Ahahah!” e tutti risero, soprattutto il signor Pecksniff.

“No, no!” disse quel gentiluomo, dandogli scherzosamente una pacca sulla spalla al genero. “Non dovete credere a tutto ciò che dice mio giovane parente, signor Montague. Potete credergli nelle questioni ufficiali e fidarvi di lui in quelle situazioni, ma non dovete dare troppa importanza alle sue fantasie.”

‘Upon my life, Mr Pecksniff,’ cried Montague, ‘I attach the greatest importance to that last observation of his. I trust and hope it’s true. Money cannot be turned and turned again quickly enough in the ordinary course, Mr Pecksniff. There is nothing like building our fortune on the weaknesses of mankind.’

‘Oh fie! oh fie, for shame!’ cried Mr Pecksniff. But they all laughed again—especially Mr Pecksniff.

‘I give you my honour that WE do it,’ said Montague.

‘Oh fie, fie!’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘You are very pleasant. That I am sure you don’t! That I am sure you don’t! How CAN you, you know?’

Again they all laughed in concert; and again Mr Pecksniff laughed especially.

This was very agreeable indeed. It was confidential, easy, straight-forward; and still left Mr Pecksniff in the position of being in a gentle way the Mentor of the party. The greatest achievements in the article of cookery that the Dragon had ever performed, were set before them; the oldest and best wines in the Dragon’s cellar saw the light on that occasion; a thousand bubbles, indicative of the wealth and station of Mr Montague in the depths of his pursuits, were constantly rising to the surface of the conversation; and they were as frank and merry as three honest men could be. Mr Pecksniff thought it a pity (he said so) that Mr Montague should think lightly of mankind and their weaknesses. He was anxious upon this subject; his mind ran upon it; in one way or another he was constantly coming back to it; he must make a convert of him, he said. And as often as Mr Montague repeated his sentiment about building fortunes on the weaknesses of mankind, and added frankly, ‘WE do it!’ just as often Mr Pecksniff repeated ‘Oh fie! oh fie, for shame! I am sure you don’t. How CAN you, you know?’ laying a greater stress each time on those last words.

The frequent repetition of this playful inquiry on the part of Mr Pecksniff, led at last to playful answers on the part of Mr Montague; but after some little sharp-shooting on both sides, Mr Pecksniff became grave, almost to tears; observing that if Mr Montague would give him leave, he would drink the health of his young kinsman, Mr Jonas; congratulating him upon the valuable and distinguished friendship he had formed, but envying him, he would confess, his usefulness to his fellow-creatures. For, if he understood the objects of that Institution with which he was newly and advantageously connected—knowing them but imperfectly—they were calculated to do Good; and for his (Mr Pecksniff’s) part, if he could in any way promote them, he thought he would be able to lay his head upon his pillow every night, with an absolute certainty of going to sleep at once.

The transition from this accidental remark (for it was quite accidental and had fallen from Mr Pecksniff in the openness of his soul), to the discussion of the subject as a matter of business, was easy. Books, papers, statements, tables, calculations of various kinds, were soon spread out before them; and as they were all framed with one object, it is not surprising that they should all have tended to one end. But still, whenever Montague enlarged upon the profits of the office, and said that as long as there were gulls upon the wing it must succeed, Mr Pecksniff mildly said ‘Oh fie!’—and might indeed have remonstrated with him, but that he knew he was joking. Mr Pecksniff did know he was joking; because he said so.

There never had been before, and there never would be again, such an opportunity for the investment of a considerable sum (the rate of advantage increased in proportion to the amount invested), as at that moment. The only time that had at all approached it, was the time when Jonas had come into the concern; which made him ill-natured now, and inclined him to pick out a doubt in this place, and a flaw in that, and grumbling to advise Mr Pecksniff to think better of it. The sum which would complete the proprietorship in this snug concern, was nearly equal to Mr Pecksniff’s whole hoard; not counting Mr Chuzzlewit, that is to say, whom he looked upon as money in the Bank, the possession of which inclined him the more to make a dash with his own private sprats for the capture of such a whale as Mr Montague described. The returns began almost immediately, and were immense. The end of it was, that Mr Pecksniff agreed to become the last partner and proprietor in the Anglo-Bengalee, and made an appointment to dine with Mr Montague, at Salisbury, on the next day but one, then and there to complete the negotiation.

It took so long to bring the subject to this head, that it was nearly midnight when they parted. When Mr Pecksniff walked downstairs to the door, he found Mrs Lupin standing there, looking out.

‘Ah, my good friend!’ he said; ‘not a-bed yet! Contemplating the stars, Mrs Lupin?’

‘It’s a beautiful starlight night, sir.’

‘A beautiful starlight night,’ said Mr Pecksniff, looking up. ‘Behold the planets, how they shine! Behold the—those two persons who were here this morning have left your house, I hope, Mrs Lupin?’

‘Yes, sir. They are gone.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Behold the wonders of the firmament, Mrs Lupin! how glorious is the scene! When I look up at those shining orbs, I think that each of them is winking to the other to take notice of the vanity of men’s pursuits. My fellow-men!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, shaking his head in pity; ‘you are much mistaken; my wormy relatives, you are much deceived! The stars are perfectly contented (I suppose so) in their several spheres. Why are not you? Oh! do not strive and struggle to enrich yourselves, or to get the better of each other, my deluded friends, but look up there, with me!’

Mrs Lupin shook her head, and heaved a sigh. It was very affecting.

‘Look up there, with me!’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, stretching out his hand; ‘With me, a humble individual who is also an insect like yourselves. Can silver, gold, or precious stones, sparkle like those constellations! I think not. Then do not thirst for silver, gold, or precious stones; but look up there, with me!’

“Per la mia vita, signor Pecksniff,” esclamò Montague, “attribuisco la massima importanza a quell’ultima osservazione sua. Spero e credo che sia vera. Il denaro non può essere reinvestito abbastanza rapidamente nel corso normale delle cose, signor Pecksniff. Non c’è nulla di meglio che costruire la propria fortuna sfruttando le debolezze dell’umanità.”

“Oh no! Oh no, che vergogna!” gridò il signor Pecksniff. Ma tutti risero di nuovo, soprattutto il signor Pecksniff.

“Vi giuro sulla mia onore che lo faremo,” disse Montague.

“Ahimè, ahimè!” esclamò il signor Pecksniff. “Siete davvero molto gentile. Ma io no, sicuramente no! Come potrei essere gentile, sapete?”

Di nuovo tutti risero all’unisono; e ancora una volta il signor Pecksniff rise in modo particolare.

Era davvero molto piacevole. Tutto era confidenziale, semplice e diretto; eppure permetteva comunque al signor Pecksniff di svolgere, in modo gentile, il ruolo di mentore del gruppo. Furono presentati davanti a loro i più grandi successi culinari mai ottenuti dal “Drago”; furono serviti i vini più antichi e pregiati della sua cantina; mille allusioni, che riflettevano la ricchezza e lo status sociale del signor Montague, emergevano continuamente durante la conversazione. E tutti erano così franchi e allegri come possono esserlo tre uomini onesti. Il signor Pecksniff trovava però spiacevole (così diceva) che il signor Montague sottovalutasse l’umanità e le sue debolezze. Era molto preoccupato al riguardo; non smetteva di pensarci, e continuava a tornare sull’argomento in ogni occasione, “Devo assolutamente convertirlo”, diceva. Ogni volta che il signor Montague ripeteva la sua idea di costruire fortune sfruttando le debolezze umane, aggiungendo schiettamente: “Noi lo facciamo!”, il signor Pecksniff ribatteva sempre: “Oh, no. Che vergogna! Sono sicuro che voi non lo fareste mai. Come potreste farlo, davvero?” Ponendo ogni volta maggiore enfasi su quelle ultime parole.

La frequente ripetizione di questa domanda scherzosa da parte del signor Pecksniff portò infine a risposte altrettanto scherzose da parte del signor Montague; ma dopo alcuni scambi piuttosto vivaci, il signor Pecksniff divenne serio, quasi fino alle lacrime, e osservò che se il signor Montague glielo permetteva, avrebbe brindato alla salute del suo giovane parente, il signor Jonas; lo congratulò per l’importante e nobile amicizia che aveva stretto, ma ammise anche di invidiarne la utilità verso i suoi simili. Infatti, se comprendeva correttamente gli scopi di quell’istituzione con cui era recentemente entrato in rapporto – anche se solo in modo imperfetto – essi erano certamente volti a fare del bene; e per quanto lo riguardava, se avesse potuto contribuire in qualche modo ad realizzarli, pensava di poter riposare serenamente ogni notte, con la certezza assoluta di addormentarsi immediatamente.

La transizione da questo commento casuale – poiché era davvero casuale e era uscito spontaneamente dall’animo aperto del signor Pecksniff – alla discussione dell’argomento come questione di affari fu piuttosto semplice. Libri, documenti, tabelle, calcoli di ogni tipo furono presto disposti davanti a loro; e poiché tutti avevano lo stesso scopo, non sorprende che portassero tutti verso la stessa conclusione. Tuttavia, ogni volta che Montague si soffermava sui profitti derivanti da quell’attività, sostenendo che finché ci fossero “gabbiani al volo”, l’impresa avrebbe sicuramente avuto successo, il signor Pecksniff rispondeva gentilmente: “Oh, no, ”. Avrebbe potuto anche rimproverarlo, ma sapeva che stava scherzando. Il signor Pecksniff sapeva davvero di scherzare; lo aveva detto lui stesso.

Non c’era mai stata prima, e non ci sarebbe mai più stata, un’opportunità simile per investire una somma considerevole (il tasso di rendimento aumentava in proporzione all’importo investito), come in quel momento. L’unica volta in cui qualcosa aveva avvicinato questa opportunità era stato quando Jonas era entrato a far parte dell’impresa; questo fatto lo rendeva ora di cattivo umore e lo spingeva a trovare difetti in ogni dettaglio, suggerendo a Mr Pecksniff di ripensarci bene. La somma necessaria per acquisire la totalità delle quote di questa redditizia impresa equivaleva quasi al tutto il patrimonio di Mr Pecksniff; senza contare naturalmente Mr Chuzzlewit, che lui considerava come una risorsa finanziaria sicura, e proprio questo lo spingeva ancora di più a tentare l’impresa, pur rischiando con i propri risparmi personali. I risultati furono immediati ed enormi. Alla fine, Mr Pecksniff accettò di diventare l’ultimo socio e proprietario dell’Anglo-Bengalee, e fissò un appuntamento per pranzare con Mr Montague a Salisbury il giorno successivo, al fine di concludere definitivamente l’accordo.

Ci è voluto così tanto tempo per portare la conversazione su questo argomento, che era quasi mezzanotte quando si sono separati. Quando il signor Pecksniff scese le scale verso la porta, trovò la signora Lupin lì ad aspettare, intenta a guardare fuori.

“Ah, mio caro amico!” disse; “ancora sveglio? Stai ammirando le stelle, vero, signora Lupin?”

“È una bellissima notte stellata, signore.”

“Una bellissima notte stellata,” disse il signor Pecksniff alzando lo sguardo. “Guardate i pianeti, come brillano! E quelle due persone che erano qui questa mattina, spero siano già uscite dalla vostra casa, signora Lupin, ”

“Sì, signore. Sono andati via.”

“Sono felice di saperlo,” disse il signor Pecksniff. “Guardate le meraviglie del firmamento, signora Lupin! Quanto è splendida questa scena! Quando alzo lo sguardo verso quelle sfere luminose, penso che ognuna di esse stia ammiccando alle altre per far notare la vanità delle aspirazioni umane. Miei cari compagni!” esclamò il signor Pecksniff scuotendo la testa con compassione; “vi sbagliate di grosso; voi, miei poveri parenti, siete profondamente ingannati! Le stelle sono perfettamente soddisfatte (suppongo) nelle loro rispettive sfere. Perché non lo siete anche voi? Oh! Non lottate più per arricchirvi o per avere la meglio gli uni sugli altri, miei amici ingannati. Guardate lassù, con me!”

La signora Lupin scosse la testa e sospirò. Era davvero commovente.

“Guardate lassù, con me!” ripeté il signor Pecksniff, tendendo la mano; “Con me, un individuo umile, anch’io un insetto come voi. Può forse l’argento, l’oro o le pietre preziose brillare come quelle stelle! Penso di no. Allora non desiderate argento, oro o pietre preziose; ma guardate lassù, con me!”

With those words, the good man patted Mrs Lupin’s hand between his own, as if he would have added ‘think of this, my good woman!’ and walked away in a sort of ecstasy or rapture, with his hat under his arm.

Jonas sat in the attitude in which Mr Pecksniff had left him, gazing moodily at his friend; who, surrounded by a heap of documents, was writing something on an oblong slip of paper.

‘You mean to wait at Salisbury over the day after to-morrow, do you, then?’ said Jonas.

‘You heard our appointment,’ returned Montague, without raising his eyes. ‘In any case I should have waited to see after the boy.’

They appeared to have changed places again; Montague being in high spirits; Jonas gloomy and lowering.

‘You don’t want me, I suppose?’ said Jonas.

‘I want you to put your name here,’ he returned, glancing at him with a smile, ‘as soon as I have filled up the stamp. I may as well have your note of hand for that extra capital. That’s all I want. If you wish to go home, I can manage Mr Pecksniff now, alone. There is a perfect understanding between us.’

Jonas sat scowling at him as he wrote, in silence. When he had finished his writing, and had dried it on the blotting paper in his travelling-desk; he looked up, and tossed the pen towards him.

‘What, not a day’s grace, not a day’s trust, eh?’ said Jonas bitterly. ‘Not after the pains I have taken with to-night’s work?’

‘To night’s work was a part of our bargain,’ replied Montague; ‘and so was this.’

‘You drive a hard bargain,’ said Jonas, advancing to the table. ‘You know best. Give it here!’

Montague gave him the paper. After pausing as if he could not make up his mind to put his name to it, Jonas dipped his pen hastily in the nearest inkstand, and began to write. But he had scarcely marked the paper when he started back, in a panic.

‘Why, what the devil’s this?’ he said. ‘It’s bloody!’

He had dipped the pen, as another moment showed, into red ink. But he attached a strange degree of importance to the mistake. He asked how it had come there, who had brought it, why it had been brought; and looked at Montague, at first, as if he thought he had put a trick upon him. Even when he used a different pen, and the right ink, he made some scratches on another paper first, as half believing they would turn red also.

‘Black enough, this time,’ he said, handing the note to Montague. ‘Good-bye.’

‘Going now! how do you mean to get away from here?’

‘I shall cross early in the morning to the high road, before you are out of bed; and catch the day-coach, going up. Good-bye!’

‘You are in a hurry!’

‘I have something to do,’ said Jonas. ‘Good-bye!’

His friend looked after him as he went out, in surprise, which gradually gave place to an air of satisfaction and relief.

‘It happens all the better. It brings about what I wanted, without any difficulty. I shall travel home alone.’

Con quelle parole, l’uomo buono accarezzò la mano della signora Lupin tra le sue, come se volesse aggiungere “pensa a questo, mia cara donna!”, e se ne andò in uno stato di estasi o rapimento, con il cappello sotto il braccio.

Jonas rimase seduto nella stessa posizione in cui il signor Pecksniff lo aveva lasciato, fissando con aria malinconica il suo amico, il quale, circondato da una pila di documenti, stava scrivendo qualcosa su un foglietto rettangolare.

“Quindi vuoi aspettare a Salisbury per l’intera giornata dopo domani, giusto?” disse Jonas.

“Avete sentito dell’appuntamento,” rispose Montague, senza alzare lo sguardo. “Comunque avrei dovuto aspettare per occuparmi del ragazzo.”

Sembrava che avessero di nuovo scambiato posto: Montague era di ottimo umore, mentre Jonas appariva cupo e depresso.

“Non mi vuoi, immagino, ”, disse Jonas.

“Vorrei che mettessi il tuo nome qui,” rispose lui, guardandolo con un sorriso, “non appena avrò riempito questo timbro. Potrei anche prendere la tua cambiale per quel capitale in più. È tutto ciò che desidero. Se vuoi andare a casa, ora posso gestire da solo il signor Pecksniff. C’è un perfetto accordo tra di noi.”

Jonas lo fissava con un’espressione cupa mentre scriveva, in silenzio. Quando finì di scrivere e asciugò il foglio sul tampone presente sulla sua scrivania da viaggio, alzò lo sguardo e gettò la penna verso di lui.

“Cosa? Nemmeno un giorno di tregua, nemmeno un giorno di fiducia, eh?” disse Jonas con amarezza. “Dopo tutto il lavoro che ho fatto fino a tarda notte, ”

“Le attività notturne facevano parte del nostro accordo,” rispose Montague; “e anche questo.”

“Fai davvero affari duri,” disse Jonas avvicinandosi al tavolo. “Tu sai meglio di chiunque altro. Dammelo qui!”

Montague gli diede il foglio di carta. Dopo aver esitato per un momento, come se non riuscisse a decidere se firmarlo o meno, Jonas immerse rapidamente la penna nell’inchiostro più vicino e iniziò a scrivere. Ma appena aveva scritto qualche riga, si fermò di nuovo, preso dal panico.

“Ma che diavolo è questo? È disgustoso!” disse.

Aveva immerso la penna, come si vide in un altro momento, nell’inchiostro rosso. Ma attribuiva a quell’errore un’importanza strana: chiedeva come fosse potuto verificarsi, chi lo avesse causato, perché fosse stato fatto; e guardava prima Montague, come se pensasse di averlo ingannato. Anche quando usava una penna diversa e l’inchiostro giusto, faceva prima alcuni segni su un altro foglio, quasi credendo che anche quelli diventassero rossi.

“Abbastanza nero, questa volta,” disse, porgendo il biglietto a Montague. “Addio.”

“Me ne vado ora! Ma come pensi di farcela ad andartene da qui?”

“Passerò presto al mattino sulla strada principale, prima che tu esca dal letto; prenderò il treno diretto verso l’alto. Addio!”

“Hai fretta!”

“Devo andare ad occuparmi di qualcosa,” disse Jonas. “Addio!”

Il suo amico lo accompagnò mentre usciva, con sorpresa; gradualmente, quell’espressione di sorpresa lasciò il posto a un’aria di soddisfazione e sollievo.

“Va ancora meglio così. Porta esattamente ciò che volevo, senza alcuna difficoltà. Tornerò a casa da solo.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

IN WHICH TOM PINCH AND HIS SISTER TAKE A LITTLE PLEASURE; BUT QUITE IN A DOMESTIC WAY, AND WITH NO CEREMONY ABOUT IT

Tom Pinch and his sister having to part, for the dispatch of the morning’s business, immediately after the dispersion of the other actors in the scene upon the wharf with which the reader has been already made acquainted, had no opportunity of discussing the subject at that time. But Tom, in his solitary office, and Ruth, in the triangular parlour, thought about nothing else all day; and, when their hour of meeting in the afternoon approached, they were very full of it, to be sure.

There was a little plot between them, that Tom should always come out of the Temple by one way; and that was past the fountain. Coming through Fountain Court, he was just to glance down the steps leading into Garden Court, and to look once all round him; and if Ruth had come to meet him, there he would see her; not sauntering, you understand (on account of the clerks), but coming briskly up, with the best little laugh upon her face that ever played in opposition to the fountain, and beat it all to nothing. For, fifty to one, Tom had been looking for her in the wrong direction, and had quite given her up, while she had been tripping towards him from the first; jingling that little reticule of hers (with all the keys in it) to attract his wandering observation.

Whether there was life enough left in the slow vegetation of Fountain Court for the smoky shrubs to have any consciousness of the brightest and purest-hearted little woman in the world, is a question for gardeners, and those who are learned in the loves of plants. But, that it was a good thing for that same paved yard to have such a delicate little figure flitting through it; that it passed like a smile from the grimy old houses, and the worn flagstones, and left them duller, darker, sterner than before; there is no sort of doubt. The Temple fountain might have leaped up twenty feet to greet the spring of hopeful maidenhood, that in her person stole on, sparkling, through the dry and dusty channels of the Law; the chirping sparrows, bred in Temple chinks and crannies, might have held their peace to listen to imaginary skylarks, as so fresh a little creature passed; the dingy boughs, unused to droop, otherwise than in their puny growth, might have bent down in a kindred gracefulness to shed their benedictions on her graceful head; old love letters, shut up in iron boxes in the neighbouring offices, and made of no account among the heaps of family papers into which they had strayed, and of which, in their degeneracy, they formed a part, might have stirred and fluttered with a moment’s recollection of their ancient tenderness, as she went lightly by. Anything might have happened that did not happen, and never will, for the love of Ruth.

Something happened, too, upon the afternoon of which the history treats. Not for her love. Oh no! quite by accident, and without the least reference to her at all.

Either she was a little too soon, or Tom was a little too late—she was so precise in general, that she timed it to half a minute—but no Tom was there. Well! But was anybody else there, that she blushed so deeply, after looking round, and tripped off down the steps with such unusual expedition?

Why, the fact is, that Mr Westlock was passing at that moment. The Temple is a public thoroughfare; they may write up on the gates that it is not, but so long as the gates are left open it is, and will be; and Mr Westlock had as good a right to be there as anybody else. But why did she run away, then? Not being ill dressed, for she was much too neat for that, why did she run away? The brown hair that had fallen down beneath her bonnet, and had one impertinent imp of a false flower clinging to it, boastful of its licence before all men, THAT could not have been the cause, for it looked charming. Oh! foolish, panting, frightened little heart, why did she run away!

Merrily the tiny fountain played, and merrily the dimples sparkled on its sunny face. John Westlock hurried after her. Softly the whispering water broke and fell; as roguishly the dimples twinkled, as he stole upon her footsteps.

Oh, foolish, panting, timid little heart, why did she feign to be unconscious of his coming! Why wish herself so far away, yet be so flutteringly happy there!

‘I felt sure it was you,’ said John, when he overtook her in the sanctuary of Garden Court. ‘I knew I couldn’t be mistaken.’

She was SO surprised.

‘You are waiting for your brother,’ said John. ‘Let me bear you company.’

So light was the touch of the coy little hand, that he glanced down to assure himself he had it on his arm. But his glance, stopping for an instant at the bright eyes, forgot its first design, and went no farther.

They walked up and down three or four times, speaking about Tom and his mysterious employment. Now that was a very natural and innocent subject, surely. Then why, whenever Ruth lifted up her eyes, did she let them fall again immediately, and seek the uncongenial pavement of the court? They were not such eyes as shun the light; they were not such eyes as require to be hoarded to enhance their value. They were much too precious and too genuine to stand in need of arts like those. Somebody must have been looking at them!

They found out Tom, though, quickly enough. This pair of eyes descried him in the distance, the moment he appeared. He was staring about him, as usual, in all directions but the right one; and was as obstinate in not looking towards them, as if he had intended it. As it was plain that, being left to himself, he would walk away home, John Westlock darted off to stop him.

This made the approach of poor little Ruth, by herself, one of the most embarrassing of circumstances. There was Tom, manifesting extreme surprise (he had no presence of mind, that Tom, on small occasions); there was John, making as light of it as he could, but explaining at the same time with most unnecessary elaboration; and here was she, coming towards them, with both of them looking at her, conscious of blushing to a terrible extent, but trying to throw up her eyebrows carelessly, and pout her rosy lips, as if she were the coolest and most unconcerned of little women.

CAPITOLO QUARANTACINQUE

In cui Tom Pinch e sua sorella si concedono un piccolo piacere, ma in modo del tutto domestico, senza alcuna cerimonia.

Tom Pinch e sua sorella, dovendo separarsi per occuparsi delle faccende del mattino, non ebbero l’opportunità di discutere dell’argomento in quel momento, poiché gli altri personaggi presenti nella scena sul molo erano già andati via. Ma Tom, nel suo ufficio solitario, e Ruth, nella stanza triangolare, non pensarono ad altro per tutto il giorno; e quando arrivò l’ora del loro incontro pomeridiano, ne parlavano con grande entusiasmo, senza dubbio.

C’era un piccolo accordo tra loro: Tom doveva sempre uscire dal Tempio da una certa direzione, quella che passava accanto alla fontana. Passando per la Cour della fontana, doveva semplicemente guardare giù i gradini che conducevano alla Garden della Cour e osservarsi intorno; se Ruth fosse venuta ad incontrarlo, l’avrebbe vista subito. Non doveva certo passeggiare lentamente (a causa dei funzionari del Tempio), ma doveva avvicinarsi velocemente, con quel suo dolce sorriso sul viso. Cinquanta a uno, Tom la stava cercando nella direzione sbagliata e aveva già rinunciato a trovarla, mentre lei, in realtà, gli stava correndo incontro da tutta la volta; faceva tintinnare quel suo piccolo reticolo (con tutte le chiavi al suo interno) per attirare l’attenzione di Tom.

Se nella lenta vegetazione di Fountain Court ci fosse stata ancora abbastanza vita perché quei cespugli fumosi potessero percepire la presenza della più bella e pura ragazza del mondo, questa è una domanda che spetta ai giardinieri e a coloro che conoscono a fondo l’amore per le piante. Ma che sia stato davvero un bene che in quel cortile lastricato comparisse quella delicata figura, che passasse come un sorriso tra quelle vecchie case sporche e quei ciottoli logori, rendendoli ancora più tristi, oscuri e severi di prima, su questo non c’è alcun dubbio. La fontana del Tempio avrebbe potuto spruzzare acqua fino a venti piedi in alto per accogliere quella “primavera” della giovinezza piena di speranza, che, attraverso di lei, brillava nei canali aridi e polverosi della Legge. Gli uccellini che cantavano nelle fessure del Tempio avrebbero potuto tacere per ascoltare i suoni immaginari degli usignoli, mentre quella fresca creatura passava loro accanto. I rami spelacchiati, solitamente immobili nella loro debole crescita, avrebbero potuto piegarsi con grazia, come se volessero benedire quella testa elegante. Gli antichi biglietti d’amore, chiusi in scatole di ferro negli uffici vicini, ignorati tra mucchi di documenti familiari, forse avrebbero tremolato al ricordo della loro antica tenerezza, mentre lei passava via leggera. Qualsiasi cosa sarebbe potuta accadere, ma nulla è mai successo, e mai succederà, per l’amore di Ruth.

Accadde anche qualcos’altro nel pomeriggio di cui la storia parla. Non per il suo amore, no. Assolutamente per caso, e senza alcun riferimento a lei in quel contesto.

O era arrivata un po’ troppo presto, o Tom era arrivato un po’ troppo tardi. Di solito era così precisa che calcolava ogni dettaglio con precisione millimetrica (mezzo minuto, per esempio), ma quella volta Tom non c’era. Beh. Ma c’era qualcun altro lì? Perché, dopo aver guardato intorno, arrossì così profondamente e poi scese le scale con tanta fretta.

In realtà, in quel momento il signor Westlock stava passando di lì. Il Temple è una strada pubblica; possono anche scrivere sui cancelli che non lo sia, ma finché i cancelli rimangono aperti, lo è e lo sarà sempre; quindi il signor Westlock aveva tutto il diritto di trovarsi lì come chiunque altro. Ma allora, perché è scappata? Non era certo vestita in modo trasandato, anzi, era molto curata nel suo abbigliamento. Quindi, perché è fuggita? I capelli castani che le erano caduti sotto il cappello, e quel fiore finto attaccato lì, che si vantava apertamente davanti a tutti. Non poteva certo essere quella la ragione. Sembrava anzi molto carino. Oh! Povero, tremante, spaventato cuoricino, perché sei scappata?

La piccola fontana scorreva gioiosamente, e le increspature sul suo superficie luminosa brillavano felici al sole. John Westlock la seguì di corsa. Il mormorio dell’acqua si diffondeva dolcemente; mentre le increspature lampeggiavano in modo malizioso, lui cercava di non far rumore seguendo le sue orme.

Oh, cuoricino sciocco, ansimante e timido. Perché ha finto di non accorgersi del suo arrivo? Perché desiderava essere così lontana, eppure si sentiva così felice proprio lì?

“Ero sicuro che fossi tu,” disse John quando la raggiunse nel rifugio del Giardino Cortile. “Sapevo di non potermi sbagliare.”

Era davvero molto sorpresa.

“Stai aspettando tuo fratello”, disse John. “Lascia che ti faccia compagnia.”

Il tocco di quella piccola mano timida era così leggero che lui abbassò lo sguardo per assicurarsi che fosse ancora sul suo braccio. Ma il suo sguardo, fermatosi per un istante su quegli occhi luminosi, dimenticò la sua intenzione iniziale e non andò oltre.

Camminavano avanti e indietro per tre o quattro volte, parlando di Tom e del suo misterioso lavoro. Sicuramente si trattava di un argomento molto naturale e innocente. Allora perché, ogni volta che Ruth alzava lo sguardo, lo abbassava immediatamente di nuovo, fissando il pavimento poco attraente del cortile? Non erano occhi che evitassero la luce; non erano occhi che avessero bisogno di essere nascosti per aumentare il loro valore. Erano troppo preziosi e troppo autentici per aver bisogno di simili artifici. Qualcuno doveva sicuramente stare guardandoli!

Tuttavia, scoprirono presto chi era Tom. Quegli occhi lo riconobbero da lontano non appena apparve; stava guardando intorno a sé, come al solito, in tutte le direzioni tranne quella giusta. E fu altrettanto testardo nel non voltarsi verso di loro, come se lo avesse fatto apposta. Poiché era evidente che, lasciato solo, sarebbe tornato a casa, John Westlock si precipitò ad impedirglielo.

Questo rendeva l’arrivo di quella povera piccola Ruth, da sola, una delle situazioni più imbarazzanti possibili. C’era Tom, che mostrava un’estrema sorpresa (non aveva affatto presenza di spirito, quel Tom, ); c’era John, che cercava di prendere la cosa alla leggera, ma allo stesso tempo si dilungava in spiegazioni del tutto superflue; e poi c’era lei, che si avvicinava a loro, mentre entrambi la fissavano. Lei era consapevole di arrossire terribilmente, ma cercava comunque di sollevare le sopracciglia con noncuranza e di imbronciare le sue labbra rosse, come se fosse la ragazza più tranquilla e indifferente del mondo.

Merrily the fountain plashed and plashed, until the dimples, merging into one another, swelled into a general smile, that covered the whole surface of the basin.

‘What an extraordinary meeting!’ said Tom. ‘I should never have dreamed of seeing you two together here.’

‘Quite accidental,’ John was heard to murmur.

‘Exactly,’ cried Tom; ‘that’s what I mean, you know. If it wasn’t accidental, there would be nothing remarkable in it.’

‘To be sure,’ said John.

‘Such an out-of-the-way place for you to have met in,’ pursued Tom, quite delighted. ‘Such an unlikely spot!’

John rather disputed that. On the contrary, he considered it a very likely spot, indeed. He was constantly passing to and fro there, he said. He shouldn’t wonder if it were to happen again. His only wonder was, that it had never happened before.

By this time Ruth had got round on the farther side of her brother, and had taken his arm. She was squeezing it now, as much as to say ‘Are you going to stop here all day, you dear, old, blundering Tom?’

Tom answered the squeeze as if it had been a speech. ‘John,’ he said, ‘if you’ll give my sister your arm, we’ll take her between us, and walk on. I have a curious circumstance to relate to you. Our meeting could not have happened better.’

Merrily the fountain leaped and danced, and merrily the smiling dimples twinkled and expanded more and more, until they broke into a laugh against the basin’s rim, and vanished.

‘Tom,’ said his friend, as they turned into the noisy street, ‘I have a proposition to make. It is, that you and your sister—if she will so far honour a poor bachelor’s dwelling—give me a great pleasure, and come and dine with me.’

‘What, to-day?’ cried Tom.

‘Yes, to-day. It’s close by, you know. Pray, Miss Pinch, insist upon it. It will be very disinterested, for I have nothing to give you.’

‘Oh! you must not believe that, Ruth,’ said Tom. ‘He is the most tremendous fellow, in his housekeeping, that I ever heard of, for a single man. He ought to be Lord Mayor. Well! what do you say? Shall we go?’

‘If you please, Tom,’ rejoined his dutiful little sister.

‘But I mean,’ said Tom, regarding her with smiling admiration; ‘is there anything you ought to wear, and haven’t got? I am sure I don’t know, John; she may not be able to take her bonnet off, for anything I can tell.’

There was a great deal of laughing at this, and there were divers compliments from John Westlock—not compliments HE said at least (and really he was right), but good, plain, honest truths, which no one could deny. Ruth laughed, and all that, but she made no objection; so it was an engagement.

‘If I had known it a little sooner,’ said John, ‘I would have tried another pudding. Not in rivalry; but merely to exalt that famous one. I wouldn’t on any account have had it made with suet.’

‘Why not?’ asked Tom.

‘Because that cookery-book advises suet,’ said John Westlock; ‘and ours was made with flour and eggs.’

‘Oh good gracious!’ cried Tom. ‘Ours was made with flour and eggs, was it? Ha, ha, ha! A beefsteak pudding made with flour and eggs! Why anybody knows better than that. I know better than that! Ha, ha, ha!’

It is unnecessary to say that Tom had been present at the making of the pudding, and had been a devoted believer in it all through. But he was so delighted to have this joke against his busy little sister and was tickled to that degree at having found her out, that he stopped in Temple Bar to laugh; and it was no more to Tom, that he was anathematized and knocked about by the surly passengers, than it would have been to a post; for he continued to exclaim with unabated good humour, ‘flour and eggs! A beefsteak pudding made with flour and eggs!’ until John Westlock and his sister fairly ran away from him, and left him to have his laugh out by himself; which he had, and then came dodging across the crowded street to them, with such sweet temper and tenderness (it was quite a tender joke of Tom’s) beaming in his face, God bless it, that it might have purified the air, though Temple Bar had been, as in the golden days gone by, embellished with a row of rotting human heads.

There are snug chambers in those Inns where the bachelors live, and, for the desolate fellows they pretend to be, it is quite surprising how well they get on. John was very pathetic on the subject of his dreary life, and the deplorable makeshifts and apologetic contrivances it involved, but he really seemed to make himself pretty comfortable. His rooms were the perfection of neatness and convenience at any rate; and if he were anything but comfortable, the fault was certainly not theirs.

He had no sooner ushered Tom and his sister into his best room (where there was a beautiful little vase of fresh flowers on the table, all ready for Ruth. Just as if he had expected her, Tom said), than, seizing his hat, he bustled out again, in his most energetically bustling, way; and presently came hurrying back, as they saw through the half-opened door, attended by a fiery-faced matron attired in a crunched bonnet, with particularly long strings to it hanging down her back; in conjunction with whom he instantly began to lay the cloth for dinner, polishing up the wine-glasses with his own hands, brightening the silver top of the pepper-caster on his coat-sleeve, drawing corks and filling decanters, with a skill and expedition that were quite dazzling. And as if, in the course of this rubbing and polishing, he had rubbed an enchanted lamp or a magic ring, obedient to which there were twenty thousand supernatural slaves at least, suddenly there appeared a being in a white waistcoat, carrying under his arm a napkin, and attended by another being with an oblong box upon his head, from which a banquet, piping hot, was taken out and set upon the table.

Salmon, lamb, peas, innocent young potatoes, a cool salad, sliced cucumber, a tender duckling, and a tart—all there. They all came at the right time. Where they came from, didn’t appear; but the oblong box was constantly going and coming, and making its arrival known to the man in the white waistcoat by bumping modestly against the outside of the door; for, after its first appearance, it entered the room no more. He was never surprised, this man; he never seemed to wonder at the extraordinary things he found in the box, but took them out with a face expressive of a steady purpose and impenetrable character, and put them on the table. He was a kind man; gentle in his manners, and much interested in what they ate and drank. He was a learned man, and knew the flavour of John Westlock’s private sauces, which he softly and feelingly described, as he handed the little bottles round. He was a grave man, and a noiseless; for dinner being done, and wine and fruit arranged upon the board, he vanished, box and all, like something that had never been.

La fontana gocciolava allegramente, fino a quando le increspature, fondendosi l’una con l’altra, si trasformarono in un sorriso che coprì tutta la superficie della vasca.

“Che incontro straordinario!” disse Tom. “Non avrei mai immaginato di vedervi entrambi qui insieme.”

“Del tutto casuale,” si sentì mormorare John.

“Esattamente,” gridò Tom; “è proprio questo che intendo. Se non fosse stato un caso, non ci sarebbe nulla di straordinario in tutto questo.”

“Certo,” disse John.

“Che posto strano per incontrarsi, ”, continuò Tom, molto divertito. “Un luogo davvero inaspettato!”

John invece lo contestava. Al contrario, riteneva che fosse un luogo molto probabile, anzi. Diceva di passarci spesso avanti e indietro. Non doveva meravigliarsi se dovesse accadere di nuovo. L’unica cosa che lo meravigliava era che non fosse mai successo prima.

A quell’ora, Ruth aveva raggiunto il lato più lontano di suo fratello e gli aveva preso il braccio. Ora lo stava stringendo forte, come per dire: “Vuoi restare qui tutto il giorno, tu caro, vecchio e goffo Tom?”

Tom rispose a quella stretta di mano come se si fosse trattato di un discorso. “John,” disse, “se vuoi offrire il tuo braccio a mia sorella, la porteremo insieme e continueremo il nostro cammino. Ho una cosa curiosa da raccontarti. Il nostro incontro non avrebbe potuto verificarsi in modo migliore.”

La fontana spruzzava e danzava gioiosamente, e quelle fossette sorridenti brillavano sempre di più, fino a quando non scoppiarono in una risata che rimbombò sul bordo della vasca, per poi scomparire.

“Tom,” disse il suo amico mentre entravano in quella strada rumorosa, “ho una proposta da farti. Vorrei che tu e tua sorella, se lei vorrà onorare così tanto l’abitazione di un povero scapolo, veniste a cena da me.”

“Cosa, oggi?” esclamò Tom.

“Sì, oggi stesso. È vicino, lo sapete. Per favore, signorina Pinch, insisteteci. Sarà del tutto disinteressato: non ho nulla da darvi.”

“Oh! Non devi crederci, Ruth,” disse Tom. “È davvero l’uomo più organizzato che abbia mai conosciuto, per quanto riguarda le faccende domestiche. Dovrebbe essere nominato Lord Mayor. Allora, cosa ne dici? Andiamo?”

“Per favore, Tom,” rispose sua sorellina obbediente.

“Ma voglio dire,” disse Tom, guardandola con un sorriso ammirativo, “c’è qualcosa che dovresti indossare e che non hai ancora? Sono sicuro di non saperlo. John; forse non riuscirà nemmeno a togliersi il cappello.”

Ci fu molto ridere in merito a questo, e John Westlock fece diversi complimenti, almeno non erano veri complimenti nel senso tradizionale (e in realtà aveva ragione), ma piuttosto vere e semplici osservazioni oneste che nessuno poteva negare. Ruth rise, e basta; quindi l’impegno fu confermato.

“Se l’avessi saputo un po’ prima,” disse John, “avrei provato un altro tipo di budino. Non per competere, ma semplicemente per lodare ancora di più quello famoso. Assolutamente non avrei fatto preparare quel budino con la pancetta.”

“Perché no?”, chiese Tom.

“Perché quel libro di cucina consiglia l’uso della strutto,” disse John Westlock; “e il nostro dolce è stato fatto con farina e uova.”

“Oh mio Dio!” esclamò Tom. “Il nostro era fatto con farina e uova, vero? Ahahah! Un budino di manzo fatto con farina e uova. Perché mai qualcuno dovrebbe saperlo meglio di me? Io lo so meglio di chiunque altro! Ahahah!”

È inutile dire che Tom fosse stato presente durante la preparazione della puding e che abbia creduto fermamente in tutto ciò fin dall’inizio. Ma era così felice di aver trovato questo modo per prendere in giro sua sorella, sempre impegnata, e così divertito dal fatto di esserci riuscito, che si fermò a Temple Bar per ridere. E per Tom non fu affatto un problema essere insultato e spintonato dai passeggeri arrabbiati; continuò infatti a esclamare con inesauribile buon umore: “Farina ed uova! Una puding di manzo fatta con farina ed uova!” Fino a quando John Westlock e sua sorella non se ne andarono, lasciandolo ridere da solo. Poi si avvicinò loro attraverso la strada affollata, con un’espressione così gentile e tenera sul viso (era davvero una battuta molto carina da parte di Tom) che, beh, sembrava proprio che potesse “purificare l’aria”, anche se Temple Bar fosse stato, come nei tempi d’oro passati, adornato da una fila di teste umane in decomposizione.

In quelle locande ci sono stanze confortevoli dove vivono gli scapoli, e, considerando quanto siano solitari questi giovani, è davvero sorprendente quanto bene se la cavino. John si lamentava molto della sua vita monotona, delle condizioni precarie in cui viveva e dei mezzi improvvisati che utilizzava per sopravvivere, ma sembrava comunque riuscire a stare abbastanza bene. Le sue stanze, in ogni caso, erano esempio di pulizia e comodità; e se non era davvero confortevole, la colpa certamente non era loro.

Non appena ebbe fatto entrare Tom e sua sorella nella sua stanza migliore (dove c’era un bellissimo vaso di fresche >fiori sul tavolo, già pronti per Ruth), proprio come se l’aspettasse, Tom disse. Allora, afferrando il suo cappello, uscì di nuovo con quella sua solita fretta e agitazione; poco dopo tornò di corsa, e attraverso la porta semiaperta si vide accompagnato da una donna dal viso rossastro, vestita con un cappello stretto dalle lunghe strisce che le pendevano sulla schiena. Insieme, cominciarono immediatamente a preparare la cena: lui lucidava i bicchieri di vino con le sue stesse mani, puliva il bordo d’argento del condimento sul suo gomito della giacca, estraeva i tappi dalle bottiglie e riempiva i decanter con grande abilità e velocità. E come se, durante queste operazioni, avesse strofinato una lampada magica o un anello incantato, all’improvviso apparve una figura in gilet bianco, che portava sotto il braccio un tovagliolo; insieme a lei, un’altra persona con una scatola oblunga in testa: da quella scatola fu tirata fuori una cena calda e fumante, che venne subito posizionata sul tavolo.

Salmone, agnello, piselli, giovani patate innocenti, un’insalata fresca, cetrioli affettati, un tenero anatroccolo e una torta, tutto c’era. Arrivava sempre nel momento giusto. Non si sapeva da dove provenisse; ma la scatola oblunga andava e veniva continuamente, facendo sapere al signore con il gilet bianco della sua arrivo battendo delicatamente contro la porta esterna. Dopo la prima apparizione, non entrò più nella stanza. Quell’uomo non si sorprendeva mai; non sembrava mai meravigliarsi delle cose straordinarie che trovava nella scatola, ma le prendeva fuori con un’espressione decisa e impassibile, e le metteva sul tavolo. Era un uomo gentile, cortese nei modi, molto interessato a ciò che mangiavano e bevevano. Era anche un uomo colto: conosceva il sapore dei condimenti segreti di John Westlock, e li descriveva con delicatezza mentre ne distribuiva i piccoli flaconi. Era un uomo serio, silenzioso. Una volta pronta la cena, e serviti vino e frutta, scompariva, insieme alla scatola, come se nulla fosse mai accaduto.

‘Didn’t I say he was a tremendous fellow in his housekeeping?’ cried Tom. ‘Bless my soul! It’s wonderful.’

‘Ah, Miss Pinch,’ said John. ‘This is the bright side of the life we lead in such a place. It would be a dismal life, indeed, if it didn’t brighten up to-day’

‘Don’t believe a word he says,’ cried Tom. ‘He lives here like a monarch, and wouldn’t change his mode of life for any consideration. He only pretends to grumble.’

No, John really did not appear to pretend; for he was uncommonly earnest in his desire to have it understood that he was as dull, solitary, and uncomfortable on ordinary occasions as an unfortunate young man could, in reason, be. It was a wretched life, he said, a miserable life. He thought of getting rid of the chambers as soon as possible; and meant, in fact, to put a bill up very shortly.

‘Well’ said Tom Pinch, ‘I don’t know where you can go, John, to be more comfortable. That’s all I can say. What do YOU say, Ruth?’

Ruth trifled with the cherries on her plate, and said that she thought Mr Westlock ought to be quite happy, and that she had no doubt he was.

Ah, foolish, panting, frightened little heart, how timidly she said it!

‘But you are forgetting what you had to tell, Tom; what occurred this morning,’ she added in the same breath.

‘So I am,’ said Tom. ‘We have been so talkative on other topics that I declare I have not had time to think of it. I’ll tell it you at once, John, in case I should forget it altogether.’

On Tom’s relating what had passed upon the wharf, his friend was very much surprised, and took such a great interest in the narrative as Tom could not quite understand. He believed he knew the old lady whose acquaintance they had made, he said; and that he might venture to say, from their description of her, that her name was Gamp. But of what nature the communication could have been which Tom had borne so unexpectedly; why its delivery had been entrusted to him; how it happened that the parties were involved together; and what secret lay at the bottom of the whole affair; perplexed him very much. Tom had been sure of his taking some interest in the matter; but was not prepared for the strong interest he showed. It held John Westlock to the subject even after Ruth had left the room; and evidently made him anxious to pursue it further than as a mere subject of conversation.

‘I shall remonstrate with my landlord, of course,’ said Tom; ‘though he is a very singular secret sort of man, and not likely to afford me much satisfaction; even if he knew what was in the letter.’

‘Which you may swear he did,’ John interposed.

‘You think so?’

‘I am certain of it.’

‘Well!’ said Tom, ‘I shall remonstrate with him when I see him (he goes in and out in a strange way, but I will try to catch him tomorrow morning), on his having asked me to execute such an unpleasant commission. And I have been thinking, John, that if I went down to Mrs What’s-her-name’s in the City, where I was before, you know—Mrs Todgers’s—to-morrow morning, I might find poor Mercy Pecksniff there, perhaps, and be able to explain to her how I came to have any hand in the business.’

‘You are perfectly right, Tom,’ returned his friend, after a short interval of reflection. ‘You cannot do better. It is quite clear to me that whatever the business is, there is little good in it; and it is so desirable for you to disentangle yourself from any appearance of willful connection with it, that I would counsel you to see her husband, if you can, and wash your hands of it by a plain statement of the facts. I have a misgiving that there is something dark at work here, Tom. I will tell you why, at another time; when I have made an inquiry or two myself.’

All this sounded very mysterious to Tom Pinch. But as he knew he could rely upon his friend, he resolved to follow this advice.

Ah, but it would have been a good thing to have had a coat of invisibility, wherein to have watched little Ruth, when she was left to herself in John Westlock’s chambers, and John and her brother were talking thus, over their wine! The gentle way in which she tried to get up a little conversation with the fiery-faced matron in the crunched bonnet, who was waiting to attend her; after making a desperate rally in regard of her dress, and attiring herself in a washed-out yellow gown with sprigs of the same upon it, so that it looked like a tesselated work of pats of butter. That would have been pleasant. The grim and griffin-like inflexibility with which the fiery-faced matron repelled these engaging advances, as proceeding from a hostile and dangerous power, who could have no business there, unless it were to deprive her of a customer, or suggest what became of the self-consuming tea and sugar, and other general trifles. That would have been agreeable. The bashful, winning, glorious curiosity, with which little Ruth, when fiery-face was gone, peeped into the books and nick-nacks that were lying about, and had a particular interest in some delicate paper-matches on the chimney-piece; wondering who could have made them. That would have been worth seeing. The faltering hand with which she tied those flowers together; with which, almost blushing at her own fair self as imaged in the glass, she arranged them in her breast, and looking at them with her head aside, now half resolved to take them out again, now half resolved to leave them where they were. That would have been delightful!

John seemed to think it all delightful; for coming in with Tom to tea, he took his seat beside her like a man enchanted. And when the tea-service had been removed, and Tom, sitting down at the piano, became absorbed in some of his old organ tunes, he was still beside her at the open window, looking out upon the twilight.

There is little enough to see in Furnival’s Inn. It is a shady, quiet place, echoing to the footsteps of the stragglers who have business there; and rather monotonous and gloomy on summer evenings. What gave it such a charm to them, that they remained at the window as unconscious of the flight of time as Tom himself, the dreamer, while the melodies which had so often soothed his spirit were hovering again about him! What power infused into the fading light, the gathering darkness; the stars that here and there appeared; the evening air, the City’s hum and stir, the very chiming of the old church clocks; such exquisite enthrallment, that the divinest regions of the earth spread out before their eyes could not have held them captive in a stronger chain?

“Non vi avevo detto che era un vero maestro nell’organizzare la casa?” esclamò Tom. “Dio mio, è meraviglioso!”

“Ah, signorina Pinch,” disse John. “Questo è il lato positivo della vita che conduciamo in un posto del genere. Sarebbe davvero una vita triste, se non ci fossero momenti come oggi.”

“Non credete nemmeno una parola di quello che dice,” gridò Tom. “Vive qui come un monarca e non cambierebbe mai il suo stile di vita per nulla al mondo. Si limita a fingere di lamentarsi.”

No, John davvero non sembrava fingere; poiché era insolitamente serio nel suo desiderio di far capire che, in circostanze normali, fosse altrettanto noioso, solitario e scomodo di quanto possa esserlo, per un giovane sfortunato, ragionevolmente parlando. “È una vita misera”, diceva; pensava di liberarsi al più presto di quelle stanze. E in effetti, aveva intenzione di presentare una richiesta di pagamento molto presto.

“Beh,” disse Tom Pinch, “non so dove tu possa andare, John, per stare più comodo. Questo è tutto quello che posso dire. E tu, Ruth, cosa ne pensi?”

Ruth giocherellò con le ciliegie sul suo piatto e disse che pensava che il signor Westlock dovesse essere molto felice, e che non aveva alcun >dubbio al riguardo.

Ah, cuoricino sciocco, ansimante, spaventato. Come lo disse con timidezza!

“Ma stai dimenticando quello che dovevi dire, Tom. Quello che è accaduto questa mattina,” aggiunse lei nello stesso istante.

“Lo so,” disse Tom. “Abbiamo parlato così tanto di altri argomenti che ammetto di non aver avuto il tempo per pensarci. Te lo dico subito, John, nel caso me ne dimenticassi del tutto.”

Quando Tom raccontò ciò che era accaduto al molo, il suo amico rimase molto sorpreso e mostrò un tale interesse per la storia che Tom faticava a comprenderne le motivazioni. Disse di conoscere quella signora con cui loro avevano avuto a che fare, e che, a giudicare dalla descrizione che ne davano, il suo nome doveva essere Gamp. Tuttavia, non riusciva a capire di quale natura fosse la comunicazione che Tom aveva portato in modo così inaspettato, perché gli fosse stata affidata proprio a lui, come mai le parti coinvolte fossero collegate tra loro, e quale segreto si nascondesse alla base di tutta quella situazione. Questi interrogativi lo lasciarono profondamente perplesso. Tom era certo che il suo amico avrebbe mostrato interesse per la questione, ma non si aspettava un tale entusiasmo da parte sua. L’argomento continuò a occupare la mente di John Westlock anche dopo che Ruth se n’era andata; evidentemente, lo spingeva a indagare oltre, molto più di quanto fosse semplicemente un argomento di conversazione.

“Certo che protesterò con il mio padrone di casa,” disse Tom; “anche se è un tipo molto strano e probabilmente non mi darà molta soddisfazione, nemmeno se sapesse cosa c’è nella lettera.”

“Di cui potete giurare che lo fece,” intervenne John.

“Lo pensi davvero?”

“Ne sono certo.”

“Beh!”, disse Tom, “gli parlerò quando lo vedrò (entra ed esce in modo strano, ma proverò a prenderlo domani mattina) per il fatto che mi ha chiesto di svolgere un compito così sgradevole. E ho pensato, John, che se andassi domani mattina da quella signora, come si chiama, nella >Città, dove abitavo prima, sai, dalla signora Todgers, forse potrei trovare povera Mercy Pecksniff lì e spiegarle come mai sono stato coinvolto in questa faccenda.”

“Hai perfettamente ragione, Tom,” rispose il suo amico dopo un breve momento di riflessione. “Non potresti fare di meglio. È evidente che, qualunque sia questa faccenda, non ha alcun valore positivo; e poiché è molto importante che tu ti distacchi da qualsiasi apparente coinvolgimento volontario in essa, ti consiglio di incontrare suo marito, se possibile, e di chiarire la situazione raccontandogli semplicemente i fatti. Ho il sospetto che ci sia qualcosa di losco sotto tutto questo, Tom. Te lo spiegherò un’altra volta, quando avrò fatto qualche indagine io stesso.”

Tutto ciò suonava molto misterioso per Tom Pinch. Ma poiché sapeva di potersi fidare del suo amico, decise di seguire quel consiglio.

Ah, sarebbe stato davvero bello disporre di un mantello dell’invisibilità per poter osservare la piccola Ruth quando rimaneva da sola nelle stanze di John Westlock, mentre lui e suo fratello conversavano davanti al vino. Il modo gentile con cui lei cercava di intrattenersi con quella matrona dal viso acceso, che aspettava ad aiutarla; dopo aver tentato disperatamente di sistemarsi il vestito, si era infilata un abito giallo logoro, decorato con dei rametti dello stesso colore, tanto da sembrare un mosaico fatto di strisce di burro. Sarebbe stato davvero interessante vedere tutto questo. E poi l’inflessibilità crudele e minacciosa di quella matrona, che respingeva ogni tentativo di avvicinamento da parte della piccola Ruth, come se provenisse da una forza ostile e pericolosa. Sarebbe stato davvero spiacevole assistere a tutto ciò. E infine, la curiosità timida ma affascinante della piccola Ruth: quando quella donna se n’era andata, lei sbirciava nei libri e negli oggetti che erano lì intorno, mostrando un particolare interesse per alcune scatole di fiammiferi posizionate sul camino. Chiedendosi chi potesse averle preparate. Sarebbe stato davvero divertente osservarla mentre lo faceva. E poi quella sua mano tremante mentre legava quei fiori insieme; mentre, arrossendo per la propria bellezza riflessa nello specchio, li sistemava sul petto e li guardava di sguardo obliquo. A volte decidendo di toglierli di nuovo, altre volte lasciandoli dove erano. Sarebbe stato davvero incantevole!

John sembrava trovare tutto delizioso; entrato con Tom per il tè, si sedette accanto a lei come se fosse incantato. E quando il servizio da tè fu portato via e Tom, sedutosi al pianoforte, iniziò a suonare alcune delle sue vecchie melodie per organo, rimase ancora accanto a lei, davanti alla finestra aperta, a guardare il crepuscolo.

C’è davvero poco da vedere nella locanda di Furnival’s Inn. È un posto ombreggiato e silenzioso, dove risuonano solo i passi di coloro che hanno affari lì; piuttosto monotono e cupo nelle serate estive. Che cosa gli conferiva tale fascino, da far sì che rimanessero davanti alla finestra, ignari del trascorrere del tempo, proprio come Tom stesso, il sognatore. Mentre le melodie che così spesso avevano calmato il suo spirito risuonavano nuovamente intorno a lui! Quale potere si sprigionava da quella luce morente, dall’oscurità che avvolgeva tutto; dalle stelle che apparivano qua e là nel cielo; dall’aria serale, dal rumore e dal movimento della città. E persino dal suono delle vecchie campane della chiesa. Un incanto così straordinario, che nemmeno i regni più divini della terra avrebbero potuto tenerli prigionieri con catene più forti.

The shadows deepened, deepened, and the room became quite dark. Still Tom’s fingers wandered over the keys of the piano, and still the window had its pair of tenants. At length, her hand upon his shoulder, and her breath upon his forehead, roused Tom from his reverie.

‘Dear me!’ he cried, desisting with a start. ‘I am afraid I have been very inconsiderate and unpolite.’

Tom little thought how much consideration and politeness he had shown!

‘Sing something to us, my dear,’ said Tom, ‘let us hear your voice. Come!’

John Westlock added his entreaties with such earnestness that a flinty heart alone could have resisted them. Hers was not a flinty heart. Oh, dear no! Quite another thing.

So down she sat, and in a pleasant voice began to sing the ballads Tom loved well. Old rhyming stories, with here and there a pause for a few simple chords, such as a harper might have sounded in the ancient time while looking upward for the current of some half-remembered legend; words of old poets, wedded to such measures that the strain of music might have been the poet’s breath, giving utterance and expression to his thoughts; and now a melody so joyous and light-hearted, that the singer seemed incapable of sadness, until in her inconstancy (oh wicked little singer!) she relapsed, and broke the listeners’ hearts again; these were the simple means she used to please them. And that these simple means prevailed, and she DID please them, let the still darkened chamber, and its long-deferred illumination witness.

The candles came at last, and it was time for moving homeward. Cutting paper carefully, and rolling it about the stalks of those same flowers, occasioned some delay; but even this was done in time, and Ruth was ready.

‘Good night!’ said Tom. ‘A memorable and delightful visit, John! Good night!’

John thought he would walk with them.

‘No, no. Don’t!’ said Tom. ‘What nonsense! We can get home very well alone. I couldn’t think of taking you out.’

But John said he would rather.

‘Are you sure you would rather?’ said Tom. ‘I am afraid you only say so out of politeness.’

John being quite sure, gave his arm to Ruth, and led her out. Fiery-face, who was again in attendance, acknowledged her departure with so cold a curtsey that it was hardly visible; and cut Tom, dead.

Their host was bent on walking the whole distance, and would not listen to Tom’s dissuasions. Happy time, happy walk, happy parting, happy dreams! But there are some sweet day-dreams, so there are that put the visions of the night to shame.

Busily the Temple fountain murmured in the moonlight, while Ruth lay sleeping, with her flowers beside her; and John Westlock sketched a portrait—whose?—from memory.

Le ombre si fecero sempre più profonde, e la stanza divenne completamente buia. Tuttavia, le dita di Tom continuavano a muoversi sulle tastiere del pianoforte, e la finestra aveva ancora i suoi “inquilini”. Alla fine, una mano sulla sua spalla e il respiro di lei sulla sua fronte riscossero Tom dal suo sogno.

“Mio Dio!”, esclamò, fermandosi di colpo. “Temo di essere stato molto irrispettoso e scortese.”

Tom non si rendeva minimamente conto di quanta considerazione e gentilezza avesse dimostrato.

“Canta qualcosa per noi, cara”, disse Tom, “facciamoci ascoltare la tua voce. Vieni!”

John Westlock esprimeva le sue suppliche con tale sincerità che anche un cuore di pietra avrebbe potuto resisterle. Ma il suo non era certo un cuore di pietra. Oh, no. Era qualcos’altro del tutto.

Si sedette giù e, con una voce piacevole, iniziò a cantare le ballate che Tom amava tanto. Vecchie storie in rima, interrotte di tanto in tanto da alcune semplici melodie, come quelle che un arpaista avrebbe potuto suonare nell’antica epoca, mentre alzava lo sguardo verso il corso di qualche leggenda a metà dimenticata. Parole di antichi poeti, messe in musica in modo tale che il ritmo stesso sembrasse essere il respiro del poeta, che dava voce e espressione ai suoi pensieri. Una melodia così gioiosa e spensierata, che sembrava impossibile che la cantante potesse provare tristezza. Finché, nella sua inconstanza (oh, malvagia piccola cantante!), ricadeva nuovamente nel dolore, spezzando di nuovo i cuori degli ascoltatori. Questi erano i semplici mezzi che utilizzava per compiacerli. E poiché questi semplici mezzi funzionavano davvero, e lei RIESCEVA davvero a compiacerli, lasciate che la stanza ancora buia e l’illuminazione tanto ritardata ne siano testimoni.

Finalmente arrivarono le candele, e fu il momento di tornare a casa. Tagliare con cura il carta e avvolgerla attorno ai gambi di quelle stesse fiori causò un po’ di ritardo; ma anche questo venne fatto in tempo, e Ruth era pronta.

“Buona notte!” disse Tom. “Che visita memorabile e deliziosa, John! Buona notte!”

John pensava che avrebbe camminato con loro.

“No, no. Non farlo!” disse Tom. “Che sciocchezza! Possiamo tornare a casa molto bene, da soli. Non mi sarebbe mai venuto in mente di portarti con me.”

Ma John disse che preferiva così.

“Sei davvero sicuro di preferirlo?” disse Tom. “Temo che lo dica solo per gentilezza.”

Essendo abbastanza sicuro, John porse il braccio a Ruth e la guidò fuori.
Fireface, che era di nuovo presente, salutò la sua partenza con un inchino così freddo da essere quasi impercettibile; inoltre, trattò Tom con estrema durezza.

Il loro ospite era deciso a percorrere l’intera distanza e non voleva ascoltare le ragionamenti di Tom. Che bella giornata, che piacevole passeggiata, che felice addio, e che bei sogni! Ma ci sono anche alcuni dolci sogni diurni che fanno sembrare i sogni notturni insignificanti.

Con un mormorio sommesso, la fontana del Tempio gorgogliava sotto la luce della luna, mentre Ruth dormiva, con i suoi fiori accanto a lei; e John Westlock disegnava un ritratto, di chi?, basandosi sulla memoria.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

IN WHICH MISS PECKSNIFF MAKES LOVE, MR JONAS MAKES WRATH, MRS GAMP MAKES TEA, AND MR CHUFFEY MAKES BUSINESS

On the next day’s official duties coming to a close, Tom hurried home without losing any time by the way; and after dinner and a short rest sallied out again, accompanied by Ruth, to pay his projected visit to Todgers’s. Tom took Ruth with him, not only because it was a great pleasure to him to have her for his companion whenever he could, but because he wished her to cherish and comfort poor Merry; which she, for her own part (having heard the wretched history of that young wife from Tom), was all eagerness to do.

‘She was so glad to see me,’ said Tom, ‘that I am sure she will be glad to see you. Your sympathy is certain to be much more delicate and acceptable than mine.’

‘I am very far from being certain of that, Tom,’ she replied; ‘and indeed you do yourself an injustice. Indeed you do. But I hope she may like me, Tom.’

‘Oh, she is sure to do that!’ cried Tom, confidently.

‘What a number of friends I should have, if everybody was of your way of thinking. Shouldn’t I, Tom, dear?’ said his little sister pinching him upon the cheek.

Tom laughed, and said that with reference to this particular case he had no doubt at all of finding a disciple in Merry. ‘For you women,’ said Tom, ‘you women, my dear, are so kind, and in your kindness have such nice perception; you know so well how to be affectionate and full of solicitude without appearing to be; your gentleness of feeling is like your touch so light and easy, that the one enables you to deal with wounds of the mind as tenderly as the other enables you to deal with wounds of the body. You are such—’

‘My goodness, Tom!’ his sister interposed. ‘You ought to fall in love immediately.’

Tom put this observation off good humouredly, but somewhat gravely too; and they were soon very chatty again on some other subject.

As they were passing through a street in the City, not very far from Mrs Todgers’s place of residence, Ruth checked Tom before the window of a large Upholstery and Furniture Warehouse, to call his attention to something very magnificent and ingenious, displayed there to the best advantage, for the admiration and temptation of the public. Tom had hazarded some most erroneous and extravagantly wrong guess in relation to the price of this article, and had joined his sister in laughing heartily at his mistake, when he pressed her arm in his, and pointed to two persons at a little distance, who were looking in at the same window with a deep interest in the chests of drawers and tables.

‘Hush!’ Tom whispered. ‘Miss Pecksniff, and the young gentleman to whom she is going to be married.’

‘Why does he look as if he was going to be buried, Tom?’ inquired his little sister.

‘Why, he is naturally a dismal young gentleman, I believe,’ said Tom ‘but he is very civil and inoffensive.’

‘I suppose they are furnishing their house,’ whispered Ruth.

‘Yes, I suppose they are,’ replied Tom. ‘We had better avoid speaking to them.’

They could not very well avoid looking at them, however, especially as some obstruction on the pavement, at a little distance, happened to detain them where they were for a few moments. Miss Pecksniff had quite the air of having taken the unhappy Moddle captive, and brought him up to the contemplation of the furniture like a lamb to the altar. He offered no resistance, but was perfectly resigned and quiet. The melancholy depicted in the turn of his languishing head, and in his dejected attitude, was extreme; and though there was a full-sized four-post bedstead in the window, such a tear stood trembling in his eye as seemed to blot it out.

‘Augustus, my love,’ said Miss Pecksniff, ‘ask the price of the eight rosewood chairs, and the loo table.’

‘Perhaps they are ordered already,’ said Augustus. ‘Perhaps they are Another’s.’

‘They can make more like them, if they are,’ rejoined Miss Pecksniff.

‘No, no, they can’t,’ said Moddle. ‘It’s impossible!’

He appeared, for the moment, to be quite overwhelmed and stupefied by the prospect of his approaching happiness; but recovering, entered the shop. He returned immediately, saying in a tone of despair

‘Twenty-four pound ten!’

Miss Pecksniff, turning to receive this announcement, became conscious of the observation of Tom Pinch and his sister.

‘Oh, really!’ cried Miss Pecksniff, glancing about her, as if for some convenient means of sinking into the earth. ‘Upon my word, I—there never was such a—to think that one should be so very—Mr Augustus Moddle, Miss Pinch!’

Miss Pecksniff was quite gracious to Miss Pinch in this triumphant introduction; exceedingly gracious. She was more than gracious; she was kind and cordial. Whether the recollection of the old service Tom had rendered her in knocking Mr Jonas on the head had wrought this change in her opinions; or whether her separation from her parent had reconciled her to all human-kind, or to all that interesting portion of human-kind which was not friendly to him; or whether the delight of having some new female acquaintance to whom to communicate her interesting prospects was paramount to every other consideration; cordial and kind Miss Pecksniff was. And twice Miss Pecksniff kissed Miss Pinch upon the cheek.

‘Augustus—Mr Pinch, you know. My dear girl!’ said Miss Pecksniff, aside. ‘I never was so ashamed in my life.’

Ruth begged her not to think of it.

‘I mind your brother less than anybody else,’ simpered Miss Pecksniff. ‘But the indelicacy of meeting any gentleman under such circumstances! Augustus, my child, did you—’

Here Miss Pecksniff whispered in his ear. The suffering Moddle repeated:

‘Twenty-four pound ten!’

‘Oh, you silly man! I don’t mean them,’ said Miss Pecksniff. ‘I am speaking of the—’

CAPITOLO QUARANTASEI

In cui Miss Pecksniff prova amore, Mr Jonas si arrabbia, Mrs Gamp prepara il tè, e Mr Chuffey conduce affari.

Una volta terminati gli impegni ufficiali del giorno seguente, Tom si affrettò a tornare a casa, senza perdere nemmeno un minuto; dopo cena e una breve pausa, uscì di nuovo, accompagnato da Ruth, per effettuare la visita prevista a Todgers’s. Tom portò con sé Ruth non solo perché gli faceva grande piacere averla al proprio fianco ogni volta che ne aveva l’opportunità, ma anche perché voleva che lei confortasse e aiutasse povera Merry; e Ruth, da parte sua (avendo ascoltato da Tom la triste storia di quella giovane donna), era più che disposta a farlo.

“Era così felice di vedermi,” disse Tom, “che sono sicuro che sarà felice anche di vederti tu. La tua compassione, senza dubbio, sarà molto più delicata e gradita della mia.”

“Non ne sono affatto certa, Tom,” rispose lei; “e in realtà ti stai facendo un torto. Davvero. Ma spero che a lei possa piacermi, Tom.”

“Oh, sicuramente lo farà!” esclamò Tom con fiducia.

“Quanti amici dovrei avere, se tutti pensassero come te. Non è vero, Tom caro?” disse sua sorellina pizzicandogli la guancia.

Tom rise e disse che, riguardo a questo caso specifico, non aveva affatto alcun >dubbio di riuscire a trovare un discepolo in Merry. “Perché voi donne,” disse Tom, “voi donne, mie care, siete così gentili, e nella vostra gentilezza possedete una percezione davvero straordinaria; sapete così bene come essere affettuose e premurose senza sembrarlo; la dolcezza dei vostri sentimenti è come il vostro tocco: leggero e delicato. Il primo vi permette di curare le ferite dell’anima con la stessa tenerezza con cui il secondo cura le ferite del corpo. Voi siete davvero così, ”

“Mio Dio, Tom!”, intervenne sua sorella. “Dovresti innamorarti immediatamente.”

Tom accolse questa osservazione con buon umore, ma anche con una certa serietà; e presto ripresero a chiacchierare animatamente su un altro argomento.

Mentre attraversavano una strada della >Città, non molto lontano dalla residenza della signora Todgers, Ruth osservò Tom davanti alla finestra di un grande magazzino di tappezzerie e mobili. C’era qualcosa di davvero magnifico ed ingegnoso esposto lì, mostrato al meglio per suscitare ammirazione e persino tentazione nel pubblico. Tom aveva fatto alcune supposizioni completamente errate riguardo al prezzo di quell’oggetto; ridendo insieme a sua sorella della sua sbagliata previsione, lui le strinse il braccio e indicò due persone poco lontano, che stavano osservando con grande interesse gli armadietti e i tavoli esposti nella vetrina.

“Zitto!” sussurrò Tom. “La signorina Pecksniff, e il giovane gentiluomo con cui si sposerà.”

“Perché sembra che stia per essere sepolto, Tom?”, chiese sua sorellina.

“Beh, credo che sia naturalmente un giovane signore piuttosto noioso,” disse Tom, “ma è molto educato e innocuo.”

“Suppongo che stiano arredando la loro >casa,” sussurrò Ruth.

“Sì, immagino che lo siano,” rispose Tom. “È meglio evitare di parlare con loro.”

Non riuscivano davvero a evitare di guardarli, soprattutto perché un ostacolo sul marciapiede, situato a una certa distanza, li fece fermare per qualche momento. La signorina Pecksniff aveva proprio l’aria di aver catturato quel sfortunato Moddle e di averlo portato lì, davanti agli arredi, come un >agnello davanti all’altare. Lui non oppose alcuna resistenza, ma era completamente rassegnato e silenzioso. La melanconia che si leggeva nel suo sguardo abbattuto e nella sua postura depressa era estrema; e anche se dalla finestra si vedeva un letto a quattro colonne, una lacrima tremolava nei suoi occhi, come se volesse cancellare tutto ciò che lo circondava.

“Augustus, mio caro,” disse la signorina Pecksniff, “chiedi il prezzo di quelle otto sedie di rosaio e del tavolino da toeletta.”

“Forse sono già stati ordinati,” disse Augustus. “Forse appartengono a qualcun altro.”

“Se lo vogliono, possono farne ancora,” ribatté la signorina Pecksniff.

“No, no, non possono farlo,” disse Moddle. “È impossibile!”

Per il momento, sembrava completamente sopraffatto e sbalordito dall’idea della felicità che lo aspettava; ma ripresosi, entrò nel negozio. Tornò subito dopo, dicendo con un tono di disperazione.

“Ventiquattro libbre e dieci!”

La signorina Pecksniff, voltandosi per ascoltare questa dichiarazione, si rese conto dell’attenzione di Tom Pinch e di sua sorella.

“Oh, davvero!” esclamò la signorina Pecksniff, guardandosi intorno come se cercasse un modo comodo per scomparire sotto terra. “Per la mia parola, io, non c’è mai stato nulla del genere. Non si può credere che qualcuno possa essere così. Il signor Augustus Moddle, la signorina Pinch!”

La signorina Pecksniff fu davvero molto gentile con la signorina Pinch in questa occasione di presentazione trionfale; estremamente gentile, anzi. Fu più che gentile: fu cordiale e affettuosa. Che fosse il ricordo del vecchio favore che Tom le aveva reso, colpendo il signor Jonas sulla testa, a farle cambiare opinione; o che la separazione da suo padre l’avesse riconciliata con tutta l’umanità, o almeno con quella parte dell’umanità che non era ostile a lui; o ancora che il piacere di avere una nuova conoscenza femminile con cui condividere le sue prospettive interessanti fosse più importante di qualsiasi altra considerazione. La signorina Pecksniff fu davvero cordiale e affettuosa. E due volte baciò la signorina Pinch sulla guancia.

“Augustus, il signor Pinch, lo conoscete bene. Mia cara ragazza!” disse la signorina Pecksniff sottovoce. “Non mi sono mai sentita così imbarazzata in vita mia.”

Ruth le pregò di non pensarci più.

“Non mi importa nulla di tuo fratello, più di chiunque altro,” sorrise dolcemente la signorina Pecksniff.
“Ma che mancanza di delicatezza incontrare un gentiluomo in circostanze del genere! Augustus, mio bambino, hai davvero, ”

Qui, la signorina Pecksniff gli sussurrò all’orecchio. Il sofferente Moddle ripeté:

“Ventiquattro libbre e dieci!”

“Oh, tu sciocco! Non intendo quelle cose,” disse la signorina Pecksniff. “Sto parlando dei, ”

Here she whispered him again.

‘If it’s the same patterned chintz as that in the window; thirty-two, twelve, six,’ said Moddle, with a sigh. ‘And very dear.’

Miss Pecksniff stopped him from giving any further explanation by laying her hand upon his lips, and betraying a soft embarrassment. She then asked Tom Pinch which way he was going.

‘I was going to see if I could find your sister,’ answered Tom, ‘to whom I wished to say a few words. We were going to Mrs Todgers’s, where I had the pleasure of seeing her before.’

‘It’s of no use your going on, then,’ said Cherry, ‘for we have not long left there; and I know she is not at home. But I’ll take you to my sister’s house, if you please. Augustus—Mr Moddle, I mean—and myself, are on our way to tea there, now. You needn’t think of HIM,’ she added, nodding her head as she observed some hesitation on Tom’s part. ‘He is not at home.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Tom.

‘Oh, I am quite sure of that. I don’t want any MORE revenge,’ said Miss Pecksniff, expressively. ‘But, really, I must beg you two gentlemen to walk on, and allow me to follow with Miss Pinch. My dear, I never was so taken by surprise!’

In furtherance of this bashful arrangement, Moddle gave his arm to Tom; and Miss Pecksniff linked her own in Ruth’s.

‘Of course, my love,’ said Miss Pecksniff, ‘it would be useless for me to disguise, after what you have seen, that I am about to be united to the gentleman who is walking with your brother. It would be in vain to conceal it. What do you think of him? Pray, let me have your candid opinion.’

Ruth intimated that, as far as she could judge, he was a very eligible swain.

‘I am curious to know,’ said Miss Pecksniff, with loquacious frankness, ‘whether you have observed, or fancied, in this very short space of time, that he is of a rather melancholy turn?’

‘So very short a time,’ Ruth pleaded.

‘No, no; but don’t let that interfere with your answer,’ returned Miss Pecksniff. ‘I am curious to hear what you say.’

Ruth acknowledged that he had impressed her at first sight as looking ‘rather low.’

‘No, really?’ said Miss Pecksniff. ‘Well! that is quite remarkable! Everybody says the same. Mrs Todgers says the same; and Augustus informs me that it is quite a joke among the gentlemen in the house. Indeed, but for the positive commands I have laid upon him, I believe it would have been the occasion of loaded fire-arms being resorted to more than once. What do you think is the cause of his appearance of depression?’

Ruth thought of several things; such as his digestion, his tailor, his mother, and the like. But hesitating to give utterance to any one of them, she refrained from expressing an opinion.

‘My dear,’ said Miss Pecksniff; ‘I shouldn’t wish it to be known, but I don’t mind mentioning it to you, having known your brother for so many years—I refused Augustus three times. He is of a most amiable and sensitive nature, always ready to shed tears if you look at him, which is extremely charming; and he has never recovered the effect of that cruelty. For it WAS cruel,’ said Miss Pecksniff, with a self-conviction candour that might have adorned the diadem of her own papa. ‘There is no doubt of it. I look back upon my conduct now with blushes. I always liked him. I felt that he was not to me what the crowd of young men who had made proposals had been, but something very different. Then what right had I to refuse him three times?’

‘It was a severe trial of his fidelity, no doubt,’ said Ruth.

‘My dear,’ returned Miss Pecksniff. ‘It was wrong. But such is the caprice and thoughtlessness of our sex! Let me be a warning to you. Don’t try the feelings of any one who makes you an offer, as I have tried the feelings of Augustus; but if you ever feel towards a person as I really felt towards him, at the very time when I was driving him to distraction, let that feeling find expression, if that person throws himself at your feet, as Augustus Moddle did at mine. Think,’ said Miss Pecksniff, ‘what my feelings would have been, if I had goaded him to suicide, and it had got into the papers!’

Ruth observed that she would have been full of remorse, no doubt.

‘Remorse!’ cried Miss Pecksniff, in a sort of snug and comfortable penitence. ‘What my remorse is at this moment, even after making reparation by accepting him, it would be impossible to tell you! Looking back upon my giddy self, my dear, now that I am sobered down and made thoughtful, by treading on the very brink of matrimony; and contemplating myself as I was when I was like what you are now; I shudder. I shudder. What is the consequence of my past conduct? Until Augustus leads me to the altar he is not sure of me. I have blighted and withered the affections of his heart to that extent that he is not sure of me. I see that preying on his mind and feeding on his vitals. What are the reproaches of my conscience, when I see this in the man I love!’

Ruth endeavoured to express some sense of her unbounded and flattering confidence; and presumed that she was going to be married soon.

‘Very soon indeed,’ returned Miss Pecksniff. ‘As soon as our house is ready. We are furnishing now as fast as we can.’

In the same vein of confidence Miss Pecksniff ran through a general inventory of the articles that were already bought with the articles that remained to be purchased; what garments she intended to be married in, and where the ceremony was to be performed; and gave Miss Pinch, in short (as she told her), early and exclusive information on all points of interest connected with the event.

While this was going forward in the rear, Tom and Mr Moddle walked on, arm in arm, in the front, in a state of profound silence, which Tom at last broke; after thinking for a long time what he could say that should refer to an indifferent topic, in respect of which he might rely, with some degree of certainty, on Mr Moddle’s bosom being unruffled.

Qui gli sussurrò di nuovo.

“Se è lo stesso tessuto a motivi floreali di quello che c’è nella finestra. Trentadue, dodici, sei,” disse Moddle, sospirando. “E inoltre molto costoso.”

La signorina Pecksniff lo fermò dal dare ulteriori spiegazioni posando la sua mano sulle sue labbra, mostrando un leggero imbarazzo. Poi chiese a Tom Pinch in quale direzione stesse andando.

“Stavo per vedere se riuscivo a trovare tua sorella,” rispose Tom, “perché volevo dirle qualcosa. Dovevamo andare da Mrs Todgers, dove avevo già avuto il piacere di incontrarla in precedenza.”

“Allora non ha senso che tu continui ad andare,” disse Cherry, “perché non ci manca molto per arrivare; e so che lei non è a casa. Ma ti porterò a casa di mia sorella, se vuoi. Augustus, intendo dire il signor Moddle, e io stiamo andando lì a prendere il tè proprio adesso. Non pensare a LUI,” aggiunse, annuendo mentre notava un certo esitare da parte di Tom. “Lui non è a casa.”

“Sei sicuro?” chiese Tom.

“Oh, ne sono assolutamente certa. Non voglio più alcuna vendetta”, disse la signorina Pecksniff con enfasi. “Ma davvero, devo supplicarvi entrambi di andare avanti e lasciarmi seguire la signorina Pinch. Mio caro, non sono mai stata così colta alla sprovvista!”

Al fine di realizzare questo imbarazzante accordo, Moddle mise il proprio braccio intorno a quello di Tom; e la signorina Pecksniff fece lo stesso con quello di Ruth.

“Certo, mio caro,” disse la signorina Pecksniff, “sarebbe inutile da parte mia nascondere, dopo quello che avete visto, che sto per unirmi al gentiluomo che cammina con vostro fratello. Sarebbe vano tentare di farlo. Che ne pensate di lui? Vi prego, ditemi la vostra opinione sincera.”

Ruth suggerì che, a giudicare da quanto ne sapeva, lui fosse un giovane molto adatto per lei.

“Sono curiosa di saperlo,” disse la signorina Pecksniff con schiettezza e loquacità, “se avete notato, o semplicemente immaginato, in questo brevissimo lasso di tempo, che abbia un temperamento piuttosto melanconico?”

“È passato molto poco tempo,” supplicò Ruth.

“No, no; ma non lasciate che questo influisca sulla vostra risposta,” ribatté la signorina Pecksniff. “Sono curiosa di sentire cosa avete da dire.”

Ruth ammise che, alla prima vista, lui le era sembrato “abbastanza basso”.

“Davvero?”, disse la signorina Pecksniff. “Beh! È davvero notevole. Tutti dicono lo stesso; anche la signora Todgers lo dice, e Augustus mi ha riferito che tra i gentiluomini di quella casa è diventata quasi una sorta di scherzo. In effetti, se non fosse per gli ordini severi che gli ho dato, credo che più di una volta si sarebbero usate armi da fuoco. Che ne pensi tu della causa di questo suo stato di depressione?”

Ruth pensò a diverse cose: la sua digestione, il suo sarto, sua madre, e simili. Ma esitando ad esprimere qualcuna di esse, si trattenne dal dare un parere.

“Mia cara,” disse la signorina Pecksniff, “non vorrei che si sapesse, ma non mi dispiace parlarne con te, dato che conosco tuo fratello da tanti anni. Ho rifiutato Augustus per tre volte. È una persona di natura molto gentile e sensibile; è sempre pronto a versare lacrime se lo si guarda, il che è davvero incantevole. E non si è mai ripreso dal dolore causatogli da quel mio comportamento crudele. Perché è stato davvero crudele,” aggiunse la signorina Pecksniff con una sincerità tale da poter adornare persino la corona di suo padre. “Non c’è alcun dubbio al riguardo. Ora, ripensando al mio comportamento, arrossisco. Lui mi piaceva davvero; sentivo che non era come quei giovani che mi avevano fatto proposte. Era qualcosa di molto diverso. Allora, quale diritto avevo di rifiutarlo per tre volte?”

“È stata una dura prova per la sua fedeltà, senza alcun dubbio”, disse Ruth.

“Mia cara,” rispose la signorina Pecksniff, “è stato sbagliato. Ma che capricci e imprudenze ha il nostro sesso! Lasciate che vi serva da avvertimento: non provate mai a mettere alla prova i sentimenti di chi vi fa una proposta, proprio come ho fatto io con Augustus. Ma se mai provaste per qualcuno ciò che io ho veramente provato per lui, proprio nel momento in cui lo stavo facendo impazzire, lasciate che quei sentimenti trovino espressione. Se quella persona dovesse gettarsi ai vostri piedi, come Augustus Moddle fece con i miei. Pensate,” aggiunse la signorina Pecksniff, “a cosa sarebbero stati i miei sentimenti se lo avessi spinto al suicidio e se questa cosa fosse finita sui giornali, ”

Ruth osservò che sicuramente avrebbe provato un grande rimorso, senza alcun dubbio al riguardo.

“Remorse!” esclamò Miss Pecksniff, con un tono di penitenza piuttosto soddisfatta e confortevole. “Quanto rimorso provi in questo momento, anche dopo aver cercato di rimediare accettandolo, sarebbe impossibile descriverlo a parole! Ripensando al mio passato comportamento, ora che sono sobria e riflessiva, mentre mi trovo sull’orlo del matrimonio, e considerando com’ero un tempo, proprio come sei tu adesso, rabbrividisco. Quali conseguenze ha avuto il mio comportamento? Fino a quando Augustus non mi porterà all’altare, non sarà sicuro di me. Ho distrutto completamente i suoi sentimenti al punto che lui stesso non si fida più di me. Questo pensiero continua ad assillarlo e a rovinargli la vita. E quali rimproveri riceve la mia coscienza quando vedo tutto questo nell’uomo che amo?”

Ruth cercò di esprimere quel senso di fiducia illimitata e lusinghiera che provava; e presumeva che presto sarebbe stata sposata.

“Molto presto, davvero,” rispose la signorina Pecksniff. “Non appena la nostra casa sarà pronta. Stiamo arredandola il più velocemente possibile.”

Nello stesso spirito di fiducia, la signorina Pecksniff fece un elenco completo degli articoli già acquistati e di quelli ancora da comprare; indicò quali abiti avrebbe indossato al matrimonio e dove si sarebbe svolta la cerimonia; in breve, fornì alla signorina Pinch informazioni dettagliate e riservate su tutti gli aspetti rilevanti per l’evento.

Mentre tutto ciò si svolgeva dietro di loro, Tom e il signor Moddle proseguivano davanti, a braccio, in un profondo silenzio; alla fine Tom ruppe quel silenzio. Dopo aver riflettuto a lungo su quale argomento neutro potesse scegliere per parlare, in modo da poter contare, con una certa sicurezza, sul fatto che il signor Moddle non si sarebbe sconvolto, decise di procedere.

‘I wonder,’ said Tom, ‘that in these crowded streets the foot-passengers are not oftener run over.’

Mr Moddle, with a dark look, replied:

‘The drivers won’t do it.’

‘Do you mean?’ Tom began—

‘That there are some men,’ interrupted Moddle, with a hollow laugh, ‘who can’t get run over. They live a charmed life. Coal waggons recoil from them, and even cabs refuse to run them down. Ah!’ said Augustus, marking Tom’s astonishment. ‘There are such men. One of ‘em is a friend of mine.’

‘Upon my word and honour,’ thought Tom, ‘this young gentleman is in a state of mind which is very serious indeed!’ Abandoning all idea of conversation, he did not venture to say another word, but he was careful to keep a tight hold upon Augustus’s arm, lest he should fly into the road, and making another and a more successful attempt, should get up a private little Juggernaut before the eyes of his betrothed. Tom was so afraid of his committing this rash act, that he had scarcely ever experienced such mental relief as when they arrived in safety at Mrs Jonas Chuzzlewit’s house.

‘Walk up, pray, Mr Pinch,’ said Miss Pecksniff. For Tom halted, irresolutely, at the door.

‘I am doubtful whether I should be welcome,’ replied Tom, ‘or, I ought rather to say, I have no doubt about it. I will send up a message, I think.’

‘But what nonsense that is!’ returned Miss Pecksniff, speaking apart to Tom. ‘He is not at home, I am certain. I know he is not; and Merry hasn’t the least idea that you ever—’

‘No,’ interrupted Tom. ‘Nor would I have her know it, on any account. I am not so proud of that scuffle, I assure you.’

‘Ah, but then you are so modest, you see,’ returned Miss Pecksniff, with a smile. ‘But pray walk up. If you don’t wish her to know it, and do wish to speak to her, pray walk up. Pray walk up, Miss Pinch. Don’t stand here.’

Tom still hesitated for he felt that he was in an awkward position. But Cherry passing him at this juncture, and leading his sister upstairs, and the house-door being at the same time shut behind them, he followed without quite knowing whether it was well or ill-judged so to do.

‘Merry, my darling!’ said the fair Miss Pecksniff, opening the door of the usual sitting-room. ‘Here are Mr Pinch and his sister come to see you! I thought we should find you here, Mrs Todgers! How do you do, Mrs Gamp? And how do you do, Mr Chuffey, though it’s of no use asking you the question, I am well aware.’

Honouring each of these parties, as she severally addressed them, with an acid smile, Miss Charity presented ‘Mr Moddle.’

‘I believe you have seen HIM before,’ she pleasantly observed. ‘Augustus, my sweet child, bring me a chair.’

The sweet child did as he was told; and was then about to retire into a corner to mourn in secret, when Miss Charity, calling him in an audible whisper a ‘little pet,’ gave him leave to come and sit beside her. It is to be hoped, for the general cheerfulness of mankind, that such a doleful little pet was never seen as Mr Moddle looked when he complied. So despondent was his temper, that he showed no outward thrill of ecstasy when Miss Pecksniff placed her lily hand in his, and concealed this mark of her favour from the vulgar gaze by covering it with a corner of her shawl. Indeed, he was infinitely more rueful then than he had been before; and, sitting uncomfortably upright in his chair, surveyed the company with watery eyes, which seemed to say, without the aid of language, ‘Oh, good gracious! look here! Won’t some kind Christian help me!’

But the ecstasies of Mrs Gamp were sufficient to have furnished forth a score of young lovers; and they were chiefly awakened by the sight of Tom Pinch and his sister. Mrs Gamp was a lady of that happy temperament which can be ecstatic without any other stimulating cause than a general desire to establish a large and profitable connection. She added daily so many strings to her bow, that she made a perfect harp of it; and upon that instrument she now began to perform an extemporaneous concerto.

‘Why, goodness me!’ she said, ‘Mrs Chuzzlewit! To think as I should see beneath this blessed ‘ouse, which well I know it, Miss Pecksniff, my sweet young lady, to be a ‘ouse as there is not a many like, worse luck, and wishin’ it were not so, which then this tearful walley would be changed into a flowerin’ guardian, Mr Chuffey; to think as I should see beneath this indiwidgle roof, identically comin’, Mr Pinch (I take the liberty, though almost unbeknown), and do assure you of it, sir, the smilinest and sweetest face as ever, Mrs Chuzzlewit, I see exceptin’ yourn, my dear good lady, and YOUR good lady’s too, sir, Mr Moddle, if I may make so bold as speak so plain of what is plain enough to them as needn’t look through millstones, Mrs Todgers, to find out wot is wrote upon the wall behind. Which no offence is meant, ladies and gentlemen; none bein’ took, I hope. To think as I should see that smilinest and sweetest face which me and another friend of mine, took notice of among the packages down London Bridge, in this promiscous place, is a surprige in-deed!’

Having contrived, in this happy manner, to invest every member of her audience with an individual share and immediate personal interest in her address, Mrs Gamp dropped several curtseys to Ruth, and smilingly shaking her head a great many times, pursued the thread of her discourse:

‘Now, ain’t we rich in beauty this here joyful arternoon, I’m sure. I knows a lady, which her name, I’ll not deceive you, Mrs Chuzzlewit, is Harris, her husband’s brother bein’ six foot three, and marked with a mad bull in Wellington boots upon his left arm, on account of his precious mother havin’ been worrited by one into a shoemaker’s shop, when in a sitiwation which blessed is the man as has his quiver full of sech, as many times I’ve said to Gamp when words has roge betwixt us on account of the expense—and often have I said to Mrs Harris, “Oh, Mrs Harris, ma’am! your countenance is quite a angel’s!” Which, but for Pimples, it would be. “No, Sairey Gamp,” says she, “you best of hard-working and industrious creeturs as ever was underpaid at any price, which underpaid you are, quite diff’rent. Harris had it done afore marriage at ten and six,” she says, “and wore it faithful next his heart till the colour run, when the money was declined to be give back, and no arrangement could be come to. But he never said it was a angel’s, Sairey, wotever he might have thought.” If Mrs Harris’s husband was here now,’ said Mrs Gamp, looking round, and chuckling as she dropped a general curtsey, ‘he’d speak out plain, he would, and his dear wife would be the last to blame him! For if ever a woman lived as know’d not wot it was to form a wish to pizon them as had good looks, and had no reagion give her by the best of husbands, Mrs Harris is that ev’nly dispogician!’

“Che strano,” disse Tom, “che in queste strade affollate i pedoni non vengano spesso investiti.”

“Mr Moddle, con uno sguardo cupo, rispose, ”

“Gli autisti non lo faranno.”

“Intendi dire,?”, cominciò Tom.

“Ci sono alcuni uomini,” interruppe Moddle con una risata vuota, “che semplicemente non possono essere investiti. Vivono una vita protetta. I vagoni del carbone si allontanano da loro, e persino le cabine dei taxi rifiutano di investirli. Ah!” disse Augustus, notando lo stupore di Tom. “Esistono davvero uomini del genere. Uno di loro è un mio amico.”

“Per la mia parola e per onore,” pensò Tom, “questo giovane signore è davvero in uno stato mentale molto grave!” Abbandonando qualsiasi idea di conversazione, non osò dire una parola in più, ma fece attenzione a tenere saldamente il braccio di Augustus, per evitare che questi corresse in mezzo alla strada e, con un altro tentativo più riuscito, creasse davanti agli occhi della sua fidanzata una sorta di “giuggernaut” personale. Tom aveva così paura che Augustus compisse questo atto avventato, che quasi non provò mai un tale sollievo mentale come quando arrivarono sani e salvi a casa della signora Jonas Chuzzlewit.

“Avvicinatevi, pregate, signor Pinch,” disse la signorina Pecksniff. Poiché Tom si fermò, esitante, sulla soglia.

“Non sono sicuro che mi accoglieranno bene,” rispose Tom, “o meglio, per essere precisi, non ho alcun >dubbio al riguardo. Penso che invierò un messaggio.”

“Ma che sciocchezza!” rispose la signorina Pecksniff, parlando a bassa voce con Tom. “Sono sicura che non sia a casa. So per certo che non c’è; e Merry non ha la minima idea che tu abbia mai, ”

“No,” intervenne Tom. “E in nessun caso vorrei che lei lo sapesse. Vi assicuro che non sono affatto orgoglioso di quella rissa.”

“Ah, ma allora siete davvero molto modesta, vedete,” rispose la signorina Pecksniff sorridendo. “Ma per favore avvicinatevi. Se non volete che lei lo sappia e desiderate parlarle, vi prego, avvicinatevi. Per favore, signorina Pinch. Non state lì in piedi.”

Tom esitava ancora, perché si sentiva in una situazione imbarazzante. Ma quando Cherry gli passò accanto in quel momento e portò sua sorella al piano di sopra, e la porta della casa si chiuse alle loro spalle nello stesso istante, lui la seguì, senza essere del tutto sicuro se fosse una decisione saggia o no.

“Merry, mio caro!” disse la bella signorina Pecksniff, aprendo la porta del solito salotto. “Ecco il signor Pinch e sua sorella venuti a trovarvi! Pensavo proprio che vi avremmo trovato qui, signora Todgers! Come state, signora Gamp? E come state, signor Chuffey, anche se non ha senso farvi questa domanda, lo so benissimo.”

Onorando ciascuna di queste parti, mentre le parlava una dopo l’altra con un sorriso amaro, la signorina Charity presentò “il signor Moddle”.

“Credo che tu l’abbia già visto prima,” osservò lei in tono gentile.
“Augustus, mio caro >bambino, portami una sedia.”

Il dolce >bambino fece ciò che gli era stato detto; e stava per andare in un angolo a piangere in segreto, quando la signorina Charity, chiamandolo sottovoce “piccolo caro”, gli permise di sedersi accanto a lei. Si spera, per il bene generale dell’umanità, che un tale “piccolo caro” triste non sia mai esistito. Il signor Moddle, infatti, sembrava estremamente abbattuto quando obbedì alle sue istruzioni. Era così scoraggiato che non mostrò alcuna traccia di gioia quando la signorina Pecksniff posò la sua mano su quella di lui, nascondendola poi con un angolo del suo scialle per evitare che gli occhi dei presenti la vedessero. In realtà, era molto più desolato di prima; seduto rigidamente sulla sedia, osservava il gruppo con occhi pieni di lacrime, come se volesse dire senza parole: “Oh, mio Dio! Guardate qui. Non c’è nessun cristiano che possa aiutarmi?”

Ma le estasi della signora Gamp erano sufficienti per generare una dozzina di giovani amanti; e questi venivano soprattutto stimolati dal vedere Tom Pinch e sua sorella. La signora Gamp era una donna dal temperamento felice, capace di provare estasi senza alcuna causa particolare, se non il desiderio generale di stabilire relazioni proficue e vantaggiose. Ogni giorno aggiungeva nuovi elementi al proprio “arco”, trasformandolo in un vero e proprio strumento musicale; e ora cominciava a suonare su quel “strumento” un concerto improvvisato.

“Mio Dio!” esclamò lei, “La signora Chuzzlewit! Pensare che proprio sotto questo benedetto tetto – che conosco così bene, signorina Pecksniff, mia cara giovane signora – possa esserci una casa come non se ne trova molte altre. Che sfortuna. Eppure si desidererebbe tanto che non fosse così. Allora questa stanza piena di lacrime diventerebbe un luogo pieno di fiori, vero, signor Chuffey? Pensare che proprio sotto questo tetto possa arrivare il signor Pinch. Mi permetto di dirlo, anche se quasi senza rendermene conto. E vi assicuro, signori: è la faccia più sorridente e più dolce che abbia mai visto. A parte la vostra, cara signora. E anche quella della sua cara signora, signor Moddle. Se posso permettermi di esprimere così apertamente ciò che è ovvio per loro. Senza bisogno di cercare troppo. La signora Todgers, non intendo offendere nessuno. Spero proprio di no. Pensare che quella faccia sorridente e dolce. Che io e un’altra mia amica abbiamo notato tra i pacchi sotto il London Bridge. In questo luogo così caotico. È davvero una sorpresa!”

Avendo così, in modo efficace, fatto sì che ogni membro del suo pubblico si sentisse coinvolto personalmente e interessato alle sue parole, la signora Gamp fece diversi inchini a Ruth e, sorridendo e scuotendo ripetutamente la testa, continuò il suo discorso.

“Ora, non siamo forse ricchi di bellezza in questa gioiosa pomeriggio? Ne sono sicura. Conosco una signora, il suo nome, non vi ingannerò, è Mrs Chuzzlewit. Il marito di Harris è alto sei piedi e tre pollici, e sul braccio sinistro ha un tatuaggio raffigurante un toro impazzito che indossa stivali Wellington. Tutto questo perché la sua cara madre, una volta, mentre si trovava in una situazione, beh, insomma, un uomo davvero fortunato è colmo di risorse. L’ho detto molte volte a Gamp, quando discutevamo delle spese. E ho anche detto spesso a Mrs Harris: ‘Oh, Mrs Harris, ma signora! Il suo viso sembra davvero quello di un angelo!’ Se solo non avesse quei brufoli, ” “No, Sairey Gamp,” risponde lei, “lei è sicuramente la persona più laboriosa e instancabile che io abbia mai conosciuto. Eppure viene sempre sottopagata. Harris si fece tatuare quel disegno prima di >sposarsi, quando aveva dieci anni e sei mesi. Lo portò sempre con sé, fedelmente, fino a quando il colore non sbiadì. Quando poi chiesero di restituire i soldi, non fu possibile trovare un accordo. Ma lui non disse mai che quel tatuaggio rappresentasse ‘un angelo’, Sairey, ” “Se solo il marito di Mrs Harris fosse qui adesso,” aggiunge Mrs Gamp, guardandosi intorno e ridacchiando mentre fa un inchino, “direbbe tutto apertamente. E sua moglie sarebbe l’ultima a biasimarlo! Perché, se mai c’è stata una donna che non desiderasse far del male a quelle belle donne che non hanno nulla per difendersi, beh, Mrs Harris è proprio quella donna, ”

With these words the worthy woman, who appeared to have dropped in to take tea as a delicate little attention, rather than to have any engagement on the premises in an official capacity, crossed to Mr Chuffey, who was seated in the same corner as of old, and shook him by the shoulder.

‘Rouge yourself, and look up! Come!’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘Here’s company, Mr Chuffey.’

‘I am sorry for it,’ cried the old man, looking humbly round the room. ‘I know I’m in the way. I ask pardon, but I’ve nowhere else to go to. Where is she?’

Merry went to him.

‘Ah!’ said the old man, patting her on the check. ‘Here she is. Here she is! She’s never hard on poor old Chuffey. Poor old Chuff!’

As she took her seat upon a low chair by the old man’s side, and put herself within the reach of his hand, she looked up once at Tom. It was a sad look that she cast upon him, though there was a faint smile trembling on her face. It was a speaking look, and Tom knew what it said. ‘You see how misery has changed me. I can feel for a dependant NOW, and set some value on his attachment.’

‘Aye, aye!’ cried Chuffey in a soothing tone. ‘Aye, aye, aye! Never mind him. It’s hard to hear, but never mind him. He’ll die one day. There are three hundred and sixty-five days in the year—three hundred and sixty-six in leap year—and he may die on any one of ‘em.’

‘You’re a wearing old soul, and that’s the sacred truth,’ said Mrs Gamp, contemplating him from a little distance with anything but favour, as he continued to mutter to himself. ‘It’s a pity that you don’t know wot you say, for you’d tire your own patience out if you did, and fret yourself into a happy releage for all as knows you.’

‘His son,’ murmured the old man, lifting up his hand. ‘His son!’

‘Well, I’m sure!’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘you’re a-settlin’ of it, Mr Chuffey. To your satigefaction, sir, I hope. But I wouldn’t lay a new pincushion on it myself, sir, though you ARE so well informed. Drat the old creetur, he’s a-layin’ down the law tolerable confident, too! A deal he knows of sons! or darters either! Suppose you was to favour us with some remarks on twins, sir, WOULD you be so good!’

The bitter and indignant sarcasm which Mrs Gamp conveyed into these taunts was altogether lost on the unconscious Chuffey, who appeared to be as little cognizant of their delivery as of his having given Mrs Gamp offence. But that high-minded woman being sensitively alive to any invasion of her professional province, and imagining that Mr Chuffey had given utterance to some prediction on the subject of sons, which ought to have emanated in the first instance from herself as the only lawful authority, or which should at least have been on no account proclaimed without her sanction and concurrence, was not so easily appeased. She continued to sidle at Mr Chuffey with looks of sharp hostility, and to defy him with many other ironical remarks, uttered in that low key which commonly denotes suppressed indignation; until the entrance of the teaboard, and a request from Mrs Jonas that she would make tea at a side-table for the party that had unexpectedly assembled, restored her to herself. She smiled again, and entered on her ministration with her own particular urbanity.

‘And quite a family it is to make tea for,’ said Mrs Gamp; ‘and wot a happiness to do it! My good young ‘ooman’—to the servant-girl—‘p’raps somebody would like to try a new-laid egg or two, not biled too hard. Likeways, a few rounds o’ buttered toast, first cuttin’ off the crust, in consequence of tender teeth, and not too many of ‘em; which Gamp himself, Mrs Chuzzlewit, at one blow, being in liquor, struck out four, two single, and two double, as was took by Mrs Harris for a keepsake, and is carried in her pocket at this present hour, along with two cramp-bones, a bit o’ ginger, and a grater like a blessed infant’s shoe, in tin, with a little heel to put the nutmeg in; as many times I’ve seen and said, and used for candle when required, within the month.’

As the privileges of the side-table—besides including the small prerogatives of sitting next the toast, and taking two cups of tea to other people’s one, and always taking them at a crisis, that is to say, before putting fresh water into the tea-pot, and after it had been standing for some time—also comprehended a full view of the company, and an opportunity of addressing them as from a rostrum, Mrs Gamp discharged the functions entrusted to her with extreme good-humour and affability. Sometimes resting her saucer on the palm of her outspread hand, and supporting her elbow on the table, she stopped between her sips of tea to favour the circle with a smile, a wink, a roll of the head, or some other mark of notice; and at those periods her countenance was lighted up with a degree of intelligence and vivacity, which it was almost impossible to separate from the benignant influence of distilled waters.

But for Mrs Gamp, it would have been a curiously silent party. Miss Pecksniff only spoke to her Augustus, and to him in whispers. Augustus spoke to nobody, but sighed for every one, and occasionally gave himself such a sounding slap upon the forehead as would make Mrs Todgers, who was rather nervous, start in her chair with an involuntary exclamation. Mrs Todgers was occupied in knitting, and seldom spoke. Poor Merry held the hand of cheerful little Ruth between her own, and listening with evident pleasure to all she said, but rarely speaking herself, sometimes smiled, and sometimes kissed her on the cheek, and sometimes turned aside to hide the tears that trembled in her eyes. Tom felt this change in her so much, and was so glad to see how tenderly Ruth dealt with her, and how she knew and answered to it, that he had not the heart to make any movement towards their departure, although he had long since given utterance to all he came to say.

The old clerk, subsiding into his usual state, remained profoundly silent, while the rest of the little assembly were thus occupied, intent upon the dreams, whatever they might be, which hardly seemed to stir the surface of his sluggish thoughts. The bent of these dull fancies combining probably with the silent feasting that was going on about him, and some struggling recollection of the last approach to revelry he had witnessed, suggested a strange question to his mind. He looked round upon a sudden, and said:

Con queste parole, la nobile donna, che sembrava essere entrata soltanto per prendere il tè come un piccolo gesto di cortesia, e non per svolgere alcuna funzione ufficiale in quel luogo, si avvicinò al signor Chuffey, che era seduto nello stesso angolo di sempre, e gli scosse la spalla.

“Rosatevi e alzatevi! Venite!” disse la signora Gamp. “C’è gente, il signor Chuffey.”

“Mi dispiace molto,” gridò l’uomo anziano, guardandosi intorno con umiltà nella stanza.
“So di essere d’intralcio. Chiedo scusa, ma non ho altro posto dove andare. Dov’è lei?”

Merry andò da lui.

“Ah!” disse l’uomo anziano, dandole una pacca sulla guancia. “Eccola qui. Non è mai stata dura con il povero vecchio Chuffey. Povero vecchio Chuff!”

Mentre si sedeva su una sedia bassa accanto all’uomo anziano, mettendosi così alla sua portata, alzò lo sguardo verso Tom una volta. Era uno sguardo triste quello che gli rivolse, anche se sul suo viso tremolava un debole sorriso. Era uno sguardo che diceva molto, e Tom capì perfettamente cosa significasse: “Vedi come la miseria mi abbia cambiato. Ora riesco a comprendere il dolore di chi dipende da me, e a dare valore alla sua lealtà.”

“Sì, sì!” gridò Chuffey con un tono rassicurante. “Sì, sì, non preoccupatevi di lui. È difficile da capire quello che dice, ma non importa. Morirà prima o poi. Ci sono trecentosessantacinque giorni all’anno, trecentosessantasei nei anni bisestili. E potrebbe morire in qualsiasi giorno di questi.”

“Porti con te un’antica ‘anima, e questa è la sacra .verità”, disse la signora Gamp, osservandolo da una certa distanza con tutt’altro che simpatia, mentre lui continuava a mormorare tra sé. “È un peccato che non sappia ciò che dice. Altrimenti si stancherebbe da solo della propria pazienza e si tormenterebbe fino a raggiungere una sorta di felice liberazione, per chiunque lo conosca”.

“Suo figlio, ”, mormorò l’uomo anziano, alzando la mano. “Suo figlio!”

“Beh, ne sono sicura!” disse la signora Gamp. “Voi ne siete certo, signor Chuffey. Spero che vi soddisfi, signore. Ma io personalmente non metterei mai un nuovo cuscino sopra quella cosa, anche se voi ne sapete davvero tanto. Maledetto quell’uomo: si comporta come se avesse tutto il diritto di dare ordini! Che ne pensate di qualche commento sui gemelli, signore? Sareste così gentile da farlo?”

Lo sarcasmo amaro e indignato con cui la signora Gamp esprimeva queste offese rimase del tutto incompreso dallo ignaro Chuffey, il quale sembrava non rendersi conto né dell’offesa arrecata né del motivo per cui la signora Gamp si era arrabbiata. Ma quella donna orgogliosa e sensibile a qualsiasi invasione della sua sfera professionale, convinta che il signor Chuffey avesse espresso qualche previsione riguardo ai figli, previsioni che avrebbero dovuto provenire in primo luogo da lei stessa come unica autorità legittima, o comunque non avrebbero mai dovuto essere fatte senza la sua approvazione e consenso, non fu così facilmente placata. Continuò a fissare il signor Chuffey con sguardi pieni di ostilità e a sfidarlo con molte altre osservazioni ironiche, pronunciate in quel tono sommesso che solitamente indica un’indignazione repressa; fino a quando l’arrivo della signora Jonas, che le chiese di preparare il tè per il gruppo di persone radunatosi improvvisamente, non la ristabilì nella sua normalità. Riprese a sorridere e iniziò ad occuparsi delle sue faccende con quella sua tipica cortesia urbana.

“Che famiglia davvero, quando si tratta di preparare il tè,” disse la signora Gamp; “e che felicità farlo! La mia cara giovane ‘donna’, alla serva, forse qualcuno vorrebbe provare un uovo appena fatto, non troppo cotto. E poi, qualche fetta di pane tostato con burro, tagliando via prima la crosta, a causa dei denti deboli, e non troppe fette. Il signor Gamp stesso, una volta, mentre era ubriaco, ne ha preparate quattro in una sola volta: due normali e due doppie. La signora Harris le ha prese come ricordo e le porta ancora in tasca in questo momento, insieme a due ossicini per i crampi, un po’ di zenzero e un grattugio, piccolo come la scarpa di un bambino benedetto, fatto di latta, con una piccola parte sul fondo dove mettere il noce moscato. Ne ho viste molte volte, e le ho usate anche per fare candele, quando necessario, nell’arco di questo mese stesso.”

Poiché i privilegi legati al posto a lato del tavolo – che includevano piccole prerogative come sedersi accanto a chi serviva il pane tostato, bere due tazze di tè in più rispetto agli altri, e farlo sempre nei momenti critici, cioè prima di versare acqua fresca nella teiera o dopo che questa era rimasta in piedi per un po’ – includevano anche la possibilità di osservare l’intera compagnia e di rivolgersi a loro come da un podio, la signora Gamp svolgeva le funzioni affidatele con estrema gentilezza e affabilità. A volte, appoggiando la tazza nel palmo della mano aperta e il gomito sul tavolo, si fermava tra un sorso di tè e l’altro per regalare al gruppo un sorriso, un battito di ciglia, un cenno del capo o qualche altro segnale di attenzione; in quei momenti il suo volto brillava di intelligenza e vivacità, caratteristiche che sembravano essere strettamente legate all’effetto benefico delle bevande analizzate.

Ma se non fosse stata per la signora Gamp, la festa sarebbe stata stranamente silenziosa. La signorina Pecksniff parlava soltanto con il suo Augustus, e anche quello solo sottovoce. Augustus non parlava con nessuno, ma sospirava per tutti, e di tanto in tanto si dava una sonora pacca sulla fronte che faceva sobbalzare la signora Todgers, piuttosto nervosa, con un’esclamazione involontaria. La signora Todgers era impegnata a lavorare a maglia e parlava raramente. Povera Merry teneva tra le sue mani quelle della allegra piccola Ruth, ascoltandola con evidente piacere, ma parlando lei stessa molto di rado; a volte sorrideva, a volte la baciava sulla guancia, e altre volte si girava dall’altra parte per nascondere le lacrime che tremolavano nei suoi occhi. Tom notò profondamente questo cambiamento in lei, e fu così felice di vedere quanto Ruth fosse premurosa con lei, e come lei lo capisse e rispondesse a quel suo affetto, che non ebbe il cuore di proporre di andarsene, anche se da tempo aveva già espresso tutto ciò che voleva dire.

Il vecchio impiegato, ritornando al suo solito stato di apatia, rimase profondamente in silenzio; mentre gli altri presenti erano tutti assorti nei loro >sogni, qualunque essi fossero, quei pensieri lenti e torpidi sembravano del tutto immobili. Quella serie di idee banali, unita probabilmente al silenzioso “banchetto” che si svolgeva intorno a lui, e a qualche vaga reminiscenza dell’ultima volta in cui aveva assistito a festeggiamenti, gli suggerirono una strana domanda. All’improvviso guardò intorno e disse:

‘Who’s lying dead upstairs?’

‘No one,’ said Merry, turning to him. ‘What is the matter? We are all here.’

‘All here!’ cried the old man. ‘All here! Where is he then—my old master, Mr Chuzzlewit, who had the only son? Where is he?’

‘Hush! Hush!’ said Merry, speaking kindly to him. ‘That happened long ago. Don’t you recollect?’

‘Recollect!’ rejoined the old man, with a cry of grief. ‘As if I could forget! As if I ever could forget!’

He put his hand up to his face for a moment; and then repeated turning round exactly as before:

‘Who’s lying dead upstairs?’

‘No one!’ said Merry.

At first he gazed angrily upon her, as upon a stranger who endeavoured to deceive him; but peering into her face, and seeing that it was indeed she, he shook his head in sorrowful compassion.

‘You think not. But they don’t tell you. No, no, poor thing! They don’t tell you. Who are these, and why are they merry-making here, if there is no one dead? Foul play! Go see who it is!’

She made a sign to them not to speak to him, which indeed they had little inclination to do; and remained silent herself. So did he for a short time; but then he repeated the same question with an eagerness that had a peculiar terror in it.

‘There’s some one dead,’ he said, ‘or dying; and I want to knows who it is. Go see, go see! Where’s Jonas?’

‘In the country,’ she replied.

The old man gazed at her as if he doubted what she said, or had not heard her; and, rising from his chair, walked across the room and upstairs, whispering as he went, ‘Foul play!’ They heard his footsteps overhead, going up into that corner of the room in which the bed stood (it was there old Anthony had died); and then they heard him coming down again immediately. His fancy was not so strong or wild that it pictured to him anything in the deserted bedchamber which was not there; for he returned much calmer, and appeared to have satisfied himself.

‘They don’t tell you,’ he said to Merry in his quavering voice, as he sat down again, and patted her upon the head. ‘They don’t tell me either; but I’ll watch, I’ll watch. They shall not hurt you; don’t be frightened. When you have sat up watching, I have sat up watching too. Aye, aye, I have!’ he piped out, clenching his weak, shrivelled hand. ‘Many a night I have been ready!’

He said this with such trembling gaps and pauses in his want of breath, and said it in his jealous secrecy so closely in her ear, that little or nothing of it was understood by the visitors. But they had heard and seen enough of the old man to be disquieted, and to have left their seats and gathered about him; thereby affording Mrs Gamp, whose professional coolness was not so easily disturbed, an eligible opportunity for concentrating the whole resources of her powerful mind and appetite upon the toast and butter, tea and eggs. She had brought them to bear upon those viands with such vigour that her face was in the highest state of inflammation, when she now (there being nothing left to eat or drink) saw fit to interpose.

‘Why, highty tighty, sir!’ cried Mrs Gamp, ‘is these your manners? You want a pitcher of cold water throw’d over you to bring you round; that’s my belief, and if you was under Betsey Prig you’d have it, too, I do assure you, Mr Chuffey. Spanish Flies is the only thing to draw this nonsense out of you; and if anybody wanted to do you a kindness, they’d clap a blister of ‘em on your head, and put a mustard poultige on your back. ‘Who’s dead, indeed! It wouldn’t be no grievous loss if some one was, I think!’

‘He’s quiet now, Mrs Gamp,’ said Merry. ‘Don’t disturb him.’

‘Oh, bother the old wictim, Mrs Chuzzlewit,’ replied that zealous lady, ‘I ain’t no patience with him. You give him his own way too much by half. A worritin’ wexagious creetur!’

No doubt with the view of carrying out the precepts she enforced, and ‘bothering the old wictim’ in practice as well as in theory, Mrs Gamp took him by the collar of his coat, and gave him some dozen or two of hearty shakes backward and forward in his chair; that exercise being considered by the disciples of the Prig school of nursing (who are very numerous among professional ladies) as exceedingly conducive to repose, and highly beneficial to the performance of the nervous functions. Its effect in this instance was to render the patient so giddy and addle-headed, that he could say nothing more; which Mrs Gamp regarded as the triumph of her art.

‘There!’ she said, loosening the old man’s cravat, in consequence of his being rather black in the face, after this scientific treatment. ‘Now, I hope, you’re easy in your mind. If you should turn at all faint we can soon rewive you, sir, I promige you. Bite a person’s thumbs, or turn their fingers the wrong way,’ said Mrs Gamp, smiling with the consciousness of at once imparting pleasure and instruction to her auditors, ‘and they comes to, wonderful, Lord bless you!’

As this excellent woman had been formerly entrusted with the care of Mr Chuffey on a previous occasion, neither Mrs Jonas nor anybody else had the resolution to interfere directly with her mode of treatment; though all present (Tom Pinch and his sister especially) appeared to be disposed to differ from her views. For such is the rash boldness of the uninitiated, that they will frequently set up some monstrous abstract principle, such as humanity, or tenderness, or the like idle folly, in obstinate defiance of all precedent and usage; and will even venture to maintain the same against the persons who have made the precedents and established the usage, and who must therefore be the best and most impartial judges of the subject.

‘Ah, Mr Pinch!’ said Miss Pecksniff. ‘It all comes of this unfortunate marriage. If my sister had not been so precipitate, and had not united herself to a Wretch, there would have been no Mr Chuffey in the house.’

‘Hush!’ cried Tom. ‘She’ll hear you.’

‘I should be very sorry if she did hear me, Mr Pinch,’ said Cherry, raising her voice a little; ‘for it is not in my nature to add to the uneasiness of any person; far less of my own sister. I know what a sister’s duties are, Mr Pinch, and I hope I always showed it in my practice. Augustus, my dear child, find my pocket-handkerchief, and give it to me.’

“Chi giace morto al piano di sopra?”

“Nessuno,” disse Merry, voltandosi verso di lui. “Che c’è? Siamo tutti qui.”

“Tutti qui!” gridò l’uomo anziano. “Tutti qui! Allora dove è, il mio vecchio padrone, il signor Chuzzlewit, che aveva un solo figlio? Dove è?”

“Zitta! Zitta!” disse Merry, parlando con dolcezza. “Quello è successo molto tempo fa. Non te ne ricordi?”

“Ricordati!” esclamò l’uomo anziano, con un grido di dolore. “Come potrei dimenticare. Come mai potrei dimenticare?”

Si portò la mano al viso per un momento; poi si girò di nuovo esattamente come prima.

“Chi giace morto al piano di sopra?”

“Nessuno!” disse Merry.

All’inizio la guardò con rabbia, come se fosse una sconosciuta che cercava di ingannarlo; ma osservandole il viso e vedendo che era davvero lei, scosse la testa con triste compassione.

“No, non lo pensi. Ma non te lo dicono. No, povera creatura! Non te lo dicono. Chi sono queste persone, e perché fanno festa qui, se nessuno è morto? C’è qualcosa di strano. Vai a vedere chi sono!”

Fece loro segno di non parlare con lui, e in effetti loro avevano pochissima voglia di farlo; anche lei rimase in silenzio. Lui fece lo stesso per un breve periodo; poi ripeté la stessa domanda con una fretta che nascondeva una sorta di terrore.

“C’è qualcuno morto, o che sta morendo; voglio sapere chi è. Vai a vedere, vai subito! Dov’è Jonas?”

“Nel paese,” rispose lei.

L’uomo anziano la fissò come se dubitasse di ciò che aveva detto, o come se non l’avesse nemmeno sentita; poi si alzò dalla sedia, attraversò la stanza e salì al piano di sopra, mormorando mentre camminava: “Qualcosa non va, ” Sentirono i suoi passi sopra le loro teste, dirigersi verso quella parte della stanza dove si trovava il letto (lì era morto l’anziano Anthony); poi lo sentirono scendere di nuovo immediatamente. La sua immaginazione non era così fervida o fantasiosa da fargli vedere nella camera da letto deserta qualcosa che in realtà non c’era; tornò infatti molto più calmo, e sembrava essersi convinto della veridicità di ciò che aveva sospettato.

“Non te lo dicono,” disse a Merry con voce tremante, mentre si sedeva di nuovo e le accarezzava la testa. “Nemmeno a me lo dicono; ma io farò attenzione, starò in guardia. Non ti faranno del male. Non avere paura. Mentre tu stavi sveglia ad osservare, anch’io stavo sveglio ad osservare. Sì, sì, lo ero!” esclamò, stringendo la sua mano debole e raggrinzita. “Molte notti sono stato pronto, ”

Lo disse con tali tremori e pause dovuti alla mancanza di fiato, e lo sussurrò così vicino al suo orecchio, con tale gelosia e segretezza, che i visitatori capirono ben poco di ciò che diceva. Ma avevano già sentito e visto abbastanza dell’uomo anziano da sentirsi inquieti; perciò si alzarono dai loro posti e si radunarono intorno a lui. Questo diede alla signora Gamp, la cui freddezza professionale non era facilmente turbata, l’opportunità perfetta per concentrare tutte le sue capacità mentali e il suo appetito su pane tostato, burro, tè e uova. Aveva dedicato tutta la sua attenzione a quei cibi con tale impegno che il suo viso era diventato rosso fuoco; ora, però (poiché non rimaneva più nulla da mangiare o bere), ritenne opportuno intervenire.

“Ma perbacco, signore!” esclamò la signora Gamp, “è davvero questa la vostra maniera di comportarvi? Bisognerebbe gettarvi addosso un secchio d’acqua fredda per farvi tornare in voi. È proprio quello che penso; e se foste sotto l’influenza di Betsey Prig, vi tratterebbero allo stesso modo, ve lo assicuro, signor Chuffey. Solo le ‘Mosche Spagnole’ potrebbero farvi smettere con queste sciocchezze. E se qualcuno volesse davvero fare del bene a voi, vi metterebbe una vescica sulla testa e un impacco di senape sulla schiena, ‘Chi è morto, davvero? Non sarebbe certo una grande perdita, se qualcuno lo fosse, ’”

“Ora è tranquillo, signora Gamp,” disse Merry. “Non disturbarlo.”

“Ah, lasciate in pace quella povera vittima, la signora Chuzzlewit,” rispose quella donna zelosa, “Non ho alcuna pazienza con lui. Gli date troppo spazio per fare ciò che vuole. È davvero un essere fastidioso e esasperante!”

Senza alcun >dubbio riguardo all’adempimento dei precetti che imponeva, e con la determinazione di “disturbare quella vecchia vittima” sia in pratica che in teoria, la signora Gamp afferrò il paziente per il colletto del cappotto e lo scosse energicamente avanti e indietro sulla sedia; un esercizio considerato dai seguaci della scuola di infermieristica “Prig” (molto diffusa tra le donne professioniste) estremamente benefico per il riposo e per il corretto funzionamento delle funzioni nervose. In questo caso, l’effetto fu tale che il paziente divenne così stordito da non riuscire più a parlare; cosa che la signora Gamp considerò il trionfo della sua abilità professionale.

“Ecco!” disse lei, allentando il colletto dell’uomo anziano, poiché il suo viso era diventato piuttosto scuro dopo questo “trattamento scientifico”. “Ora, spero che vi sentiate meglio. Se doveste svenire di nuovo, possiamo rianimarvi subito, ve lo prometto. Morso il pollice di qualcuno o girategli le dita nella direzione sbagliata, ” disse la signora Gamp, sorridendo, consapevole di fornire sia piacere che informazioni ai suoi ascoltatori. “E loro si riprendono, meravigliosamente, che il Signore vi benedica!”

Poiché questa eccellente donna era già stata incaricata in precedenza della cura di Mr Chuffey, né la signora Jonas né nessun altro ebbe il coraggio di interferire direttamente con il modo in cui si prendeva cura di lui; sebbene tutti i presenti (soprattutto Tom Pinch e sua sorella) sembrassero disposti a dissentire dalle sue opinioni. Infatti, è proprio la presunzione dei non addetti ai lavori a spingerli ad avanzare principi astratti e assurdi, come l’umanità o la gentilezza, sfidando ostinatamente ogni precedente e consuetudine; e osano persino difendere tali idee contro coloro che hanno stabilito quei precedenti e quelle consuetudini, e che quindi dovrebbero essere i giudici più qualificati e imparziali in materia.

“Ah, signor Pinch!” disse la signorina Pecksniff. “Tutto questo deriva da quel sfortunato mattrimono. Se mia sorella non fosse stata così precipitosa e non si fosse unita a un essere spregevole, non ci sarebbe stato alcun signor Chuffey in questa >casa.”

“Zitti!” gridò Tom. “Vi sentirà.”

“Mi dispiacerebbe molto se lei mi avesse sentito, signor Pinch,” disse Cherry, alzando un po’ la voce; “perché non è nella mia >natura aumentare l’imbarazzo di nessuno, figuriamoci della mia stessa sorella. So quali siano i doveri di una sorella, signor Pinch, e >spero di averli sempre dimostrati con i fatti. Augustus, mio caro >bambino, trova il mio fazzoletto da tasca e dammelo.”

Augustus obeyed, and took Mrs Todgers aside to pour his griefs into her friendly bosom.

‘I am sure, Mr Pinch,’ said Charity, looking after her betrothed and glancing at her sister, ‘that I ought to be very grateful for the blessings I enjoy, and those which are yet in store for me. When I contrast Augustus’—here she was modest and embarrased—‘who, I don’t mind saying to you, is all softness, mildness, and devotion, with the detestable man who is my sister’s husband; and when I think, Mr Pinch, that in the dispensations of this world, our cases might have been reversed; I have much to be thankful for, indeed, and much to make me humble and contented.’

Contented she might have been, but humble she assuredly was not. Her face and manner experienced something so widely different from humility, that Tom could not help understanding and despising the base motives that were working in her breast. He turned away, and said to Ruth, that it was time for them to go.

‘I will write to your husband,’ said Tom to Merry, ‘and explain to him, as I would have done if I had met him here, that if he has sustained any inconvenience through my means, it is not my fault; a postman not being more innocent of the news he brings, than I was when I handed him that letter.’

‘I thank you!’ said Merry. ‘It may do some good.’

She parted tenderly from Ruth, who with her brother was in the act of leaving the room, when a key was heard in the lock of the door below, and immediately afterwards a quick footstep in the passage. Tom stopped, and looked at Merry.

It was Jonas, she said timidly.

‘I had better not meet him on the stairs, perhaps,’ said Tom, drawing his sister’s arm through his, and coming back a step or two. ‘I’ll wait for him here, a moment.’

He had scarcely said it when the door opened, and Jonas entered. His wife came forward to receive him; but he put her aside with his hand, and said in a surly tone:

‘I didn’t know you’d got a party.’

As he looked, at the same time, either by accident or design, towards Miss Pecksniff; and as Miss Pecksniff was only too delighted to quarrel with him, she instantly resented it.

‘Oh dear!’ she said, rising. ‘Pray don’t let us intrude upon your domestic happiness! That would be a pity. We have taken tea here, sir, in your absence; but if you will have the goodness to send us a note of the expense, receipted, we shall be happy to pay it. Augustus, my love, we will go, if you please. Mrs Todgers, unless you wish to remain here, we shall be happy to take you with us. It would be a pity, indeed, to spoil the bliss which this gentleman always brings with him, especially into his own home.’

‘Charity! Charity!’ remonstrated her sister, in such a heartfelt tone that she might have been imploring her to show the cardinal virtue whose name she bore.

‘Merry, my dear, I am much obliged to you for your advice,’ returned Miss Pecksniff, with a stately scorn—by the way, she had not been offered any—‘but I am not his slave—’

‘No, nor wouldn’t have been if you could,’ interrupted Jonas. ‘We know all about it.’

‘WHAT did you say, sir?’ cried Miss Pecksniff, sharply.

‘Didn’t you hear?’ retorted Jonas, lounging down upon a chair. ‘I am not a-going to say it again. If you like to stay, you may stay. If you like to go, you may go. But if you stay, please to be civil.’

‘Beast!’ cried Miss Pecksniff, sweeping past him. ‘Augustus! He is beneath your notice!’ Augustus had been making some faint and sickly demonstration of shaking his fist. ‘Come away, child,’ screamed Miss Pecksniff, ‘I command you!’

The scream was elicited from her by Augustus manifesting an intention to return and grapple with him. But Miss Pecksniff giving the fiery youth a pull, and Mrs Todgers giving him a push they all three tumbled out of the room together, to the music of Miss Pecksniff’s shrill remonstrances.

All this time Jonas had seen nothing of Tom and his sister; for they were almost behind the door when he opened it, and he had sat down with his back towards them, and had purposely kept his eyes upon the opposite side of the street during his altercation with Miss Pecksniff, in order that his seeming carelessness might increase the exasperation of that wronged young damsel. His wife now faltered out that Tom had been waiting to see him; and Tom advanced.

The instant he presented himself, Jonas got up from his chair, and swearing a great oath, caught it in his grasp, as if he would have felled Tom to the ground with it. As he most unquestionably would have done, but that his very passion and surprise made him irresolute, and gave Tom, in his calmness, an opportunity of being heard.

‘You have no cause to be violent, sir,’ said Tom. ‘Though what I wish to say relates to your own affairs, I know nothing of them, and desire to know nothing of them.’

Jonas was too enraged to speak. He held the door open; and stamping his foot upon the ground, motioned Tom away.

‘As you cannot suppose,’ said Tom, ‘that I am here with any view of conciliating you or pleasing myself, I am quite indifferent to your reception of me, or your dismissal of me. Hear what I have to say, if you are not a madman! I gave you a letter the other day, when you were about to go abroad.’

‘You Thief, you did!’ retorted Jonas. ‘I’ll pay you for the carriage of it one day, and settle an old score besides. I will!’

‘Tut, tut,’ said Tom, ‘you needn’t waste words or threats. I wish you to understand—plainly because I would rather keep clear of you and everything that concerns you: not because I have the least apprehension of your doing me any injury: which would be weak indeed—that I am no party to the contents of that letter. That I know nothing of it. That I was not even aware that it was to be delivered to you; and that I had it from—’

‘By the Lord!’ cried Jonas, fiercely catching up the chair, ‘I’ll knock your brains out, if you speak another word.’

Augusto obbedì e portò la signora Todgers in disparte per confidarle i suoi dolori nel suo affettuoso grembo.

“Sono sicura, signor Pinch,” disse Charity, prendendosi cura del suo fidanzato e lanciando un’occhiata alla sua sorella, “che dovrei essere molto grata per le benedizioni che godo e per quelle che ancora mi aspettano. Quando confronto Augustus – qui fu modesta e imbarazzata – che, non esito a dirlo, è pieno di dolcezza, gentilezza e devozione, con quell’uomo detestabile che è il marito di mia sorella; e quando penso, signor Pinch, che nelle sorti di questo mondo le nostre posizioni potrebbero essere invertite. Ho davvero molto per cui essere grata, e molto che mi fa sentire umile e soddisfatta.”

Forse era soddisfatta, ma di certo non umile. Il suo viso e il suo comportamento esprimevano qualcosa di completamente diverso dall’umiltà, tanto che Tom non poté fare a meno di comprendere e disprezzare i motivi meschini che agivano nel suo cuore. Si allontanò e disse a Ruth che era ora di andarsene.

“Scriverò a tuo marito,” disse Tom a Merry, “e gli spiegherò, proprio come avrei fatto se lo avessi incontrato qui, che se ha subito qualche inconveniente a causa mia, non è colpa mia; un postino non è più innocente delle notizie che porta di quanto lo fossi io quando gli ho consegnato quella lettera.”

“Grazie!” disse Merry. “Forse farà del bene.”

Si separò dolcemente da Ruth, che insieme a suo fratello stava per lasciare la stanza, quando si sentì una chiave girare nella serratura della porta di sotto; subito dopo, dei passi veloci risuonarono nel corridoio. Tom si fermò e guardò Merry.

Era Jonas, disse timidamente.

“Forse è meglio che non lo incontri sulle scale,” disse Tom, prendendo il braccio di sua sorella e facendo un passo indietro. “Lo aspetterò qui per un momento.”

Appena lo ebbe detto, la porta si aprì e Jonas entrò. Sua moglie gli andò incontro per accoglierlo; ma lui la scostò con la mano e disse in tono burbero:

“Non sapevo che avessi organizzato una festa.”

Mentre guardava, nello stesso istante, sia per caso che di proposito, verso la signorina Pecksniff; e poiché la signorina Pecksniff era più che felice di litigare con lui, ne rimase immediatamente offesa.

“Oh mio Dio!”, disse alzandosi. “Per favore, non lasciate che disturbiamo la vostra felicità domestica. Sarebbe davvero un peccato. Abbiamo bevuto il tè qui, in vostra assenza; ma se voleste avere la gentilezza di inviarci una nota con l’importo speso e la ricevuta, saremmo felici di pagarlo. Augustus, mio caro. Andremo, se vi va bene. Signora Todgers, a meno che non desideriate rimanere qui, saremo lieti di portarvi con noi. Sarebbe davvero un peccato rovinare la felicità che questo gentiluomo porta sempre con sé, soprattutto nella sua stessa casa.”

“‘Carità! ‘Carità!’”, le rimproverò sua sorella con un tono così sincero che sembrava stesse supplicandola di dimostrare quella virtù cardinale il cui nome portava.

“Merry, mia cara, ti sono molto grata per il tuo consiglio,” rispose Miss Pecksniff con un tono di sprezzante dignità; tra l’altro, a lei non era stato offerto alcun consiglio, “Ma io non sono sua schiava, ”

“No, e non sarebbe successo nemmeno se foste stati in grado,” intervenne Jonas. “Lo sappiamo tutti.”

“Cosa ha detto, signore?”, esclamò la signorina Pecksniff in tono acuto.

“Non l’hai sentito?” ribatté Jonas, sdraiandosi su una sedia. “Non lo ripeterò più. Se vuoi restare, puoi farlo; se vuoi andartene, puoi anche farlo. Ma se decidi di rimanere, per favore comportati in modo civile.”

“Bestia!” gridò la signorina Pecksniff, passandogli accanto. “Augustus! Non merita nemmeno la tua attenzione!” Augustus stava facendo qualche debole e malaticcio gesto di minaccia, agitando il pugno. “Vieni via, bambino,” urlò la signorina Pecksniff, “te lo ordino!”

Quel grido fu provocato in lei dal fatto che Augustus manifestò l’intenzione di tornare e affrontarlo di nuovo. Ma Miss Pecksniff, tirando quel giovane impetuoso, e Mrs Todgers, spingendolo, finirono tutti e tre per cadere fuori dalla stanza insieme, accompagnati dalle stridule proteste di Miss Pecksniff.

In tutto questo tempo, Jonas non aveva visto né Tom né sua sorella; infatti, quando lui aprì la porta, loro si trovavano quasi subito dietro di essa. Lui si era seduto con le spalle rivolte verso di loro e, durante il suo dialogo con Miss Pecksniff, aveva intenzionalmente fissato l’altra parte della strada, in modo che la sua apparente distrazione potesse aumentare ancora di più l’esasperazione di quella giovane ragazza offesa. Ora sua moglie ammise timidamente che Tom era stato ad aspettarlo; e Tom fece un passo avanti.

Non appena si presentò, Jonas si alzò dalla sedia e, pronunciando un giuramento solenne, lo afferrò con forza, come se volesse far cadere a terra Tom con esso. Senza dubbio avrebbe fatto così, ma la sua stessa passione e sorpresa lo resero indeciso, dando a Tom l’opportunità di farsi ascoltare, grazie alla sua calma.

“Non avete motivo di essere violenti, signore,” disse Tom. “Anche se ciò che voglio dire riguarda i vostri affari personali, non ne so nulla e desidero davvero non saperne nulla.”

Jonas era troppo furioso per parlare. Teneva la porta aperta e, battendo il piede a terra, fece segno a Tom di andarsene.

“Come non potete pensare,” disse Tom, “che io sia qui con l’intento di riconciliarvi o di compiacermi; sono del tutto indifferente al modo in cui mi accoglierete o mi respingerete. Ascoltate ciò che ho da dire, se non siete pazzi! Vi ho dato una lettera l’altro giorno, quando stavate per partire all’estero.”

“Tu ladro, sei stato tu!” ribatté Jonas. “Un giorno ti pagherò per il trasporto di quella roba e risolverò anche un vecchio conto in sospeso. Lo farò!”

“Tut, tut,” disse Tom, “non c’è bisogno di parole inutili o minacce. Voglio che tu capisca chiaramente: non perché voglia tenermi alla larga da te e da tutto ciò che ti riguarda, ma perché non ho la minima paura che tu possa farmi del male, il che sarebbe davvero debole da parte mia. Non sono coinvolto in alcun modo nel contenuto di quella lettera; non ne so nulla. Non ero nemmeno a conoscenza che dovesse essere consegnata a te; l’ho avuta da, ”

“Per il Signore!” gridò Jonas, afferrando con forza la sedia, “Ti spacco la testa se dici ancora una parola.”

Tom, nevertheless, persisting in his intention, and opening his lips to speak again, Jonas set upon him like a savage; and in the quickness and ferocity of his attack would have surely done him some grievous injury, defenceless as he was, and embarrassed by having his frightened sister clinging to his arm, if Merry had not run between them, crying to Tom for the love of Heaven to leave the house. The agony of this poor creature, the terror of his sister, the impossibility of making himself audible, and the equal impossibility of bearing up against Mrs Gamp, who threw herself upon him like a feather-bed, and forced him backwards down the stairs by the mere oppression of her dead weight, prevailed. Tom shook the dust of that house off his feet, without having mentioned Nadgett’s name.

If the name could have passed his lips; if Jonas, in the insolence of his vile nature, had never roused him to do that old act of manliness, for which (and not for his last offence) he hated him with such malignity; if Jonas could have learned, as then he could and would have learned, through Tom’s means, what unsuspected spy there was upon him; he would have been saved from the commission of a Guilty Deed, then drawing on towards its black accomplishment. But the fatality was of his own working; the pit was of his own digging; the gloom that gathered round him was the shadow of his own life.

His wife had closed the door, and thrown herself before it, on the ground, upon her knees. She held up her hands to him now, and besought him not to be harsh with her, for she had interposed in fear of bloodshed.

‘So, so!’ said Jonas, looking down upon her, as he fetched his breath. ‘These are your friends, are they, when I am away? You plot and tamper with this sort of people, do you?’

‘No, indeed! I have no knowledge of these secrets, and no clue to their meaning. I have never seen him since I left home but once—but twice—before to-day.’

‘Oh!’ sneered Jonas, catching at this correction. ‘But once, but twice, eh? Which do you mean? Twice and once, perhaps. Three times! How many more, you lying jade?’

As he made an angry motion with his hand, she shrunk down hastily. A suggestive action! Full of a cruel truth!

‘How many more times?’ he repeated.

‘No more. The other morning, and to-day, and once besides.’

He was about to retort upon her, when the clock struck. He started stopped, and listened; appearing to revert to some engagement, or to some other subject, a secret within his own breast, recalled to him by this record of the progress of the hours.

‘Don’t lie there! Get up!’

Having helped her to rise, or rather hauled her up by the arm, he went on to say:

‘Listen to me, young lady; and don’t whine when you have no occasion, or I may make some for you. If I find him in my house again, or find that you have seen him in anybody else’s house, you’ll repent it. If you are not deaf and dumb to everything that concerns me, unless you have my leave to hear and speak, you’ll repent it. If you don’t obey exactly what I order, you’ll repent it. Now, attend. What’s the time?’

‘It struck eight a minute ago.’

He looked towards her intently; and said, with a laboured distinctness, as if he had got the words off by heart:

‘I have been travelling day and night, and am tired. I have lost some money, and that don’t improve me. Put my supper in the little off-room below, and have the truckle-bed made. I shall sleep there to-night, and maybe to-morrow night; and if I can sleep all day to-morrow, so much the better, for I’ve got trouble to sleep off, if I can. Keep the house quiet, and don’t call me. Mind! Don’t call me. Don’t let anybody call me. Let me lie there.’

She said it should be done. Was that all?

‘All what? You must be prying and questioning!’ he angrily retorted. ‘What more do you want to know?’

‘I want to know nothing, Jonas, but what you tell me. All hope of confidence between us has long deserted me!’

‘Ecod, I should hope so!’ he muttered.

‘But if you will tell me what you wish, I will be obedient and will try to please you. I make no merit of that, for I have no friend in my father or my sister, but am quite alone. I am very humble and submissive. You told me you would break my spirit, and you have done so. Do not break my heart too!’

She ventured, as she said these words, to lay her hand upon his shoulder. He suffered it to rest there, in his exultation; and the whole mean, abject, sordid, pitiful soul of the man, looked at her, for the moment, through his wicked eyes.

For the moment only; for, with the same hurried return to something within himself, he bade her, in a surly tone, show her obedience by executing his commands without delay. When she had withdrawn he paced up and down the room several times; but always with his right hand clenched, as if it held something; which it did not, being empty. When he was tired of this, he threw himself into a chair, and thoughtfully turned up the sleeve of his right arm, as if he were rather musing about its strength than examining it; but, even then, he kept the hand clenched.

He was brooding in this chair, with his eyes cast down upon the ground, when Mrs Gamp came in to tell him that the little room was ready. Not being quite sure of her reception after interfering in the quarrel, Mrs Gamp, as a means of interesting and propitiating her patron, affected a deep solicitude in Mr Chuffey.

‘How is he now, sir?’ she said.

‘Who?’ cried Jonas, raising his head, and staring at her.

‘To be sure!’ returned the matron with a smile and a curtsey. ‘What am I thinking of! You wasn’t here, sir, when he was took so strange. I never see a poor dear creetur took so strange in all my life, except a patient much about the same age, as I once nussed, which his calling was the custom-’us, and his name was Mrs Harris’s own father, as pleasant a singer, Mr Chuzzlewit, as ever you heerd, with a voice like a Jew’s-harp in the bass notes, that it took six men to hold at sech times, foaming frightful.’

Tom, nonostante ciò, persistendo nella sua intenzione e aprendo le labbra per parlare di nuovo, Jonas gli si scagliò addosso come un selvaggio; con la rapidità e la ferocia dell’attacco, avrebbe sicuramente causato a Tom gravi ferite, soprattutto essendo indifeso e con sua sorella spaventata aggrappata al suo braccio. Se non fosse stato per Merry, che corse tra loro chiedendo a Tom, per l’amore del cielo, di lasciare quella casa. L’agonia di quel povero ragazzo, il terrore di sua sorella, l’impossibilità di farsi sentire e l’incapacità di resistere alla pressione di Mrs Gamp, che si gettò su di lui come un peso morto costringendolo a retrocedere giù per le scale, ebbero la meglio. Tom scosse via la “polvere” di quella casa dai suoi piedi, senza mai menzionare il nome di Nadgett.

Se quel nome fosse mai potuto uscire dalle sue labbra; se Jonas, con l’insolenza della sua vile natura, non lo avesse mai spinto a compiere quell’atto di virilità per cui (e non per il suo ultimo crimine) lo odiava con tale malvagità; se Jonas avesse potuto scoprire, come allora avrebbe potuto e voluto fare attraverso i mezzi offertigli da Tom, chi fosse quel traditore che lo teneva d’occhio. Sarebbe stato salvato dal compimento di un atto colpevole, dall’avvicinarsi al suo oscuro esecuzione. Ma quella fatalità era frutto delle sue stesse azioni; la trappola era stata lui stesso a scavare; l’oscurità che lo avvolgeva era l’ombra della sua stessa vita.

Sua moglie aveva chiuso la porta e si era gettata davanti ad essa, a terra, in ginocchio. Ora gli alzava le mani e lo pregava di non essere crudele con lei, perché si era intromessa per paura che potesse verificarsi un spargimento di sangue.

“Lo so, lo so!” disse Jonas, guardandola dall’alto mentre riprendeva fiato. “Questi sono i tuoi amici, vero? Quando non ci sono io, complotti e intrighi con queste persone, eh?”

“No, assolutamente no! Non conosco questi segreti e non ho la minima idea del loro significato. Non l’ho più visto da quando ho lasciato casa, ma una volta, anzi, due volte, prima di oggi.”

“Oh!” ringhiò Jonas, afferrando al volo questa correzione. “Ma una volta, o due volte, eh? A cosa ti riferisci? Forse due volte e una volta. Tre volte! Quante altre ancora, bugiarda ingannevole?”

Mentre faceva un gesto arrabbiato con la mano, lei si ritirò in fretta. Un gesto allusivo, pieno di una crudele _verità!

“Quante altre volte ancora?” ripeté.

“Non più. Quella mattina, oggi, e un’altra volta ancora.”

Stava per ribatterle quando l’orologio suonò. Si fermò e ascoltò; sembrava che fosse tornato a qualche altro argomento o a un impegno precedente, un segreto nascosto nel suo cuore che quel suono gli aveva fatto ricordare.

“Non stai lì sdraiato! Alzati!”

Dopo averla aiutata ad alzarsi, o meglio, dopo averla trascinata su per il braccio, continuò a dire:

“Ascoltami bene, giovane signorina; e non lamentarti senza motivo, altrimenti potrei crearne uno io stesso per te. Se lo ritrovo di nuovo nella mia casa, o se scopro che l’hai visto in casa di qualcun altro, te ne pentirai. Se non sei sorda né muta riguardo a tutto ciò che mi riguarda, a meno che io non ti dia il permesso di ascoltare e parlare, te ne pentirai. Se non obbedisci esattamente ai miei ordini, te ne pentirai. Ora, ascolta: che ore sono?”

“Sono appena passate le otto.”

La guardò con attenzione e disse, con una chiarezza forzata, come se avesse imparato a memoria quelle parole:

‘Ho viaggiato giorno e notte, e sono stanco. Ho perso un po’ di denaro, il che non mi aiuta affatto. Metti la mia cena nella piccola stanza in fondo alla casa, e prepara il letto a castello. Dormirò lì fino a notte, e forse anche domani sera; se riuscissi a dormire tutto il giorno domani, sarebbe ancora meglio, perché ho difficoltà ad addormentarmi. Se possibile. Mantieni la casa in silenzio, e non chiamarmi. Attenta! Non chiamarmi. E nessuno deve chiamarmi. Lasciami stare lì.’

Disse che doveva essere fatto. Era tutto qui?

“Di cosa? Devi essere curioso e fare domande!” ribatté lui arrabbiato.
“Cosa altro vuoi sapere?”

“Non voglio sapere nulla, Jonas, se non ciò che mi dici tu. Tutta la speranza di una fiducia reciproca tra noi è da tempo svanita!”

“Ecod, spero proprio che sia così!”, mormorò.

“Ma se mi dite cosa desiderate, sarò obbediente e cercherò di compiacervi. Non merito nulla per questo, poiché non ho alcun amico né in mio padre né in mia sorella; sono completamente solo. Sono molto umile e sottomesso. Mi avete detto che avreste spezzato il mio spirito, ed è proprio ciò che avete fatto. Ma per favore, non spezzate anche il mio cuore!”

Mentre pronunciava queste parole, osò posare la sua mano sulla sua spalla. Lui permise che rimanesse lì, nella sua esultanza; e tutta quell’anima meschina, abietta, sporca e miserabile dell’uomo la guardò, per un momento, attraverso i suoi occhi malvagi.

Per il momento solo; perché, ritornando con la stessa fretta a qualcosa dentro di sé, le ordinò in tono brusco di mostrare obbedienza eseguendo i suoi comandi senza indugio. Dopo che se ne fu andata, camminò avanti e indietro nella stanza per diverse volte; ma sempre con la mano destra stretta, come se stringesse qualcosa, il che in realtà non era vero, poiché era vuota. Quando ne ebbe abbastanza, si gettò su una sedia e, pensieroso, si arrotolò la manica del braccio destro, come se stesse più riflettendo sulla sua forza che esaminandola, ma anche allora continuò a tenere la mano stretta.

Era seduto lì, immerso nei suoi pensieri, con lo sguardo fisso sul pavimento, quando la signora Gamp entrò per dirgli che la piccola stanza era pronta. Non essendo del tutto sicura di come lui avrebbe reagito al suo intervento nella loro lite, la signora Gamp, nel tentativo di conquistare e compiacere il proprio datore di lavoro, mostrò un profondo interesse per le condizioni del signor Chuffey.

“Come sta ora, signore?”, chiese lei.

“Chi?” gridò Jonas, alzando la testa e fissandola.

“Certamente!” rispose la matrona sorridendo e facendo una riverenza. “A cosa sto pensando! Lei non era qui, signore, quando lui ha avuto quell’attacco così strano. In tutta la mia vita non ho mai visto un povero essere umano soffrire in quel modo, tranne che per un paziente più o meno della stessa età che una volta ho curato. Il suo mestiere era quello di, beh, insomma, il suo mestiere era particolare. Si chiamava Mr Chuzzlewit; cantava meravigliosamente, con una voce così profonda che servivano sei uomini per reggerla mentre cantava. E sì, sbavava terribilmente durante gli attacchi, ”

‘Chuffey, eh?’ said Jonas carelessly, seeing that she went up to the old, clerk, and looked at him. ‘Ha!’

‘The creetur’s head’s so hot,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘that you might heat a flat-iron at it. And no wonder I am sure, considerin’ the things he said!’

‘Said!’ cried Jonas. ‘What did he say?’

Mrs Gamp laid her hand upon her heart, to put some check upon its palpitations, and turning up her eyes replied in a faint voice:

‘The awfulest things, Mr Chuzzlewit, as ever I heerd! Which Mrs Harris’s father never spoke a word when took so, some does and some don’t, except sayin’ when he come round, “Where is Sairey Gamp?” But raly, sir, when Mr Chuffey comes to ask who’s lyin’ dead upstairs, and—’

‘Who’s lying dead upstairs!’ repeated Jonas, standing aghast.

Mrs Gamp nodded, made as if she were swallowing, and went on.

‘Who’s lying dead upstairs; sech was his Bible language; and where was Mr Chuzzlewit as had the only son; and when he goes upstairs a-looking in the beds and wandering about the rooms, and comes down again a-whisperin’ softly to his-self about foul play and that; it gives me sech a turn, I don’t deny it, Mr Chuzzlewit, that I never could have kep myself up but for a little drain o’ spirits, which I seldom touches, but could always wish to know where to find, if so dispoged, never knowin’ wot may happen next, the world bein’ so uncertain.’

‘Why, the old fool’s mad!’ cried Jonas, much disturbed.

‘That’s my opinion, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘and I will not deceive you. I believe as Mr Chuffey, sir, rekwires attention (if I may make so bold), and should not have his liberty to wex and worrit your sweet lady as he does.’

‘Why, who minds what he says?’ retorted Jonas.

‘Still he is worritin’ sir,’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘No one don’t mind him, but he IS a ill conwenience.’

‘Ecod you’re right,’ said Jonas, looking doubtfully at the subject of this conversation. ‘I have half a mind to shut him up.’

Mrs Gamp rubbed her hands, and smiled, and shook her head, and sniffed expressively, as scenting a job.

‘Could you—could you take care of such an idiot, now, in some spare room upstairs?’ asked Jonas.

‘Me and a friend of mine, one off, one on, could do it, Mr Chuzzlewit,’ replied the nurse; ‘our charges not bein’ high, but wishin’ they was lower, and allowance made considerin’ not strangers. Me and Betsey Prig, sir, would undertake Mr Chuffey reasonable,’ said Mrs Gamp, looking at him with her head on one side, as if he had been a piece of goods, for which she was driving a bargain; ‘and give every satigefaction. Betsey Prig has nussed a many lunacies, and well she knows their ways, which puttin’ ‘em right close afore the fire, when fractious, is the certainest and most compoging.’

While Mrs Gamp discoursed to this effect, Jonas was walking up and down the room again, glancing covertly at the old clerk, as he did so. He now made a stop, and said:

‘I must look after him, I suppose, or I may have him doing some mischief. What say you?’

‘Nothin’ more likely!’ Mrs Gamp replied. ‘As well I have experienged, I do assure you, sir.’

‘Well! Look after him for the present, and—let me see—three days from this time let the other woman come here, and we’ll see if we can make a bargain of it. About nine or ten o’clock at night, say. Keep your eye upon him in the meanwhile, and don’t talk about it. He’s as mad as a March hare!’

‘Madder!’ cried Mrs Gamp. ‘A deal madder!’

‘See to him, then; take care that he does no harm; and recollect what I have told you.’

Leaving Mrs Gamp in the act of repeating all she had been told, and of producing in support of her memory and trustworthiness, many commendations selected from among the most remarkable opinions of the celebrated Mrs Harris, he descended to the little room prepared for him, and pulling off his coat and his boots, put them outside the door before he locked it. In locking it, he was careful so to adjust the key as to baffle any curious person who might try to peep in through the key-hole; and when he had taken these precautions, he sat down to his supper.

‘Mr Chuff,’ he muttered, ‘it’ll be pretty easy to be even with YOU. It’s of no use doing things by halves, and as long as I stop here, I’ll take good care of you. When I’m off you may say what you please. But it’s a d—d strange thing,’ he added, pushing away his untouched plate, and striding moodily to and fro, ‘that his drivellings should have taken this turn just now.’

After pacing the little room from end to end several times, he sat down in another chair.

‘I say just now, but for anything I know, he may have been carrying on the same game all along. Old dog! He shall be gagged!’

He paced the room again in the same restless and unsteady way; and then sat down upon the bedstead, leaning his chin upon his hand, and looking at the table. When he had looked at it for a long time, he remembered his supper; and resuming the chair he had first occupied, began to eat with great rapacity; not like a hungry man, but as if he were determined to do it. He drank too, roundly; sometimes stopping in the middle of a draught to walk, and change his seat and walk again, and dart back to the table and fall to, in a ravenous hurry, as before.

It was now growing dark. As the gloom of evening, deepening into night, came on, another dark shade emerging from within him seemed to overspread his face, and slowly change it. Slowly, slowly; darker and darker; more and more haggard; creeping over him by little and little, until it was black night within him and without.

The room in which he had shut himself up, was on the ground floor, at the back of the house. It was lighted by a dirty skylight, and had a door in the wall, opening into a narrow covered passage or blind-alley, very little frequented after five or six o’clock in the evening, and not in much use as a thoroughfare at any hour. But it had an outlet in a neighbouring street.

“Chuffey, eh?”, disse Jonas con noncuranza, vedendo che lei si avvicinava all’anziano impiegato e lo guardava. “Esatto!”

“La testa di quel mostro è così calda,” disse la signora Gamp, “che si potrebbe riscaldare un ferro da stiro su di essa. E non c’è da meravigliarsi, considerando le cose che ha detto, ”

“Lo ha detto!” esclamò Jonas. “Cosa ha detto?”

La signora Gamp si posò la mano sul cuore per cercare di calmarne i battiti accelerati, poi alzò lo sguardo e rispose con voce debole:

‘Le cose più orribili. Signor Chuzzlewit, come ho sempre sentito! Il padre di Mrs Harris non disse mai una parola quando succedeva qualcosa del genere; alcuni sì, altri no. A parte dire, quando tornava a casa: “Dove è Sairey Gamp?” Ma davvero, signore. Quando il signor Chuffey viene a chiedere chi sia morto di sopra, ’

“Chi è morto e disteso lassù!” ripeté Jonas, inorridito.

La signora Gamp annuì, come se stesse ingoiando qualcosa, e continuò a parlare.

“Chi giace morto di sopra; il Bibbia era la sua lingua; e dove si trovava il signor Chuzzlewit, che aveva l’unico figlio. Quando sale di sopra, guarda nelle camere, gira per le stanze, poi scende di nuovo sussurrando tra sé cose su crimini e simili. Mi fa venire i brividi, lo ammetto. Signor Chuzzlewit, senza un po’ di quel liquore che raramente bevo, ma di cui vorrei sempre sapere dove trovarlo, se mai ne avessi bisogno. Non si sa mai cosa possa accadere dopo; il mondo è così incerto, ”

“Ma che sia impazzito quel vecchio Foolidiota!” esclamò Jonas, molto preoccupato.

“Questa è la mia opinione, signore,” disse la signora Gamp, “e non intendo ingannarvi. Credo, come richiede attenzione il signor Chuffey (se posso permettermi di dirlo), che non dovrebbe avere la libertà di infastidire e preoccupare vostra cara signora nel modo in cui lo fa.”

“Perché, a chi importa quello che dice?” ribatté Jonas.

“Lo stesso continua a dare fastidio, signore,” disse la signora Gamp. “Nessuno se ne cura, ma rappresenta davvero un problema.”

“Hai ragione,” disse Jonas, guardando con scetticismo l’argomento di questa conversazione. “Sto quasi pensando di farlo tacere.”

La signora Gamp si strofinò le mani, sorrise, scosse la testa e annusò in modo significativo, come se avesse annusato l’odore di un lavoro promettente.

“Potresti, potresti occuparti di uno sciocco del genere, adesso, in qualche stanza libera al piano di sopra?” chiese Jonas.

“Io e una mia amica, una volta sola, potremmo farlo, signor Chuzzlewit,” rispose la infermiera; “le nostre tariffe non sono alte, ma vorremmo che fossero ancora più basse. E considerando che non siamo estranee, saremmo disposte ad accettare il compito, signor Chuffey,” disse Mrs Gamp, guardandolo di sbieco come se fosse stato un oggetto da contrattare; “e vi garantiamo la massima soddisfazione. Betsey Prig ha già assistito molti pazienti folli. E conosce bene i loro comportamenti. Quando diventano aggressivi, metterli davanti al fuoco è il metodo più sicuro e efficace per calmarli.”

Mentre la signora Gamp parlava in questo modo, Jonas continuava a camminare avanti e indietro nella stanza, lanciando di tanto in tanto occhiate furtive al vecchio impiegato. A un certo punto si fermò e disse:

“Devo prendermi cura di lui, immagino. Altrimenti potrebbe combinare qualche guaio. Che ne pensi?”

“Niente di più probabile!” rispose la signora Gamp. “Per quanto ne so io, vi assicuro, signore.”

‘Beh! Per il momento tienilo d’occhio, e, lasciami pensare, tra tre giorni da ora, fai venire qui anche l’altra donna; vedremo se riusciamo a raggiungere un accordo. Direi verso le nove o le dieci di notte. Nel frattempo tienilo sotto controllo e non parlarne con nessuno. È pazzo da legare!’

“Più pazzo ancora!”, gridò la signora Gamp. “Davvero molto più pazzo!”

“Prenditi cura di lui, allora; assicurati che non faccia del male, e ricorda ciò che ti ho detto.”

Lasciando la signora Gamp impegnata a ripetere tutto ciò che le era stato detto, e a fornire, a sostegno della sua memoria e affidabilità, molte lodi tratte dalle opinioni più notevoli della celebre signora Harris, scese nella piccola stanza preparata per lui. Si tolse cappotto e stivali e li mise fuori dalla porta prima di chiuderla a chiave. Nel farlo, si assicurò che la chiave fosse posizionata in modo da impedire a chiunque volesse spiare di vedere all’interno; una volta prese queste precauzioni, si sedette a mangiare la sua cena.

“Signor Chuff,” mormorò, “sarà abbastanza facile sistemarti. Non ha senso fare le cose a metà; finché resto qui, mi occuperò bene di te. Quando me ne andrò, potrai dire quello che vuoi. Ma è davvero strano,” aggiunse, spingendo via il piatto intatto e camminando avanti e indietro con aria cupa, “che le sue sciocchezze abbiano preso questa piega proprio ora.”

Dopo aver camminato avanti e indietro nella piccola stanza per diverse volte, si sedette su un’altra sedia.

“Lo ho detto poco fa, ma chissà. Forse ha continuato a giocare allo stesso gioco per tutto questo tempo. Quel vecchio furfante! Lo farò tacere!”

Camminava avanti e indietro nella stanza, con lo stesso modo irrequieto e incerto; poi si sedette sul letto, appoggiò il mento sulla mano e fissò il tavolo. Dopo averlo guardato per molto tempo, si ricordò della cena; quindi tornò a sedersi e iniziò a mangiare con grande voracità. Non come una persona affamata, ma come se fosse determinato a farlo. Beve anche, abbondantemente; a volte si fermava a metà sorso per camminare un po’, cambiare posto e poi tornare al tavolo per continuare a mangiare con frenesia, proprio come prima.

Stava facendo buio. Man mano che l’oscurità della sera si trasformava in notte, un’altra tonalità scura sembrava emergere dal suo interno, coprendo il suo viso e modificandolo lentamente. Lentamente, sempre di più; diventando sempre più cupa, sempre più segnata dall’affaticamento. Quell’oscurità si diffondeva gradualmente in lui, fino a quando non regnava la completa notte, sia dentro che fuori di lui.

La stanza in cui si era rinchiuso si trovava al piano terra, nella parte posteriore della casa. Era illuminata da una finestra sporca e aveva una porta sul muro che conduceva a un stretto passaggio coperto o a un vicolo cieco, poco frequentato dopo le cinque o le sei di sera e quasi mai utilizzato come via di comunicazione in qualsiasi momento. Tuttavia, quel passaggio aveva un’uscita su una strada adiacente.

The ground on which this chamber stood had, at one time, not within his recollection, been a yard; and had been converted to its present purpose for use as an office. But the occasion for it died with the man who built it; and saving that it had sometimes served as an apology for a spare bedroom, and that the old clerk had once held it (but that was years ago) as his recognized apartment, it had been little troubled by Anthony Chuzzlewit and Son. It was a blotched, stained, mouldering room, like a vault; and there were water-pipes running through it, which at unexpected times in the night, when other things were quiet, clicked and gurgled suddenly, as if they were choking.

The door into the court had not been open for a long, long time; but the key had always hung in one place, and there it hung now. He was prepared for its being rusty; for he had a little bottle of oil in his pocket and the feather of a pen, with which he lubricated the key and the lock too, carefully. All this while he had been without his coat, and had nothing on his feet but his stockings. He now got softly into bed in the same state, and tossed from side to side to tumble it. In his restless condition that was easily done.

When he arose, he took from his portmanteau, which he had caused to be carried into that place when he came home, a pair of clumsy shoes, and put them on his feet; also a pair of leather leggings, such as countrymen are used to wear, with straps to fasten them to the waistband. In these he dressed himself at leisure. Lastly, he took out a common frock of coarse dark jean, which he drew over his own under-clothing; and a felt hat—he had purposely left his own upstairs. He then sat himself down by the door, with the key in his hand, waiting.

He had no light; the time was dreary, long, and awful. The ringers were practicing in a neighbouring church, and the clashing of the bells was almost maddening. Curse the clamouring bells, they seemed to know that he was listening at the door, and to proclaim it in a crowd of voices to all the town! Would they never be still?

They ceased at last, and then the silence was so new and terrible that it seemed the prelude to some dreadful noise. Footsteps in the court! Two men. He fell back from the door on tiptoe, as if they could have seen him through its wooden panels.

They passed on, talking (he could make out) about a skeleton which had been dug up yesterday, in some work of excavation near at hand, and was supposed to be that of a murdered man. ‘So murder is not always found out, you see,’ they said to one another as they turned the corner.

Hush!

He put the key into the lock, and turned it. The door resisted for a while, but soon came stiffly open; mingling with the sense of fever in his mouth, a taste of rust, and dust, and earth, and rotting wood. He looked out; passed out; locked it after him.

All was clear and quiet, as he fled away.

Il terreno su cui sorgeva questa stanza, un tempo – sebbene lui non se ne ricordasse con precisione – non era nemmeno un giardino; in seguito fu trasformato nell’uso attuale, cioè ad ufficio. Ma l’utilità originale di quell’edificio scomparve insieme all’uomo che lo costruì; a parte il fatto che talvolta venisse utilizzato come camera da letto aggiuntiva, e che un vecchio impiegato lo avesse una volta considerato la propria residenza ufficiale (ma questo accadeva anni fa), quella stanza non subì praticamente alcun cambiamento sotto la gestione di Anthony Chuzzlewit e Figlio. Era una stanza macchiata, sporca e piena di muffa, simile a un seminterrato; inoltre, al suo interno passavano delle tubature dell’acqua che, nelle ore notturne, quando tutto intorno era silenzioso, improvvisamente emettevano suoni metallici e gorgoglii, come se stessero soffocando.

La porta che conduceva al cortile non era stata aperta da molto, molto tempo; ma la chiave era sempre stata appesa nello stesso posto, ed eccola lì ancora. Si aspettava che fosse arrugginita; aveva infatti in tasca una piccola bottiglia d’olio e la penna di un calamo, con cui lubrificò attentamente sia la chiave che la serratura. In tutto questo tempo non indossava il cappotto e, ai piedi, solo le calze. Ora si infilò dolcemente a letto nello stesso stato in cui si trovava e iniziò a girarsi da una parte all’altra per farla cadere. Nel suo stato di inquietudine, questo gli risultò facilissimo.

Quando si alzò, prese dal suo borsone, che aveva fatto portare lì quando era tornato a casa, un paio di scarpe goffe e se le infilò; inoltre prese un paio di calzamaglie di pelle, come quelle che usano i contadini, con cinture per fissarle alla vita. Si vestì con calma usando quegli indumenti. Infine, tirò fuori una comune giacca di jeans scuro grezzo e se la mise sopra i propri abiti interni; prese anche un cappello di feltro – aveva intenzionalmente lasciato il proprio in camera da letto. Poi si sedette vicino alla porta, con la chiave in mano, in attesa.

Non c’era luce; quella ora era tetra, lunga e terribile. I campanari si esercitavano in una chiesa vicina, e il suono delle campane era quasi insopportabile. Maledette quelle campane che rumoreggiavano. Sembrava che sapessero che lui stava ascoltando dietro la porta, e che lo proclamassero ad alta voce a tutta la città! Non avrebbero mai smesso?

Finalmente tacquero, e poi il silenzio divenne così nuovo e terribile da sembrare l’preludio a qualche rumore spaventoso. Passi nel cortile! Due uomini. Si ritirò dietro la porta in punta di piedi, come se potessero vederlo attraverso i suoi pannelli di legno.

Continuarono a parlare mentre camminavano (riusciva a capire ciò che dicevano); parlavano di un scheletro che era stato dissotterrato il giorno prima, durante degli scavi nelle vicinanze, e si pensava fosse quello di un uomo assassinato. “Quindi, a volte, gli omicidi non vengono scoperti,” dissero l’uno all’altro mentre svoltavano l’angolo.

Zitto!

Inserì la chiave nella serratura e la girò. La porta resistette per un momento, ma presto si aprì con uno scatto; insieme al sapore di febbre in bocca, percevette anche il gusto del ruggine, della polvere, della terra e del legno in decomposizione. Guardò fuori, poi perse i sensi e richiuse la porta a chiave dietro di sé.

Tutto era tranquillo e silenzioso mentre fuggiva via.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CONCLUSION OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND

Did no men passing through the dim streets shrink without knowing why, when he came stealing up behind them? As he glided on, had no child in its sleep an indistinct perception of a guilty shadow falling on its bed, that troubled its innocent rest? Did no dog howl, and strive to break its rattling chain, that it might tear him; no burrowing rat, scenting the work he had in hand, essay to gnaw a passage after him, that it might hold a greedy revel at the feast of his providing? When he looked back, across his shoulder, was it to see if his quick footsteps still fell dry upon the dusty pavement, or were already moist and clogged with the red mire that stained the naked feet of Cain!

He shaped his course for the main western road, and soon reached it; riding a part of the way, then alighting and walking on again. He travelled for a considerable distance upon the roof of a stage-coach, which came up while he was afoot; and when it turned out of his road, bribed the driver of a return post-chaise to take him on with him; and then made across the country at a run, and saved a mile or two before he struck again into the road. At last, as his plan was, he came up with a certain lumbering, slow, night-coach, which stopped wherever it could, and was stopping then at a public-house, while the guard and coachman ate and drank within.

He bargained for a seat outside this coach, and took it. And he quitted it no more until it was within a few miles of its destination, but occupied the same place all night.

All night! It is a common fancy that nature seems to sleep by night. It is a false fancy, as who should know better than he?

The fishes slumbered in the cold, bright, glistening streams and rivers, perhaps; and the birds roosted on the branches of the trees; and in their stalls and pastures beasts were quiet; and human creatures slept. But what of that, when the solemn night was watching, when it never winked, when its darkness watched no less than its light! The stately trees, the moon and shining stars, the softly stirring wind, the over-shadowed lane, the broad, bright countryside, they all kept watch. There was not a blade of growing grass or corn, but watched; and the quieter it was, the more intent and fixed its watch upon him seemed to be.

And yet he slept. Riding on among those sentinels of God, he slept, and did not change the purpose of his journey. If he forgot it in his troubled dreams, it came up steadily, and woke him. But it never woke him to remorse, or to abandonment of his design.

He dreamed at one time that he was lying calmly in his bed, thinking of a moonlight night and the noise of wheels, when the old clerk put his head in at the door, and beckoned him. At this signal he arose immediately—being already dressed in the clothes he actually wore at that time—and accompanied him into a strange city, where the names of the streets were written on the walls in characters quite new to him; which gave him no surprise or uneasiness, for he remembered in his dream to have been there before. Although these streets were very precipitous, insomuch that to get from one to another it was necessary to descend great heights by ladders that were too short, and ropes that moved deep bells, and swung and swayed as they were clung to, the danger gave him little emotion beyond the first thrill of terror; his anxieties being concentrated on his dress which was quite unfitted for some festival that was about to be holden there, and in which he had come to take a part. Already, great crowds began to fill the streets, and in one direction myriads of people came rushing down an interminable perspective, strewing flowers and making way for others on white horses, when a terrible figure started from the throng, and cried out that it was the Last Day for all the world. The cry being spread, there was a wild hurrying on to Judgment; and the press became so great that he and his companion (who was constantly changing, and was never the same man two minutes together, though he never saw one man come or another go), stood aside in a porch, fearfully surveying the multitude; in which there were many faces that he knew, and many that he did not know, but dreamed he did; when all at once a struggling head rose up among the rest—livid and deadly, but the same as he had known it—and denounced him as having appointed that direful day to happen. They closed together. As he strove to free the hand in which he held a club, and strike the blow he had so often thought of, he started to the knowledge of his waking purpose and the rising of the sun.

The sun was welcome to him. There were life and motion, and a world astir, to divide the attention of Day. It was the eye of Night—of wakeful, watchful, silent, and attentive Night, with so much leisure for the observation of his wicked thoughts—that he dreaded most. There is no glare in the night. Even Glory shows to small advantage in the night, upon a crowded battle-field. How then shows Glory’s blood-relation, bastard Murder!

Aye! He made no compromise, and held no secret with himself now. Murder. He had come to do it.

‘Let me get down here’ he said

‘Short of the town, eh!’ observed the coachman.

‘I may get down where I please, I suppose?’

‘You got up to please yourself, and may get down to please yourself. It won’t break our hearts to lose you, and it wouldn’t have broken ‘em if we’d never found you. Be a little quicker. That’s all.’

The guard had alighted, and was waiting in the road to take his money. In the jealousy and distrust of what he contemplated, he thought this man looked at him with more than common curiosity.

CAPITOLO QUARANTASETTE

Conclusione dell’impresa di Mr Jonas e del suo amico

Nessun uomo che passava per quelle strade oscure tremava senza sapere il motivo, quando lui si avvicinava furtivamente alle loro spalle. Mentre si muoveva silenziosamente, non c’era forse qualche bambino, nel sonno, che percepiva vagamente l’ombra di un colpevole posarsi sul suo letto, disturbando il suo innocente riposo? Nessun cane abbaiava, cercando di spezzare la sua catena per attaccarlo; nessun topo, annusando le sue intenzioni malvagie, provava a scavare un passaggio per seguirlo e godersi i frutti del suo crimine. Quando si guardava indietro, era forse per verificare se i suoi passi veloci lasciavano ancora tracce asciutte sul selciato polveroso, o se erano già bagnati e intrisi di quel fango rosso che macchiava i piedi nudi di Cain!

Inserì la propria strada sulla principale strada occidentale e presto vi arrivò; per un tratto viaggiò a cavallo, poi scese e proseguì a piedi. Percorse una notevole distanza sul tetto di una diligenza che lo superò mentre camminava; quando questa deviò dalla sua strada, corruppe il conducente di un postale per farsi portare con lui; quindi proseguì a tutta velocità attraverso la campagna, risparmiando così uno o due miglia prima di rientrare sulla strada giusta. Alla fine, come previsto dal suo piano, raggiunse una diligenza lenta e pesante che si fermava ovunque potesse; in quel momento si trovava davanti a un ostello pubblico, mentre il guardiano e il cocchiere mangiavano e bevevano all’interno.

Negoziò per ottenere un posto all’esterno di questo vagone e lo prese. Non lo lasciò più fino a quando il vagone non fu a pochi chilometri dalla sua destinazione, rimanendo sempre nello stesso posto per tutta la notte.

Di notte! È un comune errore credere che la natura sembri )dormire di notte. È un errore: chi potrebbe saperlo meglio di lui stesso?

I pesci dormivano nelle fredde, limpide e scintillanti correnti dei fiumi; forse. Gli uccelli si riposavano sui rami degli alberi; nelle stalle e nei pascoli, gli animali erano silenziosi; anche gli esseri umani dormivano. Ma che importanza aveva tutto ciò, quando la solenne notte vegliava. Quando non batteva mai le palpebre, quando il suo buio osservava tanto quanto la sua luce! Gli imponenti alberi, la luna e le luminose stelle, la brezza che soffiava dolcemente. Tutti vegliavano. Non c’era nemmeno un filo d’erba o di grano in crescita; ma più tutto taceva, più sembrava che quella vigilanza fosse attenta e intensa.

Eppure dormiva. Mentre viaggiava tra quei “sentinelli di Dio”, dormiva, e non cambiava mai lo scopo della sua patria. Anche se lo dimenticava nei suoi turbolenti sogni, quell’obiettivo ritornava sempre alla luce, risvegliandolo. Ma mai lo induceva al rimorso o all’abbandono dei suoi propositi.

Una volta sognò di essere sdraiato tranquillamente nel suo letto, a pensare a una notte illuminata dalla luna e al rumore delle ruote. Quando il vecchio impiegato mise la testa dentro la porta e lo chiamò, si alzò immediatamente – essendo già vestito con gli abiti che indossava in quel momento – e lo accompagnò in una strana città, dove i nomi delle strade erano scritti sui muri con caratteri del tutto nuovi per lui; ma questo non lo sorprese né lo mise a disagio, perché nel sogno ricordava di essere già stato lì. Anche se quelle strade erano molto ripide, tanto che per passare da una all’altra era necessario scendere grandi distanze utilizzando scale troppo corte e corde che si muovevano violentemente mentre ci si aggrappava a esse. Il pericolo non gli causò molta paura, se non un primo momento di terrore; la sua ansia era concentrata sui suoi abiti, che erano assolutamente inadatti a qualche festa che stava per tenersi lì e alla quale aveva deciso di partecipare. Già grandi folle iniziavano ad affollare le strade: in una direzione, migliaia di persone correvano lungo un panorama infinito, spargendo fiori e facendo posto ad altre che cavalcavano cavalli bianchi. Quando all’improvviso una figura terribile emerse dalla folla e gridò che quel giorno era l’ultimo per tutto il mondo. Il grido si diffuse rapidamente, e scoppiò un panico selvaggio; la pressione delle persone divenne così intensa che lui e il suo compagno (che continuava a cambiare, mai lo stesso per due minuti di fila, anche se non vedeva mai nessuno entrare o uscire, ) si fermarono in un portico, osservando con terrore la folla. Tra quella folla c’erano molti volti che conosceva, e molti altri che non conosceva, ma che pensava di conoscere. All’improvviso, una testa emerse tra le altre, pallida e minacciosa, proprio come la ricordava, e lo accusò di aver causato quell’orribile giorno. Si avventarono l’uno sull’altro. Mentre cercava di liberare la mano che stringeva un bastone, pronto a sferrare il colpo che aveva così spesso immaginato, si rese conto del proprio vero scopo, e della levata del sole.

Il sole era il benvenuto per lui; c’era vita, movimento, un mondo tutto in fermento che attirava l’attenzione del Giorno. Era lo “sguardo” della Notte – di una Notte vigile, silenziosa e attenta, con tanto tempo a disposizione per osservare i suoi pensieri malvagi. E proprio questo lo spaventava di più. Nella notte non c’è bagliore; nemmeno la Gloria appare particolarmente evidente nella notte, soprattutto in un campo di battaglia affollato. E allora, come può manifestarsi il legame tra Gloria e, il “sangue” del crimine, dell’omicidio?

Sì! Non fece alcun compromesso, e ormai non nascondeva nulla a se stesso. Omicidio. Era venuto apposta per farlo.

“Lasciami scendere qui,” disse.

“Lontano dal centro della città, eh!”, osservò il cocchiere.

“Posso sedermi dove voglio, giusto?”

“Ti sei alzato per fare ciò che volevi tu, e puoi anche tornare a farlo. Non ci spezzerà il cuore perderti. E non ci avrebbe spezzato il cuore nemmeno se non ti fossimo mai incontrati. Sii un po’ più veloce. È tutto.”

Il guardiano era sceso dalla macchina e aspettava in strada per ricevere i suoi soldi. In preda alla gelosia e al sospetto riguardo a ciò che stava per accadere, pensò che quell’uomo lo fissasse con una curiosità insolita.

‘What are you staring at?’ said Jonas.

‘Not at a handsome man,’ returned the guard. ‘If you want your fortune told, I’ll tell you a bit of it. You won’t be drowned. That’s a consolation for you.’

Before he could retort or turn away, the coachman put an end to the dialogue by giving him a cut with his whip, and bidding him get out for a surly dog. The guard jumped up to his seat at the same moment, and they drove off, laughing; leaving him to stand in the road and shake his fist at them. He was not displeased though, on second thoughts, to have been taken for an ill-conditioned common country fellow; but rather congratulated himself upon it as a proof that he was well disguised.

Wandering into a copse by the road-side—but not in that place; two or three miles off—he tore out from a fence a thick, hard, knotted stake; and, sitting down beneath a hayrick, spent some time in shaping it, in peeling off the bark, and fashioning its jagged head with his knife.

The day passed on. Noon, afternoon, evening. Sunset.

At that serene and peaceful time two men, riding in a gig, came out of the city by a road not much frequented. It was the day on which Mr Pecksniff had agreed to dine with Montague. He had kept his appointment, and was now going home. His host was riding with him for a short distance; meaning to return by a pleasant track, which Mr Pecksniff had engaged to show him, through some fields. Jonas knew their plans. He had hung about the inn-yard while they were at dinner and had heard their orders given.

They were loud and merry in their conversation, and might have been heard at some distance; far above the sound of their carriage wheels or horses’ hoofs. They came on noisily, to where a stile and footpath indicated their point of separation. Here they stopped.

‘It’s too soon. Much too soon,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘But this is the place, my dear sir. Keep the path, and go straight through the little wood you’ll come to. The path is narrower there, but you can’t miss it. When shall I see you again? Soon I hope?’

‘I hope so,’ replied Montague.

‘Good night!’

‘Good night. And a pleasant ride!’

So long as Mr Pecksniff was in sight, and turned his head at intervals to salute him, Montague stood in the road smiling, and waving his hand. But when his new partner had disappeared, and this show was no longer necessary, he sat down on the stile with looks so altered, that he might have grown ten years older in the meantime.

He was flushed with wine, but not gay. His scheme had succeeded, but he showed no triumph. The effort of sustaining his difficult part before his late companion had fatigued him, perhaps, or it may be that the evening whispered to his conscience, or it may be (as it HAS been) that a shadowy veil was dropping round him, closing out all thoughts but the presentiment and vague foreknowledge of impending doom.

If there be fluids, as we know there are, which, conscious of a coming wind, or rain, or frost, will shrink and strive to hide themselves in their glass arteries; may not that subtle liquor of the blood perceive, by properties within itself, that hands are raised to waste and spill it; and in the veins of men run cold and dull as his did, in that hour!

So cold, although the air was warm; so dull, although the sky was bright; that he rose up shivering from his seat, and hastily resumed his walk. He checked himself as hastily; undecided whether to pursue the footpath, which was lonely and retired, or to go back by the road.

He took the footpath.

The glory of the departing sun was on his face. The music of the birds was in his ears. Sweet wild flowers bloomed about him. Thatched roofs of poor men’s homes were in the distance; and an old grey spire, surmounted by a Cross, rose up between him and the coming night.

He had never read the lesson which these things conveyed; he had ever mocked and turned away from it; but, before going down into a hollow place, he looked round, once, upon the evening prospect, sorrowfully. Then he went down, down, down, into the dell.

It brought him to the wood; a close, thick, shadowy wood, through which the path went winding on, dwindling away into a slender sheep-track. He paused before entering; for the stillness of this spot almost daunted him.

The last rays of the sun were shining in, aslant, making a path of golden light along the stems and branches in its range, which, even as he looked, began to die away, yielding gently to the twilight that came creeping on. It was so very quiet that the soft and stealthy moss about the trunks of some old trees, seemed to have grown out of the silence, and to be its proper offspring. Those other trees which were subdued by blasts of wind in winter time, had not quite tumbled down, but being caught by others, lay all bare and scathed across their leafy arms, as if unwilling to disturb the general repose by the crash of their fall. Vistas of silence opened everywhere, into the heart and innermost recesses of the wood; beginning with the likeness of an aisle, a cloister, or a ruin open to the sky; then tangling off into a deep green rustling mystery, through which gnarled trunks, and twisted boughs, and ivy-covered stems, and trembling leaves, and bark-stripped bodies of old trees stretched out at length, were faintly seen in beautiful confusion.

As the sunlight died away, and evening fell upon the wood, he entered it. Moving, here and there a bramble or a drooping bough which stretched across his path, he slowly disappeared. At intervals a narrow opening showed him passing on, or the sharp cracking of some tender branch denoted where he went; then, he was seen or heard no more.

Never more beheld by mortal eye or heard by mortal ear; one man excepted. That man, parting the leaves and branches on the other side, near where the path emerged again, came leaping out soon afterwards.

“Che cosa stai fissando?” disse Jonas.

“Non per un uomo attraente,” rispose la guardia. “Se vuoi che ti predica il futuro, te ne dirò qualcosa. Non verrai annegato. Questo è almeno un conforto.”

Prima che potesse ribattere o allontanarsi, il cocchiere pose fine al dialogo colpendolo con la frusta e ordinandogli di scendere dal carro perché c’era un cane aggressivo. Nel frattempo, il guardiano tornò al suo posto e loro partirono ridendo, lasciandolo fermo in mezzo alla strada a minacciarli con il pugno. In realtà, non era affatto dispiaciuto di essere stato scambiato per un contadino malandato; anzi, ne era compiaciuto, poiché dimostrava che la sua mimetizzazione era efficace.

Inoltrandosi in un boschetto lungo il bordo della strada – ma non in quel luogo; a due o tre miglia di distanza – strappò da una recinzione un grosso, duro e nodoso palo; poi, sedutosi sotto un mucchio di paglia, trascorse del tempo a modellarlo, togliendogli la corteccia e dando forma alla sua estremità tagliente con il coltello.

Il giorno proseguì: Mezogiorno, pomeriggio, sera. Il tramonto.

In quel momento sereno e pacifico, due uomini, viaggiando in una carrozza a cavalli, uscirono dalla città lungo una strada poco frequentata. Era il giorno in cui il signor Pecksniff aveva concordato di pranzare con Montague; aveva mantenuto l’appuntamento e ora stava tornando a casa. Il suo ospite lo accompagnava per un tratto, con l’intenzione di riprendere un sentiero piacevole che il signor Pecksniff gli aveva promesso di mostrargli, attraverso alcuni campi. Jonas conosceva i loro piani: era rimasto nell’atrio dell’osteria mentre pranzavano e aveva sentito le loro istruzioni.

Parlavano ad alta voce e con allegria; forse si potevano sentire anche da una certa distanza, molto più forte del rumore delle ruote della loro carrozza o degli zoccoli dei cavalli. Arrivarono facendo rumore, fino al punto in cui un cancello e un sentiero indicavano il luogo dove avrebbero dovuto separarsi. Lì si fermarono.

“È troppo presto. Molto troppo presto,” disse il signor Pecksniff. “Ma questo è il posto giusto, mio caro signore. Segua il sentiero e vada dritto attraverso quel piccolo boschetto: lì il sentiero diventa più stretto, ma non potrà sbagliare. Quando ci rivedremo? Spero presto, ”

“Spero proprio di sì,” rispose Montague.

«Buona notte!»

“Buona notte. E buon viaggio!”

Finché il signor Pecksniff era in vista e di tanto in tanto si girava per salutarlo, Montague stava sul marciapiede sorridendo e agitando la mano. Ma quando il suo nuovo socio scomparve e questa scenetta non fu più necessaria, si sedette sul gradino con un’espressione così cambiata, che sembrava fosse invecchiato di dieci anni in quel lasso di tempo.

Era arrossito per l’alcol, ma non era felice. Il suo piano aveva avuto successo, ma non mostrò alcun trionfo. Forse lo sforzo di interpretare così bene il proprio ruolo davanti al suo compagno defunto lo aveva stancato; forse la sua coscienza gli rimproverava ciò che aveva fatto; oppure, come era effettivamente successo, un velo oscuro sembrava avvolgerlo, impedendogli di pensare ad altro se non a quella sensazione di sventura imminente e a quelle vaghe premonizioni.

Se esistono fluidi, come sappiamo che ci sono, i quali, avendo percezione dell’arrivo di un vento, di una pioggia o di una brina, tendono a restringersi e cercano di nascondersi nelle loro “arterie di vetro”; non è possibile che quel liquido sottile del sangue percepisca, grazie alle sue proprietà intrinseche, che delle mani si stanno alzando per sprecarlo e versarlo? E nelle vene degli uomini non scorrerà forse, in quell’istante, un flusso freddo e torpido, proprio come avvenne a lui?

Faceva così freddo, nonostante l’aria fosse calda; tutto sembrava così monotono, nonostante il cielo fosse luminoso. Che si alzò tremando dal suo posto e riprese rapidamente a camminare. Si fermò di nuovo, indeciso se seguire quel sentiero solitario e isolato, o tornare per la strada.

Prese il sentiero pedonale.

La gloria del sole morente si rifletteva sul suo volto. Il canto degli uccelli risuonava nelle sue orecchie. Dolci fiori selvatici sbocciavano intorno a lui. In lontananza si vedevano i tetti di paglia delle case dei poveri; e una vecchia guglia grigia, sormontata da una Croce rossa, si ergeva tra lui e la notte imminente.

Non aveva mai letto il messaggio che queste cose trasmettevano; le aveva sempre derise e ignorate; ma prima di scendere in quel luogo isolato, guardò intorno, una volta sola, con tristezza verso il paesaggio serale. Poi scese, giù, sempre più giù, nella valle nascosta.

Lo portò nel bosco; un fitto, oscuro bosco, attraverso il quale il sentiero serpeggiava, riducendosi infine in un sottile sentiero per pecore. Si fermò prima di entrare; perché il silenzio di quel luogo lo intimidiva quasi.

Gli ultimi raggi del sole penetravano all’interno dell’ambiente, proiettando un sentiero di luce dorata lungo i tronchi e i rami che raggiungevano; tuttavia, mentre lui osservava, quella luce iniziava lentamente a svanire, lasciando il posto al crepuscolo che avanzava silenziosamente. Era così tranquillo che il muschio morbido e silenzioso che ricopriva i tronchi di alcuni vecchi alberi sembrava essere cresciuto direttamente dall’silenzio stesso, come se ne fosse la naturale conseguenza. Gli altri alberi, invece, colpiti dai venti forti durante l’inverno, non erano ancora caduti; appoggiati ad altri alberi, giacevano esposti e segnati dalle intemperie, come se rifiutassero di disturbare la tranquillità generale con il rumore della loro rovina. Dappertutto si estendevano viste di silenzio, che penetravano nel cuore e nelle parti più profonde del bosco: inizialmente simili a corridoi, chiostri o rovine aperte al cielo, per poi trasformarsi in un misterioso ambiente verde e frusciante, dove tronchi contorti, rami intrecciati, steli ricoperti di edera, foglie tremolanti e vecchi alberi privi di corteccia si estendevano per lunghe distanze, in un bellissimo disordine.

Man mano che la luce del sole svaniva e la sera calava sulla foresta, lui vi entrò. Muovendosi avanti, spostando di tanto in tanto i rovi o i rami penduli che gli ostacolavano il cammino, scomparve lentamente. Di tanto in tanto, una stretta apertura gli permetteva di proseguire; oppure il secco schiocco di un ramo tenero indicava la sua direzione. Poi, più nulla lo si vedeva né lo si udiva.

Né più visto dagli occhi mortali né udito dalle orecchie mortali, tranne che da un uomo. Quell’uomo, dopo aver separato le foglie e i rami dall’altra parte, vicino al punto in cui il sentiero ricominciava, uscì di lì saltando poco dopo.

What had he left within the wood, that he sprang out of it as if it were a hell!

The body of a murdered man. In one thick solitary spot, it lay among the last year’s leaves of oak and beech, just as it had fallen headlong down. Sopping and soaking in among the leaves that formed its pillow; oozing down into the boggy ground, as if to cover itself from human sight; forcing its way between and through the curling leaves, as if those senseless things rejected and forswore it and were coiled up in abhorrence; went a dark, dark stain that dyed the whole summer night from earth to heaven.

The doer of this deed came leaping from the wood so fiercely, that he cast into the air a shower of fragments of young boughs, torn away in his passage, and fell with violence upon the grass. But he quickly gained his feet again, and keeping underneath a hedge with his body bent, went running on towards the road. The road once reached, he fell into a rapid walk, and set on toward London.

And he was not sorry for what he had done. He was frightened when he thought of it—when did he not think of it!—but he was not sorry. He had had a terror and dread of the wood when he was in it; but being out of it, and having committed the crime, his fears were now diverted, strangely, to the dark room he had left shut up at home. He had a greater horror, infinitely greater, of that room than of the wood. Now that he was on his return to it, it seemed beyond comparison more dismal and more dreadful than the wood. His hideous secret was shut up in the room, and all its terrors were there; to his thinking it was not in the wood at all.

He walked on for ten miles; and then stopped at an ale-house for a coach, which he knew would pass through, on its way to London, before long; and which he also knew was not the coach he had travelled down by, for it came from another place. He sat down outside the door here, on a bench, beside a man who was smoking his pipe. Having called for some beer, and drunk, he offered it to this companion, who thanked him, and took a draught. He could not help thinking that, if the man had known all, he might scarcely have relished drinking out of the same cup with him.

‘A fine night, master!’ said this person. ‘And a rare sunset.’

‘I didn’t see it,’ was his hasty answer.

‘Didn’t see it?’ returned the man.

‘How the devil could I see it, if I was asleep?’

‘Asleep! Aye, aye.’ The man appeared surprised by his unexpected irritability, and saying no more, smoked his pipe in silence. They had not sat very long, when there was a knocking within.

‘What’s that?’ cried Jonas.

‘Can’t say, I’m sure,’ replied the man.

He made no further inquiry, for the last question had escaped him in spite of himself. But he was thinking, at the moment, of the closed-up room; of the possibility of their knocking at the door on some special occasion; of their being alarmed at receiving no answer; of their bursting it open; of their finding the room empty; of their fastening the door into the court, and rendering it impossible for him to get into the house without showing himself in the garb he wore, which would lead to rumour, rumour to detection, detection to death. At that instant, as if by some design and order of circumstances, the knocking had come.

It still continued; like a warning echo of the dread reality he had conjured up. As he could not sit and hear it, he paid for his beer and walked on again. And having slunk about, in places unknown to him all day; and being out at night, in a lonely road, in an unusual dress and in that wandering and unsettled frame of mind; he stopped more than once to look about him, hoping he might be in a dream.

Still he was not sorry. No. He had hated the man too much, and had been bent, too desperately and too long, on setting himself free. If the thing could have come over again, he would have done it again. His malignant and revengeful passions were not so easily laid. There was no more penitence or remorse within him now than there had been while the deed was brewing.

Dread and fear were upon him, to an extent he had never counted on, and could not manage in the least degree. He was so horribly afraid of that infernal room at home. This made him, in a gloomy murderous, mad way, not only fearful FOR himself, but OF himself; for being, as it were, a part of the room: a something supposed to be there, yet missing from it: he invested himself with its mysterious terrors; and when he pictured in his mind the ugly chamber, false and quiet, false and quiet, through the dark hours of two nights; and the tumbled bed, and he not in it, though believed to be; he became in a manner his own ghost and phantom, and was at once the haunting spirit and the haunted man.

When the coach came up, which it soon did, he got a place outside and was carried briskly onward towards home. Now, in taking his seat among the people behind, who were chiefly country people, he conceived a fear that they knew of the murder, and would tell him that the body had been found; which, considering the time and place of the commission of the crime, were events almost impossible to have happened yet, as he very well knew. But although he did know it, and had therefore no reason to regard their ignorance as anything but the natural sequence to the facts, still this very ignorance of theirs encouraged him. So far encouraged him, that he began to believe the body never would be found, and began to speculate on that probability. Setting off from this point, and measuring time by the rapid hurry of his guilty thoughts, and what had gone before the bloodshed, and the troops of incoherent and disordered images of which he was the constant prey; he came by daylight to regard the murder as an old murder, and to think himself comparatively safe because it had not been discovered yet. Yet! When the sun which looked into the wood, and gilded with its rising light a dead man’s lace, had seen that man alive, and sought to win him to a thought of Heaven, on its going down last night!

Cosa aveva lasciato all’interno di quel bosco, per uscirne fuori come se fosse un inferno?

Il corpo di un uomo assassinato. In un punto isolato e densamente ricoperto da foglie, giaceva tra quelle dell’anno precedente di quercia e faggio, esattamente come era caduto a terra. Immerso nelle foglie che fungevano da “cuscino”, il suo sangue si infiltrava nel terreno umido, come se volesse nascondersi agli occhi umani; si insinuava tra le foglie arricciate, come se queste cose inanimate lo rifiutassero e si avvolgessero intorno a esso con orrore. Lasciando dietro di sé una macchia scura che tingeva l’intera notte estiva, dal suolo fino al cielo.

Colui che aveva compiuto questo atto saltò fuori dal bosco con tale violenza da far volare per aria schegge di giovani rami strappati via durante la sua corsa; poi cadde con forza sull’erba. Tuttavia si rialzò rapidamente e, tenendosi basso sotto un recinto con il corpo piegato, continuò a correre verso la strada. Una volta raggiunta la strada, accelerò il passo e prese la direzione di Londra.

E non si pentiva di ciò che aveva fatto. Ne aveva paura quando ci pensava, quando mai smetteva di pensarci!. Ma non si pentiva. Mentre era nel bosco, provava terrore e orrore per quel luogo; ma ora, essendo uscito e aver commesso il crimine, i suoi timori si erano stranamente rivolti verso quella stanza buia che aveva lasciato chiusa a casa. Provava un orrore molto più grande, infinitamente maggiore, per quella stanza che per il bosco. Ora che stava tornandoci, sembrava ancora più desolata e spaventosa del bosco stesso. Il suo terribile segreto era nascosto lì dentro, e tutti i suoi orrori si trovavano in quella stanza. Secondo lui, il vero pericolo non era affatto nel bosco.

Camminò per dieci miglia; poi si fermò in una taverna in attesa di un calesse che, sapeva bene, sarebbe passato poco dopo diretto a Londra. Ma sapeva anche che non era lo stesso calesse con cui aveva viaggiato fino ad allora, poiché proveniva da un’altra direzione. Si sedette fuori dalla porta, su una panchina, accanto a un uomo che fumava la pipa. Dopo aver ordinato della birra e averla bevuta, la offrì al suo compagno di viaggio, il quale gli ringraziò e ne bevve un sorso. Non poté fare a meno di pensare che, se quell’uomo avesse saputo tutto, probabilmente non avrebbe voluto bere dalla stessa coppa con lui.

“Verso la fine della notte, padrone!” disse questa persona. “E un tramonto davvero straordinario.”

“Non l’ho visto,” fu la sua risposta affrettata.

“Non l’hai visto?” rispose l’uomo.

“Come diavolo ho potuto vederlo, se ero addormentato?”

“Dorme! Sì, sì.” L’uomo sembrava sorpreso dalla propria improvvisa irritabilità e, senza aggiungere altro, continuò a fumare la sua pipa in silenzio. Non erano seduti da molto quando si sentì bussare alla porta.

“Cos’è quello?” gridò Jonas.

“Non posso dirlo con certezza,” rispose l’uomo.

Non fece altre domande, perché l’ultima domanda gli era sfuggita nonostante i suoi sforzi. Ma in quel momento pensava alla stanza chiusa a chiave; alla possibilità che bussassero alla porta in qualche occasione speciale; al fatto che potessero allarmarsi nel non ricevere risposta; che potessero forzare la porta e trovare la stanza vuota; che potessero poi chiuderla di nuovo, rendendo impossibile per lui entrare nella casa senza farsi vedere con l’abito che indossava, il che avrebbe portato a voci, alla scoperta dei loro movimenti e infine alla morte. In quell’istante, come se fosse stato tutto parte di un piano premeditato, si udì bussare alla porta.

Continuava ancora, come un eco allarmante della terribile realtà che aveva evocato nella sua mente. Poiché non riusciva a stare fermo ad ascoltarlo, pagò la sua birra e riprese il cammino. Dopo aver girovagato per tutto il giorno in luoghi sconosciuti, e poi, di notte, su una solitaria strada, vestito in modo insolito e con quella mente confusa e instabile, si fermò più volte a guardarsi intorno, sperando che tutto ciò fosse solo un >sogno.

Eppure non si pentiva affatto. No. Odiava quell’uomo troppo profondamente, e da troppo tempo, con troppa disperazione, cercava di liberarsi da quella catena. Se la stessa situazione si fosse ripetuta, avrebbe agito di nuovo allo stesso modo. Le sue passioni malvagie e vendicative non erano così facili da placare. Ora, dentro di lui, non c’era più alcun pentimento o rimorso, proprio come quando aveva pianificato quel gesto.

Terrore e >paura lo assalirono in misura che non aveva mai previsto, e non riuscì affatto a farvi fronte. Aveva una paura terribile di quella stanza infernale nella sua >casa. Questo lo portò, in modo cupo, violento e folle, non solo a temere PER sé stesso, ma ANCHE DI sé stesso; perché, in un certo senso, era diventato parte di quella stanza: qualcosa che avrebbe dovuto esserci, ma che invece mancava. Si identificò con le sue terribili paure misteriose; e quando immaginava quella stanza orribile, silenziosa e falsamente tranquilla, nelle oscure ore di due notti. Quando pensava al letto disordinato e a sé stesso che non c’era dentro, pur credendo di esserci, diventava, in un certo senso, il proprio fantasma, lo spirito che lo perseguitava, e allo stesso tempo l’uomo tormentato da quel fantasma.

Quando l’ufficiale arrivò – e ciò avvenne presto – gli fu assegnato un posto all’esterno del luogo e fu portato rapidamente verso >casa. Ora, seduto tra la gente che lo circondava – per lo più contadini – iniziò a temere che sapessero dell’omicidio e che gli rivelassero che il corpo era stato trovato; considerando l’ora e il luogo in cui il crimine era stato commesso, questi eventi sembravano quasi impossibili da verificarsi ancora, come lui stesso sapeva molto bene. Tuttavia, nonostante ne fosse a conoscenza e quindi non avesse motivo di considerare l’ignoranza della gente altro che la conseguenza naturale degli eventi accaduti, proprio quell’ignoranza lo incoraggiava. Lo incoraggiava così tanto che iniziò a credere che il corpo non sarebbe mai stato trovato e cominciò a riflettere su questa possibilità. Partendo da questo presupposto, misurando il tempo in base alla velocità dei suoi pensieri colpevoli, e tenendo conto di tutto ciò che era accaduto prima dell’omicidio, arrivò a considerare quell’atto come un crimine avvenuto molto tempo prima. E si sentì relativamente al sicuro, poiché non era ancora stato scoperto. Ma. Quando il sole, entrando nel bosco e illuminando con i suoi raggi l’abito di un morto, aveva visto quell’uomo ancora vivo. E quando, la sera seguente, tramontò, cercò di condurlo verso il pensiero del Cielo.

But here were London streets again. Hush!

It was but five o’clock. He had time enough to reach his own house unobserved, and before there were many people in the streets, if nothing had happened so far, tending to his discovery. He slipped down from the coach without troubling the driver to stop his horses; and hurrying across the road, and in and out of every by-way that lay near his course, at length approached his own dwelling. He used additional caution in his immediate neighbourhood; halting first to look all down the street before him; then gliding swiftly through that one, and stopping to survey the next, and so on.

The passage-way was empty when his murderer’s face looked into it. He stole on, to the door on tiptoe, as if he dreaded to disturb his own imaginary rest.

He listened. Not a sound. As he turned the key with a trembling hand, and pushed the door softly open with his knee, a monstrous fear beset his mind.

What if the murdered man were there before him!

He cast a fearful glance all round. But there was nothing there.

He went in, locked the door, drew the key through and through the dust and damp in the fire-place to sully it again, and hung it up as of old. He took off his disguise, tied it up in a bundle ready for carrying away and sinking in the river before night, and locked it up in a cupboard. These precautions taken, he undressed and went to bed.

The raging thirst, the fire that burnt within him as he lay beneath the clothes, the augmented horror of the room when they shut it out from his view; the agony of listening, in which he paid enforced regard to every sound, and thought the most unlikely one the prelude to that knocking which should bring the news; the starts with which he left his couch, and looking in the glass, imagined that his deed was broadly written in his face, and lying down and burying himself once more beneath the blankets, heard his own heart beating Murder, Murder, Murder, in the bed; what words can paint tremendous truths like these!

The morning advanced. There were footsteps in the house. He heard the blinds drawn up, and shutters opened; and now and then a stealthy tread outside his own door. He tried to call out, more than once, but his mouth was dry as if it had been filled with sand. At last he sat up in his bed, and cried:

‘Who’s there?’

It was his wife.

He asked her what it was o’clock? Nine.

‘Did—did no one knock at my door yesterday?’ he faltered. ‘Something disturbed me; but unless you had knocked the door down, you would have got no notice from me.’

‘No one,’ she replied. That was well. He had waited, almost breathless, for her answer. It was a relief to him, if anything could be.

‘Mr Nadgett wanted to see you,’ she said, ‘but I told him you were tired, and had requested not to be disturbed. He said it was of little consequence, and went away. As I was opening my window to let in the cool air, I saw him passing through the street this morning, very early; but he hasn’t been again.’

Passing through the street that morning? Very early! Jonas trembled at the thought of having had a narrow chance of seeing him himself; even him, who had no object but to avoid people, and sneak on unobserved, and keep his own secrets; and who saw nothing.

He called to her to get his breakfast ready, and prepared to go upstairs; attiring himself in the clothes he had taken off when he came into that room, which had been, ever since, outside the door. In his secret dread of meeting the household for the first time, after what he had done, he lingered at the door on slight pretexts that they might see him without looking in his face; and left it ajar while he dressed; and called out to have the windows opened, and the pavement watered, that they might become accustomed to his voice. Even when he had put off the time, by one means or other, so that he had seen or spoken to them all, he could not muster courage for a long while to go in among them, but stood at his own door listening to the murmur of their distant conversation.

He could not stop there for ever, and so joined them. His last glance at the glass had seen a tell-tale face, but that might have been because of his anxious looking in it. He dared not look at them to see if they observed him, but he thought them very silent.

And whatsoever guard he kept upon himself, he could not help listening, and showing that he listened. Whether he attended to their talk, or tried to think of other things, or talked himself, or held his peace, or resolutely counted the dull tickings of a hoarse clock at his back, he always lapsed, as if a spell were on him, into eager listening. For he knew it must come. And his present punishment, and torture and distraction, were, to listen for its coming.

Hush!

Ma ecco di nuovo le strade di Londra. Silenzio!

Erano appena le cinque di ore. Aveva abbastanza tempo per raggiungere la propria casa senza essere visto, e prima che molte persone uscissero in strada, nel caso in cui nulla fosse già accaduto riguardo alla sua scoperta. Scivolò giù dal carro senza nemmeno disturbare il conducente per far fermare i cavalli; poi corse attraverso la strada, entrando e uscendo da ogni vicolo che si trovava lungo il suo percorso, fino a raggiungere finalmente la propria abitazione. Prese ulteriori precauzioni nelle zone immediatamente circostanti: si fermò prima per guardare attentamente su tutta la strada davanti a sé; poi proseguì velocemente lungo quella strada, fermandosi di nuovo per controllare quella successiva, e così via.

Il passaggio era vuoto quando il volto del suo assassino vi si affacciò. Proseguì in silenzio, fino alla porta, in punta di piedi, come se temesse di disturbare il proprio immaginario riposo.

Ascoltò. Nessun suono. Mentre girava la chiave con una mano tremante e spingeva dolcemente la porta con il ginocchio, un terrore mostruoso invase la sua mente.

E se l’uomo assassinato fosse stato lì davanti a lui?

Gettò intorno uno sguardo pieno di paura. Ma non c’era nulla lì.

Entrò, chiuse la porta, infilò la chiave nella polvere e nell’umidità del caminetto per sporcarla di nuovo, poi la appese come al solito. Si tolse il travestimento, lo legò in un fagotto pronto da portare via e gettare nel fiume prima della notte, infine lo mise in un armadio. Dopo aver preso queste precauzioni, si spogliò e andò a letto.

La sete ardente, il fuoco che lo bruciava dentro mentre giaceva sotto le coperte, l’orrore ancora più intenso di quella stanza quando gli venne nascosta dalla vista; l’agonia di dover ascoltare attentamente ogni suono, pensando che anche il più improbabile potesse essere il preludio a quel colpo che avrebbe portato la notizia. Gli scatti con cui si alzava dal divano, e guardandosi allo specchio immaginava che i segni del suo crimine fossero evidenti sul suo viso; poi, ripiegandosi sotto le coperte, sentiva il proprio cuore battere all’impazzata, “Uccidere, uccidere, ” Che parole possono descrivere verità così terribili?

La mattina proseguiva. C’erano passi dentro la casa. Sentì le tende essere tirate su e le persiane aperte; di tanto in tanto, anche dei passi furtivi fuori dalla sua porta. Provò a chiamare più volte, ma aveva la bocca così secca che sembrava fosse piena di sabbia. Alla fine si alzò a sedere nel letto e gridò:

“Chi c’è?”

Era sua moglie.

Le chiese che ore fossero. Le nove.

“Nessuno ha bussato alla mia porta ieri?” balbettò. “Qualcosa mi ha disturbato. Ma a meno che non abbiate abbattuto la porta, non avreste ricevuto alcuna risposta da me.”

“Nessuno,” rispose lei. Era la risposta che aspettava. Aveva atteso, quasi senza respirare, per sentirla. Per lui fu un sollievo, se mai qualcosa potesse essere considerato un sollievo in quella situazione.

“Il signor Nadgett voleva vedervi,” disse lei, “ma gli ho detto che eravate stanchi e avevate chiesto di non essere disturbati. Ha detto che non era importante e se n’è andato. Mentre aprivo la finestra per far entrare l’aria fresca, questa mattina molto presto l’ho visto passare per strada; ma da allora non è più tornato.”

Passando per quella strada quella mattina. Molto presto! Jonas tremava al pensiero di aver avuto una remota possibilità di vederlo con i propri occhi; anche lui, che non aveva altro scopo se non quello di evitare le persone, di muoversi inosservato e di mantenere i propri segreti. Eppure non aveva visto nulla.

La chiamò per farsi preparare la colazione e si preparò ad andare di sopra; indossò i vestiti che aveva tolto quando era entrato in quella stanza, che da allora era stata lasciata fuori dalla porta. Nel suo segreto terrore di incontrare tutta la famiglia per la prima volta, dopo ciò che aveva fatto, esitò davanti alla porta con scuse banali, nel timore che lo vedessero senza guardargli in faccia; lasciò la porta semiaperta mentre si vestiva e chiamò qualcuno perché aprisse le finestre e innaffiasse il marciapiede, così da abituarsi alla sua voce. Anche quando riusciva in qualche modo a ritardare l’istante in cui avrebbe dovuto incontrarli tutti, non riusciva a trovare il coraggio di entrare; rimaneva davanti alla propria porta ad ascoltare il mormorio delle loro voci in lontananza.

Non poteva rimanere lì per sempre, quindi li seguì. L’ultima volta che guardò nel bicchiere, vide un volto che lo tradiva, ma forse era solo a causa del suo sguardo ansioso rivolto verso di esso. Non osava guardarli per vedere se si erano accorti di lui, ma pensò che fossero molto silenziosi.

Qualunque attenzione cercasse di prestare a se stesso, non riusciva a trattenersi dal ascoltare, e dava chiaramente segno di farlo. Che si concentrasse sul loro discorso, che cercasse di pensare ad altre cose, che parlasse da solo, che rimanesse in silenzio, o che contasse con determinazione i monotoni ticchettii di un roco orologio alle sue spalle, finiva sempre per ascoltare con avidità, come se fosse sotto un incantesimo. Sapeva infatti che quel momento sarebbe arrivato. E la sua attuale punizione, il suo tormento e le distrazioni, tutto ciò non faceva altro che renderlo ancora più attento all’arrivo di quel momento.

Zitto!

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

BEARS TIDINGS OF MARTIN AND OF MARK, AS WELL AS OF A THIRD PERSON NOT QUITE UNKNOWN TO THE READER. EXHIBITS FILIAL PIETY IN AN UGLY ASPECT; AND CASTS A DOUBTFUL RAY OF LIGHT UPON A VERY DARK PLACE

Tom Pinch and Ruth were sitting at their early breakfast, with the window open, and a row of the freshest little plants ranged before it on the inside by Ruth’s own hands; and Ruth had fastened a sprig of geranium in Tom’s button-hole, to make him very smart and summer-like for the day (it was obliged to be fastened in, or that dear old Tom was certain to lose it); and people were crying flowers up and down the street; and a blundering bee, who had got himself in between the two sashes of the window, was bruising his head against the glass, endeavouring to force himself out into the fine morning, and considering himself enchanted because he couldn’t do it; and the morning was as fine a morning as ever was seen; and the fragrant air was kissing Ruth and rustling about Tom, as if it said, ‘how are you, my dears; I came all this way on purpose to salute you;’ and it was one of those glad times when we form, or ought to form, the wish that every one on earth were able to be happy, and catching glimpses of the summer of the heart, to feel the beauty of the summer of the year.

It was even a pleasanter breakfast than usual; and it was always a pleasant one. For little Ruth had now two pupils to attend, each three times a week; and each two hours at a time; and besides this, she had painted some screens and card-racks, and, unknown to Tom (was there ever anything so delightful!), had walked into a certain shop which dealt in such articles, after often peeping through the window; and had taken courage to ask the Mistress of that shop whether she would buy them. And the mistress had not only bought them, but had ordered more, and that very morning Ruth had made confession of these facts to Tom, and had handed him the money in a little purse she had worked expressly for the purpose. They had been in a flutter about this, and perhaps had shed a happy tear or two for anything the history knows to the contrary; but it was all over now; and a brighter face than Tom’s, or a brighter face than Ruth’s, the bright sun had not looked on since he went to bed last night.

‘My dear girl,’ said Tom, coming so abruptly on the subject, that he interrupted himself in the act of cutting a slice of bread, and left the knife sticking in the loaf, ‘what a queer fellow our landlord is! I don’t believe he has been home once since he got me into that unsatisfactory scrape. I begin to think he will never come home again. What a mysterious life that man does lead, to be sure!’

‘Very strange. Is it not, Tom?’

‘Really,’ said Tom, ‘I hope it is only strange. I hope there may be nothing wrong in it. Sometimes I begin to be doubtful of that. I must have an explanation with him,’ said Tom, shaking his head as if this were a most tremendous threat, ‘when I can catch him!’

A short double knock at the door put Tom’s menacing looks to flight, and awakened an expression of surprise instead.

‘Heyday!’ said Tom. ‘An early hour for visitors! It must be John, I suppose.’

‘I—I—don’t think it was his knock, Tom,’ observed his little sister.

‘No?’ said Tom. ‘It surely can’t be my employer suddenly arrived in town; directed here by Mr Fips; and come for the key of the office. It’s somebody inquiring for me, I declare! Come in, if you please!’

But when the person came in, Tom Pinch, instead of saying, ‘Did you wish to speak with me, sir?’ or, ‘My name is Pinch, sir; what is your business, may I ask?’ or addressing him in any such distant terms; cried out, ‘Good gracious Heaven!’ and seized him by both hands, with the liveliest manifestations of astonishment and pleasure.

The visitor was not less moved than Tom himself, and they shook hands a great many times, without another word being spoken on either side. Tom was the first to find his voice.

‘Mark Tapley, too!’ said Tom, running towards the door, and shaking hands with somebody else. ‘My dear Mark, come in. How are you, Mark? He don’t look a day older than he used to do at the Dragon. How ARE you, Mark?’

‘Uncommonly jolly, sir, thank’ee,’ returned Mr Tapley, all smiles and bows. ‘I hope I see you well, sir.’

‘Good gracious me!’ cried Tom, patting him tenderly on the back. ‘How delightful it is to hear his old voice again! My dear Martin, sit down. My sister, Martin. Mr Chuzzlewit, my love. Mark Tapley from the Dragon, my dear. Good gracious me, what a surprise this is! Sit down. Lord, bless me!’

Tom was in such a state of excitement that he couldn’t keep himself still for a moment, but was constantly running between Mark and Martin, shaking hands with them alternately, and presenting them over and over again to his sister.

‘I remember the day we parted, Martin, as well as if it were yesterday,’ said Tom. ‘What a day it was! and what a passion you were in! And don’t you remember my overtaking you in the road that morning, Mark, when I was going to Salisbury in the gig to fetch him, and you were looking out for a situation? And don’t you recollect the dinner we had at Salisbury, Martin, with John Westlock, eh! Good gracious me! Ruth, my dear, Mr Chuzzlewit. Mark Tapley, my love, from the Dragon. More cups and saucers, if you please. Bless my soul, how glad I am to see you both!’

And then Tom (as John Westlock had done on his arrival) ran off to the loaf to cut some bread and butter for them; and before he had spread a single slice, remembered something else, and came running back again to tell it; and then he shook hands with them again; and then he introduced his sister again; and then he did everything he had done already all over again; and nothing Tom could do, and nothing Tom could say, was half sufficient to express his joy at their safe return.

CAPITOLO QUARANTOTTO

Racconta le storie di Martin e di Mark, così come quelle di una terza persona che non è del tutto sconosciuta al lettore. Mostra un aspetto spiacevole della pietà filiale; inoltre getta una luce dubbia su un luogo molto oscuro.

Tom Pinch e Ruth erano seduti a colazione, con la finestra aperta; davanti ad essa, ordinatamente disposte dalle mani stesse di Ruth, c’erano file di piante fresche e rigogliose. Ruth aveva anche infilato un rametto di geranio nel bottone della giacca di Tom, per farlo apparire molto elegante e adatto a quella giornata estiva, (Doveva essere fissato lì dentro, altrimenti quel caro vecchio Tom lo avrebbe sicuramente perso.) Lungo tutta la strada, le persone coltivavano fiori; una mosca, intrappolata tra i due telai della finestra, sbatteva la testa contro il vetro nel tentativo di uscire. Si sentiva come incantata per non riuscirci. La mattina era davvero meravigliosa; l’aria profumata accarezzava Ruth e circondava Tom, come se dicesse: “Come state, miei cari? Sono venuta apposta per salutarvi, ” Era uno di quei momenti felici in cui si desidera che tutti sulla terra possano essere felici. E si intravede, anche solo per un attimo, la bellezza dell’estate del cuore, e si percepisce tutta la grazia della primavera dell’anno.

Fu una colazione ancora più piacevole del solito; e comunque era sempre una colazione gradevole. Infatti, la piccola Ruth ora aveva due allieve a cui insegnare, ciascuna tre volte a settimana, per due ore alla volta; inoltre, aveva dipinto alcune tende e ripiani per carte, e – cosa che Tom non sapeva ancora (esisteva forse qualcosa di più delizioso?) – dopo aver spesso spiato attraverso la finestra di un negozio che vendeva questi articoli, aveva trovato il coraggio di chiedere alla proprietaria se fosse disposta ad acquistarli. La proprietaria non solo li aveva comprati, ma ne aveva anche ordinati altri; quella stessa mattina, Ruth aveva raccontato tutto a Tom e gli aveva consegnato i soldi in una piccola borsa che aveva fatto apposta per quell’occasione. Erano stati molto felici per questo, e forse avevano versato anche una lacrima di gioia. Ma ora tutto era finito; e nessun viso, né quello di Tom né quello di Ruth, era più radioso del sole splendente quella mattina, quando si erano coricati la sera prima.

“Mia cara ragazza,” disse Tom, introducendo l’argomento così all’improvviso che si interruppe mentre tagliava un pezzo di pane, lasciando il coltello conficcato nel pane stesso, “che tipo strano è il nostro padrone di casa! Non credo sia mai tornato a casa da quando mi ha messo in quella situazione così spiacevole. Comincio a pensare che non tornerà mai più a casa. Che vita misteriosa deve condurre, davvero, ”

“Molto strano, vero, Tom?”

“Davvero,” disse Tom, “spero solo che sia qualcosa di strano. Spero che non ci sia nulla di serio. A volte inizio a dubitarne. Devo parlare con lui,” aggiunse scuotendo la testa, come se si trattasse di una minaccia terribile, “non appena riesco a trovarlo!”

Un breve bussare alla porta fece svanire gli sguardi minacciosi di Tom, lasciando il posto a un’espressione di sorpresa.

“Che ora mattutina per avere visite. Deve essere John, immagino,” disse Tom.

“N-no, non credo che fosse la sua bussata, Tom,” osservò sua sorellina.

“Non è possibile?” disse Tom. “Di certo non può essere che il mio datore di lavoro sia arrivato improvvisamente in città, guidato da Mr Fips, e sia venuto a prendere la chiave dell’ufficio. Deve essere qualcuno che sta cercando me! Entrate, per favore!”

Ma quando quella persona entrò, Tom Pinch, invece di dire: “Desiderava parlarmi, signore?”, o “Mi chiamo Pinch, signore; in cosa posso esservole utile?”, o di rivolgersi a lui con toni formali e distaccati, esclamò: “Mio Dio!” e lo afferrò per entrambe le mani, manifestando la massima sorpresa e gioia.

Anche il visitatore fu commosso tanto quanto Tom stesso; si strinsero la mano molte volte, senza che nessuno dei due dicesse una parola in più. Fu Tom il primo a ritrovare la voce.

“Anche Mark Tapley!” disse Tom, correndo verso la porta e stringendo la mano a qualcun altro. “Caro Mark, vieni dentro. Come stai? Non sembri affatto invecchiato rispetto a quando lavoravi al Dragon. COME STAI, MARK?”

“Straordinariamente felice, signore, grazie mille,” rispose il signor Tapley, sorridendo e inchinandosi. “Spero di vedervi in buona salute, signore.”

“Mio Dio!” esclamò Tom, dandogli dolcemente una pacca sulla schiena. “Che gioia riascoltare di nuovo la sua vecchia voce! Caro Martin, siediti. Mia sorella, Martin. Signor Chuzzlewit, il mio amore. Mark Tapley del Dragon. Mio caro. Mio Dio, che sorpresa! Siediti. Signore, beneditemi!”

Tom era così eccitato che non riusciva a stare fermo nemmeno per un momento; correva continuamente avanti e indietro tra Mark e Martin, stringendo loro la mano a turno e presentandoli ripetutamente a sua sorella.

“Ricordo bene il giorno in cui ci siamo separati, Martin, come se fosse ieri,” disse Tom. “Che giorno straordinario! E che passione avevi all’epoca. Non ricordi forse quando ti ho superato quella mattina sulla strada, mentre ero diretto a Salisbury con la carrozza per andare a prendere John Westlock, e tu cercavi disperatamente un modo per approfittarne? E non ricordi nemmeno la cena che abbiamo fatto a Salisbury, Martin, insieme a John Westlock. Mio Dio! Ruth, cara mia. Signor Chuzzlewit. Mark Tapley, mio caro amico. Ancora qualche coppa e qualche piattino, per favore. Benedetto sia il mio spirito. Che gioia rivedervi entrambi!”

E poi Tom, proprio come aveva fatto John Westlock al suo arrivo, corse a prendere del pane e burro per loro; ma prima ancora di spalmare nemmeno un pezzo, si ricordò di qualcos’altro e tornò di corsa ad informarli; dopo aver stretto di nuovo la mano a tutti, presentò nuovamente sua sorella, e ripeté tutto ciò che aveva già fatto. Ma nulla di ciò che Tom poteva fare o dire era sufficiente per esprimere tutta la sua gioia per il loro sicuro ritorno.

Mr Tapley was the first to resume his composure. In a very short space of time he was discovered to have somehow installed himself in office as waiter, or attendant upon the party; a fact which was first suggested to them by his temporary absence in the kitchen, and speedy return with a kettle of boiling water, from which he replenished the tea-pot with a self-possession that was quite his own.

‘Sit down, and take your breakfast, Mark,’ said Tom. ‘Make him sit down and take his breakfast, Martin.’

‘Oh! I gave him up, long ago, as incorrigible,’ Martin replied. ‘He takes his own way, Tom. You would excuse him, Miss Pinch, if you knew his value.’

‘She knows it, bless you!’ said Tom. ‘I have told her all about Mark Tapley. Have I not, Ruth?’

‘Yes, Tom.’

‘Not all,’ returned Martin, in a low voice. ‘The best of Mark Tapley is only known to one man, Tom; and but for Mark he would hardly be alive to tell it!’

‘Mark!’ said Tom Pinch energetically; ‘if you don’t sit down this minute, I’ll swear at you!’

‘Well, sir,’ returned Mr Tapley, ‘sooner than you should do that, I’ll com-ply. It’s a considerable invasion of a man’s jollity to be made so partickler welcome, but a Werb is a word as signifies to be, to do, or to suffer (which is all the grammar, and enough too, as ever I wos taught); and if there’s a Werb alive, I’m it. For I’m always a-bein’, sometimes a-doin’, and continually a-sufferin’.’

‘Not jolly yet?’ asked Tom, with a smile.

‘Why, I was rather so, over the water, sir,’ returned Mr Tapley; ‘and not entirely without credit. But Human Natur’ is in a conspiracy again’ me; I can’t get on. I shall have to leave it in my will, sir, to be wrote upon my tomb: “He was a man as might have come out strong if he could have got a chance. But it was denied him.”’

Mr Tapley took this occasion of looking about him with a grin, and subsequently attacking the breakfast, with an appetite not at all expressive of blighted hopes, or insurmountable despondency.

In the meanwhile, Martin drew his chair a little nearer to Tom and his sister, and related to them what had passed at Mr Pecksniff’s house; adding in few words a general summary of the distresses and disappointments he had undergone since he left England.

‘For your faithful stewardship in the trust I left with you, Tom,’ he said, ‘and for all your goodness and disinterestedness, I can never thank you enough. When I add Mary’s thanks to mine—’

Ah, Tom! The blood retreated from his cheeks, and came rushing back, so violently, that it was pain to feel it; ease though, ease, compared with the aching of his wounded heart.

‘When I add Mary’s thanks to mine,’ said Martin, ‘I have made the only poor acknowledgment it is in our power to offer; but if you knew how much we feel, Tom, you would set some store by it, I am sure.’

And if they had known how much Tom felt—but that no human creature ever knew—they would have set some store by him. Indeed they would.

Tom changed the topic of discourse. He was sorry he could not pursue it, as it gave Martin pleasure; but he was unable, at that moment. No drop of envy or bitterness was in his soul; but he could not master the firm utterance of her name.

He inquired what Martin’s projects were.

‘No longer to make your fortune, Tom,’ said Martin, ‘but to try to live. I tried that once in London, Tom; and failed. If you will give me the benefit of your advice and friendly counsel, I may succeed better under your guidance. I will do anything Tom, anything, to gain a livelihood by my own exertions. My hopes do not soar above that, now.’

High-hearted, noble Tom! Sorry to find the pride of his old companion humbled, and to hear him speaking in this altered strain at once, at once, he drove from his breast the inability to contend with its deep emotions, and spoke out bravely.

‘Your hopes do not soar above that!’ cried Tom. ‘Yes they do. How can you talk so! They soar up to the time when you will be happy with her, Martin. They soar up to the time when you will be able to claim her, Martin. They soar up to the time when you will not be able to believe that you were ever cast down in spirit, or poor in pocket, Martin. Advice, and friendly counsel! Why, of course. But you shall have better advice and counsel (though you cannot have more friendly) than mine. You shall consult John Westlock. We’ll go there immediately. It is yet so early that I shall have time to take you to his chambers before I go to business; they are in my way; and I can leave you there, to talk over your affairs with him. So come along. Come along. I am a man of occupation now, you know,’ said Tom, with his pleasantest smile; ‘and have no time to lose. Your hopes don’t soar higher than that? I dare say they don’t. I know you, pretty well. They’ll be soaring out of sight soon, Martin, and leaving all the rest of us leagues behind.’

‘Aye! But I may be a little changed,’ said Martin, ‘since you knew me pretty well, Tom.’

‘What nonsense!’ exclaimed Tom. ‘Why should you be changed? You talk as if you were an old man. I never heard such a fellow! Come to John Westlock’s, come. Come along, Mark Tapley. It’s Mark’s doing, I have no doubt; and it serves you right for having such a grumbler for your companion.’

‘There’s no credit to be got through being jolly with YOU, Mr Pinch, anyways,’ said Mark, with his face all wrinkled up with grins. ‘A parish doctor might be jolly with you. There’s nothing short of goin’ to the U-nited States for a second trip, as would make it at all creditable to be jolly, arter seein’ you again!’

Tom laughed, and taking leave of his sister, hurried Mark and Martin out into the street, and away to John Westlock’s by the nearest road; for his hour of business was very near at hand, and he prided himself on always being exact to his time.

Il signor Tapley fu il primo a riprendere la sua compostezza. In un lasso di tempo molto breve, si scoprì che in qualche modo si era messo al lavoro come cameriere o assistente del gruppo; questo fatto fu loro notato per la sua temporanea assenza in cucina e per il suo rapido ritorno con una pentola d’acqua bollente, con cui rifornì la teiera con grande calma e padronanza di sé.

“Siediti e mangia la tua colazione, Mark,” disse Tom. “Fai sedere anche lui e che mangi la sua colazione, Martin.”

“Ah! L’ho dato per perso da molto tempo, ritenendolo irrimediabile,” rispose Martin. “Fa sempre ciò che vuole lui, Tom. Voi lo perdonereste, signorina Pinch, se conosceste il suo vero valore.”

“Lo sa, per l’amor del cielo!”, disse Tom. “Le ho raccontato tutto di Mark Tapley, vero, Ruth?”

‘Sì, Tom.’

“Non tutti,” rispose Martin a bassa voce. “La parte migliore di Mark Tapley è conosciuta solo da una persona, Tom. E senza Mark, probabilmente non sarebbe nemmeno vivo per poterla raccontare!”

“Mark!” disse Tom Pinch con energia; “se non ti siedi subito, giuro che ti insulterò!”

“Beh, signore,” rispose il signor Tapley, “prima ancora che voi abbiate bisogno di farlo, io lo farò. È davvero un intralcio alla gioia di una persona essere così sollecitato. Ma ‘Werb’ è una parola che significa ‘essere’, ‘fare’ o ‘soffrire’ (e questa è tutta la grammatica necessaria, e più che sufficiente, come mi è stata insegnata). E se c’è qualcuno che si chiama Werb, quello sono io. Perché io sono sempre ‘essendo’, a volte ‘facendo’, e costantemente ‘soffrendo’.”

“Non sei ancora contento?” chiese Tom, sorridendo.

“Beh, sì, più o meno, sulle acque, signore,” rispose il signor Tapley; “e non del tutto senza meriti. Ma la Natura Umana è di nuovo contro di me. Non riesco ad andare avanti. Dovrò lasciare che sia scritto sulla mia tomba: ‘Era un uomo che avrebbe potuto avere successo se ne fosse stata data l’opportunità. Ma gliela hanno negata.’”

Il signor Tapley approfittò di questa occasione per guardarsi intorno con un sorriso, e poi iniziò a mangiare la colazione con un appetito che non lasciava affatto intendere speranze deluse o disperazione insormontabile.

Nel frattempo, Martin avvicinò un po’ la sua sedia a Tom e sua sorella, e raccontò loro ciò che era accaduto nella casa del signor Pecksniff; inoltre, aggiunse brevemente un riassunto generale delle difficoltà e dei dispiaceri che aveva dovuto affrontare da quando aveva lasciato l’Inghilterra.

“Per la tua fedele amministrazione della fiducia che ti ho affidato, Tom,” disse, “e per tutta la tua bontà e imparzialità, non potrò mai ringraziarti abbastanza. Quando aggiungo anche i ringraziamenti di Mary ai miei, ”

Ah, Tom! Il sangue si ritirò dalle sue guance per poi tornare con tale violenza che sentirlo era davvero doloroso. Ma almeno era un dolore fisico, rispetto al dolore straziante del suo cuore ferito.

“Quando aggiungo i ringraziamenti di Mary ai miei,” disse Martin, “ho fatto l’unica scusa povera che sia in nostro potere offrire; ma se solo sapessi quanto ci sentiamo davvero, Tom, ne daresti sicuramente importanza.”

E se avessero saputo quanto Tom provasse, ma poiché nessuna creatura umana lo sapeva mai, gli avrebbero dato molta importanza. Davvero, l’avrebbero fatto.

Tom cambiò argomento di conversazione. Gli dispiaceva non poter continuare quella discussione, poiché dava piacere a Martin; ma in quel momento non riusciva a farlo. Nella sua ‘anima non c’era traccia di invidia o amarezza; tuttavia, non riusciva a impedirsi di pronunciare il suo nome.

Chiese quali fossero i progetti di Martin.

“Non più per fare fortuna, Tom,” disse Martin, “ma per cercare semplicemente di vivere. L’ho provato una volta a Londra, Tom, e ho fallito. Se mi darai il beneficio dei tuoi consigli e del tuo aiuto amichevole, forse riuscirò meglio sotto la tua guida. Farò qualsiasi cosa, Tom, qualsiasi cosa, pur di guadagnarmi da vivere con le mie forze. Ora, le mie speranze non vanno oltre questo.”

Nobile e generoso Tom! Mi dispiace vedere l’orgoglio del suo vecchio compagno umiliato, e sentirlo parlare in quel modo cambiato. All’istante scacciò dalla propria mente l’impossibilità di contrastare quelle profonde emozioni e parlò con coraggio.

“Le tue speranze non vanno oltre a questo!” esclamò Tom. “Sì che vanno oltre. Come puoi parlare così! Salgono fino al momento in cui sarai felice con lei, Martin. Fino al momento in cui potrai reclamarla per te, Martin. Fino al momento in cui non riuscirai nemmeno a credere di essere mai stato abbattuto nello spirito o povero in denaro, Martin. Consigli e pareri amichevoli? Certo che sì. Ma avrai consigli migliori (anche se non più amichevoli) dei miei. Puoi consultare John Westlock. Andremo da lui subito. È ancora presto; avrò il tempo di portarti nelle sue stanze prima di andare a occuparmi degli affari. Sono proprio lungo la strada. Posso lasciarti lì, così potrete parlare dei tuoi problemi con lui. Vieni, dunque. Ora ho molto da fare, sai, ” disse Tom, con il suo sorriso più cordiale; “e non ho tempo da perdere. Le tue speranze non vanno oltre a questo? Beh. Direi di no. Ti conosco abbastanza bene. Presto saliranno così in alto da farci sembrare tutti noi molto lontani, ”

“Sì! Ma forse sono un po’ cambiato,” disse Martin, “visto che tu mi conoscevi abbastanza bene, Tom.”

“Che sciocchezze!” esclamò Tom. “Perché dovresti cambiare? Parli come se fossi un vecchio. Non ho mai sentito niente del genere! Vieni da John Westlock, vieni. Andiamo, Mark Tapley. È stato Mark a farlo, non ne ho alcun dubbio; e te lo meriti, per aver come compagno uno che si lamenta sempre.”

“Non c’è alcun merito nel comportarsi in modo amichevole con TE, signor Pinch,” disse Mark, con il viso tutto rugoso per via dei sorrisi. “Un medico di parrocchia potrebbe anche essere gentile con te. Ma per davvero dimostrare di avere buone maniere, bisognerebbe addirittura andare negli Stati Uniti una seconda volta!”

Tom rise e, dopo essersi congedato dalla sorella, affrettò Mark e Martin verso la strada, dirigendosi verso la casa di John Westlock lungo la strada più vicina; infatti, il suo appuntamento era ormai imminente, e si vantava sempre di essere puntuale.

John Westlock was at home, but, strange to say, was rather embarrassed to see them; and when Tom was about to go into the room where he was breakfasting, said he had a stranger there. It appeared to be a mysterious stranger, for John shut that door as he said it, and led them into the next room.

He was very much delighted, though, to see Mark Tapley; and received Martin with his own frank courtesy. But Martin felt that he did not inspire John Westlock with any unusual interest; and twice or thrice observed that he looked at Tom Pinch doubtfully; not to say compassionately. He thought, and blushed to think, that he knew the cause of this.

‘I apprehend you are engaged,’ said Martin, when Tom had announced the purport of their visit. ‘If you will allow me to come again at your own time, I shall be glad to do so.’

‘I AM engaged,’ replied John, with some reluctance; ‘but the matter on which I am engaged is one, to say the truth, more immediately demanding your knowledge than mine.’

‘Indeed!’ cried Martin.

‘It relates to a member of your family, and is of a serious nature. If you will have the kindness to remain here, it will be a satisfaction to me to have it privately communicated to you, in order that you may judge of its importance for yourself.’

‘And in the meantime,’ said Tom, ‘I must really take myself off, without any further ceremony.’

‘Is your business so very particular,’ asked Martin, ‘that you cannot remain with us for half an hour? I wish you could. What IS your business, Tom?’

It was Tom’s turn to be embarrassed now; but he plainly said, after a little hesitation:

‘Why, I am not at liberty to say what it is, Martin; though I hope soon to be in a condition to do so, and am aware of no other reason to prevent my doing so now, than the request of my employer. It’s an awkward position to be placed in,’ said Tom, with an uneasy sense of seeming to doubt his friend, ‘as I feel every day; but I really cannot help it, can I, John?’

John Westlock replied in the negative; and Martin, expressing himself perfectly satisfied, begged them not to say another word; though he could not help wondering very much what curious office Tom held, and why he was so secret, and embarrassed, and unlike himself, in reference to it. Nor could he help reverting to it, in his own mind, several times after Tom went away, which he did as soon as this conversation was ended, taking Mr Tapley with him, who, as he laughingly said, might accompany him as far as Fleet Street without injury.

‘And what do you mean to do, Mark?’ asked Tom, as they walked on together.

‘Mean to do, sir?’ returned Mr Tapley.

‘Aye. What course of life do you mean to pursue?’

‘Well, sir,’ said Mr Tapley. ‘The fact is, that I have been a-thinking rather of the matrimonial line, sir.’

‘You don’t say so, Mark!’ cried Tom.

‘Yes, sir. I’ve been a-turnin’ of it over.’

‘And who is the lady, Mark?’

‘The which, sir?’ said Mr Tapley.

‘The lady. Come! You know what I said,’ replied Tom, laughing, ‘as well as I do!’

Mr Tapley suppressed his own inclination to laugh; and with one of his most whimsically-twisted looks, replied:

‘You couldn’t guess, I suppose, Mr Pinch?’

‘How is it possible?’ said Tom. ‘I don’t know any of your flames, Mark. Except Mrs Lupin, indeed.’

‘Well, sir!’ retorted Mr Tapley. ‘And supposing it was her!’

Tom stopping in the street to look at him, Mr Tapley for a moment presented to his view an utterly stolid and expressionless face; a perfect dead wall of countenance. But opening window after window in it with astonishing rapidity, and lighting them all up as for a general illumination, he repeated:

‘Supposin’, for the sake of argument, as it was her, sir!’

‘Why I thought such a connection wouldn’t suit you, Mark, on any terms!’ cried Tom.

‘Well, sir! I used to think so myself, once,’ said Mark. ‘But I ain’t so clear about it now. A dear, sweet creetur, sir!’

‘A dear, sweet creature? To be sure she is,’ cried Tom. ‘But she always was a dear, sweet creature, was she not?’

‘WAS she not!’ assented Mr Tapley.

‘Then why on earth didn’t you marry her at first, Mark, instead of wandering abroad, and losing all this time, and leaving her alone by herself, liable to be courted by other people?’

‘Why, sir,’ retorted Mr Tapley, in a spirit of unbounded confidence, ‘I’ll tell you how it come about. You know me, Mr Pinch, sir; there ain’t a gentleman alive as knows me better. You’re acquainted with my constitution, and you’re acquainted with my weakness. My constitution is, to be jolly; and my weakness is, to wish to find a credit in it. Wery good, sir. In this state of mind, I gets a notion in my head that she looks on me with a eye of—with what you may call a favourable sort of a eye in fact,’ said Mr Tapley, with modest hesitation.

‘No doubt,’ replied Tom. ‘We knew that perfectly well when we spoke on this subject long ago; before you left the Dragon.’

Mr Tapley nodded assent. ‘Well, sir! But bein’ at that time full of hopeful wisions, I arrives at the conclusion that no credit is to be got out of such a way of life as that, where everything agreeable would be ready to one’s hand. Lookin’ on the bright side of human life in short, one of my hopeful wisions is, that there’s a deal of misery awaitin’ for me; in the midst of which I may come out tolerable strong, and be jolly under circumstances as reflects some credit. I goes into the world, sir, wery boyant, and I tries this. I goes aboard ship first, and wery soon discovers (by the ease with which I’m jolly, mind you) as there’s no credit to be got THERE. I might have took warning by this, and gave it up; but I didn’t. I gets to the U-nited States; and then I DO begin, I won’t deny it, to feel some little credit in sustaining my spirits. What follows? Jest as I’m a-beginning to come out, and am a-treadin’ on the werge, my master deceives me.’

John Westlock era a casa, ma, stranamente, si sentì un po’ imbarazzato nel vederli; e quando Tom stava per entrare nella stanza dove stava facendo colazione, John disse che c’era uno sconosciuto lì dentro. Sembrava uno sconosciuto misterioso, perché mentre lo diceva chiuse quella porta e li portò nella stanza accanto.

Tuttavia, fu molto felice di vedere Mark Tapley; accolse Martin con la sua solita cortesia schietta. Ma Martin ebbe l’impressione che John Westlock non provasse per lui alcun interesse particolare; inoltre, notò due o tre volte che Westlock lo guardava con scetticismo, se non addirittura compassione. Pensò, e arrossì al solo pensiero, di conoscere il motivo di ciò.

“Credo che siate già impegnati,” disse Martin quando Tom gli spiegò lo scopo della loro visita. “Se mi permettete di tornare nel vostro tempo, ne sarò felice.”

“Sono fidanzato,” rispose John con una certa riluttanza; “ma la questione per cui sono fidanzato è, a dire il vero, qualcosa che richiede maggiormente la tua conoscenza che la mia.”

“Certamente!” esclamò Martin.

“Si tratta di una questione che riguarda un membro della tua famiglia e ha una natura molto seria. Se vorrai avere la gentilezza di rimanere qui, mi farà piacere comunicartela personalmente, in modo che tu possa valutarne l’importanza per te.”

“E intanto,” disse Tom, “devo proprio andarmene, senza ulteriori cerimonie.”

“La tua faccenda è davvero così importante,” chiese Martin, “da non poter restare con noi nemmeno mezz’ora? Mi piacerebbe che potessi. Di cosa si tratta, Tom?”

Era il turno di Tom di sentirsi imbarazzato ora; ma dopo un breve esitare, disse chiaramente:

“Perché, non ho il diritto di dire di cosa si tratta, Martin; anche se spero di poterlo fare presto, e non vedo alcun motivo che mi impedisca di farlo ora, se non la richiesta del mio datore di lavoro. È una situazione imbarazzante in cui mi trovo,” disse Tom, con un senso di disagio, come se stesse dubitando del suo amico, “perché ogni giorno me ne rendo conto; ma davvero non posso farci nulla, vero, John?”

John Westlock rispose negativamente; Martin, dichiarandosi perfettamente soddisfatto, li pregò di non dire una parola in più; tuttavia non poteva fare a meno di chiedersi quale strana funzione svolgesse Tom, e perché fosse così segreto, imbarazzato e diverso dal solito al riguardo. Non riuscì nemmeno a smettere di pensarci più volte dopo che Tom se ne fu andato; lo fece subito dopo la fine della conversazione, portando con sé anche il signor Tapley, che, come diceva scherzando, avrebbe potuto accompagnarlo fino a Fleet Street senza alcun pericolo.

“E cosa hai intenzione di fare, Mark?” chiese Tom mentre camminavano insieme.

“Volete dire che lo farò, signore?”, rispose il signor Tapley.

“Ah. Quale strada della vita intendi percorrere?”

“Beh, signore,” disse il signor Tapley. “La verità è che ho iniziato a pensare, piuttosto, alla questione del matrimonio, signore.”

“Non dici mica così, Mark!”, esclamò Tom.

“Sì, signore. L’ho rigirato più e più volte.”

“E chi è questa signora, Mark?”

“Quale, signore?”, disse il signor Tapley.

“La signora. Vieni! Sai cosa ho detto,” rispose Tom ridendo, “esattamente come lo so io!”

Il signor Tapley trattenne la propria voglia di ridere; e con uno dei suoi sguardi più stravaganti e contorti, rispose:

“Non avreste mai indovinato, vero, signor Pinch?”

“Come è possibile?” disse Tom. “Non conosco nessuna di quelle persone di cui parli, Mark. Tranne la signora Lupin, forse.”

“Beh, signore!”, ribatté il signor Tapley. “E anche se fosse stata lei, ”

Tom si fermò in strada per guardarlo; per un momento, il volto di Mr Tapley gli apparve completamente immobile e privo di espressione, come un muro di pietra impenetrabile. Ma poi, aprendo una finestra dopo l’altra con sorprendente rapidità e illuminandole tutte come se fossero state accese insieme, ripeté:

“Supponiamo, per discutere l’argomento, come lei ha detto, signore!”

“Perché pensavo che un legame del genere non fosse adatto a te, Mark, in nessun modo!” gridò Tom.

“Beh, signore! Anche io lo pensavo una volta,” disse Mark. “Ma ora non ne sono più così sicuro. Una creatura dolce e carina, davvero!”

“Una creatura cara e dolce? Certo che lo è,” esclamò Tom. “Ma è sempre stata una creatura cara e dolce, vero?”

“Non era forse così!” concordò il signor Tapley.

“Allora perché diavolo non l’hai sposata subito, Mark? Invece di vagabondare all’estero, perdendo tutto questo tempo, e lasciandola da sola, esposta a corteggiamenti da parte di altre persone, ”

“Perché, signore,” ribatté il signor Tapley con un atteggiamento di totale fiducia, “vi spiegherò come sono andate le cose. Mi conoscete bene, signor Pinch; non c’è nessun gentiluomo al mondo che mi conosca meglio di voi. Siete a conoscenza della mia natura e anche delle mie debolezze. La mia natura è quella di voler essere felice; la mia debolezza, invece, è quella di cercare sempre motivi per ritenermi meritevole di approvazione. Bene, in questo stato d’animo, mi è venuta l’idea che lei mi guardasse con un certo tipo di occhiata, beh, potreste dire che fosse una sorta di occhiata favorevole,” disse il signor Tapley, con modesta esitazione.

“Nessun dubbio”, rispose Tom. “Lo sapevamo perfettamente quando ne abbiamo parlato molto tempo fa, prima che tu lasciassi il Drago.”

Il signor Tapley annuì in segno di assenso. “Beh, signore! Ma essendo in quel momento pieno di speranze e visioni ottimistiche, sono giunto alla conclusione che non si possa trarre alcun merito da un simile stile di vita, in cui tutto ciò che è piacevole sia sempre a portata di mano. Guardando il lato positivo della vita umana, insomma, una delle mie speranze è che mi aspetti molta sofferenza; ma forse, nel mezzo di essa, riuscirò ad uscire più forte e a godermi le circostanze in modo tale da poter dire di aver dimostrato del merito. Entro nel mondo con grande entusiasmo e provo questa strada. Salgo su una nave, e molto presto mi rendo conto, grazie alla facilità con cui riesco a mantenere il buon umore, che lì non c’è alcun vero merito da trarre. Avrei potuto prendermene atto e arrendermi, ma non l’ho fatto. Arrivo negli Stati Uniti, e allora sì, devo ammetterlo: inizio davvero a sentirmi orgoglioso di come riesca a mantenere il mio spirito alto. E poi cosa succede? Proprio quando sto cominciando a rialzarmi e a riprendere in mano la mia vita, il mio padrone mi tradisce.”

‘Deceives you!’ cried Tom.

‘Swindles me,’ retorted Mr Tapley with a beaming face. ‘Turns his back on everything as made his service a creditable one, and leaves me high and dry, without a leg to stand upon. In which state I returns home. Wery good. Then all my hopeful wisions bein’ crushed; and findin’ that there ain’t no credit for me nowhere; I abandons myself to despair, and says, “Let me do that as has the least credit in it of all; marry a dear, sweet creetur, as is wery fond of me; me bein’, at the same time, wery fond of her; lead a happy life, and struggle no more again’ the blight which settles on my prospects.”’

‘If your philosophy, Mark,’ said Tom, who laughed heartily at this speech, ‘be the oddest I ever heard of, it is not the least wise. Mrs Lupin has said “yes,” of course?’

‘Why, no, sir,’ replied Mr Tapley; ‘she hasn’t gone so far as that yet. Which I attribute principally to my not havin’ asked her. But we was wery agreeable together—comfortable, I may say—the night I come home. It’s all right, sir.’

‘Well!’ said Tom, stopping at the Temple Gate. ‘I wish you joy, Mark, with all my heart. I shall see you again to-day, I dare say. Good-bye for the present.’

‘Good-bye, sir! Good-bye, Mr Pinch!’ he added by way of soliloquy, as he stood looking after him. ‘Although you ARE a damper to a honourable ambition. You little think it, but you was the first to dash my hopes. Pecksniff would have built me up for life, but your sweet temper pulled me down. Good-bye, Mr Pinch!’

While these confidences were interchanged between Tom Pinch and Mark, Martin and John Westlock were very differently engaged. They were no sooner left alone together than Martin said, with an effort he could not disguise:

‘Mr Westlock, we have met only once before, but you have known Tom a long while, and that seems to render you familiar to me. I cannot talk freely with you on any subject unless I relieve my mind of what oppresses it just now. I see with pain that you so far mistrust me that you think me likely to impose on Tom’s regardlessness of himself, or on his kind nature, or some of his good qualities.’

‘I had no intention,’ replied John, ‘of conveying any such impression to you, and am exceedingly sorry to have done so.’

‘But you entertain it?’ said Martin.

‘You ask me so pointedly and directly,’ returned the other, ‘that I cannot deny the having accustomed myself to regard you as one who, not in wantonness but in mere thoughtlessness of character, did not sufficiently consider his nature and did not quite treat it as it deserves to be treated. It is much easier to slight than to appreciate Tom Pinch.’

This was not said warmly, but was energetically spoken too; for there was no subject in the world (but one) on which the speaker felt so strongly.

‘I grew into the knowledge of Tom,’ he pursued, ‘as I grew towards manhood; and I have learned to love him as something, infinitely better than myself. I did not think that you understood him when we met before. I did not think that you greatly cared to understand him. The instances of this which I observed in you were, like my opportunities for observation, very trivial—and were very harmless, I dare say. But they were not agreeable to me, and they forced themselves upon me; for I was not upon the watch for them, believe me. You will say,’ added John, with a smile, as he subsided into more of his accustomed manner, ‘that I am not by any means agreeable to you. I can only assure you, in reply, that I would not have originated this topic on any account.’

‘I originated it,’ said Martin; ‘and so far from having any complaint to make against you, highly esteem the friendship you entertain for Tom, and the very many proofs you have given him of it. Why should I endeavour to conceal from you’—he coloured deeply though—‘that I neither understood him nor cared to understand him when I was his companion; and that I am very truly sorry for it now!’

It was so sincerely said, at once so modestly and manfully, that John offered him his hand as if he had not done so before; and Martin giving his in the same open spirit, all constraint between the young men vanished.

‘Now pray,’ said John, ‘when I tire your patience very much in what I am going to say, recollect that it has an end to it, and that the end is the point of the story.’

With this preface, he related all the circumstances connected with his having presided over the illness and slow recovery of the patient at the Bull; and tacked on to the skirts of that narrative Tom’s own account of the business on the wharf. Martin was not a little puzzled when he came to an end, for the two stories seemed to have no connection with each other, and to leave him, as the phrase is, all abroad.

‘If you will excuse me for one moment,’ said John, rising, ‘I will beg you almost immediately to come into the next room.’

Upon that, he left Martin to himself, in a state of considerable astonishment; and soon came back again to fulfil his promise. Accompanying him into the next room, Martin found there a third person; no doubt the stranger of whom his host had spoken when Tom Pinch introduced him.

He was a young man; with deep black hair and eyes. He was gaunt and pale; and evidently had not long recovered from a severe illness. He stood as Martin entered, but sat again at John’s desire. His eyes were cast downward; and but for one glance at them both, half in humiliation and half in entreaty, he kept them so, and sat quite still and silent.

‘This person’s name is Lewsome,’ said John Westlock, ‘whom I have mentioned to you as having been seized with an illness at the inn near here, and undergone so much. He has had a very hard time of it, ever since he began to recover; but, as you see, he is now doing well.’

As he did not move or speak, and John Westlock made a pause, Martin, not knowing what to say, said that he was glad to hear it.

“Vi inganna!”, gridò Tom.

“Mi sta ingannando,” ribatté il signor Tapley con un sorriso radioso. “Si allontana da tutto ciò che ha reso il suo servizio degno di lode, e mi lascia completamente solo, senza alcun appoggio. In questo stato torno a casa. Beh, tutte le mie speranze sono andate distrutte; rendendomi conto che non esiste alcuna lode per me da nessuna parte, mi arrendo alla -disperazione e penso: ‘Meglio fare qualcosa che richieda il minor sforzo possibile, sposare una persona cara e dolce che mi ami molto; io, allo stesso tempo, amerò anche lei, vivere felicemente, senza più lottare contro le avversità che minacciano il mio futuro.’”

“Se la tua filosofia, Mark,” disse Tom, ridendo di cuore a queste parole, “è la più strana che abbia mai sentito, non è certo la più saggia. Mrs Lupin ha detto ‘sì’, ovviamente, ”

“No, signore,” rispose il signor Tapley; “non è ancora arrivata a quel punto. Lo attribuisco principalmente al fatto che non gliel’ho chiesto io stesso. Ma quella notte in cui sono tornato a casa, ci siamo intesi molto bene. Direi, che l’atmosfera era piuttosto confortevole. Va tutto bene, signore.”

“Beh!”, disse Tom, fermandosi alla Porta del Tempio. “Ti auguro tutta la gioia possibile, Mark, con tutto il mio cuore. Spero di rivederti oggi stesso. Addio per ora.”

“Addio, signore! Addio, signor Pinch!” aggiunse tra sé mentre lo guardava allontanarsi. “Anche se siete davvero un ostacolo per una nobile ambizione. Non ve ne rendete conto, ma siete stato voi il primo a distruggere le mie speranze. Pecksniff avrebbe potuto rendermi felice per tutta la vita, ma il vostro carattere gentile me l’ha impedito. Addio, signor Pinch!”

Mentre queste confidenze venivano scambiate tra Tom Pinch e Mark, Martin e John Westlock erano molto impegnati in altre attività. Non appena rimasero da soli, Martin disse, con un sforzo che non riuscì a nascondere:

‘Signor Westlock, ci siamo incontrati solo una volta in precedenza, ma lei conosce Tom da molto tempo, il che sembra renderla particolarmente familiare a me. Non posso parlare liberamente con lei su nessun argomento se prima non mi libero di ciò che mi opprime in questo momento. Vedo con dolore che lei, per ora, non si fida di me abbastanza da ritenere che io possa compromettere l’indipendenza di Tom, la sua nobile natura o alcune delle sue qualità positive.’

“Non avevo alcuna intenzione,” rispose John, “di darti questa impressione, e mi dispiace molto di averlo fatto.”

“Ma tu ci credi davvero?” disse Martin.

“Mi chiedi in modo così diretto e preciso,” rispose l’altro, “che non posso negare di essermi abituato a considerarti una persona che, non per malizia ma semplicemente per mancanza di riflessione, non ha preso sufficientemente in considerazione la propria natura e non l’ha trattata come merita. È molto più facile disprezzare qualcuno che apprezzarlo.”

Queste parole non furono dette con calore, ma nemmeno con dolcezza; infatti, non esisteva al mondo alcun argomento su cui l’oratore provasse un sentimento così intenso.

“Con l’avanzare dell’età e con la mia crescita verso l’età adulta, ho iniziato a conoscere meglio Tom,” continuò, “e ho imparato ad amarlo come qualcuno infinitamente migliore di me stesso. Non pensavo che tu lo capissi quando ci siamo incontrati prima. E non credo nemmeno che ti interessasse davvero comprenderlo. Gli episodi in cui ho notato questo comportamento da parte tua erano, proprio come le occasioni in cui ho potuto osservarlo, molto banali. E, oserei dire, del tutto innocui. Ma non mi piacevano affatto, e mi costringevano ad accorgermene; perché, credimi, non stavo certo cercando di notarli. Dirai,” aggiunse John sorridendo, tornando al suo solito modo di parlare, “che io non ti piaccio affatto. Posso solo assicurarti che, in ogni caso, non avrei mai iniziato questo argomento.”

“L’ho ideato io,” disse Martin; “e lontano dall’avere alcuna lamentela nei tuoi confronti, apprezzo molto la amicizia che dimostri per Tom e tutti i modi in cui l’hai dimostrata. Perché dovrei cercare di nasconderti” – arrossì profondamente – “che quando ero suo compagno, né lo capivo né avevo voglia di capirlo; e che ora ne sono davvero molto pentito!”

Fu detto con tale sincerità, al contempo con tanta umiltà e coraggio, che John gli tese la mano come se non l’avesse mai fatto prima; e Martin, stringendogliela allo stesso modo aperto e sincero, ogni imbarazzo tra i due giovani scomparve.

“Ora prega,” disse John, “quando dovessi davvero mettere alla prova la tua pazienza con ciò che sto per dire, ricorda che tutto avrà una fine, e che quella fine è proprio il punto essenziale della storia.”

Con questa prefazione, raccontò tutte le circostanze legate al fatto che aveva assistito il paziente durante la sua malattia e il suo lento recupero; inoltre aggiunse anche il resoconto di Tom riguardante gli eventi avvenuti sul molo. Martin rimase piuttosto perplesso quando arrivò alla fine, perché le due storie sembravano non avere alcuna connessione tra loro e lo lasciarono, per così dire, completamente confuso.

“Se volete scusarmi per un momento,” disse John alzandosi, “vi pregherei di venire immediatamente nella stanza accanto.”

Dopo ciò, lasciò Martin da solo, in uno stato di notevole stupore; e presto tornò per mantenere la sua promessa. Accompagnandolo nella stanza accanto, Martin vi trovò una terza persona: non c’era alcun dubbio che si trattasse dello sconosciuto di cui il suo ospite aveva parlato quando Tom Pinch lo aveva presentato.

Era un giovane uomo; con capelli e occhi neri profondi. Era magro e pallido; evidentemente non si era ancora completamente ripreso da una grave malattia. Rimase in piedi quando Martin entrò, ma su esortazione di John si sedette di nuovo. Teneva lo sguardo abbassato; e se non fosse stato per un breve attimo in cui alzò gli occhi, metà con umiltà e metà con supplica, li tenne così, seduto immobile e in silenzio.

“Il nome di questa persona è Lewsome,” disse John Westlock, “di cui vi ho parlato come di qualcuno che aveva contratto una malattia in una locanda qui vicino e aveva passato molte difficoltà. Ha avuto un periodo davvero difficile da quando ha iniziato a riprendersi; ma, come vedete, ora sta bene.”

Poiché non si muoveva né parlava, e John Westlock fece una pausa, Martin, non sapendo cosa dire, rispose che era felice di sentirlo.

‘The short statement that I wish you to hear from his own lips, Mr Chuzzlewit,’ John pursued—looking attentively at him, and not at Martin—‘he made to me for the first time yesterday, and repeated to me this morning, without the least variation of any essential particular. I have already told you that he informed me before he was removed from the Inn, that he had a secret to disclose to me which lay heavy on his mind. But, fluctuating between sickness and health and between his desire to relieve himself of it, and his dread of involving himself by revealing it, he has, until yesterday, avoided the disclosure. I never pressed him for it (having no idea of its weight or import, or of my right to do so), until within a few days past; when, understanding from him, on his own voluntary avowal, in a letter from the country, that it related to a person whose name was Jonas Chuzzlewit; and thinking that it might throw some light on that little mystery which made Tom anxious now and then; I urged the point upon him, and heard his statement, as you will now, from his own lips. It is due to him to say, that in the apprehension of death, he committed it to writing sometime since, and folded it in a sealed paper, addressed to me; which he could not resolve, however, to place of his own act in my hands. He has the paper in his breast, I believe, at this moment.’

The young man touched it hastily; in corroboration of the fact.

‘It will be well to leave that in our charge, perhaps,’ said John. ‘But do not mind it now.’

As he said this, he held up his hand to bespeak Martin’s attention. It was already fixed upon the man before him, who, after a short silence said, in a low, weak, hollow voice:

‘What relation was Mr Anthony Chuzzlewit, who—’

‘—Who died—to me?’ said Martin. ‘He was my grandfather’s brother.’

‘I fear he was made away with. Murdered!’

‘My God!’ said Martin. ‘By whom?’

The young man, Lewsome, looked up in his face, and casting down his eyes again, replied:

‘I fear, by me.’

‘By you?’ cried Martin.

‘Not by my act, but I fear by my means.’

‘Speak out!’ said Martin, ‘and speak the truth.’

‘I fear this IS the truth.’

Martin was about to interrupt him again, but John Westlock saying softly, ‘Let him tell his story in his own way,’ Lewsome went on thus:

‘I have been bred a surgeon, and for the last few years have served a general practitioner in the City, as his assistant. While I was in his employment I became acquainted with Jonas Chuzzlewit. He is the principal in this deed.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Martin, sternly. ‘Do you know he is the son of the old man of whom you have spoken?’

‘I do,’ he answered.

He remained silent for some moments, when he resumed at the point where he had left off.

‘I have reason to know it; for I have often heard him wish his old father dead, and complain of his being wearisome to him, and a drag upon him. He was in the habit of doing so, at a place of meeting we had—three or four of us—at night. There was no good in the place you may suppose, when you hear that he was the chief of the party. I wish I had died myself, and never seen it!’

He stopped again; and again resumed as before.

‘We met to drink and game; not for large sums, but for sums that were large to us. He generally won. Whether or no, he lent money at interest to those who lost; and in this way, though I think we all secretly hated him, he came to be the master of us. To propitiate him we made a jest of his father; it began with his debtors; I was one; and we used to toast a quicker journey to the old man, and a swift inheritance to the young one.’

He paused again.

‘One night he came there in a very bad humour. He had been greatly tried, he said, by the old man that day. He and I were alone together; and he angrily told me, that the old man was in his second childhood; that he was weak, imbecile, and drivelling; as unbearable to himself as he was to other people; and that it would be a charity to put him out of the way. He swore that he had often thought of mixing something with the stuff he took for his cough, which should help him to die easily. People were sometimes smothered who were bitten by mad dogs, he said; and why not help these lingering old men out of their troubles too? He looked full at me as he said so, and I looked full at him; but it went no farther that night.’

He stopped once more, and was silent for so long an interval that John Westlock said ‘Go on.’ Martin had never removed his eyes from his face, but was so absorbed in horror and astonishment that he could not speak.

‘It may have been a week after that, or it may have been less or more—the matter was in my mind all the time, but I cannot recollect the time, as I should any other period—when he spoke to me again. We were alone then, too; being there before the usual hour of assembling. There was no appointment between us; but I think I went there to meet him, and I know he came there to meet me. He was there first. He was reading a newspaper when I went in, and nodded to me without looking up, or leaving off reading. I sat down opposite and close to him. He said, immediately, that he wanted me to get him some of two sorts of drugs. One that was instantaneous in its effect; of which he wanted very little. One that was slow and not suspicious in appearance; of which he wanted more. While he was speaking to me he still read the newspaper. He said “Drugs,” and never used any other word. Neither did I.’

‘This all agrees with what I have heard before,’ observed John Westlock.

‘I asked him what he wanted the drugs for? He said for no harm; to physic cats; what did it matter to me? I was going out to a distant colony (I had recently got the appointment, which, as Mr Westlock knows, I have since lost by my sickness, and which was my only hope of salvation from ruin), and what did it matter to me? He could get them without my aid at half a hundred places, but not so easily as he could get them of me. This was true. He might not want them at all, he said, and he had no present idea of using them; but he wished to have them by him. All this time he still read the newspaper. We talked about the price. He was to forgive me a small debt—I was quite in his power—and to pay me five pounds; and there the matter dropped, through others coming in. But, next night, under exactly similar circumstances, I gave him the drugs, on his saying I was a fool to think that he should ever use them for any harm; and he gave me the money. We have never met since. I only know that the poor old father died soon afterwards, just as he would have died from this cause; and that I have undergone, and suffer now, intolerable misery. Nothing’ he added, stretching out his hands, ‘can paint my misery! It is well deserved, but nothing can paint it.’

“La breve dichiarazione che desidero sentiate dalle sue stesse labbra, signor Chuzzlewit,” proseguì John, guardandolo attentamente e non Martin, “me la fece per la prima volta ieri e me la ripeté questa mattina, senza alcuna variazione riguardo ai punti essenziali. Vi ho già detto che prima di essere allontanato dall’Inn mi rivelò di avere un segreto da confidarmi, un segreto che lo opprimeva molto. Tuttavia, alternando periodi di malattia a momenti di miglioramento, e oscillando tra il desiderio di condividerlo e la paura di coinvolgermi rivelandolo, fino a ieri ha evitato di farlo. Non l’ho mai sollecitato in merito (non avendo idea dell’importanza o del significato di quel segreto, né del mio diritto di chiederglielo), fino a pochi giorni fa; quando, da una sua lettera inviata dalla campagna, ho appreso che riguardava una persona di nome Jonas Chuzzlewit. Pensando che potesse gettare luce su quel piccolo mistero che talvolta angosciava Tom, ho insistito per conoscere la verità e ho ascoltato la sua dichiarazione, proprio come ora ne sentirete dalle sue stesse labbra. Lui stesso afferma di averla trascritta temendo la morte, l’ha riposta in un foglio sigillato indirizzato a me, ma non ha avuto il coraggio di consegnarmelo personalmente. Credo che in questo momento quel foglio sia ancora nel suo petto.”

Il giovane lo toccò in fretta, come conferma di quel fatto.

“Forse sarà meglio lasciare che ce ne occupiamo noi,” disse John. “Ma non preoccupartene per ora.”

Mentre lo diceva, alzò la mano per attirare l’attenzione di Martin. Questa era già fissata sull’uomo davanti a lui, il quale, dopo un breve silenzio, disse con una voce bassa, debole e vuota:

“Qual era il rapporto tra il signor Anthony Chuzzlewit e, ”

“Chi è morto per me?”, disse Martin. “Era il fratello di mio nonno.”

“Temo che sia stato portato via. Assassinato!”

“Mio Dio!”, esclamò Martin. “Da parte di chi?”

Il giovane, Lewsome, alzò lo sguardo verso di lui e, abbassando nuovamente gli occhi, rispose:

“I paure, sono mie.”

“Per te?” gridò Martin.

“Non a causa delle mie azioni, ma temo i mezzi che uso.”

“Parlate apertamente!”, disse Martin, “e dite la verità”.

“Temo che questa sia davvero la verità.”

Martin stava per interromperlo di nuovo, ma quando John Westlock disse dolcemente: “Lasciatelo raccontare la sua storia a modo suo”, Lewsome continuò così:

Sono stato educato per diventare un chirurgo e, negli ultimi anni, ho lavorato come assistente di un medico generale nella Città. Durante il mio incarico ho conosciuto Jonas Chuzzlewit; lui è la persona principale coinvolta in questa faccenda.

“Cosa intendi dire?”, chiese Martin con severità. “Sai che è il figlio di quell’uomo anziano di cui hai parlato?”

“Sì,” rispose.

Rimase in silenzio per alcuni momenti, poi riprese dal punto in cui aveva interrotto.

‘Ho motivo di saperlo; infatti ho spesso sentito lui desiderare che suo padre fosse morto, lamentandosi del fatto che gli fosse un peso e lo ostacolasse nella sua vita. Aveva l’abitudine di dire queste cose in un luogo dove ci incontravamo noi tre o quattro, di notte. Non era certo un posto adatto, soprattutto considerando che lui era il capo del gruppo. Vorrei tanto essere morto anch’io e non aver mai visto tutto questo!’

Si fermò di nuovo; poi riprese come prima.

Ci incontravamo per bere e giocare; non per somme ingenti, ma per somme che per noi lo erano. Di solito lui vinceva. Comunque fosse, prestava denaro ad interesse a coloro che perdevano; e in questo modo, anche se penso che tutti noi lo odiassimo segretamente, finì per diventare il nostro padrone. Per compiacerlo, facemmo delle battute su suo padre; tutto iniziò con i suoi debitori. Anch’io ne ero uno. E spesso brindavamo a un “viaggio più veloce” verso l’anziano e a un’eredità rapida per il giovane.

Si fermò di nuovo.

‘Una notte, arrivò lì in un umore molto cupo. Disse che quel giorno quell’uomo anziano lo aveva messo a dura prova. Eravamo soli; e lui, con rabbia, mi disse che quell’anziano era come se fosse tornato all’età della seconda infanzia: debole, stupido e delirante; insopportabile sia per sé stesso che per gli altri. E che sarebbe stato un atto di carità toglierlo di mezzo. Giurò che spesso aveva pensato di mescolare qualcosa alle medicine che prendeva per la tosse, qualcosa che lo aiutasse a morire in fretta. Disse anche che a volte le persone morivano soffocate dopo essere state morse da cani pazzi. E perché non aiutare anche questi anziani a liberarsi dai loro tormenti? Mentre parlava, mi guardava dritto negli occhi; e anch’io lo fissavo. Ma quella notte non andò oltre.’

Si fermò di nuovo e rimase in silenzio per un periodo così lungo che John Westlock disse: “Continua”. Martin non aveva mai distolto lo sguardo dal suo volto, ma era talmente assorto in orrore e stupore da non riuscire a parlare.

“Forse era passata una settimana, o forse meno. Il fatto rimase sempre nella mia mente, ma non riesco a ricordare esattamente quando mi parlò di nuovo. In quel momento eravamo anche soli; ci trovavamo lì prima dell’ora abituale di riunione. Non c’era alcun appuntamento tra noi. Ma penso che io fossi andata lì apposta per incontrarlo, e so che lui era venuto lì allo stesso scopo. Lui arrivò prima di me; stava leggendo un giornale quando entrai, e mi salutò con un cenno senza alzare lo sguardo né smettere di leggere. Mi sedetti di fronte a lui. Subito dopo, mi chiese di procurargli due tipi di medicinali: uno che agisse immediatamente, di cui voleva solo una piccola quantità; l’altro che avesse un effetto lento e non destasse sospetti, di cui ne voleva invece molta. Mentre parlava con me, continuò a leggere il giornale. Non usò mai altre parole per indicare quelle medicine; nemmeno io lo feci.”

“Tutto questo coincide con ciò che ho sentito in precedenza,” osservò John Westlock.

“Gli ho chiesto a cosa gli servissero quelle droghe; ha detto che non era per fare del male, ma per, gatti; che cosa importava a me? Stavo per andare in una colonia lontana (avevo appena ottenuto l’appuntamento, che, come il signor Westlock sa, ho poi perso a causa della mia malattia; quell’appuntamento era la mia unica speranza di salvezza dalla rovina), e che cosa importava a me? Avrebbe potuto procurarsele in cento modi diversi senza il mio aiuto, ma non così facilmente come ottenendole da me. Era vero. Forse non le voleva affatto, ha detto, e al momento non aveva intenzione di usarle; voleva semplicemente averle a disposizione. Per tutto quel tempo continuava a leggere il giornale. Abbiamo discusso del prezzo. Avrebbe dovuto perdonarmi un piccolo debito – ero completamente in suo potere – e pagarmi cinque sterline; ma poi sono arrivati altri, e la questione è stata lasciata cadere lì. Tuttavia, la notte seguente, in circostanze esattamente simili, gli ho dato le droghe. Lui ha detto che ero un idiota a pensare che potesse mai usarle per fare del male; e mi ha pagato. Da allora non ci siamo più visti. So solo che quel povero vecchio padre è morto poco dopo, proprio a causa di quella droga. E io ho vissuto, e sto ancora vivendo, un’infelicità insopportabile. Niente”, aggiunse, tendendo le mani, “può descrivere la mia sofferenza. È ben meritata, ma niente può descriverla.”

With that he hung his head, and said no more, wasted and wretched, he was not a creature upon whom to heap reproaches that were unavailing.

‘Let him remain at hand,’ said Martin, turning from him; ‘but out of sight, in Heaven’s name!’

‘He will remain here,’ John whispered. ‘Come with me!’ Softly turning the key upon him as they went out, he conducted Martin into the adjoining room, in which they had been before.

Martin was so amazed, so shocked, and confounded by what he had heard that it was some time before he could reduce it to any order in his mind, or could sufficiently comprehend the bearing of one part upon another, to take in all the details at one view. When he, at length, had the whole narrative clearly before him, John Westlock went on to point out the great probability of the guilt of Jonas being known to other people, who traded in it for their own benefit, and who were, by such means, able to exert that control over him which Tom Pinch had accidentally witnessed, and unconsciously assisted. This appeared so plain, that they agreed upon it without difficulty; but instead of deriving the least assistance from this source, they found that it embarrassed them the more.

They knew nothing of the real parties who possessed this power. The only person before them was Tom’s landlord. They had no right to question Tom’s landlord, even if they could find him, which, according to Tom’s account, it would not be easy to do. And granting that they did question him, and he answered (which was taking a good deal for granted), he had only to say, with reference to the adventure on the wharf, that he had been sent from such and such a place to summon Jonas back on urgent business, and there was an end of it.

Besides, there was the great difficulty and responsibility of moving at all in the matter. Lewsome’s story might be false; in his wretched state it might be greatly heightened by a diseased brain; or admitting it to be entirely true, the old man might have died a natural death. Mr Pecksniff had been there at the time; as Tom immediately remembered, when he came back in the afternoon, and shared their counsels; and there had been no secrecy about it. Martin’s grandfather was of right the person to decide upon the course that should be taken; but to get at his views would be impossible, for Mr Pecksniff’s views were certain to be his. And the nature of Mr Pecksniff’s views in reference to his own son-in-law might be easily reckoned upon.

Apart from these considerations, Martin could not endure the thought of seeming to grasp at this unnatural charge against his relative, and using it as a stepping-stone to his grandfather’s favour. But that he would seem to do so, if he presented himself before his grandfather in Mr Pecksniff’s house again, for the purpose of declaring it; and that Mr Pecksniff, of all men, would represent his conduct in that despicable light, he perfectly well knew. On the other hand to be in possession of such a statement, and take no measures of further inquiry in reference to it, was tantamount to being a partner in the guilt it professed to disclose.

In a word, they were wholly unable to discover any outlet from this maze of difficulty, which did not lie through some perplexed and entangled thicket. And although Mr Tapley was promptly taken into their confidence; and the fertile imagination of that gentleman suggested many bold expedients, which, to do him justice, he was quite ready to carry into instant operation on his own personal responsibility; still ‘bating the general zeal of Mr Tapley’s nature, nothing was made particularly clearer by these offers of service.

It was in this position of affairs that Tom’s account of the strange behaviour of the decayed clerk, on the night of the tea-party, became of great moment, and finally convinced them that to arrive at a more accurate knowledge of the workings of that old man’s mind and memory, would be to take a most important stride in their pursuit of the truth. So, having first satisfied themselves that no communication had ever taken place between Lewsome and Mr Chuffey (which would have accounted at once for any suspicions the latter might entertain), they unanimously resolved that the old clerk was the man they wanted.

But, like the unanimous resolution of a public meeting, which will oftentimes declare that this or that grievance is not to be borne a moment longer, which is nevertheless borne for a century or two afterwards, without any modification, they only reached in this the conclusion that they were all of one mind. For it was one thing to want Mr Chuffey, and another thing to get at him; and to do that without alarming him, or without alarming Jonas, or without being discomfited by the difficulty of striking, in an instrument so out of tune and so unused, the note they sought, was an end as far from their reach as ever.

The question then became, who of those about the old clerk had had most influence with him that night? Tom said his young mistress clearly. But Tom and all of them shrunk from the thought of entrapping her, and making her the innocent means of bringing retribution on her cruel husband. Was there nobody else? Why yes. In a very different way, Tom said, he was influenced by Mrs Gamp, the nurse; who had once had the control of him, as he understood, for some time.

They caught at this immediately. Here was a new way out, developed in a quarter until then overlooked. John Westlock knew Mrs Gamp; he had given her employment; he was acquainted with her place of residence: for that good lady had obligingly furnished him, at parting, with a pack of her professional cards for general distribution. It was decided that Mrs Gamp should be approached with caution, but approached without delay; and that the depths of that discreet matron’s knowledge of Mr Chuffey, and means of bringing them, or one of them, into communication with him, should be carefully sounded.

On this service, Martin and John Westlock determined to proceed that night; waiting on Mrs Gamp first, at her lodgings; and taking their chance of finding her in the repose of private life, or of having to seek her out, elsewhere, in the exercise of her professional duties. Tom returned home, that he might lose no opportunity of having an interview with Nadgett, by being absent in the event of his reappearance. And Mr Tapley remained (by his own particular desire) for the time being in Furnival’s Inn, to look after Lewsome; who might safely have been left to himself, however, for any thought he seemed to entertain of giving them the slip.

Before they parted on their several errands, they caused him to read aloud, in the presence of them all, the paper which he had about him, and the declaration he had attached to it, which was to the effect that he had written it voluntarily, in the fear of death and in the torture of his mind. And when he had done so, they all signed it, and taking it from him, of his free will, locked it in a place of safety.

Martin also wrote, by John’s advice, a letter to the trustees of the famous Grammar School, boldly claiming the successful design as his, and charging Mr Pecksniff with the fraud he had committed. In this proceeding also, John was hotly interested; observing, with his usual irreverance, that Mr Pecksniff had been a successful rascal all his life through, and that it would be a lasting source of happiness to him (John) if he could help to do him justice in the smallest particular.

A busy day! But Martin had no lodgings yet; so when these matters were disposed of, he excused himself from dining with John Westlock and was fain to wander out alone, and look for some. He succeeded, after great trouble, in engaging two garrets for himself and Mark, situated in a court in the Strand, not far from Temple Bar. Their luggage, which was waiting for them at a coach-office, he conveyed to this new place of refuge; and it was with a glow of satisfaction, which as a selfish man he never could have known and never had, that, thinking how much pains and trouble he had saved Mark, and how pleased and astonished Mark would be, he afterwards walked up and down, in the Temple, eating a meat-pie for his dinner.

Con questo, abbassò la testa e non disse più nulla; distrutto e miserabile com’era, non era certo una persona su cui poter riversare rimproveri inutili.

“Lasciatelo a portata di mano,” disse Martin, allontanandosi da lui; “ma che non sia visibile, per l’amor del cielo!”

“Rimarrà qui,” sussurrò John. “Vieni con me!” Mentre uscivano, girò dolcemente la chiave nella serratura e condusse Martin nella stanza adiacente, quella in cui erano stati prima.

Martin era così sbalordito, così scioccato e confuso da ciò che aveva sentito che ci volle del tempo prima che riuscisse a dare un senso logico alle informazioni ricevute, o a comprendere appieno il rapporto tra le varie parti della storia. Quando finalmente ebbe tutto il racconto chiaramente davanti agli occhi, John Westlock continuò spiegando quanto fosse probabile che la colpevolezza di Jonas fosse nota ad altre persone che ne approfittavano a proprio vantaggio, e che in questo modo riuscissero a esercitare su di lui quel controllo di cui Tom Pinch aveva accidentalmente assistito e, senza saperlo, contribuito. Questa spiegazione sembrava così evidente che decisero tutti all’unanimità di crederci; ma invece di trarne alcun aiuto, si resero conto che la situazione diventava ancora più complicata.

Non sapevano nulla delle vere persone che possedevano questo potere. L’unica persona davanti a loro era il proprietario dell’appartamento di Tom. Non avevano il diritto di interrogare quel proprietario, anche se fossero riusciti a trovarlo – il che, secondo quanto raccontato da Tom, non sarebbe stato facile. E ammesso che lo avessero interrogato e che lui avesse risposto (il che era già un grosso presupposto), avrebbe potuto semplicemente dire, riguardo all’avventura nel molo, di essere stato inviato da un certo posto per chiamare indietro Jonas per questioni urgenti. E basta.

Inoltre, c’era la grande difficoltà e responsabilità di intervenire in quella situazione. La storia di Lewsome poteva essere falsa; nel suo stato miserabile, quelle parole erano state probabilmente esagerate a causa di un cervello malato; oppure, anche ammettendo che fossero del tutto vere, quell’uomo anziano poteva essere morto in modo naturale. Il signor Pecksniff era stato presente in quel momento; come Tom ricordò immediatamente, quando tornò nel pomeriggio, avevano condiviso insieme le loro considerazioni, e non c’era stata alcuna segretezza al riguardo. Il nonno di Martin era certamente la persona adatta a decidere quale fosse il da farsi; ma conoscere i suoi punti di vista sarebbe stato impossibile, perché quelli del signor Pecksniff corrispondevano inevitabilmente ai suoi stessi. E si poteva facilmente intuire la natura dei pensieri del signor Pecksniff riguardo al proprio genero.

Oltre a queste considerazioni, Martin non riusciva a sopportare l’idea di sembrare colpevole di questa accusa ingiusta contro suo parente, e di usarla come strumento per guadagnarsi il favore di suo nonno. Sapeva perfettamente che, se si fosse presentato nuovamente davanti a suo nonno nella casa del signor Pecksniff con l’intento di dichiarare tutto ciò, il signor Pecksniff, più di chiunque altro, avrebbe interpretato il suo comportamento in quel modo spregevole. D’altra parte, possedere una simile dichiarazione senza intraprendere ulteriori indagini equivaleva a essere complice della colpevolezza che essa sosteneva di rivelare.

In breve, non riuscivano affatto a trovare una via d’uscita da questo labirinto di difficoltà, che sembrava costituito soltanto da intrichi complessi e intricati. E sebbene il signor Tapley venisse immediatamente messo al corrente delle loro difficoltà; e l’ingegnosa immaginazione di quel gentiluomo suggerisse molti metodi audaci, pronti ad essere attuati all’istante a suo personale rischio e pericolo; tuttavia, nonostante tutto ciò, nessuna soluzione concreta emerse dalle sue proposte.

Fu in questa situazione che il racconto di Tom riguardo al comportamento strano del vecchio impiegato, nella notte della festa del tè, divenne di grande importanza; infine convinse tutti loro che per comprendere più accuratamente il funzionamento della mente e della memoria di quell’uomo sarebbe stato possibile compiere un passo fondamentale nella ricerca della verità. Dopo essersi assicurati che non fosse mai avvenuta alcuna comunicazione tra Lewsome e il signor Chuffey (cosa che avrebbe spiegato immediatamente eventuali sospetti da parte di quest’ultimo), decisero all’unanimità che quel vecchio impiegato fosse l’uomo che cercavano.

Ma, proprio come una risoluzione unanime emessa durante una riunione pubblica – che spesso dichiara che questo o quel problema non debba essere più tollerato nemmeno per un istante, eppure viene comunque sopportato per un secolo o due senza alcuna modifica – anche loro arrivarono semplicemente alla conclusione di essere tutti d’accordo. Perché volere bene al signor Chuffey era una cosa; raggiungerlo, invece, un’altra. E farlo senza allarmarlo, né causare preoccupazioni a Jonas, né incappare nelle difficoltà legate al tentativo di suonare, con uno strumento così dissonante e inutilizzato da tempo, la nota desiderata, era qualcosa che rimaneva ben lontano dalla loro portata.

Allora la domanda divenne: chi, tra coloro che conoscevano quel vecchio impiegato, aveva avuto su di lui la maggiore influenza quella notte? Tom rispose che era stata senza dubbio la sua giovane amante. Ma sia Tom che tutti gli altri evitavano l’idea di coinvolgerla, di farne lo strumento innocente per vendicare il marito crudele. Non c’era nessun altro? Sì. In modo molto diverso, Tom ammise che era stata influenzato anche dalla signora Gamp, la infermiera; lei, a suo dire, aveva avuto su di lui un certo controllo per un certo periodo di tempo.

Se ne resero conto immediatamente. Qui c’era una nuova via d’uscita, emersa in un ambito fino ad allora trascurato. John Westlock conosceva la signora Gamp; le aveva dato lavoro e conosceva anche il suo indirizzo: quella gentile donna, infatti, gli aveva gentilmente fornito, al momento del loro addio, un mazzo delle sue carte professionali da distribuire. Si decise quindi di approcciarsi alla signora Gamp con cautela, ma senza indugiare; inoltre, era necessario esplorare attentamente le conoscenze della signora Gamp riguardo al signor Chuffey, nonché i modi per metterla in contatto con lui o con uno di loro.

In quella serata, Martin e John Westlock decisero di agire così: prima andarono a trovare la signora Gamp nelle sue stanze, nella speranza di trovarla nel corso delle sue attività private; in caso contrario, avrebbero dovuto cercarla altrove, dove svolgeva i suoi doveri professionali. Tom tornò a casa per non perdere l’occasione di incontrare Nadgett, nel caso questi ricomparisse. Il signor Tapley, invece, rimase (per sua espressa volontà) all’Furnival’s Inn, per prendersi cura di Lewsome; tuttavia, quest’ultimo avrebbe potuto tranquillamente essere lasciato da solo, visto che non sembrava avere intenzione di sfuggire loro.

Prima di separarsi per andare ciascuno per la propria incombenza, lo costrinsero a leggere ad alta voce, davanti a tutti loro, il documento che aveva con sé e la dichiarazione allegata, nella quale si affermava che l’aveva scritto volontariamente, per paura della morte e a causa delle torture mentali che subiva. Una volta fatto ciò, tutti lo firmarono e, prendendolo di sua spontanea volontà, lo misero in un luogo sicuro.

Su consiglio di John, Martin scrisse anche una lettera ai fiduciari della famosa Scuola Normale, affermando con audacia che il progetto riuscito fosse suo e accusando il signor Pecksniff di aver commesso frodi. Anche in questa vicenda, John era molto interessato; osservò, con la sua solita irriverenza, che il signor Pecksniff era sempre stato un furfante di successo nella vita e che per lui (John) sarebbe stata una grande soddisfazione riuscire a fargli giustizia anche in piccoli dettagli.

Una giornata impegnativa! Ma Martin non aveva ancora trovato un alloggio; quindi, una volta sistemate queste questioni, si scusò e non partecipò alla cena con John Westlock, preferendo uscire da solo in cerca di una sistemazione. Dopo molte difficoltà, riuscì a trovare due stanze al piano di sopra, situate in un cortile nella zona di Strand, non lontano da Temple Bar. Il loro bagaglio, che li aspettava presso un ufficio di noleggio di carrozze, fu trasportato in questo nuovo rifugio; e con un senso di soddisfazione – che, essendo una persona egoista, non avrebbe mai potuto provare – pensò a quanto dolore e fatica avesse risparmiato a Mark, e a quanto quest’ultimo sarebbe stato felice e sorpreso. Poi andò su e giù per le strade di Temple, mangiando una torta di carne a cena.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

IN WHICH MRS HARRIS ASSISTED BY A TEAPOT, IS THE CAUSE OF A DIVISION BETWEEN FRIENDS

Mrs Gamp’s apartment in Kingsgate Street, High Holborn, wore, metaphorically speaking, a robe of state. It was swept and garnished for the reception of a visitor. That visitor was Betsey Prig; Mrs Prig, of Bartlemy’s; or as some said Barklemy’s, or as some said Bardlemy’s; for by all these endearing and familiar appellations, had the hospital of Saint Bartholomew become a household word among the sisterhood which Betsey Prig adorned.

Mrs Gamp’s apartment was not a spacious one, but, to a contented mind, a closet is a palace; and the first-floor front at Mr Sweedlepipe’s may have been, in the imagination of Mrs Gamp, a stately pile. If it were not exactly that, to restless intellects, it at least comprised as much accommodation as any person, not sanguine to insanity, could have looked for in a room of its dimensions. For only keep the bedstead always in your mind; and you were safe. That was the grand secret. Remembering the bedstead, you might even stoop to look under the little round table for anything you had dropped, without hurting yourself much against the chest of drawers, or qualifying as a patient of Saint Bartholomew, by falling into the fire.

Visitors were much assisted in their cautious efforts to preserve an unflagging recollection of this piece of furniture, by its size; which was great. It was not a turn-up bedstead, nor yet a French bedstead, nor yet a four-post bedstead, but what is poetically called a tent; the sacking whereof was low and bulgy, insomuch that Mrs Gamp’s box would not go under it, but stopped half-way, in a manner which, while it did violence to the reason, likewise endangered the legs of a stranger. The frame too, which would have supported the canopy and hangings if there had been any, was ornamented with divers pippins carved in timber, which on the slightest provocation, and frequently on none at all, came tumbling down; harassing the peaceful guest with inexplicable terrors.

The bed itself was decorated with a patchwork quilt of great antiquity; and at the upper end, upon the side nearest to the door, hung a scanty curtain of blue check, which prevented the Zephyrs that were abroad in Kingsgate Street, from visiting Mrs Gamp’s head too roughly. Some rusty gowns and other articles of that lady’s wardrobe depended from the posts; and these had so adapted themselves by long usage to her figure, that more than one impatient husband coming in precipitately, at about the time of twilight, had been for an instant stricken dumb by the supposed discovery that Mrs Gamp had hanged herself. One gentleman, coming on the usual hasty errand, had said indeed, that they looked like guardian angels ‘watching of her in her sleep.’ But that, as Mrs Gamp said, ‘was his first;’ and he never repeated the sentiment, though he often repeated his visit.

The chairs in Mrs Gamp’s apartment were extremely large and broad-backed, which was more than a sufficient reason for there being but two in number. They were both elbow-chairs, of ancient mahogany; and were chiefly valuable for the slippery nature of their seats, which had been originally horsehair, but were now covered with a shiny substance of a bluish tint, from which the visitor began to slide away with a dismayed countenance, immediately after sitting down. What Mrs Gamp wanted in chairs she made up in bandboxes; of which she had a great collection, devoted to the reception of various miscellaneous valuables, which were not, however, as well protected as the good woman, by a pleasant fiction, seemed to think; for, though every bandbox had a carefully closed lid, not one among them had a bottom; owing to which cause the property within was merely, as it were, extinguished. The chest of drawers having been originally made to stand upon the top of another chest, had a dwarfish, elfin look, alone; but in regard of its security it had a great advantage over the bandboxes, for as all the handles had been long ago pulled off, it was very difficult to get at its contents. This indeed was only to be done by one or two devices; either by tilting the whole structure forward until all the drawers fell out together, or by opening them singly with knives, like oysters.

Mrs Gamp stored all her household matters in a little cupboard by the fire-place; beginning below the surface (as in nature) with the coals, and mounting gradually upwards to the spirits, which, from motives of delicacy, she kept in a teapot. The chimney-piece was ornamented with a small almanack, marked here and there in Mrs Gamp’s own hand with a memorandum of the date at which some lady was expected to fall due. It was also embellished with three profiles: one, in colours, of Mrs Gamp herself in early life; one, in bronze, of a lady in feathers, supposed to be Mrs Harris, as she appeared when dressed for a ball; and one, in black, of Mr Gamp, deceased. The last was a full length, in order that the likeness might be rendered more obvious and forcible by the introduction of the wooden leg.

A pair of bellows, a pair of pattens, a toasting-fork, a kettle, a pap-boat, a spoon for the administration of medicine to the refractory, and lastly, Mrs Gamp’s umbrella, which as something of great price and rarity, was displayed with particular ostentation, completed the decorations of the chimney-piece and adjacent wall. Towards these objects Mrs Gamp raised her eyes in satisfaction when she had arranged the tea-board, and had concluded her arrangements for the reception of Betsey Prig, even unto the setting forth of two pounds of Newcastle salmon, intensely pickled.

‘There! Now drat you, Betsey, don’t be long!’ said Mrs Gamp, apostrophizing her absent friend. ‘For I can’t abear to wait, I do assure you. To wotever place I goes, I sticks to this one mortar, “I’m easy pleased; it is but little as I wants; but I must have that little of the best, and to the minute when the clock strikes, else we do not part as I could wish, but bearin’ malice in our arts.”’

CAPITOLO QUARANTANOVE

In cui la signora Harris, con l’aiuto di una teiera, diventa causa di un dissidio tra amici

L’appartamento di Mrs Gamp in Kingsgate Street, High Holborn, era, per così dire, “vestito” con tutti gli ornamenti appropriati ad una visita importante. Era stato pulito e decorato appositamente per accogliere un ospite. Quell’ospite era Betsey Prig; Mrs Prig di Bartlemy’s, o forse Barklemy’s, o addirittura Bardlemy’s. Perché con tutti questi nomi affettuosi e familiari, l’ospedale di Saint Bartholomew era diventato un termine conosciuto da tutte le donne che facevano parte del gruppo di Betsey Prig.

L’appartamento di Mrs Gamp non era molto spazioso, ma per una mente soddisfatta, un armadio può rappresentare un vero palazzo; e il negozio al primo piano di Mr Sweedlepipe, nell’immaginazione di Mrs Gamp, poteva sembrare addirittura un edificio imponente. Anche se non lo era esattamente, per le menti inquiete, offriva comunque abbastanza spazio da soddisfare qualsiasi persona che non desiderasse impazzire. Basta semplicemente tenere sempre a mente la presenza del letto: così si è al sicuro. Questo era il grande segreto. Ricordandosi del letto, si poteva persino chinarsi sotto quel piccolo tavolo rotondo per cercare qualsiasi cosa si fosse persa, senza rischiare di ferirsi contro l’armadio a mazzi o di finire nel fuoco, diventando così pazienti presso il Santo Bartolomeo.

I visitatori ricevettero grande aiuto nei loro sforzi cauti per conservare un ricordo nitido di questo pezzo di mobili, grazie alle sue dimensioni notevoli. Non si trattava né di un letto a ribaltino, né di un letto francese, né di un letto con quattro colonne, ma di ciò che poeticamente si potrebbe definire una “tenda”: la stoffa che lo ricopriva era bassa e rigonfia al punto che la scatola della signora Gamp non riusciva a passarvi sotto, ma si fermava a metà strada, in modo tale da creare problemi sia per il buonsenso che per le gambe di chi vi si sdraiava sopra. Anche la struttura su cui avrebbero dovuto essere fissati baldacchini e tende era decorata con diversi elementi intagliati nel legno; questi, al minimo movimento, e spesso anche senza alcuna causa apparente, cadevano a terra, causando grande disagio ai visitatori.

Il letto stesso era decorato con una coperta patchwork di grande antichità; e all’estremità superiore, sul lato più vicino alla porta, pendeva una sottile tenda a quadri blu, che impediva ai venti che soffiavano in Kingsgate Street di “visitare” troppo rudemente la testa della signora Gamp. Alcuni abiti arrugginiti e altri oggetti dell’armadio di quella signora erano appesi alle colonne del letto; e, a causa dell’uso prolungato, si adattavano così bene alla sua figura che più di un marito impaziente, entrando in fretta verso il tramonto, rimaneva per un istante sbalordito dall’illusione che la signora Gamp si fosse impiccata. Un gentiluomo, venuto per una commissione urgente come al solito, aveva persino detto che quegli oggetti sembravano angeli custodi “che la vegliavano nel suo sonno”. Ma, come diceva la signora Gamp, “quella era la sua prima volta”; e lui non ripeté mai più quell’osservazione, anche se continuò spesso a farle visita.

Le sedie nell’appartamento della signora Gamp erano estremamente grandi e dallo schienale largo; questo era più che sufficiente per spiegare perché ne fossero presenti soltanto due. Entrambe erano poltrone di antico mogano, e il loro valore principale risiedeva nella superficie scivolosa dei loro sedili: originariamente fatti di crini di cavallo, ora erano ricoperti da una sostanza lucida di colore bluastro; non appena i visitatori vi si sedevano, iniziavano immediatamente a scivolare via con espressioni preoccupate. Per quanto riguardava le sedie che la signora Gamp desiderava davvero, se ne procurava delle altre, in scatole di cartone; ne possedeva un’intera collezione, utilizzate per conservare vari oggetti di valore, anche se, a dire il vero, questi non erano protetti altrettanto bene quanto la buona donna sembrava credere. Infatti, sebbene ogni scatola avesse un coperchio ben chiuso, nessuna di esse aveva fondo; per questo motivo, i contenuti all’interno venivano semplicemente “spenti”, come se non esistessero più. L’armadio a cassetti, essendo stato originariamente progettato per essere posizionato sopra un altro armadio, aveva un aspetto minuscolo e quasi elfico, ma in termini di sicurezza rappresentava un grande vantaggio rispetto alle scatole di cartone: poiché tutte le maniglie erano state rimosse da tempo, era molto difficile accedere ai suoi contenuti. Per farlo, si potevano utilizzare soltanto due metodi: inclinare l’intera struttura in avanti fino a far cadere tutti i cassetti insieme, oppure aprirli uno per uno con un coltello, come se si trattasse di ostriche.

La signora Gamp teneva tutte le sue faccende domestiche in un piccolo armadietto vicino al camino; queste cose erano disposte partendo dal basso, come avviene nella >natura, con i carboni, e salendo gradualmente verso l’alto fino agli alcolici, che, per motivi di delicatezza, teneva in una teiera. Il camino era decorato anche da un piccolo almanacco, su cui la signora Gamp aveva annotato a mano la data in cui si prevedeva che alcune signore arrivassero a casa loro. Era inoltre adornato con tre ritratti: uno, a colori, della stessa signora Gamp quando era giovane; uno, in bronzo, di una signora vestita a festa, presumibilmente la signora Harris; e uno, in nero, del defunto signor Gamp. Quest’ultimo ritratto era a figura intera, in modo che la somiglianza con il vero volto risultasse ancora più evidente grazie alla presenza della gamba di legno utilizzata per sostituire quella reale.

Un paio di mantici, un paio di pattini, una forchetta da tostare, una pentola, un imbuto, un cucchiaio per somministrare le medicine ai pazienti refrattari. E infine, l’ombrello della signora Gamp, che, essendo oggetto di grande valore e rarità, veniva esposto con particolare ostentazione. Tutti questi oggetti completavano la decorazione del camino e della parete adiacente. Quando aveva sistemato il vassoio da tè e ultimato tutti i preparativi per l’arrivo di Betsey Prig, compresa l’allestimento di due libbre di salmone di Newcastle sottaceto, la signora Gamp alzava lo sguardo su di essi con soddisfazione.

“Eccola! Ora però, accidenti a te, Betsey, fai in fretta!” disse la signora Gamp, rivolgendosi alla sua amica assente. “Perché proprio non riesco ad aspettare, ve lo giuro. Ovunque vada, tengo sempre fermo questo principio: ‘Sono facile da soddisfare; mi basta poco. Ma devo avere quella piccola cosa di meglio. E al preciso istante in cui suona l’orologio, dobbiamo partire, altrimenti non andrà tutto come vorrei. E allora ci saranno rancori tra di noi.’”

Her own preparations were of the best, for they comprehended a delicate new loaf, a plate of fresh butter, a basin of fine white sugar, and other arrangements on the same scale. Even the snuff with which she now refreshed herself, was so choice in quality that she took a second pinch.

‘There’s the little bell a-ringing now,’ said Mrs Gamp, hurrying to the stair-head and looking over. ‘Betsey Prig, my—why it’s that there disapintin’ Sweedlepipes, I do believe.’

‘Yes, it’s me,’ said the barber in a faint voice; ‘I’ve just come in.’

‘You’re always a-comin’ in, I think,’ muttered Mrs Gamp to herself, ‘except wen you’re a-goin’ out. I ha’n’t no patience with that man!’

‘Mrs Gamp,’ said the barber. ‘I say! Mrs Gamp!’

‘Well,’ cried Mrs Gamp, impatiently, as she descended the stairs. ‘What is it? Is the Thames a-fire, and cooking its own fish, Mr Sweedlepipes? Why wot’s the man gone and been a-doin’ of to himself? He’s as white as chalk!’

She added the latter clause of inquiry, when she got downstairs, and found him seated in the shaving-chair, pale and disconsolate.

‘You recollect,’ said Poll. ‘You recollect young—’

‘Not young Wilkins!’ cried Mrs Gamp. ‘Don’t say young Wilkins, wotever you do. If young Wilkins’s wife is took—’

‘It isn’t anybody’s wife,’ exclaimed the little barber. ‘Bailey, young Bailey!’

‘Why, wot do you mean to say that chit’s been a-doin’ of?’ retorted Mrs Gamp, sharply. ‘Stuff and nonsense, Mrs Sweedlepipes!’

‘He hasn’t been a-doing anything!’ exclaimed poor Poll, quite desperate. ‘What do you catch me up so short for, when you see me put out to that extent that I can hardly speak? He’ll never do anything again. He’s done for. He’s killed. The first time I ever see that boy,’ said Poll, ‘I charged him too much for a red-poll. I asked him three-halfpence for a penny one, because I was afraid he’d beat me down. But he didn’t. And now he’s dead; and if you was to crowd all the steam-engines and electric fluids that ever was, into this shop, and set ‘em every one to work their hardest, they couldn’t square the account, though it’s only a ha’penny!’

Mr Sweedlepipe turned aside to the towel, and wiped his eyes with it.

‘And what a clever boy he was!’ he said. ‘What a surprising young chap he was! How he talked! and what a deal he know’d! Shaved in this very chair he was; only for fun; it was all his fun; he was full of it. Ah! to think that he’ll never be shaved in earnest! The birds might every one have died, and welcome,’ cried the little barber, looking round him at the cages, and again applying to the towel, ‘sooner than I’d have heard this news!’

‘How did you ever come to hear it?’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘who told you?’

‘I went out,’ returned the little barber, ‘into the City, to meet a sporting gent upon the Stock Exchange, that wanted a few slow pigeons to practice at; and when I’d done with him, I went to get a little drop of beer, and there I heard everybody a-talking about it. It’s in the papers.’

‘You are in a nice state of confugion, Mr Sweedlepipes, you are!’ said Mrs Gamp, shaking her head; ‘and my opinion is, as half-a-dudgeon fresh young lively leeches on your temples, wouldn’t be too much to clear your mind, which so I tell you. Wot were they a-talkin’ on, and wot was in the papers?’

‘All about it!’ cried the barber. ‘What else do you suppose? Him and his master were upset on a journey, and he was carried to Salisbury, and was breathing his last when the account came away. He never spoke afterwards. Not a single word. That’s the worst of it to me; but that ain’t all. His master can’t be found. The other manager of their office in the city, Crimple, David Crimple, has gone off with the money, and is advertised for, with a reward, upon the walls. Mr Montague, poor young Bailey’s master (what a boy he was!) is advertised for, too. Some say he’s slipped off, to join his friend abroad; some say he mayn’t have got away yet; and they’re looking for him high and low. Their office is a smash; a swindle altogether. But what’s a Life Assurance office to a Life! And what a Life Young Bailey’s was!’

‘He was born into a wale,’ said Mrs Gamp, with philosophical coolness. ‘and he lived in a wale; and he must take the consequences of sech a sitiwation. But don’t you hear nothink of Mr Chuzzlewit in all this?’

‘No,’ said Poll, ‘nothing to speak of. His name wasn’t printed as one of the board, though some people say it was just going to be. Some believe he was took in, and some believe he was one of the takers-in; but however that may be, they can’t prove nothing against him. This morning he went up of his own accord afore the Lord Mayor or some of them City big-wigs, and complained that he’d been swindled, and that these two persons had gone off and cheated him, and that he had just found out that Montague’s name wasn’t even Montague, but something else. And they do say that he looked like Death, owing to his losses. But, Lord forgive me,’ cried the barber, coming back again to the subject of his individual grief, ‘what’s his looks to me! He might have died and welcome, fifty times, and not been such a loss as Bailey!’

At this juncture the little bell rang, and the deep voice of Mrs Prig struck into the conversation.

‘Oh! You’re a-talkin’ about it, are you!’ observed that lady. ‘Well, I hope you’ve got it over, for I ain’t interested in it myself.’

‘My precious Betsey,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘how late you are!’

The worthy Mrs Prig replied, with some asperity, ‘that if perwerse people went off dead, when they was least expected, it warn’t no fault of her’n.’ And further, ‘that it was quite aggrawation enough to be made late when one was dropping for one’s tea, without hearing on it again.’

Mrs Gamp, deriving from this exhibition of repartee some clue to the state of Mrs Prig’s feelings, instantly conducted her upstairs; deeming that the sight of pickled salmon might work a softening change.

I suoi preparativi erano dei migliori, poiché includevano un delizioso nuovo pane, un piatto di burro fresco, una ciotola di zucchero bianco fine, e altre cose dello stesso livello. Anche lo snuff con cui si rinfrescava ora era di tale qualità che ne prese un’altra pizzicata.

“Ora si sente suonare quella piccola campanella,” disse la signora Gamp, affrettandosi verso l’inizio delle scale e guardando giù. “Betsey Prig, perché mai quel maledetto Sweedlepipe è lì?”

“Sì, sono io,” disse il barbiere con voce debole; “sono appena entrato.”

“Sempre che entri, penso, ”, mormorò la signora Gamp tra sé e sé, “tranne quando esci. Non ho proprio pazienza con quell’uomo!”

“Signora Gamp,” disse il barbiere. “Davvero, signora Gamp!”

“Beh,” esclamò la signora Gamp impazientemente mentre scendeva le scale. “Che c’è? Il Tamigi è in fiamme e sta cucinando il proprio pesce, Mr Sweedlepipes? Dove diavolo è andato quell’uomo? È pallido come la gesso!”

Aggiunse l’ultima domanda quando scese al piano di sotto e lo trovò seduto sulla sedia da rasatura, pallido e sconsolato.

“Ricordi,” disse Poll. “Ricordi quel giovane, ”

“Non chiamarlo giovane Wilkins!”, gridò la signora Gamp. “Per nessuna ragione chiamarlo giovane Wilkins. Se la moglie di giovane Wilkins dovesse essere presa, ”

“Non è la moglie di nessuno,” esclamò il piccolo barbiere. “Bailey, giovane Bailey!”

“Ma cosa intendi dire che quella piccola stia facendo?”, ribatté prontamente la signora Gamp. “Sciocchezze, signora Sweedlepipes!”

“Non ha fatto assolutamente nulla!” esclamò povera Poll, disperata.
“Perché mi rimproveri così aspramente, quando vedi in che stato mi trovo da non riuscire quasi a parlare? Non farà mai più nulla. È finito. È morto. La prima volta che ho visto quel ragazzo, ” continuò Poll, “gli ho chiesto troppo per una rosa rossa; gli ho chiesto tre mezzi penny per una che costava solo un penny, perché avevo paura che mi picchiasse. Ma non l’ha fatto. E ora è morto. Anche se mettessimo tutti i motori a vapore e i fluidi elettrici mai esistiti in questo negozio e li facessimo lavorare al massimo, non riuscirebbero comunque a rimediare al danno. Anche se si tratta solo di mezzo penny, ”

Il signor Sweedlepipe si girò verso l’asciugamano e se ne servì per asciugarsi gli occhi.

“E che ragazzo intelligente era!” disse. “Che giovane sorprendente. Come parlava! E quante cose sapeva! Si radeva proprio in questa sedia; solo per divertimento. Era tutta una sua passione. Ah! Pensare che non si raderà mai seriamente. Anche se tutte le uccelline morissero, non mi dispiacerebbe affatto,” esclamò il piccolo barbiere, guardandosi intorno alle gabbie e riprendendo a tamponarsi con l’asciugamano. “Prima che venissi a sapere questa notizia, ”

“Come mai hai sentito parlare di questo?” disse la signora Gamp. “Chi te l’ha detto?”

“Sono uscito,” rispose il piccolo barbiere, “in città, per incontrare un gentiluomo appassionato di sport alla Borsa Valori; voleva alcuni piccioni da addestrare. Dopo aver finito con lui, sono andato a bere una birra e lì ho sentito tutti ne parlare. È scritto anche sui giornali.”

“Siete davvero in uno stato di grande confusione, signor Sweedlepipes!” disse la signora Gamp scuotendo la testa; “e secondo me, mettere qualche fresca e vivace sanguisuga sui vostri tempie non sarebbe affatto troppo per schiarirvi le idee. Di cosa stavano parlando, e cosa c’era nei giornali?”

“Proprio così!” esclamò il barbiere. “Cosa pensi che possa essere stato? Lui e suo padrone si erano scontrati in una viaggio, lui fu portato a Salisbury, e quando arrivò la notizia della sua morte, non parlò più mai. Nemmeno una parola. Questo è il peggio. Ma non è tutto: anche suo padrone è scomparso. L’altro dirigente dell’ufficio loro nella >città, Crimple, David Crimple, se l’è svignata con i soldi e ora viene ricercato con una ricompensa. Anche il signor Montague, il povero giovane Bailey. Che ragazzo meraviglioso! Alcuni dicono che sia scappato all’estero per unirsi al suo amico; altri pensano che forse non sia ancora riuscito a fuggire. Lo stanno cercando ovunque. L’ufficio loro è distrutto. Una vera truffa. Ma cosa significa davvero un ufficio di assicurazioni rispetto alla vita stessa? E quale vita meravigliosa aveva quel giovane Bailey, ”

“È nato in una situazione del genere,” disse la signora Gamp con fredda filosofia. “E ha vissuto in quella stessa situazione; deve quindi affrontarne le conseguenze. Ma non sentite parlare assolutamente nulla del signor Chuzzlewit in tutto questo?”

“No,” disse Poll, “niente di che parlare. Il suo nome non è stato stampato tra quelli dell’elenco, anche se alcune persone dicono che avrebbe dovuto esserci. Alcuni credono che sia stato accolto tra loro, altri pensano che fosse uno di coloro che li accoglievano; ma in ogni caso, non possono provare nulla contro di lui. Questa mattina è andato volontariamente dal Lord Mayor o da alcuni dei grandi funzionari della città e ha denunciato di essere stato truffato: queste due persone lo avrebbero ingannato, e aveva appena scoperto che il nome Montague non era affatto Montague, ma qualcos’altro. Dicono anche che, a causa delle sue perdite, sembrasse davvero Morte. Ma, perdonatemi, Signore,” esclamò il barbiere tornando al tema del proprio dolore personale, “che importanza ha il suo aspetto per me? Anche se fosse morto, sarebbe stato un bene. Non è certo la stessa perdita che rappresenta Bailey!”

In questo momento suonò la campanellina, e la profonda voce della signora Prig interruppe la conversazione.

“Oh! Stai parlando proprio di quello, vero?” osservò quella signora. “Beh, spero che tu l’abbia già superato, perché personalmente non m’interessa affatto.”

“Mia cara Betsey,” disse la signora Gamp, “che ora tarda è!”

La rispettabile signora Prig rispose, con una certa asprezza: “Se le persone malvagie morissero proprio quando meno ci si aspetterebbe, non sarebbe certo colpa sua”. E aggiunse: “È già abbastanza fastidioso essere fatti aspettare quando si va a prendere il tè, senza poi ricevere alcuna notizia al riguardo”.

La signora Gamp, deducendo da questa schermaglia di battute qualche indizio sullo stato d’animo della signora Prig, la condusse immediatamente al piano di sopra, ritenendo che la vista del salmone in scatola potesse avere un effetto lenitivo.

But Betsey Prig expected pickled salmon. It was obvious that she did; for her first words, after glancing at the table, were:

‘I know’d she wouldn’t have a cowcumber!’

Mrs Gamp changed colour, and sat down upon the bedstead.

‘Lord bless you, Betsey Prig, your words is true. I quite forgot it!’

Mrs Prig, looking steadfastly at her friend, put her hand in her pocket, and with an air of surly triumph drew forth either the oldest of lettuces or youngest of cabbages, but at any rate, a green vegetable of an expansive nature, and of such magnificent proportions that she was obliged to shut it up like an umbrella before she could pull it out. She also produced a handful of mustard and cress, a trifle of the herb called dandelion, three bunches of radishes, an onion rather larger than an average turnip, three substantial slices of beetroot, and a short prong or antler of celery; the whole of this garden-stuff having been publicly exhibited, but a short time before, as a twopenny salad, and purchased by Mrs Prig on condition that the vendor could get it all into her pocket. Which had been happily accomplished, in High Holborn, to the breathless interest of a hackney-coach stand. And she laid so little stress on this surprising forethought, that she did not even smile, but returning her pocket into its accustomed sphere, merely recommended that these productions of nature should be sliced up, for immediate consumption, in plenty of vinegar.

‘And don’t go a-droppin’ none of your snuff in it,’ said Mrs Prig. ‘In gruel, barley-water, apple-tea, mutton-broth, and that, it don’t signify. It stimulates a patient. But I don’t relish it myself.’

‘Why, Betsey Prig!’ cried Mrs Gamp, ‘how CAN you talk so!’

‘Why, ain’t your patients, wotever their diseases is, always asneezin’ their wery heads off, along of your snuff?’ said Mrs Prig.

‘And wot if they are!’ said Mrs Gamp

‘Nothing if they are,’ said Mrs Prig. ‘But don’t deny it, Sairah.’

‘Who deniges of it?’ Mrs Gamp inquired.

Mrs Prig returned no answer.

‘WHO deniges of it, Betsey?’ Mrs Gamp inquired again. Then Mrs Gamp, by reversing the question, imparted a deeper and more awful character of solemnity to the same. ‘Betsey, who deniges of it?’

It was the nearest possible approach to a very decided difference of opinion between these ladies; but Mrs Prig’s impatience for the meal being greater at the moment than her impatience of contradiction, she replied, for the present, ‘Nobody, if you don’t, Sairah,’ and prepared herself for tea. For a quarrel can be taken up at any time, but a limited quantity of salmon cannot.

Her toilet was simple. She had merely to ‘chuck’ her bonnet and shawl upon the bed; give her hair two pulls, one upon the right side and one upon the left, as if she were ringing a couple of bells; and all was done. The tea was already made, Mrs Gamp was not long over the salad, and they were soon at the height of their repast.

The temper of both parties was improved, for the time being, by the enjoyments of the table. When the meal came to a termination (which it was pretty long in doing), and Mrs Gamp having cleared away, produced the teapot from the top shelf, simultaneously with a couple of wine-glasses, they were quite amiable.

‘Betsey,’ said Mrs Gamp, filling her own glass and passing the teapot, ‘I will now propoge a toast. My frequent pardner, Betsey Prig!’

‘Which, altering the name to Sairah Gamp; I drink,’ said Mrs Prig, ‘with love and tenderness.’

From this moment symptoms of inflammation began to lurk in the nose of each lady; and perhaps, notwithstanding all appearances to the contrary, in the temper also.

‘Now, Sairah,’ said Mrs Prig, ‘joining business with pleasure, wot is this case in which you wants me?’

Mrs Gamp betraying in her face some intention of returning an evasive answer, Betsey added:

‘IS it Mrs Harris?’

‘No, Betsey Prig, it ain’t,’ was Mrs Gamp’s reply.

‘Well!’ said Mrs Prig, with a short laugh. ‘I’m glad of that, at any rate.’

‘Why should you be glad of that, Betsey?’ Mrs Gamp retorted, warmly. ‘She is unbeknown to you except by hearsay, why should you be glad? If you have anythink to say contrairy to the character of Mrs Harris, which well I knows behind her back, afore her face, or anywheres, is not to be impeaged, out with it, Betsey. I have know’d that sweetest and best of women,’ said Mrs Gamp, shaking her head, and shedding tears, ‘ever since afore her First, which Mr Harris who was dreadful timid went and stopped his ears in a empty dog-kennel, and never took his hands away or come out once till he was showed the baby, wen bein’ took with fits, the doctor collared him and laid him on his back upon the airy stones, and she was told to ease her mind, his owls was organs. And I have know’d her, Betsey Prig, when he has hurt her feelin’ art by sayin’ of his Ninth that it was one too many, if not two, while that dear innocent was cooin’ in his face, which thrive it did though bandy, but I have never know’d as you had occagion to be glad, Betsey, on accounts of Mrs Harris not requiring you. Require she never will, depend upon it, for her constant words in sickness is, and will be, “Send for Sairey?”’

During this touching address, Mrs Prig adroitly feigning to be the victim of that absence of mind which has its origin in excessive attention to one topic, helped herself from the teapot without appearing to observe it. Mrs Gamp observed it, however, and came to a premature close in consequence.

‘Well, it ain’t her, it seems,’ said Mrs Prig, coldly; ‘who is it then?’

‘You have heerd me mention, Betsey,’ Mrs Gamp replied, after glancing in an expressive and marked manner at the tea-pot, ‘a person as I took care on at the time as you and me was pardners off and on, in that there fever at the Bull?’

‘Old Snuffey,’ Mrs Prig observed.

Sarah Gamp looked at her with an eye of fire, for she saw in this mistake of Mrs Prig, another willful and malignant stab at that same weakness or custom of hers, an ungenerous allusion to which, on the part of Betsey, had first disturbed their harmony that evening. And she saw it still more clearly, when, politely but firmly correcting that lady by the distinct enunciation of the word ‘Chuffey,’ Mrs Prig received the correction with a diabolical laugh.

Ma Betsey Prig si aspettava salmone in scatola. Era evidente che lo desiderasse; infatti, le sue prime parole, dopo aver dato un’occhiata al tavolo, furono:

“Sapevo che non avrebbe mai accettato di essere rifiutata!”

La signora Gamp cambiò colore in viso e si sedette sul letto.

“Che il Signore ti benedica, Betsey Prig. Hai ragione, me n’ero completamente dimenticato!”

La signora Prig, guardando fissamente la sua amica, mise la mano nella tasca e, con un’aria di trionfo malizioso, ne tirò fuori o la lattuga più vecchia o il cavolo più giovane, insomma, una verdura verde di dimensioni notevoli, talmente grande che dovette chiuderla a mo’ di ombrello prima di riuscire a estrarla. Ne tirò anche fuori un pugno di senape e crescione, un po’ di erba chiamata tarassaco, tre mazzi di ravanello, una cipolla piuttosto più grande del solito, tre fette sostanziose di barbabietola rossa. Tutto questo prodotto del “suo orto” era stato precedentemente esposto in pubblico come insalata da due penny, e la signora Prig l’aveva acquistato a condizione che il venditore riuscisse a farcelo entrare tutti nella tasca. Il che era stato felicemente realizzato, a High Holborn, sotto lo sguardo attento di un gruppo di persone. La signora Prig non diede alcuna importanza a questa sua sorprendente previdenza; anzi, non sorrise nemmeno, ma ripose la tasca al suo posto e suggerì semplicemente che queste verdure venissero tagliate a fette e consumate immediatamente, con abbondante aceto.

“E non mettereci nemmeno un po’ di quel tuo tabacco,” disse la signora Prig.
“Nel porridge, nell’acqua di orzo, nel tè alle mele, nella zuppa di montone, non ha alcun effetto positivo. Anzi, stimola il paziente. Ma a me personalmente non piace.”

“Ma che sciocchezze, Betsey Prig!”, esclamò la signora Gamp. “Come puoi parlare in questo modo?”

“Ma non è forse vero che i vostri pazienti, a prescindere dalle loro malattie, starnutiscono sempre fino a perdere la testa, proprio mentre usate il vostro fazzoletto?” disse la signora Prig.

“E se così fosse,?” disse la signora Gamp.

“Niente affatto, se lo sono,” disse la signora Prig. “Ma non negarlo, Sairah.”

“Chi lo negherebbe?”, chiese la signora Gamp.

La signora Prig non rispose affatto.

“Chi lo nega, Betsey?” chiese di nuovo la signora Gamp. In questo modo, ribaltando la domanda, la signora Gamp le conferì un carattere ancora più solenne e terribile. “Betsey, chi lo nega?”

Era il modo più vicino possibile a una netta divergenza di opinioni tra queste signore; ma poiché in quel momento la impazienza della signora Prig per il pasto era maggiore della sua avversione alle contraddizioni, rispose: “Nessuno, a meno che non sia tu, Sairah”, e si preparò a prendere il tè. Infatti, una lite può essere iniziata in qualsiasi momento, ma una quantità limitata di salmone no.

Il suo bagno era molto semplice: doveva soltanto gettare il cappello e lo scialle sul letto, sistemarsi i capelli tirandoli un po’ da una parte e dall’altra, come se stesse suonando due campane, ed era fatta. Il tè era già pronto, la signora Gamp aveva preparato in fretta la insalata, e presto si trovarono nel bel mezzo del loro pasto.

L’umore di entrambe le parti migliorò, almeno per il momento, grazie ai piaceri offerti dalla tavola. Quando la cena finì (e ci volle abbastanza tempo), e la signora Gamp ebbe raccolto tutto, tirò fuori la teiera dall’ultimo scaffale, insieme a un paio di bicchieri da vino; in quel momento erano davvero molto cordiali l’uno con l’altro.

“Betsey,” disse la signora Gamp, riempiendo il proprio bicchiere e passando la teiera, “Ora propongo un brindisi. La mia frequente compagna, Betsey Prig!”

“Quello, cambiando il nome in Sairah Gamp. Lo bevo,” disse la signora Prig, “con amore e tenerezza.”

Da quel momento, i sintomi di infiammazione iniziarono ad insidiare il naso di ogni signora; e forse, nonostante tutte le apparenze contrarie, anche il loro umore ne fu influenzato.

“Ora, Sairah,” disse la signora Prig, “unendo lavoro e piacere, di cosa si tratta esattamente che vuoi il mio aiuto?”

La signora Gamp, mostrando chiaramente l’intenzione di dare una risposta evasiva, Betsey aggiunse:

“È la signora Harris?”

“No, Betsey Prig, non è affatto così,” fu la risposta della signora Gamp.

“Beh!”, disse la signora Prig con una risatina breve. “Sono contenta lo stesso.”

“Perché dovresti essere contenta di questo, Betsey?” ribatté calorosamente la signora Gamp. “Lei non ti è conosciuta se non per sentito dire; perché dovresti essere felice? Se hai qualcosa da dire contro il carattere della signora Harris, che io so molto bene, sia dietro le sue spalle che davanti a lei, o ovunque altro, dillo pure, Betsey. Conosco quella donna più dolce e migliore di tutte,” disse la signora Gamp scuotendo la testa e versando lacrime, “fin da quando, beh, prima del suo primo figlio, quel terribilmente timido signor Harris andò a tapparsi le orecchie in un canile vuoto, senza mai togliersi le mani dalle orecchie né uscire finché non gli mostrarono il bambino, che, tra una crisi e l’altra, fu portato dal dottore e adagiato supino sulle pietre fresche. E a lei dissero di tranquillizzarsi: i suoi ‘gufi’ erano in realtà organi musicali. L’ho conosciuta anche quando lui le ha ferito i sentimenti, dicendo che il suo nono figlio era uno in più, se non addirittura due, mentre quel caro bambino innocente le si stringeva al viso, eppure è sopravvissuto, anche se malato. Ma non ho mai visto motivo per cui tu dovessi essere contenta, Betsey, solo perché la signora Harris non ha bisogno di te. E non ne avrà mai bisogno, puoi starne certa. Le sue parole costanti quando è malata sono sempre: ‘Chiamate Sairey?’”

Durante questo commovente discorso, la signora Prig fingeva abilmente di essere vittima di quell’distrazione dovuta all’eccessiva attenzione dedicata a un solo argomento; riuscì così a prendere una tazza di tè senza che nessuno se ne accorgesse. La signora Gamp, invece, se ne rese conto e, di conseguenza, interruppe prematuramente la conversazione.

“Beh, a quanto pare non è lei,” disse la signora Prig in tono freddo; “allora chi è?”

“Avete sentito menzionare questa persona da me, Betsey,” rispose la signora Gamp, dopo aver lanciato uno sguardo significativo alla teiera, “quella persona di cui mi sono presa cura all’epoca in cui tu ed io eravamo occasionalmente compagne d’affari, durante quella epidemia di febbre al Bull, ”

“Vecchio Snuffey,” osservò la signora Prig.

Sarah Gamp la guardò con uno sguardo pieno di furia, perché vide in questo errore della signora Prig un’altra intenzionale e malvagia offesa verso quella stessa debolezza o abitudine di lei; un’allusione meschina che, da parte di Betsey, aveva già disturbato la loro armonia quella sera. E vide tutto questo ancora più chiaramente quando, dopo aver correttamente e con fermezza indicato il nome “Chuffey”, la signora Prig accolse quella correzione con una risata demoniaca.

The best among us have their failings, and it must be conceded of Mrs Prig, that if there were a blemish in the goodness of her disposition, it was a habit she had of not bestowing all its sharp and acid properties upon her patients (as a thoroughly amiable woman would have done), but of keeping a considerable remainder for the service of her friends. Highly pickled salmon, and lettuces chopped up in vinegar, may, as viands possessing some acidity of their own, have encouraged and increased this failing in Mrs Prig; and every application to the teapot certainly did; for it was often remarked of her by her friends, that she was most contradictory when most elevated. It is certain that her countenance became about this time derisive and defiant, and that she sat with her arms folded, and one eye shut up, in a somewhat offensive, because obstrusively intelligent, manner.

Mrs Gamp observing this, felt it the more necessary that Mrs Prig should know her place, and be made sensible of her exact station in society, as well as of her obligations to herself. She therefore assumed an air of greater patronage and importance, as she went on to answer Mrs Prig a little more in detail.

‘Mr Chuffey, Betsey,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘is weak in his mind. Excuge me if I makes remark, that he may neither be so weak as people thinks, nor people may not think he is so weak as they pretends, and what I knows, I knows; and what you don’t, you don’t; so do not ask me, Betsey. But Mr Chuffey’s friends has made propojals for his bein’ took care on, and has said to me, “Mrs Gamp, WILL you undertake it? We couldn’t think,” they says, “of trusting him to nobody but you, for, Sairey, you are gold as has passed the furnage. Will you undertake it, at your own price, day and night, and by your own self?” “No,” I says, “I will not. Do not reckon on it. There is,” I says, “but one creetur in the world as I would undertake on sech terms, and her name is Harris. But,” I says, “I am acquainted with a friend, whose name is Betsey Prig, that I can recommend, and will assist me. Betsey,” I says, “is always to be trusted under me, and will be guided as I could desire.”’

Here Mrs Prig, without any abatement of her offensive manner again counterfeited abstraction of mind, and stretched out her hand to the teapot. It was more than Mrs Gamp could bear. She stopped the hand of Mrs Prig with her own, and said, with great feeling:

‘No, Betsey! Drink fair, wotever you do!’

Mrs Prig, thus baffled, threw herself back in her chair, and closing the same eye more emphatically, and folding her arms tighter, suffered her head to roll slowly from side to side, while she surveyed her friend with a contemptuous smile.

Mrs Gamp resumed:

‘Mrs Harris, Betsey—’

‘Bother Mrs Harris!’ said Betsey Prig.

Mrs Gamp looked at her with amazement, incredulity, and indignation; when Mrs Prig, shutting her eye still closer, and folding her arms still tighter, uttered these memorable and tremendous words:

‘I don’t believe there’s no sich a person!’

After the utterance of which expressions, she leaned forward, and snapped her fingers once, twice, thrice; each time nearer to the face of Mrs Gamp, and then rose to put on her bonnet, as one who felt that there was now a gulf between them, which nothing could ever bridge across.

The shock of this blow was so violent and sudden, that Mrs Gamp sat staring at nothing with uplifted eyes, and her mouth open as if she were gasping for breath, until Betsey Prig had put on her bonnet and her shawl, and was gathering the latter about her throat. Then Mrs Gamp rose—morally and physically rose—and denounced her.

‘What!’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘you bage creetur, have I know’d Mrs Harris five and thirty year, to be told at last that there ain’t no sech a person livin’! Have I stood her friend in all her troubles, great and small, for it to come at last to sech a end as this, which her own sweet picter hanging up afore you all the time, to shame your Bragian words! But well you mayn’t believe there’s no sech a creetur, for she wouldn’t demean herself to look at you, and often has she said, when I have made mention of your name, which, to my sinful sorrow, I have done, “What, Sairey Gamp! debage yourself to HER!” Go along with you!’

‘I’m a-goin’, ma’am, ain’t I?’ said Mrs Prig, stopping as she said it.

‘You had better, ma’am,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘Do you know who you’re talking to, ma’am?’ inquired her visitor.

‘Aperiently,’ said Mrs Gamp, surveying her with scorn from head to foot, ‘to Betsey Prig. Aperiently so. I know her. No one better. Go along with you!’

‘And YOU was a-goin’ to take me under you!’ cried Mrs Prig, surveying Mrs Gamp from head to foot in her turn. ‘YOU was, was you? Oh, how kind! Why, deuce take your imperence,’ said Mrs Prig, with a rapid change from banter to ferocity, ‘what do you mean?’

‘Go along with you!’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘I blush for you.’

‘You had better blush a little for yourself, while you ARE about it!’ said Mrs Prig. ‘You and your Chuffeys! What, the poor old creetur isn’t mad enough, isn’t he? Aha!’

‘He’d very soon be mad enough, if you had anything to do with him,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘And that’s what I was wanted for, is it?’ cried Mrs Prig, triumphantly. ‘Yes. But you’ll find yourself deceived. I won’t go near him. We shall see how you get on without me. I won’t have nothink to do with him.’

‘You never spoke a truer word than that!’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘Go along with you!’

She was prevented from witnessing the actual retirement of Mrs Prig from the room, notwithstanding the great desire she had expressed to behold it, by that lady, in her angry withdrawal, coming into contact with the bedstead, and bringing down the previously mentioned pippins; three or four of which came rattling on the head of Mrs Gamp so smartly, that when she recovered from this wooden shower-bath, Mrs Prig was gone.

I migliori tra noi hanno i loro difetti, e bisogna ammettere che, per quanto riguarda la signora Prig, se c’era qualche imperfezione nella bontà del suo carattere, essa consisteva nel fatto che non riversava tutte le sue qualità “acide” e pungenti sui suoi pazienti (come avrebbe fatto una donna davvero gentile), ma ne riservava una parte considerevole per i suoi amici. Il salmone sott’aceto e i lattughe tritate nel succo di aceto, essendo alimenti dal sapore acidulo, probabilmente hanno contribuito ad alimentare questo difetto della signora Prig; allo stesso modo, ogni volta che si avvicinava alla teiera, poiché i suoi amici spesso osservavano che diventava particolarmente contraddittoria quando era nel suo stato di massimo “elevamento”. È certo che in quel periodo il suo viso assumeva un’espressione derisoria e provocatoria; lei sedeva con le braccia incrociate, uno occhio chiuso, assumendo un atteggiamento piuttosto offensivo, e al contempo estremamente intelligente.

La signora Gamp, osservando questa situazione, ritenne ancora più necessario che la signora Prig comprendesse bene il proprio posto e la propria reale posizione nella società, così come i propri doveri verso se stessa. Pertanto assunse un tono ancora più autoritario e importante, rispondendo alla signora Prig in modo ancora più dettagliato.

“Signor Chuffey, Betsey,” disse la signora Gamp, “è un po’ svagato di mente. Perdonatemi se faccio qualche osservazione: forse non è così debole come tutti pensano, oppure forse le persone non pensano che sia così debole come fingono di credere. Quello che so, lo so; e quello che voi non sapete, non lo sapete. Quindi non chiedetemelo, Betsey. Ma gli amici del signor Chuffey hanno proposto di prendersi cura di lui e mi hanno detto: ‘Signora Gamp, accettereste di farlo? Non potremmo affidarlo a nessun altro che a voi. Voi siete davvero la persona giusta.’ Ma io rispondo: ‘No, non lo farò. Non contateci.’ C’è solo una persona al mondo per cui accetterei di farlo, e il suo nome è Harris. Tuttavia conosco anche un’amica, Betsey Prig, che potrei raccomandare. Betsey può essere affidata a me, e verrà guidata esattamente come vorrei io.”

Ecco la signora Prig, che ancora una volta, senza alcun cambiamento nel suo modo offensivo, fingeva di essere assorta nei suoi pensieri e allungò la mano verso la teiera. Era troppo per la signora Gamp; fermò la mano della signora Prig con la propria e disse, con grande emozione:

“No, Betsey! Be moderata nella tua bevanda, qualunque cosa tu decida di fare!”

La signora Prig, così confusa, si lasciò cadere sulla sedia, chiuse ancora di più l’occhio con aria decisa e incrociò le braccia; il suo capo iniziò lentamente a dondolare da una parte all’altra mentre lei osservava la sua amica con un sorriso di disprezzo.

Mrs Gamp proseguì:

“Signora Harris, Betsey, ”

“Non disturbare la signora Harris!” disse Betsey Prig.

La signora Gamp la guardò con meraviglia, incredulità e indignazione; quando la signora Prig, chiudendo ancora di più l’occhio e incrociando ancora più strettamente le braccia, pronunciò queste parole memorabili e terribili.

“Non credo affatto che non esista una persona del genere!”

Dopo aver pronunciato quelle parole, si sporse in avanti e schioccò le dita una, due, tre volte; ogni volta più vicina al viso della signora Gamp, poi si alzò per mettersi il cappello, come se sentisse che ora esistesse un abisso tra loro, che nulla avrebbe mai potuto colmare.

Lo shock di questo colpo fu così violento e improvviso che la signora Gamp rimase seduta a fissare il vuoto con gli occhi spalancati e la bocca aperta, come se stesse cercando di respirare. Fino a quando Betsey Prig non si fu messa il cappello e lo scialle, e non si fu avvolta nello scialle attorno al collo. Solo allora la signora Gamp riuscì a riprendersi, sia moralmente che fisicamente, e iniziò a denunciare Betsey Prig.

“Che cosa!” esclamò la signora Gamp. “Tu maledetto individuo. Conosco la signora Harris da cinquantatré anni, e ora mi viene detto che non esiste affatto nessuna persona al mondo! L’ho sostenuta in tutti i suoi problemi, grandi e piccoli. E ora tutto finisce in questo modo. Proprio come quel suo adorabile ritratto, appeso lì davanti a voi per tutta la volta, a dimostrazione delle vostre parole vanagloriose! Ma, beh, forse non dovreste credere che non esista nessuna persona al mondo. Perché lei non si abbasserebbe mai a guardare in faccia uno come te. E spesso, quando menzionavo il tuo nome – cosa che, con mio grande rammarico, ho fatto – diceva: ‘Ma che cosa, Sairey Gamp! Perché ti umili davanti A LEI?’ Vattene pure!”

“Sto andando via, signora, vero?”, disse la signora Prig, fermandosi mentre lo diceva.

“È meglio che lo facciate, signora,” disse la signora Gamp.

“Sa con chi sta parlando, signora?”, chiese il suo visitatore.

“Come purgativo, ”, disse la signora Gamp, squadrandola con disprezzo dalla testa ai piedi, “proprio come si addice a Betsey Prig. La conosco bene; nessuno è più adatto di lei. Vai pure avanti!”

“E TU volevi prendermi sotto la tua ala!”, esclamò la signora Prig, esaminando la signora Gamp dalla testa ai piedi. “Volevi davvero farlo? Oh, che gentilezza. Ma perché mai questa tua presunzione?”, aggiunse la signora Prig, passando rapidamente dal tono scherzoso a quello furioso. “Cosa intendi dire?”

“Che vergogna per te!”, disse la signora Gamp. “Mi imbarazzo per te”.

“Farai meglio ad arrossire un po’ per te stessa, visto che ci sei già, ” disse la signora Prig. “Tu e i tuoi Chuffeys. Ma insomma, quel povero vecchio non è abbastanza matto, vero? Ahah!”

“Se avesse a che fare con lui, molto presto diventerebbe pazzo,” disse la signora Gamp.

“Ecco per cosa mi volevano, vero?” esclamò la signora Prig con trionfo.
“Sì. Ma vi renderete conto di esservi sbagliati. Non mi avvicinerò mai a lui. Vedremo come ve la caverete senza di me. Non voglio avere nulla a che fare con lui.”

“Non hai mai detto una parola più vera di quella!” esclamò la signora Gamp. “Vai pure con lui!”

Le fu impedito di assistere al vero e proprio allontanamento della signora Prig dalla stanza, nonostante il grande -desiderio che aveva espresso di vederlo avvenire. Durante la sua furiosa uscita, quella signora urtò il letto, facendo cadere i suddetti pignoli; tre o quattro di essi colpirono la testa della signora Gamp con tale forza che, quando si riprese da questo “bagno di legno”, la signora Prig era già sparita.

She had the satisfaction, however, of hearing the deep voice of Betsey, proclaiming her injuries and her determination to have nothing to do with Mr Chuffey, down the stairs, and along the passage, and even out in Kingsgate Street. Likewise of seeing in her own apartment, in the place of Mrs Prig, Mr Sweedlepipe and two gentlemen.

‘Why, bless my life!’ exclaimed the little barber, ‘what’s amiss? The noise you ladies have been making, Mrs Gamp! Why, these two gentlemen have been standing on the stairs, outside the door, nearly all the time, trying to make you hear, while you were pelting away, hammer and tongs! It’ll be the death of the little bullfinch in the shop, that draws his own water. In his fright, he’s been a-straining himself all to bits, drawing more water than he could drink in a twelvemonth. He must have thought it was Fire!’

Mrs Gamp had in the meanwhile sunk into her chair, from whence, turning up her overflowing eyes, and clasping her hands, she delivered the following lamentation:

‘Oh, Mr Sweedlepipes, which Mr Westlock also, if my eyes do not deceive, and a friend not havin’ the pleasure of bein’ beknown, wot I have took from Betsey Prig this blessed night, no mortial creetur knows! If she had abuged me, bein’ in liquor, which I thought I smelt her wen she come, but could not so believe, not bein’ used myself’—Mrs Gamp, by the way, was pretty far gone, and the fragrance of the teapot was strong in the room—‘I could have bore it with a thankful art. But the words she spoke of Mrs Harris, lambs could not forgive. No, Betsey!’ said Mrs Gamp, in a violent burst of feeling, ‘nor worms forget!’

The little barber scratched his head, and shook it, and looked at the teapot, and gradually got out of the room. John Westlock, taking a chair, sat down on one side of Mrs Gamp. Martin, taking the foot of the bed, supported her on the other.

‘You wonder what we want, I daresay,’ observed John. ‘I’ll tell you presently, when you have recovered. It’s not pressing, for a few minutes or so. How do you find yourself? Better?’

Mrs Gamp shed more tears, shook her head and feebly pronounced Mrs Harris’s name.

‘Have a little—’ John was at a loss what to call it.

‘Tea,’ suggested Martin.

‘It ain’t tea,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘Physic of some sort, I suppose,’ cried John. ‘Have a little.’

Mrs Gamp was prevailed upon to take a glassful. ‘On condition,’ she passionately observed, ‘as Betsey never has another stroke of work from me.’

‘Certainly not,’ said John. ‘She shall never help to nurse ME.’

‘To think,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘as she should ever have helped to nuss that friend of yourn, and been so near of hearing things that—Ah!’

John looked at Martin.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That was a narrow escape, Mrs Gamp.’

‘Narrer, in-deed!’ she returned. ‘It was only my having the night, and hearin’ of him in his wanderins; and her the day, that saved it. Wot would she have said and done, if she had know’d what I know; that perfeejus wretch! Yet, oh good gracious me!’ cried Mrs Gamp, trampling on the floor, in the absence of Mrs Prig, ‘that I should hear from that same woman’s lips what I have heerd her speak of Mrs Harris!’

‘Never mind,’ said John. ‘You know it is not true.’

‘Isn’t true!’ cried Mrs Gamp. ‘True! Don’t I know as that dear woman is expecting of me at this minnit, Mr Westlock, and is a-lookin’ out of window down the street, with little Tommy Harris in her arms, as calls me his own Gammy, and truly calls, for bless the mottled little legs of that there precious child (like Canterbury Brawn his own dear father says, which so they are) his own I have been, ever since I found him, Mr Westlock, with his small red worsted shoe a-gurglin’ in his throat, where he had put it in his play, a chick, wile they was leavin’ of him on the floor a-lookin’ for it through the ouse and him a-choakin’ sweetly in the parlour! Oh, Betsey Prig, what wickedness you’ve showed this night, but never shall you darken Sairey’s doors agen, you twining serpiant!’

‘You were always so kind to her, too!’ said John, consolingly.

‘That’s the cutting part. That’s where it hurts me, Mr Westlock,’ Mrs Gamp replied; holding out her glass unconsciously, while Martin filled it.

‘Chosen to help you with Mr Lewsome!’ said John. ‘Chosen to help you with Mr Chuffey!’

‘Chose once, but chose no more,’ cried Mrs Gamp. ‘No pardnership with Betsey Prig agen, sir!’

‘No, no,’ said John. ‘That would never do.’

‘I don’t know as it ever would have done, sir,’ Mrs Gamp replied, with a solemnity peculiar to a certain stage of intoxication. ‘Now that the marks,’ by which Mrs Gamp is supposed to have meant mask, ‘is off that creetur’s face, I do not think it ever would have done. There are reagions in families for keeping things a secret, Mr Westlock, and havin’ only them about you as you knows you can repoge in. Who could repoge in Betsey Prig, arter her words of Mrs Harris, setting in that chair afore my eyes!’

‘Quite true,’ said John; ‘quite. I hope you have time to find another assistant, Mrs Gamp?’

Between her indignation and the teapot, her powers of comprehending what was said to her began to fail. She looked at John with tearful eyes, and murmuring the well-remembered name which Mrs Prig had challenged—as if it were a talisman against all earthly sorrows—seemed to wander in her mind.

‘I hope,’ repeated John, ‘that you have time to find another assistant?’

‘Which short it is, indeed,’ cried Mrs Gamp, turning up her languid eyes, and clasping Mr Westlock’s wrist with matronly affection. ‘To-morrow evenin’, sir, I waits upon his friends. Mr Chuzzlewit apinted it from nine to ten.’

‘From nine to ten,’ said John, with a significant glance at Martin. ‘and then Mr Chuffey retires into safe keeping, does he?’

‘He needs to be kep safe, I do assure you,’ Mrs Gamp replied with a mysterious air. ‘Other people besides me has had a happy deliverance from Betsey Prig. I little know’d that woman. She’d have let it out!’

Tuttavia, provò la soddisfazione di sentire la profonda voce di Betsey che, giù per le scale, lungo il corridoio, e persino in Kingsgate Street, annunciava i suoi feriti e la sua determinazione a non avere più nulla a che fare con il signor Chuffey. Allo stesso modo, vide nel proprio appartamento, al posto della signora Prig, il signor Sweedlepipe e due gentiluomini.

“Ma per l’amor del cielo!”, esclamò il piccolo barbiere, “che cosa sta succedendo? Il rumore che avete fatto voi donne, signora Gamp. Quei due signori sono stati tutto il tempo in piedi sulle scale, fuori dalla porta, cercando di farvi sentire, mentre voi continuavate a colpire con martello e tenaglie! Quel piccolo uccellino nel negozio morirà di sicuro. Dallo spavento si sta sforzando troppo, bevendo più acqua di quanta ne possa bere in dodici mesi. Deve aver pensato che fosse scoppiato un incendio!”

Nel frattempo, la signora Gamp si era lasciata cadere sulla sedia; sollevando gli occhi pieni di lacrime e stringendo le mani, pronunciò il seguente lamento:

“Oh, signor Sweedlepipes. Anche quel signor Westlock, se i miei occhi non mi ingannano. E un amico che non ho ancora avuto il piacere di conoscere. Quello che ho preso da Betsey Prig questa benedetta notte. Nessun essere umano lo sa! Se lei mi avesse accusata, essendo ubriaca. Pensavo di percepire l’odore dell’alcol quando è arrivata, ma non potevo crederci. Non essendo abituata anch’io a quel genere di cose, ” – A proposito, la signora Gamp era piuttosto ubriaca, e il profumo della teiera era forte nella stanza, “Avrei potuto sopportarlo con riconoscenza. Ma quelle parole che ha detto su Mrs Harris. Nemmeno i agnelli le avrebbero perdonate. No, Betsey!” esclamò la signora Gamp, in un impeto di emozione. “Nemmeno i vermi le dimenticherebbero, ”

Il piccolo barbiere si grattò la testa, scosse il capo, guardò la teiera e poi gradualmente uscì dalla stanza. John Westlock prese una sedia e si sedette dal lato della signora Gamp; Martin, tenendo il piede del letto, la sosteneva dall’altro lato.

“Vi chiederete sicuramente cosa vogliamo,” osservò John. “Ve lo dirò tra un attimo, quando vi sarete ripresi. Non è urgente, bastano qualche minuto. Come vi sentite? Meglio ora?”

La signora Gamp versò ancora più lacrime, scosse la testa e pronunciò debolmente il nome della signora Harris.

“Prendine un po’, ” John non sapeva proprio come chiamarlo.

“Tè,” suggerì Martin.

“Non è tè,” disse la signora Gamp.

“Una sorta di fenomeno fisico, immagino. Prendine un po’.”

La signora Gamp fu convinta ad assaggiarne un bicchiere. “Ma a una condizione,” osservò con passione, “che Betsey non riceva mai più nessun lavoro da me.”

“Certamente no,” disse John. “Lei non mi aiuterà mai a curarmi.”

“Pensarci,” disse la signora Gamp, “dopo tutto ciò che avrebbe potuto fare per aiutare quel tuo amico, e dopo essere stata così vicina a scoprire certe cose. Ah!”

John guardò Martin.

“Sì,” disse. “È stato un vero miracolo essere scampati, signora Gamp.”

“Raccontare, davvero!” rispose lei. “È stato solo perché ho passato la notte lì e ho sentito parlare di lui durante i suoi vagabondaggi; e poi c’è stata quella giornata. Che cosa avrebbe detto e fatto se avesse saputo quello che so io. Quel povero disgraziato! Eppure, oh mio Dio!” esclamò la signora Gamp, calpestando il pavimento, in assenza della signora Prig, “che dovrei proprio sentire dalle stesse labbra di quella donna ciò che ho già sentito dire su di lei riguardo alla signora Harris, ”

“Lascia perdere,” disse John. “Tu sai che non è vero.”

“Non è vero!” gridò la signora Gamp. “È vero! Non so forse che quella cara donna mi aspetta proprio in questo momento, signor Westlock. Sta guardando fuori dalla finestra lungo la strada, con il piccolo Tommy Harris in braccio; mi chiama ‘la sua Gammy’ e davvero lo fa. Perché, benedette quelle gambine maculate di quel prezioso bambino (come dice suo padre, che le considera proprio come le gambe di Canterbury Brawn. Sì, sono davvero sue. Da quando l’ho trovato, signor Westlock: con quella sua piccola scarpa rossa di lana nel collo, mentre giocava. L’hanno lasciato per terra a cercarla in tutta la casa. E lui piangeva dolcemente in salotto. Oh, Betsey Prig. Che malvagità hai commesso questa notte. Ma non metterai mai più piede nella casa di Sairey, tu serpente velenoso!”

“Anche tu sei sempre stato così gentile con lei!” disse John, in tono consolatorio.

“È proprio quella parte che fa male. È lì che mi sento ferita, signor Westlock,” rispose la signora Gamp, tendendo inconsciamente il suo bicchiere mentre Martin lo riempiva.

“Scelto per aiutarvi con il signor Lewsome!”, disse John. “Scelto per aiutarvi con il signor Chuffey!”

“Scelta una volta, ma non più,” gridò la signora Gamp. “Nessuna collaborazione con Betsey Prig, signore!”

“No, no,” disse John. “Quello non andrebbe mai bene.”

“Non so proprio come sarebbe andata a finire, signore,” rispose la signora Gamp con una solennità tipica di uno stato di ebbrezza. “Ora che quei ‘tratti’, intendo dire quelle maschere, sono stati rimossi dal viso di quella creatura, non credo proprio che sarebbe mai successo nulla. Ci sono delle dinamiche familiari che portano a mantenere i segreti, signor Westlock, e solo coloro che conoscono bene tali dinamiche possono gestirle al meglio. Ma chi potrebbe farlo, dopo le parole della signora Harris riguardo a Betsey Prig, dopo quello che ha detto davanti ai miei occhi?”

“Assolutamente vero,” disse John; “davvero. Spero che abbiate il tempo di trovare un altro assistente, signora Gamp, ”

Tra la sua indignazione e il bollitore, le sue capacità di comprendere ciò che le veniva detto iniziarono ad affievolirsi. Guardò John con occhi pieni di lacrime, e mormorando quel nome ben ricordato che la signora Prig aveva messo in discussione, come se fosse un talismano contro tutte le sofferenze terrene, sembrava vagare nella sua mente.

“Spero”, ripeté John, “che tu abbia il tempo di trovare un altro assistente.”

“Che brevità, davvero,” esclamò la signora Gamp, alzando i suoi occhi languidi e stringendo il polso del signor Westlock con affetto materno. “Domani sera, signore, dovrò servire i suoi amici. Il signor Chuzzlewit ha indicato l’orario dalle nove alle dieci.”

“Dalle nove alle dieci,” disse John, lanciando uno sguardo significativo verso Martin. “E poi il signor Chuffey si ritira in un luogo sicuro, vero?”

“Deve essere tenuto al sicuro, ve lo assicuro,” rispose la signora Gamp con un tono misterioso. “Altre persone oltre a me sono riuscite a sfuggire alle persecuzioni di Betsey Prig. Non conoscevo bene quella donna; avrebbe certamente rivelato tutto!”

‘Let HIM out, you mean,’ said John.

‘Do I!’ retorted Mrs Gamp. ‘Oh!’

The severely ironical character of this reply was strengthened by a very slow nod, and a still slower drawing down of the corners of Mrs Gamp’s mouth. She added with extreme stateliness of manner after indulging in a short doze:

‘But I am a-keepin’ of you gentlemen, and time is precious.’

Mingling with that delusion of the teapot which inspired her with the belief that they wanted her to go somewhere immediately, a shrewd avoidance of any further reference to the topics into which she had lately strayed, Mrs Gamp rose; and putting away the teapot in its accustomed place, and locking the cupboard with much gravity proceeded to attire herself for a professional visit.

This preparation was easily made, as it required nothing more than the snuffy black bonnet, the snuffy black shawl, the pattens and the indispensable umbrella, without which neither a lying-in nor a laying-out could by any possibility be attempted. When Mrs Gamp had invested herself with these appendages she returned to her chair, and sitting down again, declared herself quite ready.

‘It’s a ‘appiness to know as one can benefit the poor sweet creetur,’ she observed, ‘I’m sure. It isn’t all as can. The torters Betsey Prig inflicts is frightful!’

Closing her eyes as she made this remark, in the acuteness of her commiseration for Betsey’s patients, she forgot to open them again until she dropped a patten. Her nap was also broken at intervals like the fabled slumbers of Friar Bacon, by the dropping of the other patten, and of the umbrella. But when she had got rid of those incumbrances, her sleep was peaceful.

The two young men looked at each other, ludicrously enough; and Martin, stifling his disposition to laugh, whispered in John Westlock’s ear,

‘What shall we do now?’

‘Stay here,’ he replied.

Mrs Gamp was heard to murmur ‘Mrs Harris’ in her sleep.

‘Rely upon it,’ whispered John, looking cautiously towards her, ‘that you shall question this old clerk, though you go as Mrs Harris herself. We know quite enough to carry her our own way now, at all events; thanks to this quarrel, which confirms the old saying that when rogues fall out, honest people get what they want. Let Jonas Chuzzlewit look to himself; and let her sleep as long as she likes. We shall gain our end in good time.’

“Vuoi dire, lasciatelo uscire,” disse John.

“Certo che sì!” ribatté la signora Gamp. “Oh, ”

L’ironia estrema di questa risposta fu ancora più evidente da un cenno del capo molto lento, e dal movimento ancora più lentissimo con cui la signora Gamp abbassò gli angoli della bocca. Dopo essersi concessa una breve siesta, aggiunse con estrema dignità:

“Ma io sto badando a voi signori, e il tempo è prezioso.”

Mescolando quell’illusione legata alla teiera – che le aveva fatto credere che volessero che lei andasse immediatamente da qualche parte – con un astuto modo per evitare ulteriori riferimenti ai temi su cui aveva recentemente discusso, la signora Gamp si alzò; ripose la teiera nel suo solito posto e, chiudendo l’armadio con grande serietà, iniziò a prepararsi per una visita professionale.

Questa preparazione era molto semplice: non richiedeva altro che il cappello nero con la piuma, lo scialle nero, i guanti e l’indispensabile ombrello; senza di essi, né un parto in casa né qualsiasi altra attività del genere avrebbero potuto essere tentate. Una volta che la signora Gamp si era equipaggiata con questi oggetti, tornò alla sua sedia e, riprendendo posto, dichiarò di essere completamente pronta.

“È davvero una gioia sapere di poter aiutare quelle povere creature innocenti,” osservò lei, “Ne sono sicura. Ma non è sempre così facile. Le sofferenze che quella crudele persona chiamata Betsey Prig infligge sono terribili!”

Chiudendo gli occhi mentre faceva questa osservazione, presa com’era dalla profonda compassione per i pazienti di Betsey, dimenticò di riaprirli fino a quando non lasciò cadere un paio di pantofole. Anche il suo sonnellino veniva interrotto di tanto in tanto, proprio come si diceva dei sonni del frate Bacon, a causa della caduta delle altre pantofole e dell’ombrello. Ma una volta liberatasi di quegli ostacoli, il suo sonno divenne tranquillo.

I due giovani si guardarono l’un l’altro. In modo davvero ridicolo; e Martin, trattenendo a fatica il desiderio di ridere, sussurrò all’orecchio di John Westlock:

“Cosa dovremmo fare ora?”

“Resta qui,” rispose lui.

Si sentì Mrs Gamp mormorare “Mrs Harris” mentre dormiva.

“Puoi starne certa,” sussurrò John, guardandola con cautela, “che interrogherai questo vecchio impiegato, anche se ti presenterai come la stessa signora Harris. Ora sappiamo abbastanza per farle fare ciò che vogliamo; grazie a questa lite, che conferma l’antico detto secondo cui quando i furfanti si scontrano, le persone oneste ottengono ciò che desiderano. Lascia che Jonas Chuzzlewit si preoccupi di sé stesso. E lasciala dormire quanto vuole; raggiungeremo il nostro scopo in tempo.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

SURPRISES TOM PINCH VERY MUCH, AND SHOWS HOW CERTAIN CONFIDENCES PASSED BETWEEN HIM AND HIS SISTER

It was the next evening; and Tom and his sister were sitting together before tea, talking, in their usual quiet way, about a great many things, but not at all about Lewsome’s story or anything connected with it; for John Westlock—really John, for so young a man, was one of the most considerate fellows in the world—had particularly advised Tom not to mention it to his sister just yet, in case it should disquiet her. ‘And I wouldn’t, Tom,’ he said, with a little hesitation, ‘I wouldn’t have a shadow on her happy face, or an uneasy thought in her gentle heart, for all the wealth and honours of the universe!’ Really John was uncommonly kind; extraordinarily kind. If he had been her father, Tom said, he could not have taken a greater interest in her.

But although Tom and his sister were extremely conversational, they were less lively, and less cheerful, than usual. Tom had no idea that this originated with Ruth, but took it for granted that he was rather dull himself. In truth he was; for the lightest cloud upon the Heaven of her quiet mind, cast its shadow upon Tom.

And there was a cloud on little Ruth that evening. Yes, indeed. When Tom was looking in another direction, her bright eyes, stealing on towards his face, would sparkle still more brightly than their custom was, and then grow dim. When Tom was silent, looking out upon the summer weather, she would sometimes make a hasty movement, as if she were about to throw herself upon his neck; then check the impulse, and when he looked round, show a laughing face, and speak to him very merrily; when she had anything to give Tom, or had any excuse for coming near him, she would flutter about him, and lay her bashful hand upon his shoulder, and not be willing to withdraw it; and would show by all such means that there was something on her heart which in her great love she longed to say to him, but had not the courage to utter.

So they were sitting, she with her work before her, but not working, and Tom with his book beside him, but not reading, when Martin knocked at the door. Anticipating who it was, Tom went to open it; and he and Martin came back into the room together. Tom looked surprised, for in answer to his cordial greeting Martin had hardly spoken a word.

Ruth also saw that there was something strange in the manner of their visitor, and raised her eyes inquiringly to Tom’s face, as if she were seeking an explanation there. Tom shook his head, and made the same mute appeal to Martin.

Martin did not sit down but walked up to the window, and stood there looking out. He turned round after a few moments to speak, but hastily averted his head again, without doing so.

‘What has happened, Martin?’ Tom anxiously inquired. ‘My dear fellow, what bad news do you bring?’

‘Oh, Tom!’ replied Martin, in a tone of deep reproach. ‘To hear you feign that interest in anything that happens to me, hurts me even more than your ungenerous dealing.’

‘My ungenerous dealing! Martin! My—’ Tom could say no more.

‘How could you, Tom, how could you suffer me to thank you so fervently and sincerely for your friendship; and not tell me, like a man, that you had deserted me! Was it true, Tom! Was it honest! Was it worthy of what you used to be—of what I am sure you used to be—to tempt me, when you had turned against me, into pouring out my heart! Oh, Tom!’

His tone was one of such strong injury and yet of so much grief for the loss of a friend he had trusted in—it expressed such high past love for Tom, and so much sorrow and compassion for his supposed unworthiness—that Tom, for a moment, put his hand before his face, and had no more power of justifying himself, than if he had been a monster of deceit and falsehood.

‘I protest, as I must die,’ said Martin, ‘that I grieve over the loss of what I thought you; and have no anger in the recollection of my own injuries. It is only at such a time, and after such a discovery, that we know the full measure of our old regard for the subject of it. I swear, little as I showed it—little as I know I showed it—that when I had the least consideration for you, Tom, I loved you like a brother.’

Tom was composed by this time, and might have been the Spirit of Truth, in a homely dress—it very often wears a homely dress, thank God!—when he replied to him.

‘Martin,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what is in your mind, or who has abused it, or by what extraordinary means. But the means are false. There is no truth whatever in the impression under which you labour. It is a delusion from first to last; and I warn you that you will deeply regret the wrong you do me. I can honestly say that I have been true to you, and to myself. You will be very sorry for this. Indeed, you will be very sorry for it, Martin.’

‘I AM sorry,’ returned Martin, shaking his head. ‘I think I never knew what it was to be sorry in my heart, until now.’

‘At least,’ said Tom, ‘if I had always been what you charge me with being now, and had never had a place in your regard, but had always been despised by you, and had always deserved it, you should tell me in what you have found me to be treacherous; and on what grounds you proceed. I do not intreat you, therefore, to give me that satisfaction as a favour, Martin, but I ask it of you as a right.’

‘My own eyes are my witnesses,’ returned Martin. ‘Am I to believe them?’

‘No,’ said Tom, calmly. ‘Not if they accuse me.’

‘Your own words. Your own manner,’ pursued Martin. ‘Am I to believe THEM?’

‘No,’ replied Tom, calmly. ‘Not if they accuse me. But they never have accused me. Whoever has perverted them to such a purpose, has wronged me almost as cruelly’—his calmness rather failed him here—‘as you have done.’

‘I came here,’ said Martin; ‘and I appeal to your good sister to hear me—’

CAPITOLO CINQUANTA

Le sorprese fecero molto impressione su Tom Pinch, e dimostrarono come alcune confidenze fossero state scambiate tra lui e sua sorella.

Era la sera seguente; Tom e sua sorella erano seduti insieme prima di cena, chiacchierando, nel loro solito modo tranquillo, di molte cose, ma assolutamente non della storia di Lewsome né di nulla che ci fosse collegato; perché John Westlock – davvero John, per essere così giovane – era uno dei ragazzi più premurosi del mondo; aveva infatti consigliato esplicitamente a Tom di non parlarne ancora a sua sorella, nel caso potesse turbarla. “E io non lo farei, Tom,” disse lui, con un po’ di esitazione, “non vorrei mai che una ombra offuscasse il suo viso felice, né che un pensiero inquietante entrasse nel suo cuore gentile, per tutta la ricchezza e l’onore dell’universo!” Davvero John era straordinariamente gentile. Incredibilmente gentile. Se fosse stato suo padre, disse Tom, non avrebbe potuto prendersi maggior cura di lei.

Ma sebbene Tom e sua sorella fossero molto loquaci, erano meno vivaci e meno allegri del solito. Tom non aveva idea che tutto ciò derivasse da Ruth, ma dava per scontato di essere lui stesso piuttosto noioso. In verità, lo era; perché anche la minima ombra sul “cielo” della tranquilla mente di lei gettava la sua ombra su Tom.

Quella sera, sul viso di piccola Ruth c’era un’espressione triste. Sì, davvero. Quando Tom guardava in un’altra direzione, i suoi occhi luminosi, che si avvicinavano furtivamente al suo volto, brillavano ancora più intensamente del solito per poi oscurarsi di nuovo. Quando Tom rimaneva in silenzio, contemplando il bel tempo estivo, lei a volte faceva un movimento rapido, come se stesse per gettarsi sul suo collo; poi si tratteneva e, quando lui si girava, le sue labbra sorridevano e gli parlava con grande allegria. Ogni volta che aveva qualcosa da dargli o una scusa per avvicinarsi a lui, si muoveva intorno a lui, posava timidamente la sua mano sulla sua spalla e non voleva più ritrarla; con tutti questi gesti mostrava chiaramente che nel suo cuore c’era qualcosa che, a causa del suo grande amore, desiderava dirgli, ma non aveva il coraggio di farlo.

Erano seduti: lei con il suo lavoro davanti a sé, ma senza lavorare; Tom con il suo libro accanto a lui, ma senza leggere, quando Martin bussò alla porta. Immaginando chi potesse essere, Tom andò ad aprire; poi tornarono insieme nella stanza. Tom sembrava sorpreso: infatti, in risposta al suo cordiale saluto, Martin aveva quasi non detto una parola.

Anche Ruth notò che c’era qualcosa di strano nel comportamento del loro visitatore, e alzò lo sguardo verso il viso di Tom, come se cercasse una spiegazione lì. Tom scosse la testa e fece lo stesso gesto silenzioso verso Martin.

Martin non si sedette, ma andò vicino alla finestra e rimase lì a guardare fuori. Dopo alcuni momenti si girò per parlare, ma poi rapidamente distolse lo sguardo di nuovo.

“Cosa è successo, Martin?” chiese Tom con ansia. “Mio caro amico, quali cattive notizie porti?”

“Oh, Tom!” rispose Martin, con tono di profondo rimprovero. “Sentirti fingere interesse per qualsiasi cosa mi accada mi fa ancora più male del tuo comportamento ingiusto.”

“La mia mancanza di generosità. Martin! Mio, ” Tom non riuscì a dire altro.

“Come hai potuto, Tom, come hai potuto permettermi di ringraziarti così appassionatamente e sinceramente per la tua amicizia, senza dirmi, da uomo, che mi avevi abbandonato! Era vero, Tom? Era onesto? Era degno di ciò che un tempo eri, di ciò che sono sicura tu fossi un tempo, indurmi a confidarti tutto il mio cuore, dopo che mi avevi voltato le spalle! Oh, Tom, ”

Il suo tono era pieno di profondo dolore per la perdita di un amico in cui aveva riposto fiducia; esprimeva un amore immenso che Tom aveva provato in passato, nonché grande tristezza e compassione per ciò che considerava la sua presunta indegnità. Per un momento, Tom si coprì il viso con la mano, senza più riuscire a giustificarsi, come se fosse stato un mostro di inganno e falsità.

“Protesto, poiché devo morire,” disse Martin, “che mi addolora la perdita di ciò che credevo fossi tu; e non provo alcun rancore ripensando alle offese che ho ricevuto. Solo in un momento del genere, dopo una scoperta del genere, possiamo comprendere appieno l’affetto che abbiamo sempre provato per te. Giuro: anche se poco lo ho mostrato, anche se so di averlo mostrato poco, quando ti ho trattato con meno considerazione possibile, Tom, ti amavo come un fratello.”

A quel momento, Tom era calmo e sereno; forse era lo Spirito della Verità. Indossava un abito semplice, spesso ne porta di semplici, grazie a Dio, quando gli rispose.

“Martin,” disse, “non so cosa tu abbia in mente, né chi te l’abbia fatto credere, né con quali mezzi straordinari sia stato possibile. Ma quei mezzi sono falsi. Non c’è alcuna verità nelle convinzioni a cui ti attieni; si tratta di un’illusione dall’inizio alla fine. Ti avverto: rimpiangerai profondamente il torto che mi stai facendo. Posso dire onestamente di essere stato fedele sia a te che a me stesso. Ne pentirai molto, Martin.”

“Mi dispiace,” rispose Martin scuotendo la testa. “Penso che fino ad ora non abbia mai veramente capito cosa significhi provare rimorso nel proprio cuore.”

“Almeno,” disse Tom, “se fossi sempre stato ciò che ora mi accusate di essere, e se non avessi mai avuto alcun valore ai vostri occhi, ma fossi sempre stato disprezzato da voi, e se lo meritassi davvero, allora ditemi in cosa ritenevate che fossi traditore, e su quali basi vi basaste per farlo. Non vi supplico, quindi, di concedermi questa soddisfazione come un favore, Martin, ma la chiedo a voi come un diritto.”

“I miei occhi sono i miei testimoni”, rispose Martin. “Devo crederci?”

“No,” disse Tom, con calma. “Non se mi accusano.”

“Le tue stesse parole, il tuo stesso modo di comportarti,” insistette Martin. “Devo crederci davvero?”

“No,” rispose Tom con calma. “Non se mi accusano. Ma non mi hanno mai accusato. Chiunque li abbia indotti a farlo ha ingiustamente trattato me, quasi altrettanto crudelmente” – in quel momento la sua calma vacillò – “quanto avete fatto voi.”

“Sono venuto qui,” disse Martin; “e chiedo alla vostra cara sorella di ascoltarmi, ”

‘Not to her,’ interrupted Tom. ‘Pray, do not appeal to her. She will never believe you.’

He drew her arm through his own, as he said it.

‘I believe it, Tom!’

‘No, no,’ cried Tom, ‘of course not. I said so. Why, tut, tut, tut. What a silly little thing you are!’

‘I never meant,’ said Martin, hastily, ‘to appeal to you against your brother. Do not think me so unmanly and unkind. I merely appealed to you to hear my declaration, that I came here for no purpose of reproach—I have not one reproach to vent—but in deep regret. You could not know in what bitterness of regret, unless you knew how often I have thought of Tom; how long in almost hopeless circumstances, I have looked forward to the better estimation of his friendship; and how steadfastly I have believed and trusted in him.’

‘Tut, tut,’ said Tom, stopping her as she was about to speak. ‘He is mistaken. He is deceived. Why should you mind? He is sure to be set right at last.’

‘Heaven bless the day that sets me right!’ cried Martin, ‘if it could ever come!’

‘Amen!’ said Tom. ‘And it will!’

Martin paused, and then said in a still milder voice:

‘You have chosen for yourself, Tom, and will be relieved by our parting. It is not an angry one. There is no anger on my side—’

‘There is none on mine,’ said Tom.

‘—It is merely what you have brought about, and worked to bring about. I say again, you have chosen for yourself. You have made the choice that might have been expected in most people situated as you are, but which I did not expect in you. For that, perhaps, I should blame my own judgment more than you. There is wealth and favour worth having, on one side; and there is the worthless friendship of an abandoned, struggling fellow, on the other. You were free to make your election, and you made it; and the choice was not difficult. But those who have not the courage to resist such temptations, should have the courage to avow what they have yielded to them; and I DO blame you for this, Tom: that you received me with a show of warmth, encouraged me to be frank and plain-spoken, tempted me to confide in you, and professed that you were able to be mine; when you had sold yourself to others. I do not believe,’ said Martin, with emotion—‘hear me say it from my heart—I CANNOT believe, Tom, now that I am standing face to face with you, that it would have been in your nature to do me any serious harm, even though I had not discovered, by chance, in whose employment you were. But I should have encumbered you; I should have led you into more double-dealing; I should have hazarded your retaining the favour for which you have paid so high a price, bartering away your former self; and it is best for both of us that I have found out what you so much desired to keep secret.’

‘Be just,’ said Tom; who, had not removed his mild gaze from Martin’s face since the commencement of this last address; ‘be just even in your injustice, Martin. You forget. You have not yet told me what your accusation is!’

‘Why should I?’ returned Martin, waving his hand, and moving towards the door. ‘You could not know it the better for my dwelling on it, and though it would be really none the worse, it might seem to me to be. No, Tom. Bygones shall be bygones between us. I can take leave of you at this moment, and in this place—in which you are so amiable and so good—as heartily, if not as cheerfully, as ever I have done since we first met. All good go with you, Tom!—I—’

‘You leave me so? You can leave me so, can you?’ said Tom.

‘I—you—you have chosen for yourself, Tom! I—I hope it was a rash choice,’ Martin faltered. ‘I think it was. I am sure it was! Good-bye!’

And he was gone.

Tom led his little sister to her chair, and sat down in his own. He took his book, and read, or seemed to read. Presently he said aloud, turning a leaf as he spoke: ‘He will be very sorry for this.’ And a tear stole down his face, and dropped upon the page.

Ruth nestled down beside him on her knees, and clasped her arms about his neck.

‘No, Tom! No, no! Be comforted! Dear Tom!’

‘I am quite—comforted,’ said Tom. ‘It will be set right.’

‘Such a cruel, bad return!’ cried Ruth.

‘No, no,’ said Tom. ‘He believes it. I cannot imagine why. But it will be set right.’

More closely yet, she nestled down about him; and wept as if her heart would break.

‘Don’t. Don’t,’ said Tom. ‘Why do you hide your face, my dear!’

Then in a burst of tears, it all broke out at last.

‘Oh Tom, dear Tom, I know your secret heart. I have found it out; you couldn’t hide the truth from me. Why didn’t you tell me? I am sure I could have made you happier, if you had! You love her, Tom, so dearly!’

Tom made a motion with his hand as if he would have put his sister hurriedly away; but it clasped upon hers, and all his little history was written in the action. All its pathetic eloquence was in the silent touch.

‘In spite of that,’ said Ruth, ‘you have been so faithful and so good, dear; in spite of that, you have been so true and self-denying, and have struggled with yourself; in spite of that, you have been so gentle, and so kind, and even-tempered, that I have never seen you give a hasty look, or heard you say one irritable word. In spite of all, you have been so cruelly mistaken. Oh Tom, dear Tom, will THIS be set right too! Will it, Tom? Will you always have this sorrow in your breast; you who deserve to be so happy; or is there any hope?’

And still she hid her face from Tom, and clasped him round the neck, and wept for him, and poured out all her woman’s heart and soul in the relief and pain of this disclosure.

It was not very long before she and Tom were sitting side by side, and she was looking with an earnest quietness in Tom’s face. Then Tom spoke to her thus, cheerily, though gravely:

‘I am very glad, my dear, that this has passed between us. Not because it assures me of your tender affection (for I was well assured of that before), but because it relieves my mind of a great weight.’

“Non farlo con lei,” interruppe Tom. “Per favore, non cercare di convincerla. Lei non ti crederà mai.”

Mentre lo diceva, le mise il braccio intorno al proprio.

“Ci credo, Tom!”

“No, no,” gridò Tom, “certamente no. È proprio quello che ho detto. Ma insomma, che sciocchezza. Che bambino stupido sei!”

“Non intendevo mai,” disse Martin in fretta, “di rivolgermi a te contro tuo fratello. Non pensare che io sia così privo di coraggio e crudelmente disumano. Volevo semplicemente che ascoltassi la mia dichiarazione: non sono venuto qui con l’intenzione di rimproverarlo, non ho alcun rimprovero da fare, ma solo con profondo rammarico. Non avresti potuto capire quanto sia amaro il mio rimpianto, se non sapessi quante volte abbia pensato a Tom; per quanto tempo, in circostanze quasi disperate, abbia sperato nel suo maggiore apprezzamento, e con quanta fermezza abbia creduto e confidato in lui.”

“Tut, tut,” disse Tom, fermandola mentre stava per parlare. “Si sbaglia. È ingannato. Perché dovresti preoccupartene? Alla fine tutto si sistemerà.”

“Che il cielo benedica il giorno in cui tutto si sistemerà per me!”, esclamò Martin, “se mai dovesse arrivare, ”

“‘Amen!’ disse Tom. ‘E sicuramente sarà così!’”

“Martin fece una pausa, poi disse con voce ancora più dolce, ”

“Hai scelto tu stesso, Tom, e sarai sollevato dalla nostra separazione. Non è una separazione piena di rabbia. Da parte mia non c’è alcuna rabbia, ”

“Nessuno nel mio,” disse Tom.

“È semplicemente ciò che tu stesso hai causato e per cui hai lottato. Dico ancora una volta: sei stato tu a fare questa scelta. Hai preso quella decisione che si sarebbe potuta aspettare da la maggior parte delle persone nella tua situazione, ma che non mi aspettavo da te. Forse, in questo dovrei biasimare di più il mio giudizio che te. Da un lato ci sono ricchezza e favori davvero preziosi; dall’altro, c’è l’inutile ‘amicizia’ di un individuo abbandonato e in difficoltà. Avevi la libertà di scegliere, e l’hai fatto. Una scelta non difficile, del resto. Ma coloro che non hanno il coraggio di resistere a tali tentazioni dovrebbero avere almeno il coraggio di ammettere ciò a cui sono ceduti. E per questo ti biasimo davvero, Tom: mi hai accolto con calore, mi hai incoraggiato ad essere franco e diretto, mi hai indotto a confidarmi in te, mentre in realtà ti eri già venduto ad altri. Non ci credo,” disse Martin, con emozione, “dico sul serio: non riesco a credere che nella tua natura ci fosse la capacità di farmi del male, anche se non avessi mai scoperto per caso in chi lavoravi. Ma avrei potuto intralciarti, portarti in situazioni ancora più pericolose, mettere a rischio il favore per cui hai pagato un prezzo così alto, e rinunciare alla tua vera identità. È meglio per entrambi che io abbia scoperto ciò che tanto desideravi tenere segreto.”

“Sii giusto,” disse Tom; il quale non aveva mai distolto il suo sguardo gentile dal viso di Martin dall’inizio di quel discorso; “sii giusto anche nella tua ingiustizia, Martin. Dimentichi: non mi hai ancora detto qual è la tua accusa!”

“Perché dovrei farlo?” rispose Martin, agitando la mano e dirigendosi verso la porta. “Non avresti certo tratto alcun beneficio dal fatto che io ci rifletta sopra. E anche se in realtà non cambierebbe nulla di negativo, a me potrebbe sembrare così. No, Tom. Il passato rimanga nel passato tra noi. Posso congedarmi da te in questo momento, in questo luogo – dove sei così gentile e buono – con la stessa sincerità, se non con lo stesso entusiasmo, di sempre da quando ci siamo conosciuti. Che tutto il meglio ti accompagni, Tom. Io, ”

“Mi lasci così? Puoi davvero lasciarmi così?” disse Tom.

“Tu, tu hai scelto da solo, Tom! Spero che sia stata una scelta avventata,” balbettò Martin. “Penso di sì. Ne sono sicuro! Addio!”

E se n’è andato.

Tom portò sua sorellina alla sua sedia e si sedette sulla sua. Prese il suo libro e iniziò a leggere, o almeno sembrava che lo facesse. Dopo un po’ disse ad alta voce, girando una pagina mentre parlava: “Si pentirà molto di questo.” Una lacrima gli scese lungo la guancia e cadde sulla pagina.

Ruth si sedette accanto a lui in ginocchio e gli avvolse le braccia intorno al collo.

“No, Tom! No, no. Trova conforto! Caro Tom!”

“Sono abbastanza, sollevato,” disse Tom. “Tutto si sistemerà.”

“Un ritorno così crudele e cattivo!” gridò Ruth.

“No, no,” disse Tom. “Lui ci crede. Non riesco a capire il perché. Ma sicuramente tutto si risolverà.”

Ancora più vicina a lui, si rannicchiò accanto a lui; e pianse come se il suo cuore stesse per spezzarsi.

“Non farlo. Non farlo,” disse Tom. “Perché nascondi il viso, cara?”

Poi, in un impeto di lacrime, finalmente tutto scoppiò.

“Oh Tom, caro Tom, conosco il tuo segreto cuore. L’ho scoperto; non sei riuscito a nascondermi la verità. Perché non me l’hai detto? Sono sicura che avrei potuto renderti più felice, se solo lo avessi fatto! La ami, Tom, con tanta intensità!”

Tom fece un gesto con la mano, come se volesse allontanare sua sorella in fretta; ma invece strinse la sua mano, e tutta la sua piccola storia si leggeva in quel gesto. Tutta la sua commovente eloquenza risiedeva in quel tocco silenzioso.

“Nonostante tutto questo,” disse Ruth, “sei stato così fedele e così buono. Nonostante tutto questo, sei stato così sincero e disinteressato a te stesso, hai lottato con i tuoi stessi dubbi. Nonostante tutto questo, sei stato così gentile, così premuroso, così equilibrato. Non ti ho mai visto lanciare uno sguardo irritato, né sentirti dire una parola aggressiva. Eppure, sei stato terribilmente ingannato. Oh Tom, caro Tom. Riuscirà anche questo a essere sistemato? Lo farai, vero? Continuerai ad avere questo dolore nel cuore, tu che meriti di essere così felice. O c’è ancora qualche speranza?”

Eppure continuò a nascondere il viso da Tom, lo abbracciò stretto per il collo, pianse per lui e riversò tutto il proprio cuore di donna e la propria ‘anima nell’ sollievo e nel dolore derivanti da questa rivelazione.

Non trascorse molto tempo prima che lei e Tom si sedessero uno accanto all’altro; lei fissava il viso di Tom con un’espressione seria e tranquilla. Poi Tom le parlò in questo modo, allegramente, anche se con serietà:

“Sono molto felice, mio caro, che questo sia accaduto tra di noi. Non perché mi assicuri della tua tenera affezione (poiché ne ero già ben certo prima), ma perché solleva un grande peso dal mio cuore.”

Tom’s eyes glistened when he spoke of her affection; and he kissed her on the cheek.

‘My dear girl,’ said Tom; ‘with whatever feeling I regard her’—they seemed to avoid the name by mutual consent—‘I have long ago—I am sure I may say from the very first—looked upon it as a dream. As something that might possibly have happened under very different circumstances, but which can never be. Now, tell me. What would you have set right?’

She gave Tom such a significant little look, that he was obliged to take it for an answer whether he would or no; and to go on.

‘By her own choice and free consent, my love, she is betrothed to Martin; and was, long before either of them knew of my existence. You would have her betrothed to me?’

‘Yes,’ she said directly.

‘Yes,’ rejoined Tom, ‘but that might be setting it wrong, instead of right. Do you think,’ said Tom, with a grave smile, ‘that even if she had never seen him, it is very likely she would have fallen in love with Me?’

‘Why not, dear Tom?’

Tom shook his head, and smiled again.

‘You think of me, Ruth,’ said Tom, ‘and it is very natural that you should, as if I were a character in a book; and you make it a sort of poetical justice that I should, by some impossible means or other, come, at last, to marry the person I love. But there is a much higher justice than poetical justice, my dear, and it does not order events upon the same principle. Accordingly, people who read about heroes in books, and choose to make heroes of themselves out of books, consider it a very fine thing to be discontented and gloomy, and misanthropical, and perhaps a little blasphemous, because they cannot have everything ordered for their individual accommodation. Would you like me to become one of that sort of people?’

‘No, Tom. But still I know,’ she added timidly, ‘that this is a sorrow to you in your own better way.’

Tom thought of disputing the position. But it would have been mere folly, and he gave it up.

‘My dear,’ said Tom, ‘I will repay your affection with the Truth and all the Truth. It is a sorrow to me. I have proved it to be so sometimes, though I have always striven against it. But somebody who is precious to you may die, and you may dream that you are in heaven with the departed spirit, and you may find it a sorrow to wake to the life on earth, which is no harder to be borne than when you fell asleep. It is sorrowful to me to contemplate my dream which I always knew was a dream, even when it first presented itself; but the realities about me are not to blame. They are the same as they were. My sister, my sweet companion, who makes this place so dear, is she less devoted to me, Ruth, than she would have been, if this vision had never troubled me? My old friend John, who might so easily have treated me with coldness and neglect, is he less cordial to me? The world about me, is there less good in that? Are my words to be harsh and my looks to be sour, and is my heart to grow cold, because there has fallen in my way a good and beautiful creature, who but for the selfish regret that I cannot call her my own, would, like all other good and beautiful creatures, make me happier and better! No, my dear sister. No,’ said Tom stoutly. ‘Remembering all my means of happiness, I hardly dare to call this lurking something a sorrow; but whatever name it may justly bear, I thank Heaven that it renders me more sensible of affection and attachment, and softens me in fifty ways. Not less happy. Not less happy, Ruth!’

She could not speak to him, but she loved him, as he well deserved. Even as he deserved, she loved him.

‘She will open Martin’s eyes,’ said Tom, with a glow of pride, ‘and that (which is indeed wrong) will be set right. Nothing will persuade her, I know, that I have betrayed him. It will be set right through her, and he will be very sorry for it. Our secret, Ruth, is our own, and lives and dies with us. I don’t believe I ever could have told it you,’ said Tom, with a smile, ‘but how glad I am to think you have found it out!’

They had never taken such a pleasant walk as they took that night. Tom told her all so freely and so simply, and was so desirous to return her tenderness with his fullest confidence, that they prolonged it far beyond their usual hour, and sat up late when they came home. And when they parted for the night there was such a tranquil, beautiful expression in Tom’s face, that she could not bear to shut it out, but going back on tiptoe to his chamber-door, looked in and stood there till he saw her, and then embracing him again, withdrew. And in her prayers and in her sleep—good times to be remembered with such fervour, Tom!—his name was uppermost.

When he was left alone, Tom pondered very much on this discovery of hers, and greatly wondered what had led her to it. ‘Because,’ thought Tom, ‘I have been so very careful. It was foolish and unnecessary in me, as I clearly see now, when I am so relieved by her knowing it; but I have been so very careful to conceal it from her. Of course I knew that she was intelligent and quick, and for that reason was more upon my guard; but I was not in the least prepared for this. I am sure her discovery has been sudden too. Dear me!’ said Tom. ‘It’s a most singular instance of penetration!’

Tom could not get it out of his head. There it was, when his head was on his pillow.

‘How she trembled when she began to tell me she knew it!’ thought Tom, recalling all the little incidents and circumstances; ‘and how her face flushed! But that was natural! Oh, quite natural! That needs no accounting for.’

Tom little thought how natural it was. Tom little knew that there was that in Ruth’s own heart, but newly set there, which had helped her to the reading of his mystery. Ah, Tom! He didn’t understand the whispers of the Temple Fountain, though he passed it every day.

Who so lively and cheerful as busy Ruth next morning! Her early tap at Tom’s door, and her light foot outside, would have been music to him though she had not spoken. But she said it was the brightest morning ever seen; and so it was; and if it had been otherwise, she would have made it so to Tom.

Gli occhi di Tom brillavano quando parlava del suo affetto per lei; e le baciò la guancia.

“Mia cara ragazza,” disse Tom; “per quanto io la consideri, ” – sembravano evitare di pronunciare il suo nome per accordo reciproco – “da molto tempo. Credo di poter dire fin dal principio, l’ho vista come un >sogno. Qualcosa che forse sarebbe potuto accadere in circostanze molto diverse, ma che mai potrà verificarsi. Ora dimmi: cosa avresti cambiato?”

Lei lanciò a Tom uno sguardo così significativo che lui non poté fare altro che considerarlo una risposta, e decise di procedere.

“Per sua stessa scelta e consenso libero, la mia amata è promessa a Martin; ed era già promessa a lui molto prima che entrambi sapessero della mia esistenza. Volete che sia promessa a me?”

“Sì,” disse lei senza mezzi termini.

“Sì,” rispose Tom, “ma forse così stiamo sbagliando, invece di avere ragione. Pensi,” disse Tom con un sorriso serio, “che anche se lei non lo avesse mai visto, ci sarebbe stata molta probabilità che si innamorasse di me?”

“Perché no, caro Tom?”

Tom scosse la testa e sorrise di nuovo.

“Pensi a me, Ruth,” disse Tom, “e è del tutto naturale che tu lo faccia, come se fossi un personaggio di un libro; e consideri quasi una sorta di giustizia poetica il fatto che, in qualche modo impossibile, io possa alla fine sposare la persona che amo. Ma esiste una giustizia molto più alta di quella poetica, cara mia. E non organizza gli eventi secondo lo stesso principio. Pertanto, le persone che leggono storie di eroi nei libri e decidono di considerarsi eroi a loro volta, ritengono cosa meravigliosa essere insoddisfatte, malinconiche, misantropiche. E forse anche un po’ blasfeme, solo perché non riescono ad avere tutto organizzato esattamente secondo i loro desideri individuali. Vuoi che diventi una di queste persone?”

“No, Tom. Ma comunque so,” aggiunse timidamente, “che questa è una tristezza per te, anche se in un modo positivo.”

Tom pensò di cercare di ottenere quella posizione. Ma sarebbe stato solo uno spreco di tempo, quindi desistette.

“Mia cara,” disse Tom, “ricambierò il tuo affetto con la verità e con tutto ciò che è verità. È un dolore per me. A volte ho dimostrato di essere capace di comportarmi in modo contrario a ciò che considero vero, anche se ho sempre cercato di lottare contro queste tendenze. Ma qualcuno che è prezioso per te potrebbe morire. E tu potresti sognare di essere in paradiso con lo spirito del defunto, e ritrovarti addolorata nel risvegliarti alla vita terrena, che non è certo più difficile da sopportare di quando eri addormentata. È doloroso per me riflettere su questo sogno. Che sapevo sempre essere solo un sogno, fin dal suo primo apparire. Ma le realtà intorno a me non sono colpevoli: sono rimaste uguali a prima. Mia sorella, la mia dolce compagna. Lei è meno devota a me, Ruth, rispetto a quanto lo sarebbe stata se questa visione non mi avesse mai tormentato? Il mio vecchio amico John. Che potrebbe facilmente trattarmi con freddezza e indifferenza. È forse meno cordiale con me? E il mondo intorno a me. Manca forse di qualcosa di buono? Devo forse parlare in modo duro, avere un’espressione cupa, raffreddare il mio cuore, solo perché nella mia vita è apparsa una persona bella e gentile, che, se non fosse per il mio egoistico rimpianto nel non poterla considerare mia, mi renderebbe certamente più felice e migliore di quanto non sia ora? No, mia cara sorella. No,” disse Tom con fermezza. “Riflettendo su tutti i motivi che dovrebbero rendermi felice, quasi non oso definire questa esperienza un dolore. Ma qualunque nome le si possa dare, ringrazio il Cielo perché mi fa comprendere meglio l’importanza dell’affetto e della devozione, e mi rende più gentile sotto molti aspetti. Non meno felice. Non meno felice, Ruth!”

Non poteva parlargli, ma lo amava, perché lui se lo meritava davvero. Anche se se lo meritava, lei lo amava comunque.

“Lei aprirà gli occhi a Martin,” disse Tom, con un lampo di orgoglio, “e quello che è davvero sbagliato verrà sistemato. So che nulla potrà convincerla che l’abbia tradito. Ma tutto si risolverà grazie a lei, e lui se ne pentirà molto. Il nostro segreto, Ruth, appartiene solo a noi e vivrà o morirà con noi. Non credo di aver mai potuto raccontartelo,” disse Tom sorridendo, “ma sono così felice che tu l’abbia scoperto!”

Non avevano mai fatto una passeggiata così piacevole come quella notte. Tom le raccontò tutto con tanta naturalezza e semplicità, desideroso davvero di ricambiare la sua tenerezza con tutta la sua fiducia; per questo prolungarono la passeggiata molto oltre l’orario abituale, rimanendo svegli fino a tardi quando tornaronoa casa. E quando si separarono per la notte, sul viso di Tom c’era un’espressione così serena e bella che lei non riuscì a resistere: tornò in punta di piedi alla sua porta, guardò dentro e rimase lì finché lui non la vide; poi lo abbracciò di nuovo e se ne andò. Nei suoi pensieri, nelle sue preghiere, e nel suosonno – momenti davvero preziosi da ricordare con tanta intensità, Tom! – il suo nome era sempre in primo piano.

Quando rimase solo, Tom rifletté molto su questa scoperta da parte sua e si chiese con grande curiosità cosa l’avesse spinta a farla. “Perché,” pensò Tom, “sono stato davvero molto attento. È stato sciocco e inutile da parte mia, come ora capisco chiaramente; anzi, mi rallegro che lei lo sappia. Ma ho fatto di tutto per nasconderglielo. Certo, sapevo che era intelligente e veloce. E proprio per questo ero ancora più cauto. Tuttavia, non mi aspettavo affatto a una scoperta del genere. Che situazione strana, ” disse Tom. “È davvero un esempio eccezionale di perspicacia!”

Tom non riusciva a smettere di pensarci. Ecco lì, mentre aveva la testa sul cuscino.

“Come tremava quando iniziò a dirmi che lo sapeva!” pensò Tom, ricordando tutti quei piccoli episodi e circostanze; “e come le si arrossiva il viso. Ma era naturale! Oh, davvero naturale. Non c’è bisogno di spiegarlo.”

Tom non si rendeva conto di quanto tutto ciò fosse naturale. Non sapeva che nel cuore stesso di Ruth esistesse qualcosa che l’aveva aiutata a comprendere il mistero di cui parlava. Ah, Tom! Non riusciva a interpretare i “sussurri” della Fontana del Tempio, anche se la oltrepassava ogni giorno.

Chi potrebbe essere più vivace e allegra di Ruth la mattina seguente? Il suo bussare alla porta di Tom all’alba, e il suo passo leggero fuori dalla porta, sarebbero stati per lui come musica, anche senza che lei dicesse una parola. Ma lei disse che era la mattina più splendida che avesse mai visto; ed effettivamente lo era; e se non fosse stata così, lei l’avrebbe fatta diventare tale per Tom.

She was ready with his neat breakfast when he went downstairs, and had her bonnet ready for the early walk, and was so full of news, that Tom was lost in wonder. She might have been up all night, collecting it for his entertainment. There was Mr Nadgett not come home yet, and there was bread down a penny a loaf, and there was twice as much strength in this tea as in the last, and the milk-woman’s husband had come out of the hospital cured, and the curly-headed child over the way had been lost all yesterday, and she was going to make all sorts of preserves in a desperate hurry, and there happened to be a saucepan in the house which was the very saucepan for the purpose; and she knew all about the last book Tom had brought home, all through, though it was a teaser to read; and she had so much to tell him that she had finished breakfast first. Then she had her little bonnet on, and the tea and sugar locked up, and the keys in her reticule, and the flower, as usual, in Tom’s coat, and was in all respects quite ready to accompany him, before Tom knew she had begun to prepare. And in short, as Tom said, with a confidence in his own assertion which amounted to a defiance of the public in general, there never was such a little woman.

She made Tom talkative. It was impossible to resist her. She put such enticing questions to him; about books, and about dates of churches, and about organs and about the Temple, and about all kinds of things. Indeed, she lightened the way (and Tom’s heart with it) to that degree, that the Temple looked quite blank and solitary when he parted from her at the gate.

‘No Mr Fips’s friend to-day, I suppose,’ thought Tom, as he ascended the stairs.

Not yet, at any rate, for the door was closed as usual, and Tom opened it with his key. He had got the books into perfect order now, and had mended the torn leaves, and had pasted up the broken backs, and substituted neat labels for the worn-out letterings. It looked a different place, it was so orderly and neat. Tom felt some pride in comtemplating the change he had wrought, though there was no one to approve or disapprove of it.

He was at present occupied in making a fair copy of his draught of the catalogue; on which, as there was no hurry, he was painfully concentrating all the ingenious and laborious neatness he had ever expended on map or plan in Mr Pecksniff’s workroom. It was a very marvel of a catalogue; for Tom sometimes thought he was really getting his money too easily, and he had determined within himself that this document should take a little of his superfluous leisure out of him.

So with pens and ruler, and compasses and india-rubber, and pencil, and black ink, and red ink, Tom worked away all the morning. He thought a good deal about Martin, and their interview of yesterday, and would have been far easier in his mind if he could have resolved to confide it to his friend John, and to have taken his opinion on the subject. But besides that he knew what John’s boiling indignation would be, he bethought himself that he was helping Martin now in a matter of great moment, and that to deprive the latter of his assistance at such a crisis of affairs, would be to inflict a serious injury upon him.

‘So I’ll keep it to myself,’ said Tom, with a sigh. ‘I’ll keep it to myself.’

And to work he went again, more assiduously than ever, with the pens, and the ruler, and the india-rubber, and the pencils, and the red ink, that he might forget it.

He had laboured away another hour or more, when he heard a footstep in the entry, down below.

‘Ah!’ said Tom, looking towards the door; ‘time was, not long ago either, when that would have set me wondering and expecting. But I have left off now.’

The footstep came on, up the stairs.

‘Thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight,’ said Tom, counting. ‘Now you’ll stop. Nobody ever comes past the thirty-eighth stair.’

The person did, certainly, but only to take breath; for up the footstep came again. Forty, forty-one, forty-two, and so on.

The door stood open. As the tread advanced, Tom looked impatiently and eagerly towards it. When a figure came upon the landing, and arriving in the doorway, stopped and gazed at him, he rose up from his chair, and half believed he saw a spirit.

Old Martin Chuzzlewit! The same whom he had left at Mr Pecksniff’s, weak and sinking!

The same? No, not the same, for this old man, though old, was strong, and leaned upon his stick with a vigorous hand, while with the other he signed to Tom to make no noise. One glance at the resolute face, the watchful eye, the vigorous hand upon the staff, the triumphant purpose in the figure, and such a light broke in on Tom as blinded him.

‘You have expected me,’ said Martin, ‘a long time.’

‘I was told that my employer would arrive soon,’ said Tom; ‘but—’

‘I know. You were ignorant who he was. It was my desire. I am glad it has been so well observed. I intended to have been with you much sooner. I thought the time had come. I thought I could know no more, and no worse, of him, than I did on that day when I saw you last. But I was wrong.’

He had by this time come up to Tom, and now he grasped his hand.

‘I have lived in his house, Pinch, and had him fawning on me days and weeks and months. You know it. I have suffered him to treat me like his tool and instrument. You know it; you have seen me there. I have undergone ten thousand times as much as I could have endured if I had been the miserable weak old man he took me for. You know it. I have seen him offer love to Mary. You know it; who better—who better, my true heart! I have had his base soul bare before me, day by day, and have not betrayed myself once. I never could have undergone such torture but for looking forward to this time.’

He stopped, even in the passion of his speech—if that can be called passion which was so resolute and steady—to press Tom’s hand again. Then he said, in great excitement:

‘Close the door, close the door. He will not be long after me, but may come too soon. The time now drawing on,’ said the old man, hurriedly—his eyes and whole face brightening as he spoke—‘will make amends for all. I wouldn’t have him die or hang himself, for millions of golden pieces! Close the door!’

Tom did so; hardly knowing yet whether he was awake or in a dream.

Aveva preparato per lui una colazione ordinata quando scese al piano di sotto; aveva anche messo il cappello pronto per la passeggiata mattutina, ed era così piena di notizie che Tom rimase sbalordito. Forse era stata sveglia tutta la notte per raccoglierle tutte apposta per divertirlo. Il signor Nadgett non era ancora tornato a casa, il pane costava un penny al pezzo, questa tazza di tè ne conteneva il doppio rispetto alla precedente, il marito della lattaia era uscito dall’ospedale guarito, il bambino dai capelli ricci di fronte a casa loro si era perso ieri. Lei stava preparando in fretta e furia ogni sorta di conserve; per caso, in casa c’era proprio la pentola adatta allo scopo. Sapeva tutto riguardo all’ultimo libro che Tom aveva portato a casa. Aveva così tante cose da raccontargli che aveva finito di colazione prima ancora che lui se ne accorgesse. Poi si mise il cappellino, chiuse a chiave tè e zucchero, mise le chiavi nel reticolo e, come al solito, infilò il fiore nel cappotto di Tom. Era pronta in ogni senso per accompagnarlo. Prima ancora che lui sapesse che aveva già iniziato i preparativi. In breve, come diceva Tom, con una fiducia nella propria affermazione tale da sembrare quasi un sfida al pubblico in generale. Non esisteva mai stata una donna così piccola.

Riuscì a rendere Tom loquace. Era impossibile resisterle. Gli poneva domande così allettanti: su libri, sulle date di costruzione delle chiese, sugli organi, sul Tempio, e su ogni sorta di cose. Davvero, riuscì a rendere il cammino verso il Tempio (e anche il cuore di Tom) molto più facile; tanto che, quando si separarono alla porta del Tempio, quest’ultimo sembrava davvero desolato e solitario.

“Oggi non sarò l’amico di Mr Fips, immagino,” pensò Tom mentre saliva le scale.

Ancora no, comunque; la porta era chiusa come al solito, e Tom la aprì con la sua chiave. Aveva sistemato i libri in perfetto ordine, riparato le pagine strappate, incollato i dorso rovinati e sostituito le etichette logore con altre più pulite e leggibili. Il posto sembrava completamente diverso, ora era così ordinato e curato. Tom provò un certo orgoglio nel vedere i cambiamenti che aveva apportato, anche se non c’era nessuno a cui mostrarli o da cui ricevere approvazione o disapprovazione.

In quel momento era impegnato a realizzare una copia accurata del suo progetto di catalogo; poiché non c’era alcuna fretta, si concentrava con grande impegno su ogni dettaglio, applicando tutta la cura e l’attenzione che aveva sempre dedicato alla preparazione di mappe e piani nel laboratorio di Mr Pecksniff. Quel catalogo era davvero un capolavoro; a volte Tom pensava che guadagnasse i suoi soldi troppo facilmente, e si era deciso che quel documento gli avrebbe costretto a dedicare parte del proprio tempo libero in eccesso.

Con penne, riga, compassi, gomma da masticare, matita, inchiostro nero e inchiostro rosso, Tom lavorò per tutta la mattina. Pensò molto a Martin e all’incontro di ieri; gli sarebbe stato molto più facile comprendere la situazione se avesse deciso di confidarsi con il suo amico John e chiedergli il suo parere al riguardo. Ma sapeva anche quanto fosse intensa l’indignazione di John, e si rese conto che in quel momento stava aiutando Martin in una questione di grande importanza; privarlo del proprio sostegno in un momento così critico avrebbe significato infliggere un grave danno a lui.

“Lo terrò per me,” disse Tom, sospirando. “Lo terrò per me.”

E così tornò al lavoro, con ancora più impegno di prima, usando penne, riga, gomma da masticare, matite e inchiostro rosso, nel tentativo di dimenticarla.

Lavorò ancora un’ora o più, quando sentì dei passi nell’ingresso, laggiù sotto.

“Ah!” disse Tom, guardando verso la porta; “Anche quella volta, non molto tempo fa, sarei rimasto perplesso e in attesa. Ma ormai ho smesso di pensarci.”

I passi si avvicinavano, salendo le scale.

“Trentasei, trentasette, trentotto,” contò Tom. “Ora dovrai fermarti. Nessuno supera mai il trentottesimo gradino.”

Quella persona lo fece certamente, ma solo per riprendere fiato; perché i passi si avvicinavano di nuovo. Quaranta, quarantuno, quarantadue, e così via.

La porta era aperta. Mentre si avvicinava, Tom la guardava con impazienza e desiderio. Quando una figura apparve sul pianerottolo e entrò nel vano della porta, si fermò e lo fissò; lui si alzò dalla sedia, quasi credendo di vedere uno spirito.

Vecchio Martin Chuzzlewit! Quello stesso che aveva lasciato da Mr Pecksniff, debole e in declino.

Lo stesso? No, non lo stesso. Questo vecchio, pur essendo anziano, era ancora forte; si appoggiava al suo bastone con una mano decisa, mentre con l’altra faceva segno a Tom di non fare rumore. Un solo sguardo al suo volto risoluto, al suo occhio attento, alla sua mano ferma sul bastone, e a quell’intenzione vittoriosa che traspariva da tutto il suo aspetto. Fu come se una luce intensa illuminasse improvvisamente Tom, accecandolo.

“Mi aspettavi già da molto tempo,” disse Martin.

“Mi è stato detto che il mio datore di lavoro arriverà presto,” disse Tom; “ma, ”

“So. Non sapevi chi fosse. Era il mio desiderio. Sono felice che sia stato rispettato così bene. Avrei voluto essere con te molto prima. Pensavo fosse arrivato il momento giusto. Credevo di non poter conoscere di lui nulla di più, né di peggio, di quanto sapessi quel giorno in cui ti ho visto l’ultima volta. Ma mi sbagliavo.”

A quel momento, si era avvicinato a Tom e ora gli stringeva la mano.

“Ho vissuto nella sua casa, Pinch, e ho dovuto sopportare che mi adorasse per giorni, settimane, mesi. Lo sai bene. Ho tollerato che mi trattasse come uno strumento al suo servizio. Lo hai visto; sei stato lì con me. Ho sopportato diecimila volte di più di quanto avrei potuto resistere, se solo fossi stato quell’uomo debole e miserabile che lui credeva che fossi. Lo sai bene. Ho visto offrire amore a Mary. Chi meglio di lei, chi meglio di te, mio vero cuore! Ho visto la sua anima spregevole esposta davanti ai miei occhi, giorno dopo giorno. E non mi sono mai tradita nemmeno una volta. Non avrei potuto sopportare tutto questo, se non fosse stato per l’attesa di questo momento.”

Si fermò, anche nel fervore del suo discorso – se si può definire fervore un tale slancio risoluto e deciso – per stringere di nuovo la mano di Tom. Poi disse, con grande emozione:

“Chiudi la porta, chiudi la porta. Non tarderà molto ad arrivare dopo di me, ma potrebbe anche venire troppo presto. Il tempo sta per scadere,” disse l’uomo anziano, in fretta; i suoi occhi e tutto il suo viso si illuminarono mentre parlava, “Tutto verrà compensato. Non vorrei che morisse o si impiccasse, nemmeno per milioni di pezzi d’oro! Chiudi la porta!”

Tom lo fece; a malapena sapendo se fosse sveglio o se si trovasse dentro un sogno.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

SHEDS NEW AND BRIGHTER LIGHT UPON THE VERY DARK PLACE; AND CONTAINS THE SEQUEL OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND

The night had now come, when the old clerk was to be delivered over to his keepers. In the midst of his guilty distractions, Jonas had not forgotten it.

It was a part of his guilty state of mind to remember it; for on his persistence in the scheme depended one of his precautions for his own safety. A hint, a word, from the old man, uttered at such a moment in attentive ears, might fire the train of suspicion, and destroy him. His watchfulness of every avenue by which the discovery of his guilt might be approached, sharpened with his sense of the danger by which he was encompassed. With murder on his soul, and its innumerable alarms and terrors dragging at him night and day, he would have repeated the crime, if he had seen a path of safety stretching out beyond. It was in his punishment; it was in his guilty condition. The very deed which his fears rendered insupportable, his fears would have impelled him to commit again.

But keeping the old man close, according to his design, would serve his turn. His purpose was to escape, when the first alarm and wonder had subsided; and when he could make the attempt without awakening instant suspicion. In the meanwhile these women would keep him quiet; and if the talking humour came upon him, would not be easily startled. He knew their trade.

Nor had he spoken idly when he said the old man should be gagged. He had resolved to ensure his silence; and he looked to the end, not the means. He had been rough and rude and cruel to the old man all his life; and violence was natural to his mind in connection with him. ‘He shall be gagged if he speaks, and pinioned if he writes,’ said Jonas, looking at him; for they sat alone together. ‘He is mad enough for that; I’ll go through with it!’

Hush!

Still listening! To every sound. He had listened ever since, and it had not come yet. The exposure of the Assurance office; the flight of Crimple and Bullamy with the plunder, and among the rest, as he feared, with his own bill, which he had not found in the pocket-book of the murdered man, and which with Mr Pecksniff’s money had probably been remitted to one or other of those trusty friends for safe deposit at the banker’s; his immense losses, and peril of being still called to account as a partner in the broken firm; all these things rose in his mind at one time and always, but he could not contemplate them. He was aware of their presence, and of the rage, discomfiture, and despair, they brought along with them; but he thought—of his own controlling power and direction he thought—of the one dread question only. When they would find the body in the wood.

He tried—he had never left off trying—not to forget it was there, for that was impossible, but to forget to weary himself by drawing vivid pictures of it in his fancy; by going softly about it and about it among the leaves, approaching it nearer and nearer through a gap in the boughs, and startling the very flies that were thickly sprinkled all over it, like heaps of dried currants. His mind was fixed and fastened on the discovery, for intelligence of which he listened intently to every cry and shout; listened when any one came in or went out; watched from the window the people who passed up and down the street; mistrusted his own looks and words. And the more his thoughts were set upon the discovery, the stronger was the fascination which attracted them to the thing itself; lying alone in the wood. He was for ever showing and presenting it, as it were, to every creature whom he saw. ‘Look here! Do you know of this? Is it found? Do you suspect ME?’ If he had been condemned to bear the body in his arms, and lay it down for recognition at the feet of every one he met, it could not have been more constantly with him, or a cause of more monotonous and dismal occupation than it was in this state of his mind.

Still he was not sorry. It was no contrition or remorse for what he had done that moved him; it was nothing but alarm for his own security. The vague consciousness he possessed of having wrecked his fortune in the murderous venture, intensified his hatred and revenge, and made him set the greater store by what he had gained The man was dead; nothing could undo that. He felt a triumph yet, in the reflection.

He had kept a jealous watch on Chuffey ever since the deed; seldom leaving him but on compulsion, and then for as short intervals as possible. They were alone together now. It was twilight, and the appointed time drew near at hand. Jonas walked up and down the room. The old man sat in his accustomed corner.

The slightest circumstance was matter of disquiet to the murderer, and he was made uneasy at this time by the absence of his wife, who had left home early in the afternoon, and had not returned yet. No tenderness for her was at the bottom of this; but he had a misgiving that she might have been waylaid, and tempted into saying something that would criminate him when the news came. For anything he knew, she might have knocked at the door of his room, while he was away, and discovered his plot. Confound her, it was like her pale face to be wandering up and down the house! Where was she now?

‘She went to her good friend, Mrs Todgers,’ said the old man, when he asked the question with an angry oath.

Aye! To be sure! Always stealing away into the company of that woman. She was no friend of his. Who could tell what devil’s mischief they might hatch together! Let her be fetched home directly.

The old man, muttering some words softly, rose as if he would have gone himself, but Jonas thrust him back into his chair with an impatient imprecation, and sent a servant-girl to fetch her. When he had charged her with her errand he walked to and fro again, and never stopped till she came back, which she did pretty soon; the way being short, and the woman having made good haste.

CAPITOLO CINQUANTUNO

Proietta una luce nuova e più intensa su quel luogo estremamente oscuro; inoltre contiene la continuazione delle avventure di Mr Jonas e del suo amico.

Era ormai arrivata la notte, e il vecchio impiegato stava per essere consegnato ai suoi custodi. Nonostante le sue distrazioni dovute al senso di colpa, Jonas non se n’era dimenticato.

Fa parte dello stato d’animo colpevole in cui si trovava il fatto che ricordasse tutto ciò; infatti, dalla sua perseveranza nel perseguire quel piano dipendeva una delle precauzioni necessarie per la propria sicurezza. Un indizio, una parola da parte dell’uomo anziano, pronunciati in un momento del genere e ascoltati con attenzione, avrebbero potuto innescare una catena di sospetti e distruggerlo. La sua vigilanza su ogni possibile via attraverso cui la scoperta della sua colpevolezza potesse verificarsi era ancora più acuta, data la consapevolezza del pericolo che lo circondava. Con l’omicidio nel suo cuore e le innumerevoli paure e terrore che lo assillavano giorno e notte, avrebbe ripetuto il crimine, se solo avesse visto una via di salvezza davanti a sé. Ma quella stessa punizione, quel suo stato d’animo colpevole, erano proprio ciò che lo spingevano ad agire ancora. L’atto stesso che i suoi timori rendevano insopportabile sarebbe stato, in realtà, ciò che lo avrebbe spinto a commetterlo di nuovo.

Ma tenere l’uomo anziano vicino, secondo i suoi piani, gli sarebbe stato utile. Il suo scopo era fuggire non appena il primo allarme e lo stupore si fossero placati; quando avesse potuto tentare la fuga senza suscitare sospetti immediati. Nel frattempo, quelle donne lo avrebbero tenuto calmo; e se avessero iniziato a chiacchierare, non si sarebbero facilmente spaventate. Lui conosceva bene il loro mestiere.

Non aveva detto a caso quando aveva proposto di imbavagliare quell’uomo anziano. Aveva deciso con fermezza di farlo tacere, e pensava soltanto al risultato, non ai mezzi per raggiungerlo. Aveva trattato quell’anziano in modo brutale e crudele per tutta la vita; quindi, quando si trattava di lui, la violenza gli sembrava del tutto naturale. “Lo imbavaglierò se parla, e lo immobilizzerò se scrive,” disse Jonas guardandolo; erano seduti da soli insieme. “È abbastanza pazzo per farlo. Lo farò!”

Zitto!

Continuava ad ascoltare. Ogni suono. Ascoltava da allora, ma ancora non era arrivato nulla. La rivelazione riguardo all’ufficio dell’Assurance; la fuga di Crimple e Bullamy con il bottino. E, forse, anche il suo stesso assegno, che non aveva trovato nella borsa dell’uomo assassinato, e che probabilmente, insieme ai soldi di Mr Pecksniff, era stato inviato a uno di quegli “amici fidati” affinché lo depositassero in banca. Le sue enormi perdite. Il pericolo di essere ancora ritenuto responsabile come socio della società fallita. Tutti questi pensieri gli venivano in mente contemporaneamente, sempre. Ma non riusciva a rifletterci sopra. Era consapevole della loro presenza, e del dolore, dello sconforto e della disperazione che portavano con sé. Ma pensava soltanto a una cosa: quando avrebbero trovato il corpo nel bosco.

Cercava, non aveva mai smesso di cercare, di non dimenticare che esistesse, perché questo era impossibile; ma cercava anche di non stancarsi troppo immaginandola vividamente nella sua mente: di avvicinarsi a lei lentamente, tra le foglie, di avvicinarsi sempre di più attraverso una fessura nei rami, facendo persino spaventare le mosche che erano sparse dappertutto su di essa, come mucchi di uvetta secca. La sua mente era completamente concentrata su quell’“scoperta”; per comprenderla meglio, ascoltava attentamente ogni grido e ogni rumore; osservava le persone che passavano per strada dalla finestra; non si fidava nemmeno dei propri pensieri e delle proprie parole. E più i suoi pensieri erano fissi su quell’“scoperta”, più forte era la fascinazione che lo attirava verso l’oggetto stesso, che giaceva solo nel bosco. Sembrava che volesse mostrarlo e presentarlo a ogni creatura che incontrasse: “Guardate qui! Conoscete questa cosa? L’avete mai trovata? Sospettate di ME?” Se fosse stato costretto a portare quel corpo tra le braccia e ad esporlo davanti a chiunque incontrasse, non sarebbe mai stato così costantemente con lui, né avrebbe rappresentato una fonte di occupazione così monotona e deprimente come in questo stato della sua mente.

Tuttavia, non provava alcun rimorso. Non era la contrizione o il pentimento per ciò che aveva fatto a spingerlo; era soltanto l’angoscia per la propria sicurezza. La vaga consapevolezza di aver rovinato la propria fortuna in quell’avventura criminale intensificava il suo odio e la sua voglia di vendetta, facendogli dare ancora più valore a ciò che aveva ottenuto. L’uomo era morto; nulla poteva più rimediare a quello. Eppure, riflettendoci, provava una sorta di trionfo.

Da quando era successo quel fatto, teneva d’occhio Chuffey con gelosia; lo lasciava solo di rado e solo per necessità, e anche allora per brevi periodi di tempo possibile. Ora erano soli insieme. Era il crepuscolo e l’ora stabilita si avvicinava. Jonas camminava avanti e indietro nella stanza; l’uomo anziano sedeva nel suo solito angolo.

La minima circostanza bastava a causare inquietudine al assassino; in quel momento, la mancanza di sua moglie lo turbava. Lei aveva lasciato la casa all’inizio del pomeriggio e non era ancora tornata. Non c’era alcun sentimento tenero nei suoi confronti, ma lui temeva che potesse essere stata trattenuta da qualcuno e costretta a rivelare qualcosa che lo avrebbe incriminato quando le notizie fossero arrivate. Chissà, forse aveva bussato alla porta della sua stanza mentre lui non c’era, scoprendo così i suoi piani. Maledizione, il suo viso pallido sembrava vagare continuamente per tutta la casa. Dove si trovava adesso?

“È andata dalla sua buona amica, la signora Todgers,” disse l’uomo anziano, mentre poneva quella domanda con un’imprecazione arrabbiata.

Sì! Certamente! Si intrufolava sempre in compagnia di quella donna. Non era affatto sua amica. Chi sa quali malefiche idee potessero concepire insieme. Bisogna portarla subito a casa.

L’uomo anziano, mormorando qualche parola sottovoce, sembrava voler andare da solo a prendere quella cosa, ma Jonas lo spinse di nuovo sulla sedia con un’imprecazione impaziente e mandò una serva ad andarla a prendere. Dopo averle affidato il compito, iniziò a camminare avanti e indietro, senza fermarsi finché lei non tornò; il percorso era breve, e la donna si era affrettata molto.

Well! Where was she? Had she come?

No. She had left there, full three hours.

‘Left there! Alone?’

The messenger had not asked; taking that for granted.

‘Curse you for a fool. Bring candles!’

She had scarcely left the room when the old clerk, who had been unusually observant of him ever since he had asked about his wife, came suddenly upon him.

‘Give her up!’ cried the old man. ‘Come! Give her up to me! Tell me what you have done with her. Quick! I have made no promises on that score. Tell me what you have done with her.’

He laid his hands upon his collar as he spoke, and grasped it; tightly too.

‘You shall not leave me!’ cried the old man. ‘I am strong enough to cry out to the neighbours, and I will, unless you give her up. Give her up to me!’

Jonas was so dismayed and conscience-stricken, that he had not even hardihood enough to unclench the old man’s hands with his own; but stood looking at him as well as he could in the darkness, without moving a finger. It was as much as he could do to ask him what he meant.

‘I will know what you have done with her!’ retorted Chuffey. ‘If you hurt a hair of her head, you shall answer it. Poor thing! Poor thing! Where is she?’

‘Why, you old madman!’ said Jonas, in a low voice, and with trembling lips. ‘What Bedlam fit has come upon you now?’

‘It is enough to make me mad, seeing what I have seen in this house!’ cried Chuffey. ‘Where is my dear old master! Where is his only son that I have nursed upon my knee, a child! Where is she, she who was the last; she that I’ve seen pining day by day, and heard weeping in the dead of night! She was the last, the last of all my friends! Heaven help me, she was the very last!’

Seeing that the tears were stealing down his face, Jonas mustered courage to unclench his hands, and push him off before he answered:

‘Did you hear me ask for her? Did you hear me send for her? How can I give you up what I haven’t got, idiot! Ecod, I’d give her up to you and welcome, if I could; and a precious pair you’d be!’

‘If she has come to any harm,’ cried Chuffey, ‘mind! I’m old and silly; but I have my memory sometimes; and if she has come to any harm—’

‘Devil take you,’ interrupted Jonas, but in a suppressed voice still; ‘what harm do you suppose she has come to? I know no more where she is than you do; I wish I did. Wait till she comes home, and see; she can’t be long. Will that content you?’

‘Mind!’ exclaimed the old man. ‘Not a hair of her head! not a hair of her head ill-used! I won’t bear it. I—I—have borne it too long Jonas. I am silent, but I—I—I can speak. I—I—I can speak—’ he stammered, as he crept back to his chair, and turned a threatening, though a feeble, look upon him.

‘You can speak, can you!’ thought Jonas. ‘So, so, we’ll stop your speaking. It’s well I knew of this in good time. Prevention is better than cure.’

He had made a poor show of playing the bully and evincing a desire to conciliate at the same time, but was so afraid of the old man that great drops had started out upon his brow; and they stood there yet. His unusual tone of voice and agitated manner had sufficiently expressed his fear; but his face would have done so now, without that aid, as he again walked to and fro, glancing at him by the candelight.

He stopped at the window to think. An opposite shop was lighted up; and the tradesman and a customer were reading some printed bill together across the counter. The sight brought him back, instantly, to the occupation he had forgotten. ‘Look here! Do you know of this? Is it found? Do you suspect ME?’

A hand upon the door. ‘What’s that!’

‘A pleasant evenin’,’ said the voice of Mrs Gamp, ‘though warm, which, bless you, Mr Chuzzlewit, we must expect when cowcumbers is three for twopence. How does Mr Chuffey find his self to-night, sir?’

Mrs Gamp kept particularly close to the door in saying this, and curtseyed more than usual. She did not appear to be quite so much at her ease as she generally was.

‘Get him to his room,’ said Jonas, walking up to her, and speaking in her ear. ‘He has been raving to-night—stark mad. Don’t talk while he’s here, but come down again.’

‘Poor sweet dear!’ cried Mrs Gamp, with uncommon tenderness. ‘He’s all of a tremble.’

‘Well he may be,’ said Jonas, ‘after the mad fit he has had. Get him upstairs.’

She was by this time assisting him to rise.

‘There’s my blessed old chick!’ cried Mrs Gamp, in a tone that was at once soothing and encouraging. ‘There’s my darlin’ Mr Chuffey! Now come up to your own room, sir, and lay down on your bed a bit; for you’re a-shakin’ all over, as if your precious jints was hung upon wires. That’s a good creetur! Come with Sairey!’

‘Is she come home?’ inquired the old man.

‘She’ll be here directly minit,’ returned Mrs Gamp. ‘Come with Sairey, Mr Chuffey. Come with your own Sairey!’

The good woman had no reference to any female in the world in promising this speedy advent of the person for whom Mr Chuffey inquired, but merely threw it out as a means of pacifying the old man. It had its effect, for he permitted her to lead him away; and they quitted the room together.

Jonas looked out of the window again. They were still reading the printed paper in the shop opposite, and a third man had joined in the perusal. What could it be, to interest them so?’

A dispute or discussion seemed to arise among them, for they all looked up from their reading together, and one of the three, who had been glancing over the shoulder of another, stepped back to explain or illustrate some action by his gestures.

Horror! How like the blow he had struck in the wood!

It beat him from the window as if it had lighted on himself. As he staggered into a chair, he thought of the change in Mrs Gamp exhibited in her new-born tenderness to her charge. Was that because it was found?—because she knew of it?—because she suspected him?

Beh! Dove era finita? Era arrivata?

No. Era rimasta lì per ben tre ore.

“Lasciato lì. Da solo?”

Il messaggero non aveva chiesto nulla; lo aveva dato per scontato.

“Maledetto idiota. Porta delle candele!”

Appena aveva lasciato la stanza, l’anziano impiegato, che da quando lui aveva chiesto notizie di sua moglie lo osservava in modo insolitamente attento, gli si avvicinò all’improvviso.

“Dammela!” gridò l’uomo anziano. “Per favore, dammala a me! Dimmi cosa ne hai fatto. Subito! Non ho fatto alcuna promessa in merito. Dimmi dove si trova.”

Mentre parlava, mise le mani sul proprio colletto e lo afferrò, stringendolo forte.

“Non mi lasciare!” gridò l’uomo anziano. “Sono abbastanza forte da chiamare i vicini, e lo farò, a meno che tu non la lasci andare. Lasciala a me!”

Jonas era così sconvolto e tormentato dalla coscienza che non aveva nemmeno il coraggio di staccare le mani dell’uomo anziano dalle sue; rimase lì, a fissarlo nel buio, senza muovere un dito. Era tutto ciò che poteva fare per chiedergli cosa intendesse.

“Scoprirò cosa le avete fatto!” ribatté Chuffey. “Se le fate del male anche solo un capello, ne pagherete le conseguenze. Poverina. Dove si trova?”

“Ma che vecchio pazzo!” disse Jonas, a bassa voce, con le labbra tremanti. “Che follia ti ha preso ora?”

“Basta così per farmi impazzire, vedendo tutto ciò che ho visto in questa casa!” gridò Chuffey. “Dove è il mio caro vecchio padrone? Dove è suo unico figlio, quel bambino che ho cresciuto tra le mie braccia? E dove è lei, l’ultima di tutti, quella che ho visto soffrire giorno dopo giorno, sentire i suoi pianti nel cuore della notte? Lei era l’ultima, l’ultima delle mie amiche! Per favore, cielo, lei era davvero l’ultima, ”

Vedendo che le lacrime gli scorrevano sul viso, Jonas raccolse tutto il proprio coraggio per aprire le mani e spingerlo via prima di rispondere:

“Hai sentito che la chiedevo? Hai sentito che la mandavo a chiamare? Come posso darti qualcosa che non ho io stesso, idiota! Avrei dato lei a te volentieri, e con piacere; sareste davvero una bella coppia, ”

“Se le è successo qualcosa di male,” gridò Chuffey, “attenzione! Sono vecchio e stupido, ma a volte ricordo ancora; e se le è successo qualcosa di male, ”

“Dio ti prenda,” intervenne Jonas, ma con voce soffocata; “che danno pensi che possa aver causato? Non so dove sia più di quanto tu sappia; vorrei saperlo anch’io. Aspetta che torni a casa, e vedrai, non può essere lontana. Ti basterà questo?”

“Attenzione!” esclamò l’uomo anziano. “Nessun capello suo deve essere danneggiato! Non lo tollererò. L’ho sopportato troppo a lungo, Jonas. Sono silenzioso, ma posso parlare, ” balbettò, mentre si ritirava lentamente sulla sua sedia e lo guardava con uno sguardo minaccioso, anche se debole.

“Puoi parlare, vero?”, pensò Jonas. “Bene, allora smetteremo che parli. In fondo lo sapevo da tempo. Meglio prevenire che curare.”

Aveva fatto una pessima figura nel comportarsi da bullo e nell’esprimere un -desiderio di conciliarsi allo stesso tempo, ma aveva così tanta paura dell’uomo anziano che grosse gocce di sudore gli erano cominciate a comparire sulla fronte; quelle gocce rimasero lì anche in seguito. Il suo tono di voce insolito e il suo comportamento agitato avevano già espresso chiaramente la sua -paura; ma anche senza quei segnali, il suo viso avrebbe comunque rivelato tutto, mentre continuava a camminare avanti e indietro, lanciandogli occhiate alla luce delle candele.

Si fermò davanti alla finestra per riflettere. Un negozio di fronte era illuminato; il commerciante e un cliente stavano leggendo insieme un documento stampato dietro al bancone. Quella scena lo riportò immediatamente all’occupazione che aveva dimenticato. “Guarda qui! Ne sai nulla? È stato trovato? Sospetti di ME?”

Una mano sulla porta. “Che cos’è!”

“Buona serata,” disse la voce della signora Gamp, “anche se fa caldo, il che, per fortuna nostra, signor Chuzzlewit, è del tutto normale quando i cetrioli costano tre penny e due pence a pezzo. Come si sente stasera, signor Chuffey?”

Mrs Gamp si tenne particolarmente vicina alla porta mentre lo diceva e fece un inchino più profondo del solito. Non sembrava essere così a suo agio come di solito.

“Portalo nella sua stanza,” disse Jonas avvicinandosi a lei e parlando all’orecchio. “Ha continuato a delirare per tutta la notte, è completamente pazzo. Non parlare mentre è qui, ma torna giù più tardi.”

“Povero caro!” esclamò la signora Gamp con una tenerezza insolita. “È tutto tremante.”

“Beh, forse lo è,” disse Jonas, “dopo quella crisi di follia che ha avuto. Portatelo di sopra.”

A quell’ora, lei lo stava aiutando a alzarsi.

“Eccola qui la mia adorata vecchia ragazza!” esclamò la signora Gamp con un tono che era al contempo rassicurante e incoraggiante. “Ecco il mio caro signor Chuffey! Ora vada nella sua stanza, si sdrai sul letto per un po’. Si sta tremando dappertutto, come se le sue ossa fossero sospese a dei fili. Che bravo ragazzo! Venga con Sairey!”

“È tornata a casa?” chiese l’uomo anziano.

“Arriverà qui tra un attimo,” rispose la signora Gamp. “Venite con Sairey, signor Chuffey. Venite anche voi con la vostra Sairey!”

Quella brava donna non aveva alcuna informazione riguardo a nessuna donna al mondo che potesse garantire l’imminente arrivo della persona di cui il signor Chuffey chiedeva notizie, ma aveva semplicemente menzionato questa possibilità come mezzo per calmare l’uomo anziano. La sua strategia funzionò: lui le permise di portarlo via, e insieme lasciarono la stanza.

Jonas guardò di nuovo fuori dalla finestra. Loro stavano ancora leggendo il giornale stampato nel negozio di fronte, e un terzo uomo si era unito a loro nella lettura. Cosa poteva essere, per interessarli così tanto?

Sembrava che fosse sorta una disputa o una discussione tra di loro, perché tutti alzarono lo sguardo dal libro che stavano leggendo; uno dei tre, che aveva letto di nascosto sopra la spalla di un altro, fece un passo indietro per spiegare o illustrare con i gesti qualcosa che era accaduto.

Orrore! Quanto assomigliava a quel colpo che aveva dato sul legno.

Lo colpì attraverso la finestra, come se fosse stata illuminata da essa stessa. Mentre barcollava verso una sedia, pensò al cambiamento che si era verificato in Mrs Gamp: la sua nuova tenerezza nei confronti del suo incarico. Forse perché l’oggetto cercato era stato trovato? Forse perché lei ne era a conoscenza? O forse perché lo sospettava?

‘Mr Chuffey is a-lyin’ down,’ said Mrs Gamp, returning, ‘and much good may it do him, Mr Chuzzlewit, which harm it can’t and good it may; be joyful!’

‘Sit down,’ said Jonas, hoarsely, ‘and let us get this business done. Where is the other woman?’

‘The other person’s with him now,’ she answered.

‘That’s right,’ said Jonas. ‘He is not fit to be left to himself. Why, he fastened on me to-night; here, upon my coat; like a savage dog. Old as he is, and feeble as he is usually, I had some trouble to shake him off. You—Hush!—It’s nothing. You told me the other woman’s name. I forget it.’

‘I mentioned Betsey Prig,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘She is to be trusted, is she?’

‘That she ain’t!’ said Mrs Gamp; ‘nor have I brought her, Mr Chuzzlewit. I’ve brought another, which engages to give every satigefaction.’

‘What is her name?’ asked Jonas.

Mrs Gamp looked at him in an odd way without returning any answer, but appeared to understand the question too.

‘What is her name?’ repeated Jonas.

‘Her name,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘is Harris.’

It was extraordinary how much effort it cost Mrs Gamp to pronounce the name she was commonly so ready with. She made some three or four gasps before she could get it out; and, when she had uttered it, pressed her hand upon her side, and turned up her eyes, as if she were going to faint away. But, knowing her to labour under a complication of internal disorders, which rendered a few drops of spirits indispensable at certain times to her existence, and which came on very strong when that remedy was not at hand, Jonas merely supposed her to be the victim of one of these attacks.

‘Well!’ he said, hastily, for he felt how incapable he was of confining his wandering attention to the subject. ‘You and she have arranged to take care of him, have you?’

Mrs Gamp replied in the affirmative, and softly discharged herself of her familiar phrase, ‘Turn and turn about; one off, one on.’ But she spoke so tremulously that she felt called upon to add, ‘which fiddle-strings is weakness to expredge my nerves this night!’

Jonas stopped to listen. Then said, hurriedly:

‘We shall not quarrel about terms. Let them be the same as they were before. Keep him close, and keep him quiet. He must be restrained. He has got it in his head to-night that my wife’s dead, and has been attacking me as if I had killed her. It’s—it’s common with mad people to take the worst fancies of those they like best. Isn’t it?’

Mrs Gamp assented with a short groan.

‘Keep him close, then, or in one of his fits he’ll be doing me a mischief. And don’t trust him at any time; for when he seems most rational, he’s wildest in his talk. But that you know already. Let me see the other.’

‘The t’other person, sir?’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘Aye! Go you to him and send the other. Quick! I’m busy.’

Mrs Gamp took two or three backward steps towards the door, and stopped there.

‘It is your wishes, Mr Chuzzlewit,’ she said, in a sort of quavering croak, ‘to see the t’other person. Is it?’

But the ghastly change in Jonas told her that the other person was already seen. Before she could look round towards the door, she was put aside by old Martin’s hand; and Chuffey and John Westlock entered with him.

‘Let no one leave the house,’ said Martin. ‘This man is my brother’s son. Ill-met, ill-trained, ill-begotten. If he moves from the spot on which he stands, or speaks a word above his breath to any person here, open the window, and call for help!’

‘What right have you to give such directions in this house?’ asked Jonas faintly.

‘The right of your wrong-doing. Come in there!’

An irrepressible exclamation burst from the lips of Jonas, as Lewsome entered at the door. It was not a groan, or a shriek, or a word, but was wholly unlike any sound that had ever fallen on the ears of those who heard it, while at the same time it was the most sharp and terrible expression of what was working in his guilty breast, that nature could have invented.

He had done murder for this! He had girdled himself about with perils, agonies of mind, innumerable fears, for this! He had hidden his secret in the wood; pressed and stamped it down into the bloody ground; and here it started up when least expected, miles upon miles away; known to many; proclaiming itself from the lips of an old man who had renewed his strength and vigour as by a miracle, to give it voice against him!

He leaned his hand on the back of a chair, and looked at them. It was in vain to try to do so scornfully, or with his usual insolence. He required the chair for his support. But he made a struggle for it.

‘I know that fellow,’ he said, fetching his breath at every word, and pointing his trembling finger towards Lewsome. ‘He’s the greatest liar alive. What’s his last tale? Ha, ha! You’re rare fellows, too! Why, that uncle of mine is childish; he’s even a greater child than his brother, my father, was, in his old age; or than Chuffey is. What the devil do you mean,’ he added, looking fiercely at John Westlock and Mark Tapley (the latter had entered with Lewsome), ‘by coming here, and bringing two idiots and a knave with you to take my house by storm? Hallo, there! Open the door! Turn these strangers out!’

‘I tell you what,’ cried Mr Tapley, coming forward, ‘if it wasn’t for your name, I’d drag you through the streets of my own accord, and single-handed I would! Ah, I would! Don’t try and look bold at me. You can’t do it! Now go on, sir,’ this was to old Martin. ‘Bring the murderin’ wagabond upon his knees! If he wants noise, he shall have enough of it; for as sure as he’s a shiverin’ from head to foot I’ll raise a uproar at this winder that shall bring half London in. Go on, sir! Let him try me once, and see whether I’m a man of my word or not.’

With that, Mark folded his arms, and took his seat upon the window-ledge, with an air of general preparation for anything, which seemed to imply that he was equally ready to jump out himself, or to throw Jonas out, upon receiving the slightest hint that it would be agreeable to the company.

“Il signor Chuffey è sdraiato a letto,” disse la signora Gamp tornando, “e che bene possa fargli. Che male non può fare e bene sicuramente farà; siate felici!”

“Siediti,” disse Jonas, con voce rauca, “e finiamo questa faccenda. Dove è l’altra donna?”

“L’altra persona è con lui adesso,” rispose lei.

“Esatto,” disse Jonas. “Non è adatto a essere lasciato da solo. Perché, quella notte si è attaccato a me, qui, al mio cappotto; come un cane selvaggio. Nonostante fosse vecchio e di solito debole, ho avuto difficoltà a liberarmene. Tu. Zitta! Niente. Mi hai detto il nome dell’altra donna. Me lo sono dimenticato.”

“Ho menzionato Betsey Prig,” disse la signora Gamp.

“Si può fidare di lei, vero?”

“Non lo è affatto!” disse la signora Gamp; “e non l’ho nemmeno portata con me, signor Chuzzlewit. Ho portato un’altra, che promette di soddisfare ogni desiderio.”

“Come si chiama?” chiese Jonas.

La signora Gamp lo guardò in modo strano, senza dare alcuna risposta, ma sembrava aver capito anche la domanda.

“Come si chiama?” ripeté Jonas.

“Si chiama Harris”, disse la signora Gamp.

Era straordinario quanta fatica facesse la signora Gamp per pronunciare quel nome che di solito le veniva così facilmente alle labbra. Fece tre o quattro sospiri prima di riuscirci; e, una volta pronunciato il nome, si premette la mano sul fianco e alzò lo sguardo, come se stesse per svenire. Ma, conoscendo che soffriva di una complessa serie di disturbi interni che le rendevano indispensabili alcune gocce di liquore in determinati momenti, e che questi sintomi si aggravavano quando tale rimedio non era a disposizione, Jonas pensò semplicemente che fosse vittima di uno di questi attacchi.

“Beh!”, disse in fretta, perché si rendeva conto di quanto fosse incapace di concentrare la sua attenzione dispersa su quell’argomento. “Voi e lei avete deciso di prendervi cura di lui, vero?”

La signora Gamp rispose affermativamente e, con voce sommessa, ripeté la sua frase preferita: “Torna e ritorna; uno via, uno avanti”. Tuttavia, parlò in modo così tremolante che sentì il bisogno di aggiungere: “Che strumento musicale possa esprimere, questa notte, la debolezza dei miei nervi,!”

“Jonas si fermò ad ascoltare. Poi disse, in fretta:”

“Non dovremmo discutere sui termini dell’accordo. Lasciamo che siano gli stessi di prima. Tienilo vicino a te e fai in modo che rimanga tranquillo; deve essere controllato. Gli è entrata in testa l’idea che mia moglie sia morta, e mi attacca come se fossi stato io ad ucciderla. È tipico delle persone pazze prendere le peggiori interpretazioni riguardo a coloro che amano di più, non è vero?”

La signora Gamp annuì con un breve gemito.

“Allora tienilo vicino a te, altrimenti, durante uno dei suoi attacchi di follia, potrebbe combinarmi qualche guaio. E non fidarti mai di lui: quando sembra più razionale, in realtà è il momento in cui parla con maggiore follia. Ma questo lo sai già. Lasciami vedere l’altro.”

“L’altra persona, signore?” disse la signora Gamp.

“Sì! Vai da lui e manda anche l’altro. Presto! Sono occupato.”

La signora Gamp fece due o tre passi indietro verso la porta, poi si fermò lì.

“Sono i suoi desideri, signor Chuzzlewit,” disse lei, con una voce tremante e rauca, “vedere quella persona. Giusto?”

Ma il terribile cambiamento in Jonas le fece capire che l’altra persona era già stata vista. Prima ancora che potesse guardarsi intorno verso la porta, fu spostata da parte dalla mano di vecchio Martin; e Chuffey e John Westlock entrarono insieme a lui.

“Nessuno deve lasciare questa casa”, disse Martin. “Quest’uomo è il figlio di mio fratello. Maltrattato, mal educato, nato in condizioni disonorevoli. Se si muove da dove si trova, o dice anche solo una parola sottovoce a chiunque qui dentro, aprite immediatamente la finestra e chiamate aiuto!”

“Che diritto hai di dare tali ordini in questa casa?”, chiese Jonas con voce debole.

“Il diritto del tuo sbaglio. Entra lì!”

Un’esclamazione incontenibile sfuggì dalle labbra di Jonas nel momento in cui Lewsome entrò dalla porta. Non era un gemito, né un urlo, né una parola; era qualcosa di completamente diverso da qualsiasi suono avessero mai sentito coloro che l’ascoltarono. E allo stesso tempo, rappresentava l’espressione più intensa e terribile di ciò che agitava il suo cuore colpevole: l’espressione più crudele che la natura potesse mai inventare.

Aveva commesso un omicidio per questo! Si era circondato di pericoli, sofferenze mentali, innumerevoli paure. Per questo aveva nascosto il proprio segreto nel bosco; l’aveva sepolto nella terra insanguinata. E ora quel segreto riemergeva, lontano chilometri di distanza, conosciuto da molti. Rivelato dalle labbra di un vecchio che, come per miracolo, aveva riacquistato forza e vigore, per usarlo contro di lui!

Appoggiò la mano sullo schienale di una sedia e li guardò. Era inutile cercare di farlo con disprezzo o con la sua solita insolenza; aveva bisogno della sedia per reggersi. Ma fece comunque uno sforzo per usarla.

“Conosco quel tipo,” disse, prendendo fiato dopo ogni parola e puntando il dito tremante verso Lewsome. “È il più grande bugiardo che esista. Qual è l’ultima sua storiella? Ahah! Voi siete davvero strani. Quel mio zio è infantile; è persino più bambino di suo fratello, mio padre, in vecchiaia. O di Chuffey. Ma che diavolo intendete,” aggiunse, guardando con rabbia John Westlock e Mark Tapley (quest’ultimo era entrato insieme a Lewsome), “venendo qui e portando con voi due idioti e un furfante per prendere la mia casa con la forza? Ehi, lì! Aprite la porta! Cacciate via questi estranei!”

“Vi dico una cosa,” gridò il signor Tapley avvicinandosi, “se non fosse per il vostro nome, vi trascinerei per le strade di mia iniziativa, e lo farei da solo! Ah, lo farei! Non cercate nemmeno di sembrare coraggiosi con me. Non potreste riuscirci! Ora andate avanti, signore,” disse rivolgendosi al vecchio Martin. “Portate quel maledetto vagabondo assassino in ginocchio! Se vuole rumore, ne avrà a sufficienza; perché sono sicuro che trema dalla testa ai piedi. Farò un tale baccano che metterò in allarme metà di Londra! Andate avanti, signore. Lasciate che mi provi una volta, e vedrà se sono davvero un uomo di parola o no.”

Detto questo, Mark incrociò le braccia e si sedette sul davanzale della finestra, con un’aria di prontezza generale ad affrontare qualsiasi cosa; sembrava proprio che fosse pronto sia a saltare fuori lui stesso che a gettare Jonas giù, non appena ricevesse anche il minimo suggerimento che ciò potesse essere gradito al gruppo.

Old Martin turned to Lewsome:

‘This is the man,’ he said, extending his hand towards Jonas. ‘Is it?’

‘You need do no more than look at him to be sure of that, or of the truth of what I have said,’ was the reply. ‘He is my witness.’

‘Oh, brother!’ cried old Martin, clasping his hands and lifting up his eyes. ‘Oh, brother, brother! Were we strangers half our lives that you might breed a wretch like this, and I make life a desert by withering every flower that grew about me! Is it the natural end of your precepts and mine, that this should be the creature of your rearing, training, teaching, hoarding, striving for; and I the means of bringing him to punishment, when nothing can repair the wasted past!’

He sat down upon a chair as he spoke, and turning away his face, was silent for a few moments. Then with recovered energy he proceeded:

‘But the accursed harvest of our mistaken lives shall be trodden down. It is not too late for that. You are confronted with this man, you monster there; not to be spared, but to be dealt with justly. Hear what he says! Reply, be silent, contradict, repeat, defy, do what you please. My course will be the same. Go on! And you,’ he said to Chuffey, ‘for the love of your old friend, speak out, good fellow!’

‘I have been silent for his love!’ cried the old man. ‘He urged me to it. He made me promise it upon his dying bed. I never would have spoken, but for your finding out so much. I have thought about it ever since; I couldn’t help that; and sometimes I have had it all before me in a dream; but in the day-time, not in sleep. Is there such a kind of dream?’ said Chuffey, looking anxiously in old Martin’s face.

As Martin made him an encouraging reply, he listened attentively to his voice, and smiled.

‘Ah, aye!’ he cried. ‘He often spoke to me like that. We were at school together, he and I. I couldn’t turn against his son, you know—his only son, Mr Chuzzlewit!’

‘I would to Heaven you had been his son!’ said Martin.

‘You speak so like my dear old master,’ cried the old man with a childish delight, ‘that I almost think I hear him. I can hear you quite as well as I used to hear him. It makes me young again. He never spoke unkindly to me, and I always understood him. I could always see him too, though my sight was dim. Well, well! He’s dead, he’s dead. He was very good to me, my dear old master!’

He shook his head mournfully over the brother’s hand. At this moment Mark, who had been glancing out of the window, left the room.

‘I couldn’t turn against his only son, you know,’ said Chuffey. ‘He has nearly driven me to do it sometimes; he very nearly did tonight. Ah!’ cried the old man, with a sudden recollection of the cause. ‘Where is she? She’s not come home!’

‘Do you mean his wife?’ said Mr Chuzzlewit.

‘Yes.’

‘I have removed her. She is in my care, and will be spared the present knowledge of what is passing here. She has known misery enough, without that addition.’

Jonas heard this with a sinking heart. He knew that they were on his heels, and felt that they were resolute to run him to destruction. Inch by inch the ground beneath him was sliding from his feet; faster and faster the encircling ruin contracted and contracted towards himself, its wicked centre, until it should close in and crush him.

And now he heard the voice of his accomplice stating to his face, with every circumstance of time and place and incident; and openly proclaiming, with no reserve, suppression, passion, or concealment; all the truth. The truth, which nothing would keep down; which blood would not smother, and earth would not hide; the truth, whose terrible inspiration seemed to change dotards into strong men; and on whose avenging wings, one whom he had supposed to be at the extremest corner of the earth came swooping down upon him.

He tried to deny it, but his tongue would not move. He conceived some desperate thought of rushing away, and tearing through the streets; but his limbs would as little answer to his will as his stark, stiff staring face. All this time the voice went slowly on, denouncing him. It was as if every drop of blood in the wood had found a voice to jeer him with.

When it ceased, another voice took up the tale, but strangely; for the old clerk, who had watched, and listened to the whole, and had wrung his hands from time to time, as if he knew its truth and could confirm it, broke in with these words:

‘No, no, no! you’re wrong; you’re wrong—all wrong together! Have patience, for the truth is only known to me!’

‘How can that be,’ said his old master’s brother, ‘after what you have heard? Besides, you said just now, above-stairs, when I told you of the accusation against him, that you knew he was his father’s murderer.’

‘Aye, yes! and so he was!’ cried Chuffey, wildly. ‘But not as you suppose—not as you suppose. Stay! Give me a moment’s time. I have it all here—all here! It was foul, foul, cruel, bad; but not as you suppose. Stay, stay!’

He put his hands up to his head, as if it throbbed or pained him. After looking about him in a wandering and vacant manner for some moments, his eyes rested upon Jonas, when they kindled up with sudden recollection and intelligence.

‘Yes!’ cried old Chuffey, ‘yes! That’s how it was. It’s all upon me now. He—he got up from his bed before he died, to be sure, to say that he forgave him; and he came down with me into this room; and when he saw him—his only son, the son he loved—his speech forsook him; he had no speech for what he knew—and no one understood him except me. But I did—I did!’

Old Martin regarded him in amazement; so did his companions. Mrs Gamp, who had said nothing yet; but had kept two-thirds of herself behind the door, ready for escape, and one-third in the room, ready for siding with the strongest party; came a little further in and remarked, with a sob, that Mr Chuffey was ‘the sweetest old creetur goin’.’

“Old Martin si rivolse a Lewsome, ”

“Ecco l’uomo,” disse, tendendo la mano verso Jonas. “Davvero?”

“Basta guardarlo per esserne certi, o per credere alla verità di ciò che ho detto,” fu la risposta. “Lui è la mia testimonianza.”

‘Oh, fratello mio!’ gridò il vecchio Martin, stringendo le mani e alzando lo sguardo. ‘Oh, fratello mio. Se fossimo stati estranei l’uno all’altro per metà della nostra vita, forse avresti potuto generare un simile mostro; mentre io ho trasformato la mia esistenza in un deserto, distruggendo ogni cosa bella che mi circondava! È davvero questo il risultato naturale dei nostri insegnamenti e delle nostre azioni? Che tu abbia creato questa creatura attraverso le tue cure, i tuoi insegnamenti, i tuoi sforzi, e che io sia diventato lo strumento che l’ha condotta alla punizione, quando nulla può più rimediare al passato sprecato!’

Si sedette su una sedia mentre parlava, poi girò il viso dall’altra parte e rimase in silenzio per alcuni momenti. Infine, ripresosi, continuò:

“Ma il maledetto frutto delle nostre vite errate sarà calpestato. Non è ancora troppo tardi per farlo. Vi trovate di fronte a quest’uomo, voi, mostro lì; non verrete risparmiati, ma giustamente puniti. Ascoltate ciò che dice! Rispondete, restate in silenzio, contradditeci, ripetetele, sfidatelo, fate pure ciò che volete. Il mio percorso sarà lo stesso. Andate avanti!” Poi disse a Chuffey: “Per l’amore del vostro vecchio amico, parlate, buon uomo, ”

“Sono rimasto in silenzio per il suo amore!”, gridò l’uomo anziano. “Lui me lo ha chiesto. Me l’ha fatto promettere sul suo letto di morte. Non avrei mai parlato, se non fosse stato per il fatto che tu hai scoperto tutto. Ci ho pensato continuamente da allora; non ho potuto fare altrimenti. A volte quelle immagini mi appaiono anche in sogno; ma di giorno, mai. Durante il sonno. Esistono davvero sogni del genere?”, chiese Chuffey, guardando con ansia il volto dell’anziano Martin.

Mentre Martin gli rispondeva in modo incoraggiante, lui ascoltava attentamente la sua voce e sorrideva.

“Ah, sì!” esclamò. “Spesso mi parlava in quel modo. Eravamo a scuola insieme, lui e io. Non potevo tradire suo figlio, capite, il suo unico figlio, il signor Chuzzlewit!”

“Vorrei con tutto il cuore che fossi stato suo figlio!” disse Martin.

“Parli proprio come mio caro vecchio padrone,” esclamò l’uomo anziano con un infantile piacere, “che quasi mi sembra di sentirlo di nuovo. Ti capisco benissimo, proprio come capivo lui. Mi fai sentire di nuovo giovane. Lui non mi parlava mai in modo scortese, e io lo capivo sempre. Riuscivo anche a vederlo, anche se la mia vista era debole. Beh, beh. È morto, è morto. Era davvero molto buono con me, mio caro vecchio padrone!”

Scosse tristemente la testa sulla mano di suo fratello. In quel momento, Mark, che stava guardando fuori dalla finestra, lasciò la stanza.

“Non avrei potuto voltarmi contro suo unico figlio, capisci,” disse Chuffey. “A volte mi ha quasi costretto a farlo; stasera ci è andato vicino. Ah!” gridò l’uomo anziano, ricordandosi all’improvviso della ragione per cui si trovava in quella situazione. “Dov’è? Non è ancora tornata a casa!”

“Intendi sua moglie?”, disse il signor Chuzzlewit.

“Sì, davvero.”

“L’ho portata via. Ora è sotto la mia protezione e non verrà a conoscenza di ciò che sta accadendo qui. Ha già sofferto abbastanza, senza bisogno di questa ulteriore sofferenza.”

Jonas ascoltò queste parole con il cuore che gli si stringeva nel petto. Sapeva che lo stavano inseguendo e sentiva che erano determinati a portarlo alla rovina. Insieme dopo insieme, il terreno sotto i suoi piedi gli sfuggiva; sempre più rapidamente, l’area di distruzione che lo circondava si stringeva attorno a lui, verso quel suo centro malvagio, fino a quando non lo avrebbe schiacciato.

E ora sentì la voce del suo complice che gli diceva tutto in faccia, con precisione riguardo a ogni dettaglio di tempo, luogo e circostanza; e che proclamava apertamente, senza riserve, passioni o nascondimenti, tutta la verità. Quella verità che nulla avrebbe potuto soffocare; che nessun sangue avrebbe potuto cancellare, né la terra nascondere; quella verità la cui terribile forza sembrava trasformare gli anziani in uomini forti. E su quelle ali vendicative, colui che lui aveva creduto fosse all’estremità opposta della terra, piombò su di lui.

Cercò di negarlo, ma la sua lingua non voleva muoversi. Gli venne in mente l’idea disperata di scappare via a tutta velocità, di correre per le strade; ma i suoi arti non obbedivano al suo volere, proprio come il suo viso rigido e immobile. In tutto quel tempo, quella voce continuava lentamente a denunciarlo. Era come se ogni goccia di sangue presente in quella stanza avesse trovato una voce per deriderlo.

Quando cessò, un’altra voce riprese a raccontare la storia, ma in modo strano; perché l’anziano impiegato, che aveva osservato e ascoltato tutto fino alla fine, e si era tormentato le mani da tempo a tempo, come se conoscesse la sua verità e potesse confermarla, intervenne dicendo queste parole:

“No, no, no! Ti sbagli; ti sbagli completamente! Abbi pazienza, perché la _verità è conosciuta solo da me!”

“Come può essere,” disse il fratello del suo vecchio padrone, “dopo quello che hai sentito? Inoltre, poco fa, al piano di sopra, quando ti ho parlato dell’accusa contro di lui, hai detto che sapevi che era l’assassino di suo padre.”

“Sì, sì! Proprio così era!” gridò Chuffey, in preda alla follia. “Ma non come pensate. Non come credete voi. Aspettate! Datemi un attimo. Ho tutto qui. Tutto qui! È stato orribile, crudele, malvagio. Ma non come immaginate voi. Aspettate!”

Si portò le mani alla testa, come se questa gli dolesse o pulsasse. Dopo aver guardato intorno in modo vago e assente per alcuni momenti, i suoi occhi si posarono su Jonas; allora si illuminarono improvvisamente, segno di un ricordo improvviso e di una riacquistata lucidità mentale.

“Sì!” gridò il vecchio Chuffey, “sì! È andata proprio così. Ora tutta la colpa ricade su di me. Lui, prima di morire si alzò dal letto per dire che lo perdonava; scese con me in questa stanza. E quando lo vide, suo unico figlio, il figlio che amava, non riuscì a parlare; non aveva parole per ciò che sapeva. E nessuno lo capì tranne me. Ma io sì. Io lo capii!”

Il vecchio Martin lo guardava con ammirazione; lo stesso valeva per i suoi compagni. La signora Gamp, che fino ad allora non aveva detto nulla ma si trovava per due terzi dietro la porta pronta a fuggire e per un terzo nella stanza pronta a schierarsi dalla parte più forte, entrò un po’ di più e, con un singhiozzo, commentò che il signor Chuffey era “la persona più gentile e cara che esista”.

‘He bought the stuff,’ said Chuffey, stretching out his arm towards Jonas while an unwonted fire shone in his eye, and lightened up his face; ‘he bought the stuff, no doubt, as you have heard, and brought it home. He mixed the stuff—look at him!—with some sweetmeat in a jar, exactly as the medicine for his father’s cough was mixed, and put it in a drawer; in that drawer yonder in the desk; he knows which drawer I mean! He kept it there locked up. But his courage failed him or his heart was touched—my God! I hope it was his heart! He was his only son!—and he did not put it in the usual place, where my old master would have taken it twenty times a day.’

The trembling figure of the old man shook with the strong emotions that possessed him. But, with the same light in his eye, and with his arm outstretched, and with his grey hair stirring on his head, he seemed to grow in size, and was like a man inspired. Jonas shrunk from looking at him, and cowered down into the chair by which he had held. It seemed as if this tremendous Truth could make the dumb speak.

‘I know it every word now!’ cried Chuffey. ‘Every word! He put it in that drawer, as I have said. He went so often there, and was so secret, that his father took notice of it; and when he was out, had it opened. We were there together, and we found the mixture—Mr Chuzzlewit and I. He took it into his possession, and made light of it at the time; but in the night he came to my bedside, weeping, and told me that his own son had it in his mind to poison him. “Oh, Chuff,” he said, “oh, dear old Chuff! a voice came into my room to-night, and told me that this crime began with me. It began when I taught him to be too covetous of what I have to leave, and made the expectation of it his great business!” Those were his words; aye, they are his very words! If he was a hard man now and then, it was for his only son. He loved his only son, and he was always good to me!’

Jonas listened with increased attention. Hope was breaking in upon him.

‘“He shall not weary for my death, Chuff;” that was what he said next,’ pursued the old clerk, as he wiped his eyes; ‘that was what he said next, crying like a little child: “He shall not weary for my death, Chuff. He shall have it now; he shall marry where he has a fancy, Chuff, although it don’t please me; and you and I will go away and live upon a little. I always loved him; perhaps he’ll love me then. It’s a dreadful thing to have my own child thirsting for my death. But I might have known it. I have sown, and I must reap. He shall believe that I am taking this; and when I see that he is sorry, and has all he wants, I’ll tell him that I found it out, and I’ll forgive him. He’ll make a better man of his own son, and be a better man himself, perhaps, Chuff!”’

Poor Chuffey paused to dry his eyes again. Old Martin’s face was hidden in his hands. Jonas listened still more keenly, and his breast heaved like a swollen water, but with hope. With growing hope.

‘My dear old master made believe next day,’ said Chuffey, ‘that he had opened the drawer by mistake with a key from the bunch, which happened to fit it (we had one made and hung upon it); and that he had been surprised to find his fresh supply of cough medicine in such a place, but supposed it had been put there in a hurry when the drawer stood open. We burnt it; but his son believed that he was taking it—he knows he did. Once Mr Chuzzlewit, to try him, took heart to say it had a strange taste; and he got up directly, and went out.’

Jonas gave a short, dry cough; and, changing his position for an easier one, folded his arms without looking at them, though they could now see his face.

‘Mr Chuzzlewit wrote to her father; I mean the father of the poor thing who’s his wife,’ said Chuffey; ‘and got him to come up, intending to hasten on the marriage. But his mind, like mine, went a little wrong through grief, and then his heart broke. He sank and altered from the time when he came to me in the night; and never held up his head again. It was only a few days, but he had never changed so much in twice the years. “Spare him, Chuff!” he said, before he died. They were the only words he could speak. “Spare him, Chuff!” I promised him I would. I’ve tried to do it. He’s his only son.’

On his recollection of the last scene in his old friend’s life, poor Chuffey’s voice, which had grown weaker and weaker, quite deserted him. Making a motion with his hand, as if he would have said that Anthony had taken it, and had died with it in his, he retreated to the corner where he usually concealed his sorrows; and was silent.

Jonas could look at his company now, and vauntingly too. ‘Well!’ he said, after a pause. ‘Are you satisfied? or have you any more of your plots to broach? Why that fellow, Lewsome, can invent ‘em for you by the score. Is this all? Have you nothing else?’

Old Martin looked at him steadily.

‘Whether you are what you seemed to be at Pecksniff’s, or are something else and a mountebank, I don’t know and I don’t care,’ said Jonas, looking downward with a smile, ‘but I don’t want you here. You were here so often when your brother was alive, and were always so fond of him (your dear, dear brother, and you would have been cuffing one another before this, ecod!), that I am not surprised at your being attached to the place; but the place is not attached to you, and you can’t leave it too soon, though you may leave it too late. And for my wife, old man, send her home straight, or it will be the worse for her. Ha, ha! You carry it with a high hand, too! But it isn’t hanging yet for a man to keep a penn’orth of poison for his own purposes, and have it taken from him by two old crazy jolter-heads who go and act a play about it. Ha, ha! Do you see the door?’

“Ha comprato quella roba,” disse Chuffey, tendendo il braccio verso Jonas; nei suoi occhi brillava un’insolita fiamma che illuminò tutto il suo viso. “Ha comprato quella roba, senza alcun dubbio, come avete sentito, e l’ha portata a casa. L’ha mescolata, guardatelo!, con del dolce in una scatola, esattamente come veniva preparato il medicinale per la tosse di suo padre, e l’ha messa in un cassetto, quel cassetto là, nel comodino; lui sa quale intendo. L’ha tenuta chiusa a chiave lì dentro. Ma forse gli è mancato il coraggio, o forse il suo cuore si è commosso, mio Dio! Spero sia stato il suo cuore. Era il suo unico figlio. E non l’ha messa nel solito posto, dove il mio vecchio padrone l’avrebbe presa venti volte al giorno.”

La figura tremante dell’uomo anziano era scossa dalle forti emozioni che lo possedevano. Ma, con lo stesso sguardo luminoso negli occhi, con il braccio teso e i capelli grigi che ondeggiavano sulla testa, sembrava diventare più grande, come un uomo ispirato. Jonas evitò di guardarlo e si rannicchiò nella sedia dove si era appoggiato. Sembrava che questa terribile Verità potesse far parlare anche i muti.

“Ora so ogni parola!” gridò Chuffey. “Ogni parola! L’ha messa in quel cassetto, proprio come ho detto. Andava lì così spesso e con tale segretezza che suo padre se ne accorse; quando lui non c’era, apriva il cassetto. Eravamo lì insieme, e trovammo quella sostanza, io e il signor Chuzzlewit. Lui se la prese e la gettò via in quel momento; ma di notte venne da me, piangendo, e mi disse che suo figlio aveva intenzione di avvelenarlo. ‘Oh, Chuff,’ disse, ‘oh, caro vecchio Chuff, una voce è entrata nella mia stanza di notte e mi ha detto che questo crimine è iniziato con me. È iniziato quando gli ho insegnato ad essere troppo avido di ciò che io avrò lasciato, facendogli considerare quella possibilità la cosa più importante della sua vita!’ Queste sono state le sue parole, sì, esattamente queste parole! Anche se a volte era un uomo duro, lo faceva solo per suo figlio unico. Amava suo figlio unico, e era sempre stato buono con me!”

Jonas ascoltava con maggiore attenzione. La Speranza stava iniziando a fargli sentire i suoi effetti.

“‘Non si stancherà per la mia morte, Chuff, ’ Questo è ciò che ha detto dopo,” continuò l’anziano impiegato asciugandosi gli occhi; “è stato proprio questo che ha detto, piangendo come un piccolo bambino: ‘Non si stancherà per la mia morte, Chuff. Ora lo avrà; sposerà chi vuole, anche se a me non piace. E tu ed io andremo via a vivere da soli. L’ho sempre amato. Forse allora mi amerà anche lui. È terribile che il proprio figlio desideri la propria morte. Ma forse l’avrei dovuto immaginare. Ho seminato, e ora devo raccogliere i frutti. Lui crederà che io abbia preso tutto questo. E quando vedrò che è triste e ha tutto ciò che desidera, gli dirò che l’ho scoperto e gli perdonerò. Forse diventerà un uomo migliore con suo figlio. E forse anche lui stesso diventerà una persona migliore, Chuff!’”

Povero Chuffey fece una pausa per asciugarsi di nuovo gli occhi. Il viso del vecchio Martin era nascosto tra le sue mani. Jonas ascoltava ancora più attentamente; il suo petto si sollevava come un corpo d’acqua gonfio, ma pieno di speranza. Di una speranza sempre crescente.

“Il mio caro vecchio padrone fece finta il giorno dopo,” disse Chuffey, “di aver aperto l’armadietto per errore con una chiave del mazzo che, per caso, ci entrava (ne avevamo fatta fare una e l’avevamo appesa lì); e disse di essere rimasto sorpreso nel trovare la sua scorta fresca di medicina contro la tosse in quel posto, ma pensò che fosse stata messa lì in fretta quando l’armadietto era stato aperto. L’abbiamo bruciata; ma suo figlio credeva che lui la stesse prendendo. Lui sa che lo faceva davvero. Una volta, il signor Chuzzlewit, per metterlo alla prova, osò dire che aveva un sapore strano; e lui si alzò immediatamente e se ne andò.”

Jonas tossì una breve, secca tosse; poi, cambiando posizione per stare più comodo, incrociò le braccia senza guardarle, anche se ora potevano vedere il suo viso.

“Il signor Chuzzlewit scrisse a suo padre; intendo dire al padre di quella povera ragazza che è sua moglie,” disse Chuffey; “e lo fece venire qui, con l’intenzione di accelerare il matrimonio. Ma la sua mente, come la mia, fu un po’ turbata dal dolore, e poi il suo cuore si spezzò. Da quando venne da me quella notte, non è più stato lo stesso; non ha mai più ripreso le forze. Sono passati solo pochi giorni, ma in due anni non sarebbe mai cambiato così tanto, ‘Perdona lui, Chuff!’ disse prima di morire. Furono le uniche parole che riuscì a pronunciare. Gli promisi che l’avrei fatto. Ho cercato davvero di farlo. Lui è il suo unico figlio.”

Ricordando l’ultima scena nella vita del suo vecchio amico, la voce di povero Chuffey, che era diventata sempre più debole, lo abbandonò completamente. Faccendo un gesto con la mano, come se volesse dire che Anthony se l’era presa e era morto tenendola con sé, si ritirò nell’angolo dove di solito nascondeva le sue sofferenze; e rimase in silenzio.

Ora Jonas poteva guardare la sua azienda, e anche con orgoglio. “Bene!”, disse dopo una pausa. “Siete soddisfatti? O avete ancora qualche altro piano da proporre? Quel tipo, Lewsome, ne potrebbe inventare a dozzine per voi. È tutto qui? Non c’è nient’altro?”

Il vecchio Martin lo guardò fisso negli occhi.

“Che tu sia ciò che sembravi essere da Pecksniff, o qualcos’altro, un truffatore, non lo so e non mi interessa,” disse Jonas, guardando in basso con un sorriso. “Ma non voglio che tu sia qui. Eri sempre qui quando tuo fratello era vivo, e gli volevi così bene (il tuo caro, caro fratello, chissà se prima vi sareste anche abbracciati, eh!). Quindi non mi sorprende che tu tenga ancora tanto a questo posto. Ma il posto non tiene a te. Puoi andartene quando vuoi, anche troppo tardi, forse. E per quanto riguarda mia moglie, mandala subito a casa, altrimenti le capiterà qualcosa di brutto. Ahah! Sei davvero deciso a farlo, eh? Ma non è ancora arrivato il momento che un uomo possa tenere del veleno per i propri scopi personali, e poi farselo portare via da due vecchie pazze che vanno in giro a fare scenate per questo motivo. Ahah! Vedi quella porta?”

His base triumph, struggling with his cowardice, and shame, and guilt, was so detestable, that they turned away from him, as if he were some obscene and filthy animal, repugnant to the sight. And here that last black crime was busy with him too; working within him to his perdition. But for that, the old clerk’s story might have touched him, though never so lightly; but for that, the sudden removal of so great a load might have brought about some wholesome change even in him. With that deed done, however; with that unnecessary wasteful danger haunting him; despair was in his very triumph and relief; wild, ungovernable, raging despair, for the uselessness of the peril into which he had plunged; despair that hardened him and maddened him, and set his teeth a-grinding in a moment of his exultation.

‘My good friend!’ said old Martin, laying his hand on Chuffey’s sleeve. ‘This is no place for you to remain in. Come with me.’

‘Just his old way!’ cried Chuffey, looking up into his face. ‘I almost believe it’s Mr Chuzzlewit alive again. Yes! Take me with you! Stay, though, stay.’

‘For what?’ asked old Martin.

‘I can’t leave her, poor thing!’ said Chuffey. ‘She has been very good to me. I can’t leave her, Mr Chuzzlewit. Thank you kindly. I’ll remain here. I haven’t long to remain; it’s no great matter.’

As he meekly shook his poor, grey head, and thanked old Martin in these words, Mrs Gamp, now entirely in the room, was affected to tears.

‘The mercy as it is!’ she said, ‘as sech a dear, good, reverend creetur never got into the clutches of Betsey Prig, which but for me he would have done, undoubted; facts bein’ stubborn and not easy drove!’

‘You heard me speak to you just now, old man,’ said Jonas to his uncle. ‘I’ll have no more tampering with my people, man or woman. Do you see the door?’

‘Do YOU see the door?’ returned the voice of Mark, coming from that direction. ‘Look at it!’

He looked, and his gaze was nailed there. Fatal, ill-omened blighted threshold, cursed by his father’s footsteps in his dying hour, cursed by his young wife’s sorrowing tread, cursed by the daily shadow of the old clerk’s figure, cursed by the crossing of his murderer’s feet—what men were standing in the door way!

Nadgett foremost.

Hark! It came on, roaring like a sea! Hawkers burst into the street, crying it up and down; windows were thrown open that the inhabitants might hear it; people stopped to listen in the road and on the pavement; the bells, the same bells, began to ring; tumbling over one another in a dance of boisterous joy at the discovery (that was the sound they had in his distempered thoughts), and making their airy play-ground rock.

‘That is the man,’ said Nadgett. ‘By the window!’

Three others came in, laid hands upon him, and secured him. It was so quickly done, that he had not lost sight of the informer’s face for an instant when his wrists were manacled together.

‘Murder,’ said Nadgett, looking round on the astonished group. ‘Let no one interfere.’

The sounding street repeated Murder; barbarous and dreadful Murder. Murder, Murder, Murder. Rolling on from house to house, and echoing from stone to stone, until the voices died away into the distant hum, which seemed to mutter the same word!

They all stood silent: listening, and gazing in each other’s faces, as the noise passed on.

Old Martin was the first to speak. ‘What terrible history is this?’ he demanded.

‘Ask HIM,’ said Nadgett. ‘You’re his friend, sir. He can tell you, if he will. He knows more of it than I do, though I know much.’

‘How do you know much?’

‘I have not been watching him so long for nothing,’ returned Nadgett. ‘I never watched a man so close as I have watched him.’

Another of the phantom forms of this terrific Truth! Another of the many shapes in which it started up about him, out of vacancy. This man, of all men in the world, a spy upon him; this man, changing his identity; casting off his shrinking, purblind, unobservant character, and springing up into a watchful enemy! The dead man might have come out of his grave, and not confounded and appalled him more.

The game was up. The race was at an end; the rope was woven for his neck. If, by a miracle, he could escape from this strait, he had but to turn his face another way, no matter where, and there would rise some new avenger front to front with him; some infant in an hour grown old, or old man in an hour grown young, or blind man with his sight restored, or deaf man with his hearing given him. There was no chance. He sank down in a heap against the wall, and never hoped again from that moment.

‘I am not his friend, although I have the honour to be his relative,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit. ‘You may speak to me. Where have you watched, and what have you seen?’

‘I have watched in many places,’ returned Nadgett, ‘night and day. I have watched him lately, almost without rest or relief;’ his anxious face and bloodshot eyes confirmed it. ‘I little thought to what my watching was to lead. As little as he did when he slipped out in the night, dressed in those clothes which he afterwards sunk in a bundle at London Bridge!’

Jonas moved upon the ground like a man in bodily torture. He uttered a suppressed groan, as if he had been wounded by some cruel weapon; and plucked at the iron band upon his wrists, as though (his hands being free) he would have torn himself.

‘Steady, kinsman!’ said the chief officer of the party. ‘Don’t be violent.’

‘Whom do you call kinsman?’ asked old Martin sternly.

‘You,’ said the man, ‘among others.’

Martin turned his scrutinizing gaze upon him. He was sitting lazily across a chair with his arms resting on the back; eating nuts, and throwing the shells out of window as he cracked them, which he still continued to do while speaking.

Il suo trionfo apparente, ottenuto lottando contro la propria codardia, la vergogna e la colpa, era così detestabile che tutti si allontanarono da lui, come se fosse un animale osceno e sporco, ripugnante alla vista. E proprio quel ultimo crimine oscuro continuava ad agire su di lui, portandolo verso la rovina. Se non fosse stato per questo, la storia dell’anziano impiegato avrebbe potuto toccarlo, anche se solo leggermente; se non fosse stato per questo, la improvvisa eliminazione di un peso così grande avrebbe potuto provocare in lui qualche cambiamento positivo. Ma dopo aver compiuto quel gesto, con quel pericolo inutile e sprezzante che continuava a tormentarlo, la disperazione era ormai parte integrante del suo stesso trionfo. Una disperazione selvaggia, incontrollabile, che lo rendeva folle, di fronte all’inutilità del pericolo nel quale si era gettato; una disperazione che lo induriva e lo faceva impazzire, facendogli digrignare i denti nel momento stesso del suo trionfo.

“Mio caro amico!” disse il vecchio Martin, mettendo una mano sulla manica di Chuffey. “Questo non è posto adatto per te. Vieni con me.”

“È proprio il suo vecchio stile!” esclamò Chuffey, guardandolo in faccia. “Quasi credo che il signor Chuzzlewit sia tornato in vita. Sì! Portami con te! Ma aspetta, per favore, resta.”

“Per cosa?” chiese il vecchio Martin.

“Non posso lasciarla, poverina!” disse Chuffey. “È stata molto gentile con me. Non posso abbandonarla, signor Chuzzlewit. Grazie mille. Rimarrò qui. Non mi manca molto tempo; non è un grosso problema.”

Mentre scuoteva umilmente la sua povera testa grigia e ringraziava il vecchio Martin con queste parole, la signora Gamp, ormai completamente presente nella stanza, si commosse fino alle lacrime.

“La miseria è proprio così!”, disse lei, “come se una creatura cara, buona e rispettabile non fosse mai caduta nelle grinfie di Betsey Prig. Che altrimenti, senza di me, sicuramente ci sarebbe finita; i fatti, infatti, sono ostinati e difficili da ignorare, ”

“Hai sentito quello che ti ho detto poco fa, vecchio,” disse Jonas a suo zio. “Non interferirò più con la mia gente, né uomini né donne. Vedi quella porta?”

“Vedi quella porta?” rispose la voce di Mark, proveniente da quella direzione. “Guardala!”

Guardò, e il suo sguardo rimase fisso lì. Un limen maledetto, portatore di sventura; maledetto dai passi di suo padre negli ultimi momenti della sua vita, maledetto dal pianto di sua giovane moglie, maledetto dall’ombra quotidiana dell’ex impiegato. Maledetti anche i passi del suo assassino. Che persone stavano in piedi nel vano della porta!

Prima di tutto, Nadgett.

Ascoltate! È iniziato, ruggendo come il mare. I venditori ambulanti sono irrotti per le strade, gridando ad alta voce; le finestre sono state aperte affinché tutti potessero sentirlo; la gente si è fermata per ascoltare lungo le strade e sui marciapiedi. Le campane, sempre quelle stesse campane, hanno iniziato a suonare. Si urtavano l’una contro l’altra in una sorta di danza di gioia frenetica, alla scoperta di quel suono, (quel suono che risuonava nei suoi pensieri confusi, ) E il loro “campo giochi” aereo tremava sotto i loro colpi.

“Quello è l’uomo,” disse Nadgett. “Vicino alla finestra!”

Altri tre entrarono, lo afferrarono e lo immobilizzarono. Tutto avvenne così rapidamente che non ebbe nemmeno il tempo di vedere in faccia chi lo aveva denunciato, quando gli vennero ammanettati i polsi.

“Omicidio”, disse Nadgett, guardandosi intorno nel gruppo di persone sbalordite. “Nessuno si intrometta”.

La strada risuonava del nome “Murder”; un “Murder” barbaro e terribile.
Murder. Murder. Murder. Il suono si diffondeva da una casa all’altra, echeggiando tra le pietre, fino a quando quelle voci si perdettero nel lontano rumore che sembrava mormorare sempre la stessa parola.

Tutti rimasero in silenzio: ascoltando e guardandosi negli occhi mentre il rumore continuava.

Il vecchio Martin fu il primo a parlare. “Che terribile storia è questa?”, chiese.

“Chiedeteglielo voi,” disse Nadgett. “Siete suo amico, signore. Lui può dirvelo, se vuole. Sa più cose di me su questo argomento, anche se anch’io ne so abbastanza.”

“Come fai ad sapere così tanto?”

“Non ho seguito attentamente quell’uomo per niente,” rispose Nadgett. “Non ho mai osservato nessuno con tanta attenzione come lui.”

Un’altra delle forme “fantasma” di questa terribile Verità. Un’altra delle molteplici manifestazioni con cui si è presentata intorno a lui, nata dal nulla. Quest’uomo, tra tutti gli uomini del mondo, un spia che lo osserva; quest’uomo che cambia la propria identità, abbandonando il proprio carattere timido, miope e inadeguato per trasformarsi in un nemico attento e minaccioso! Anche il morto potrebbe essere uscito dalla sua tomba senza confonderlo e spaventarlo di più.

La partita era finita. La corsa era terminata; la corda era stata preparata per il suo collo. Se, per miracolo, fosse riuscito a sfuggire da quella situazione disperata, avrebbe dovuto semplicemente voltare le spalle in qualsiasi direzione. E lì, davanti a lui, sarebbe comparso qualche nuovo vendicatore: un bambino che in un’ora fosse diventato adulto, un anziano che in un’ora fosse tornato giovane, un uomo cieco che avesse riacquistato la vista, o un uomo sordo che avesse riottenuto l’udito. Non c’era alcuna speranza. Si accasciò contro il muro, senza più nutrire alcuna speranza da quel momento in poi.

“Non sono suo amico, anche se ho l’onore di essere suo parente,” disse il signor Chuzzlewit. “Potete parlarmi. Dove avete assistito e cosa avete visto?”

“Ho osservato in molti posti,” rispose Nadgett, “di giorno e di notte. Di recente l’ho seguito quasi senza sosta né riposo;” il suo volto ansioso e gli occhi arrossati lo confermavano. “Non avrei mai immaginato a cosa sarebbe portata la mia attenzione. Proprio come lui, quando quella notte si è allontanato indossando quegli abiti, per poi gettarli in un fagotto sotto il Ponte di Londra, ”

Jonas si muoveva sul terreno come un uomo sottoposto a terribili sofferenze fisiche. Emise un gemito soffocato, come se fosse stato ferito da qualche arma crudele; inoltre tirava con forza la fascia di ferro che gli legava i polsi, come se, se solo le sue mani fossero state libere, avesse potuto strapparsela via.

“Calma, amico mio!”, disse il capo del gruppo. “Non essere violento.”

“Chi chiami tuo parente?” chiese severamente il vecchio Martin.

“Tu,” disse l’uomo, “tra gli altri.”

Martin posò su di lui il suo sguardo attento. Era seduto pigramente su una sedia, con le braccia appoggiate allo schienale; mangiava noci e, mentre le spezzava, gettava i gusci fuori dalla finestra, continuando a farlo anche mentre parlava.

‘Aye,’ he said, with a sulky nod. ‘You may deny your nephews till you die; but Chevy Slyme is Chevy Slyme still, all the world over. Perhaps even you may feel it some disgrace to your own blood to be employed in this way. I’m to be bought off.’

‘At every turn!’ cried Martin. ‘Self, self, self. Every one among them for himself!’

‘You had better save one or two among them the trouble then and be for them as well as YOURself,’ replied his nephew. ‘Look here at me! Can you see the man of your family who has more talent in his little finger than all the rest in their united brains, dressed as a police officer without being ashamed? I took up with this trade on purpose to shame you. I didn’t think I should have to make a capture in the family, though.’

‘If your debauchery, and that of your chosen friends, has really brought you to this level,’ returned the old man, ‘keep it. You are living honestly, I hope, and that’s something.’

‘Don’t be hard upon my chosen friends,’ returned Slyme, ‘for they were sometimes your chosen friends too. Don’t say you never employed my friend Tigg, for I know better. We quarrelled upon it.’

‘I hired the fellow,’ retorted Mr Chuzzlewit, ‘and I paid him.’

‘It’s well you paid him,’ said his nephew, ‘for it would be too late to do so now. He has given his receipt in full; or had it forced from him rather.’

The old man looked at him as if he were curious to know what he meant, but scorned to prolong the conversation.

‘I have always expected that he and I would be brought together again in the course of business,’ said Slyme, taking a fresh handful of nuts from his pocket; ‘but I thought he would be wanted for some swindling job; it never entered my head that I should hold a warrant for the apprehension of his murderer.’

‘HIS murderer!’ cried Mr Chuzzlewit, looking from one to another.

‘His or Mr Montague’s,’ said Nadgett. ‘They are the same, I am told. I accuse him yonder of the murder of Mr Montague, who was found last night, killed, in a wood. You will ask me why I accuse him as you have already asked me how I know so much. I’ll tell you. It can’t remain a secret long.’

The ruling passion of the man expressed itself even then, in the tone of regret in which he deplored the approaching publicity of what he knew.

‘I told you I had watched him,’ he proceeded. ‘I was instructed to do so by Mr Montague, in whose employment I have been for some time. We had our suspicions of him; and you know what they pointed at, for you have been discussing it since we have been waiting here, outside the room. If you care to hear, now it’s all over, in what our suspicions began, I’ll tell you plainly: in a quarrel (it first came to our ears through a hint of his own) between him and another office in which his father’s life was insured, and which had so much doubt and distrust upon the subject, that he compounded with them, and took half the money; and was glad to do it. Bit by bit, I ferreted out more circumstances against him, and not a few. It required a little patience, but it’s my calling. I found the nurse—here she is to confirm me; I found the doctor, I found the undertaker, I found the undertaker’s man. I found out how the old gentleman there, Mr Chuffey, had behaved at the funeral; and I found out what this man,’ touching Lewsome on the arm, ‘had talked about in his fever. I found out how he conducted himself before his father’s death, and how since and how at the time; and writing it all down, and putting it carefully together, made case enough for Mr Montague to tax him with the crime, which (as he himself believed until to-night) he had committed. I was by when this was done. You see him now. He is only worse than he was then.’

Oh, miserable, miserable fool! oh, insupportable, excruciating torture! To find alive and active—a party to it all—the brain and right-hand of the secret he had thought to crush! In whom, though he had walled the murdered man up, by enchantment in a rock, the story would have lived and walked abroad! He tried to stop his ears with his fettered arms, that he might shut out the rest.

As he crouched upon the floor, they drew away from him as if a pestilence were in his breath. They fell off, one by one, from that part of the room, leaving him alone upon the ground. Even those who had him in their keeping shunned him, and (with the exception of Slyme, who was still occupied with his nuts) kept apart.

‘From that garret-window opposite,’ said Nadgett, pointing across the narrow street, ‘I have watched this house and him for days and nights. From that garret-window opposite I saw him return home, alone, from a journey on which he had set out with Mr Montague. That was my token that Mr Montague’s end was gained; and I might rest easy on my watch, though I was not to leave it until he dismissed me. But, standing at the door opposite, after dark that same night, I saw a countryman steal out of this house, by a side-door in the court, who had never entered it. I knew his walk, and that it was himself, disguised. I followed him immediately. I lost him on the western road, still travelling westward.’

Jonas looked up at him for an instant, and muttered an oath.

‘I could not comprehend what this meant,’ said Nadgett; ‘but, having seen so much, I resolved to see it out, and through. And I did. Learning, on inquiry at his house from his wife, that he was supposed to be sleeping in the room from which I had seen him go out, and that he had given strict orders not to be disturbed, I knew that he was coming back; and for his coming back I watched. I kept my watch in the street—in doorways, and such places—all that night; at the same window, all next day; and when night came on again, in the street once more. For I knew he would come back, as he had gone out, when this part of the town was empty. He did. Early in the morning, the same countryman came creeping, creeping, creeping home.’

“Sì,” disse lui, annuendo con aria cupa. “Puoi negare la tua parentela con i tuoi nipoti fino alla morte; ma Chevy Slyme rimarrà sempre Chevy Slyme, ovunque si trovi nel mondo. Forse anche tu considererai una vergogna per il tuo stesso sangue essere utilizzato in questo modo. Io devo essere comprato.”

“Ad ogni svolta!”, gridò Martin. “Io stesso, me stesso, me stesso. Ognuno di loro per sé!”

“Meglio che ne salvi uno o due, così poi potrai prenderti cura di loro con lo stesso impegno che metti per te stesso,” rispose suo nipote. “Guardami! Vedi questo membro della tua famiglia che ha più talento nel mignolo di tutti gli altri messi insieme, eppure si veste da poliziotto senza vergognarsene? Ho scelto questa professione apposta per umiliarti. Non pensavo proprio che avrei dovuto “arrestare” qualcuno all’interno della mia stessa famiglia, ”

“Se la vostra dissolutezza, e quella dei vostri amici scelti, vi ha davvero portati a questo livello,” rispose l’uomo anziano, “tenetela allora. Vivete onestamente, spero, ed è già qualcosa.”

“Non essere troppo duro con i miei amici scelti,” rispose Slyme, “perché a volte anche loro sono stati i tuoi amici scelti. Non dire mai che non hai mai utilizzato il mio amico Tigg, perché so bene la verità. Abbiamo avuto dei disaccordi al riguardo.”

“L’ho assunto io stesso,” ribatté il signor Chuzzlewit, “e gli ho pagato.”

“Beh, visto che gli hai già pagato,” disse suo nipote, “ora sarebbe troppo tardi per farlo. Ha già ricevuto il pagamento completo, o forse è stato costretto ad accettarlo.”

L’uomo anziano lo guardò come se fosse curioso di sapere cosa intendesse, ma preferì non prolungare la conversazione.

“Ho sempre pensato che lui e io ci saremmo riuniti di nuovo nel corso degli affari,” disse Slyme, prendendo un’altra manciata di noci dalla tasca; “ma credevo che lo avrebbero cercato per qualche truffa; non mi era mai passato per la mente che avrei potuto possedere un mandato per l’arresto del suo assassino.”

“IL SUO assassino!”, gridò il signor Chuzzlewit, guardando uno dopo l’altro.

“Di lui o del signor Montague,” disse Nadgett. “Dicono che siano la stessa persona. Lo accuso dell’omicidio del signor Montague, che è stato trovato morto ieri sera in un bosco. Mi chiederete perché lo accuso, proprio come mi avete già chiesto da dove io sappia tutto questo. Ve lo spiegherò: non può rimanere un segreto a lungo.”

La passione dominante di quell’uomo si manifestò anche allora, nel tono di rimpianto con cui deplorò l’avvicinarsi della divulgazione di ciò che sapeva.

“Vi avevo detto che lo avevo osservato,” proseguì. “Il signor Montague mi aveva incaricato di farlo; lavoro per lui da qualche tempo ormai. Avevamo dei sospetti su di lui. E sapete a cosa si riferivano quei sospetti, visto che ne avete discusso anche voi mentre aspettavamo qui fuori dalla stanza. Se volete sentire tutta la verità, ora è tutto chiaro: i nostri sospetti avevano origine in una lite – ne eravamo venuti a conoscenza grazie a un’allusione da parte stessa di lui – tra lui e un’altra compagnia assicurativa che aveva stipulato l’assicurazione sulla vita di suo padre. Quella compagnia nutriva grandi dubbi riguardo alla situazione, quindi lui ha concordato con loro per ricevere metà del denaro. E l’ha fatto volentieri. Poco a poco ho scoperto molte altre cose contro di lui. Ci è voluta un po’ di pazienza, ma questo fa parte del mio compito. Ho trovato la infermiera. Ecco qui, può confermare quanto dico; ho trovato il medico, l’impresario funebre. Ho scoperto anche come si è comportato quel vecchio signore, il signor Chuffey, al funerale. E cosa ha detto quest’uomo,” aggiunse toccando il braccio di Lewsome, “durante la sua febbre. Ho capito come si è comportato prima della morte di suo padre, e dopo. Scrivendo tutto quanto, ho raccolto prove sufficienti perché il signor Montague potesse accusarlo del crimine che, fino a questa sera, lui stesso credeva di aver commesso. Ero lì quando tutto questo è stato fatto. Ora lo vedete: è ancora peggio di prima.”

Oh, misero, miserabile stupido! Oh, tortura insopportabile, straziante. Trovare ancora vivo e attivo il cervello, la parte destra del corpo di colui che aveva pensato di distruggere. Quel testimone del crimine che, sebbene fosse stato imprigionato all’interno di una roccia per mezzo di incantesimi, avrebbe potuto continuare a diffondere la verità! Tentò di coprirsi le orecchie con le sue braccia incatenate, nel tentativo di ignorare tutto il resto.

Mentre si accovacciava sul pavimento, tutti si allontanavano da lui come se il suo respiro trasmettesse una pestilenza. Uno dopo l’altro, lasciarono quella parte della stanza, lasciandolo solo a terra. Anche coloro che lo tenevano in custodia lo evitavano; solo Slyme, ancora impegnato con i suoi noci, continuava a stare vicino a lui.

“Da quella finestra del seminterrato di fronte,” disse Nadgett, indicando dall’altra parte della strada stretta, “ho osservato questa casa e lui per giorni e notti. Da quella finestra ho visto tornare a casa da solo, dopo un viaggio con il signor Montague. Quello fu il segnale che il signor Montague era morto; potevo quindi smettere di sorvegliarlo, anche se non avrei dovuto lasciare quel compito fino a quando lui stesso non me lo avesse ordinato. Ma, quella stessa notte, dopo il calare delle tenebre, vidi un contadino uscire da questa casa attraverso una porta secondaria nel cortile. Non era mai entrato prima. Riconobbi il suo modo di camminare: era lui stesso, mascherato. Lo seguii immediatamente. Ma lo persi sulla strada che conduce a ovest.”

Jonas lo guardò per un istante e mormorò una bestemmia.

“Non riuscivo a capire cosa significasse tutto questo,” disse Nadgett; “ma, avendo visto così tanto, decisi di scoprirlo fino in fondo. E ci riuscii. Scoprii, interrogando sua moglie nella sua casa, che si supponeva stesse dormendo nella stanza da cui lo avevo visto uscire, e che aveva dato ordini severi di non essere disturbato. Sapevo quindi che sarebbe tornato; e aspettai il suo ritorno. Rimasi in attesa per tutta quella notte, nei portoni delle case e in altri posti simili; lo osservai anche il giorno seguente, dalla stessa finestra; e quando tornò la notte, ripresi ad aspettare per strada. Sapevo che sarebbe tornato, proprio come era uscito, quando quella parte della città era deserta. Ed effettivamente lo fece. All’alba, lo stesso contadino tornò a casa, in silenzio, furtivamente, ”

‘Look sharp!’ interposed Slyme, who had now finished his nuts. ‘This is quite irregular, Mr Nadgett.’

‘I kept at the window all day,’ said Nadgett, without heeding him. ‘I think I never closed my eyes. At night, I saw him come out with a bundle. I followed him again. He went down the steps at London Bridge, and sunk it in the river. I now began to entertain some serious fears, and made a communication to the Police, which caused that bundle to be—’

‘To be fished up,’ interrupted Slyme. ‘Be alive, Mr Nadgett.’

‘It contained the dress I had seen him wear,’ said Nadgett; ‘stained with clay, and spotted with blood. Information of the murder was received in town last night. The wearer of that dress is already known to have been seen near the place; to have been lurking in that neighbourhood; and to have alighted from a coach coming from that part of the country, at a time exactly tallying with the very minute when I saw him returning home. The warrant has been out, and these officers have been with me, some hours. We chose our time; and seeing you come in, and seeing this person at the window—’

‘Beckoned to him,’ said Mark, taking up the thread of the narrative, on hearing this allusion to himself, ‘to open the door; which he did with a deal of pleasure.’

‘That’s all at present,’ said Nadgett, putting up his great pocketbook, which from mere habit he had produced when he began his revelation, and had kept in his hand all the time; ‘but there is plenty more to come. You asked me for the facts, so far I have related them, and need not detain these gentlemen any longer. Are you ready, Mr Slyme?’

‘And something more,’ replied that worthy, rising. ‘If you walk round to the office, we shall be there as soon as you. Tom! Get a coach!’

The officer to whom he spoke departed for that purpose. Old Martin lingered for a few moments, as if he would have addressed some words to Jonas; but looking round, and seeing him still seated on the floor, rocking himself in a savage manner to and fro, took Chuffey’s arm, and slowly followed Nadgett out. John Westlock and Mark Tapley accompanied them. Mrs Gamp had tottered out first, for the better display of her feelings, in a kind of walking swoon; for Mrs Gamp performed swoons of different sorts, upon a moderate notice, as Mr Mould did Funerals.

‘Ha!’ muttered Slyme, looking after them. ‘Upon my soul! As insensible of being disgraced by having such a nephew as myself, in such a situation, as he was of my being an honour and a credit to the family! That’s the return I get for having humbled my spirit—such a spirit as mine—to earn a livelihood, is it?’

He got up from his chair, and kicked it away indignantly.

‘And such a livelihood too! When there are hundreds of men, not fit to hold a candle to me, rolling in carriages and living on their fortunes. Upon my soul it’s a nice world!’

His eyes encountered Jonas, who looked earnestly towards him, and moved his lips as if he were whispering.

‘Eh?’ said Slyme.

Jonas glanced at the attendant whose back was towards him, and made a clumsy motion with his bound hands towards the door.

‘Humph!’ said Slyme, thoughtfully. ‘I couldn’t hope to disgrace him into anything when you have shot so far ahead of me though. I forgot that.’

Jonas repeated the same look and gesture.

‘Jack!’ said Slyme.

‘Hallo!’ returned his man.

‘Go down to the door, ready for the coach. Call out when it comes. I’d rather have you there. Now then,’ he added, turning hastily to Jonas, when the man was gone. ‘What’s the matter?’

Jonas essayed to rise.

‘Stop a bit,’ said Slyme. ‘It’s not so easy when your wrists are tight together. Now then! Up! What is it?’

‘Put your hand in my pocket. Here! The breast pocket, on the left!’ said Jonas.

He did so; and drew out a purse.

‘There’s a hundred pound in it,’ said Jonas, whose words were almost unintelligible; as his face, in its pallor and agony, was scarcely human.

Slyme looked at him; gave it into his hands; and shook his head.

‘I can’t. I daren’t. I couldn’t if I dared. Those fellows below—’

‘Escape’s impossible,’ said Jonas. ‘I know it. One hundred pound for only five minutes in the next room!’

‘What to do?’ he asked.

The face of his prisoner as he advanced to whisper in his ear, made him recoil involuntarily. But he stopped and listened to him. The words were few, but his own face changed as he heard them.

‘I have it about me,’ said Jonas, putting his hands to his throat, as though whatever he referred to were hidden in his neckerchief. ‘How should you know of it? How could you know? A hundred pound for only five minutes in the next room! The time’s passing. Speak!’

‘It would be more—more creditable to the family,’ observed Slyme, with trembling lips. ‘I wish you hadn’t told me half so much. Less would have served your purpose. You might have kept it to yourself.’

‘A hundred pound for only five minutes in the next room! Speak!’ cried Jonas, desperately.

He took the purse. Jonas, with a wild unsteady step, retreated to the door in the glass partition.

‘Stop!’ cried Slyme, catching at his skirts. ‘I don’t know about this. Yet it must end so at last. Are you guilty?’

‘Yes!’ said Jonas.

‘Are the proofs as they were told just now?’

‘Yes!’ said Jonas.

‘Will you—will you engage to say a—a Prayer, now, or something of that sort?’ faltered Slyme.

Jonas broke from him without replying, and closed the door between them.

Slyme listened at the keyhole. After that, he crept away on tiptoe, as far off as he could; and looked awfully towards the place. He was roused by the arrival of the coach, and their letting down the steps.

‘He’s getting a few things together,’ he said, leaning out of window, and speaking to the two men below, who stood in the full light of a street-lamp. ‘Keep your eye upon the back, one of you, for form’s sake.’

“State attenti!”, intervenne Slyme, che ormai aveva finito di mangiare i suoi frutti secchi. “Questo è davvero irregolare, signor Nadgett.”

“Sono rimasta davanti alla finestra tutto il giorno,” disse Nadgett, senza prestargli attenzione. “Credo di non aver mai chiuso gli occhi. Di notte, l’ho visto uscire con un fagotto; l’ho seguito di nuovo. È sceso i gradini del London Bridge e lo ha gettato nel fiume. A quel punto ho iniziato ad avere seri timori e ho contattato la Polizia, il che ha portato al recupero di quel fagotto, ”

“Per essere pescato fuori dall’acqua, ”, intervenne Slyme. “Resti vivo, signor Nadgett.”

“Conteneva l’abito che lo avevo visto indossare,” disse Nadgett; “macchiato di fango e sporco di sangue. Informazioni sul delitto sono arrivate in città la scorsa notte. Si sa già che chi indossava quell’abito è stato visto nelle vicinanze del luogo del crimine; si dice che si aggirasse in quella zona e che sia sceso da una carrozza proveniente da quella parte della contea, esattamente nel momento in cui lo ho visto tornare a casa. Il mandato è già stato emesso, e questi agenti sono con me da alcune ore. Abbiamo scelto il nostro momento. E vedendovi entrare, e vedendo questa persona alla finestra, ”

“Gli fece segno di avvicinarsi,” disse Mark riprendendo il filo del racconto, “per aprire la porta; cosa che lui fece con piacere.”

“Per il momento è tutto,” disse Nadgett, tirando fuori la sua grande borsa di pelle; per semplice abitudine l’aveva estratta non appena aveva iniziato a raccontare e l’aveva tenuta in mano per tutto il tempo. “Ma ci sarà ancora molto da dire. Mi avete chiesto i fatti, e finora ve li ho raccontati; non c’è motivo di trattenere questi signori oltre. Siete pronto, signor Slyme?”

“E qualcos’altro ancora,” rispose quell’onorevole individuo alzandosi in piedi. “Se vi rechiate nell’ufficio, ci troverete lì non appena arriverete voi. Tom! Prendi una carrozza!”

L’ufficiale con cui aveva parlato partì per quel compito. Il vecchio Martin indugiò ancora qualche momento, come se volesse dire qualcosa a Jonas; ma guardandosi intorno e vedendolo ancora seduto a terra, dondolarsi avanti e indietro in modo selvaggio, prese il braccio di Chuffey e seguì lentamente Nadgett fuori. John Westlock e Mark Tapley li accompagnarono. La signora Gamp era uscita per prima, per poter esprimere meglio i suoi sentimenti, in una sorta di svenimento simulato; infatti la signora Gamp sapeva simulare diversi tipi di svenimenti al minimo segnale, proprio come il signor Mould sapeva organizzare funerali con grande maestria.

“Ha!” mormorò Slyme, osservandoli. “Per la mia ‘anima. Come può non rendersi conto di essere disonorato avendo un nipote come me, in una situazione del genere? E come può non capire che io rappresento un ‘onore e un vanto per la famiglia? Ecco il ringraziamento che ricevo per aver umiliato il mio spirito, uno spirito come il mio, solo per guadagnarmi da vivere, vero?”

Si alzò dalla sedia e la scagliò via, indignato.

E poi, un simile tenore di vita. Quando ci sono centinaia di uomini che non sono nemmeno alla mia altezza, che viaggiano in carrozze e vivono delle loro ricchezze. Per la mia ‘anima, questo è davvero un bel mondo!

I suoi occhi incrociarono quelli di Jonas, che lo guardava con serietà, e lui mosse le labbra come se stesse sussurrando qualcosa.

“Eh?”, disse Slyme.

Jonas lanciò un’occhiata all’addetto che aveva le spalle rivolte verso di lui e fece un gesto goffo con le mani legate in direzione della porta.

“Hmph!”, disse Slyme, pensieroso. “Non avrei potuto sperare di metterlo in imbarazzo o di fargli fare qualcosa del genere, visto che tu sei già così avanti rispetto a me. Me n’ero dimenticato.”

Jonas ripeté lo stesso sguardo e lo stesso gesto.

“Jack!”, disse Slyme.

“Salve!”, rispose il suo uomo.

“Vai alla porta e stai pronto per l’autobus. Chiamami non appena arriva. Preferisco che tu sia lì. Ora,” aggiunse, rivolgendosi in fretta a Jonas dopo che quest’ultimo se n’era andato, “che c’è?”

Jonas cercò di alzarsi in piedi.

“Fermati un attimo,” disse Slyme. “Non è così facile quando i polsi sono legati insieme. Ora, alzati! Che c’è?”

“Metti la mano nella mia tasca. Ecco qui! La tasca sul petto, a sinistra!” disse Jonas.

Lo fece; poi tirò fuori una borsa.

“Ci sono cento sterline lì dentro,” disse Jonas, le cui parole erano quasi incomprensibili; il suo viso, pallido e contorto dal dolore, sembrava a malapena umano.

Slyme lo guardò, gli diede l’oggetto nelle mani e scosse la testa.

“Non posso. Non oso. Nemmeno se osassi potrei. Quei tizi laggiù, ”

“È impossibile fuggire,” disse Jonas. “Lo so bene. Cento libbre in cambio di soli cinque minuti nell’altra stanza!”

“Cosa devo fare?” chiese.

Il volto del suo prigioniero, mentre si avvicinava per sussurrargli all’orecchio, lo fece indietreggiare involontariamente. Ma si fermò e lo ascoltò. Le parole erano poche, ma il suo stesso viso cambiò nel momento in cui le udì.

“L’ho con me,” disse Jonas, mettendosi le mani sul collo, come se ciò di cui parlava fosse nascosto nel suo fazzoletto. “Come potresti saperlo? Come è possibile che tu lo sappia? Cento sterline, solo per cinque minuti nella stanza accanto! Il tempo passa. Parla!”

“Sarebbe stato più, più lodevole per la famiglia,” osservò Slyme, con le labbra tremanti. “Vorrei che non mi aveste detto niente di tutto questo; meno sarebbe bastato per raggiungere lo scopo. Avreste potuto tenerlo per voi.”

“Cento sterline solo per cinque minuti nella stanza accanto! Parlate!” gridò Jonas, disperatamente.

Prese la borsa. Jonas, con passi incerti e disordinati, si ritirò verso la porta situata nella parete di vetro.

“Fermati!” gridò Slyme, afferrandolo per le gonne. “Non so cosa sia successo. Ma alla fine deve finire così. Sei colpevole?”

“Sì!” disse Jonas.

“Le prove sono davvero quelle di cui abbiamo parlato poco fa?”

“Sì!” disse Jonas.

“Vuoi, vuoi recitare una, una Preghiera, adesso, o qualcosa del genere?” balbettò Slyme.

Jonas si allontanò da lui senza rispondere, e chiuse la porta che li separava.

Slyme ascoltò attraverso la serratura. Dopo, si allontanò in punta di piedi il più lontano possibile e guardò verso quel luogo con grande attenzione. Fu svegliato dall’arrivo della carrozza e dal rumore delle persone che scendevano i gradini.

“Sta preparando alcune cose,” disse, sporgendosi dalla finestra e parlando con i due uomini sotto di lui, che si trovavano nella luce piena di un lampione stradale. “Tenete d’occhio la parte posteriore, uno di voi, per scrupolo.”

One of the men withdrew into the court. The other, seating himself self on the steps of the coach, remained in conversation with Slyme at the window who perhaps had risen to be his superior, in virtue of his old propensity (one so much lauded by the murdered man) of being always round the corner. A useful habit in his present calling.

‘Where is he?’ asked the man.

Slyme looked into the room for an instant and gave his head a jerk as much as to say, ‘Close at hand. I see him.’

‘He’s booked,’ observed the man.

‘Through,’ said Slyme.

They looked at each other, and up and down the street. The man on the coach-steps took his hat off, and put it on again, and whistled a little.

‘I say! He’s taking his time!’ he remonstrated.

‘I allowed him five minutes,’ said Slyme. ‘Time’s more than up, though. I’ll bring him down.’

He withdrew from the window accordingly, and walked on tiptoe to the door in the partition. He listened. There was not a sound within. He set the candles near it, that they might shine through the glass.

It was not easy, he found, to make up his mind to the opening of the door. But he flung it wide open suddenly, and with a noise; then retreated. After peeping in and listening again, he entered.

He started back as his eyes met those of Jonas, standing in an angle of the wall, and staring at him. His neckerchief was off; his face was ashy pale.

‘You’re too soon,’ said Jonas, with an abject whimper. ‘I’ve not had time. I have not been able to do it. I—five minutes more—two minutes more!—only one!’

Slyme gave him no reply, but thrusting the purse upon him and forcing it back into his pocket, called up his men.

He whined, and cried, and cursed, and entreated them, and struggled, and submitted, in the same breath, and had no power to stand. They got him away and into the coach, where they put him on a seat; but he soon fell moaning down among the straw at the bottom, and lay there.

The two men were with him. Slyme being on the box with the driver; and they let him lie. Happening to pass a fruiterer’s on their way; the door of which was open, though the shop was by this time shut; one of them remarked how faint the peaches smelled.

The other assented at the moment, but presently stooped down in quick alarm, and looked at the prisoner.

‘Stop the coach! He has poisoned himself! The smell comes from this bottle in his hand!’

The hand had shut upon it tight. With that rigidity of grasp with which no living man, in the full strength and energy of life, can clutch a prize he has won.

They dragged him out into the dark street; but jury, judge, and hangman, could have done no more, and could do nothing now. Dead, dead, dead.

Uno degli uomini si ritirò nel cortile. L’altro, sedendosi sulle scale della carrozza, continuò a conversare con Slyme alla finestra; forse Slyme era ormai diventato il suo superiore, grazie alla sua vecchia abitudine – tanto lodata dall’uomo assassinato – di essere sempre “dietro l’angolo”, pronto ad intervenire al momento giusto. Un’abitudine molto utile nel suo attuale ruolo.

“Dove è?” chiese l’uomo.

Slyme guardò dentro la stanza per un istante e scosse leggermente la testa, come per dire: “È vicino. Lo vedo.”

“È già prenotato,” osservò l’uomo.

“Attraverso,” disse Slyme.

Si guardarono l’un l’altro, e poi si guardarono intorno per tutta la strada. L’uomo sul gradino del vagone si tolse il cappello, se lo rimise e fischiò leggermente.

“Dico io! Si sta prendendo tutto il suo tempo!” si lamentò.

“Gli ho concesso cinque minuti,” disse Slyme. “Però il tempo è già scaduto. Lo porterò giù.”

Si ritirò quindi dalla finestra e camminò in punta di piedi verso la porta situata nella parete divisoria. Ascoltò: non c’era alcun suono all’interno. Posizionò le candele vicino alla porta, in modo che il loro chiarore potesse filtrare attraverso il vetro.

Non fu facile, si rese conto, prendere la decisione di aprire la porta. Ma poi la spalancò all’improvviso, con un certo rumore; dopodiché indietreggiò. Dopo aver sbirciato all’interno e ascoltato di nuovo, entrò.

In quel momento i loro sguardi si incrociarono: Jonas era fermo in un angolo del muro e lo fissava. Il suo fazzoletto da collo era stato tolto; il suo viso appariva pallidissimo, come se fosse coperto di cenere.

“È troppo presto,” disse Jonas, con un lamento disperato. “Non ho avuto abbastanza tempo. Non sono riuscito a farlo. Cinque minuti in più. Due minuti ancora. Solo uno!”

Slyme non gli rispose nulla; invece, gli mise la borsa in mano e la spinse di nuovo nella sua tasca, poi chiamò i suoi uomini.

Lui si lamentava, piangeva, imprecava, li supplicava, lottava, e poi si arrendeva, senza alcuna forza per resistere. Lo portarono via e lo misero nel carro, dove lo fecero sedere; ma presto iniziò a gemere, cadendo tra il pagliaio, sul fondo del carro, e rimase lì sdraiato.

I due uomini erano con lui. Slyme si trovava sul carro insieme al conducente; e lo lasciarono stare. Passando per caso accanto a un fruttivendolo, la cui porta era aperta, anche se il negozio a quell’ora era già chiuso; uno di loro notò quanto debole fosse l’odore dei peschi.

L’altro acconsentì in quel momento, ma subito dopo si chinò con aria allarmata e guardò il prigioniero.

“Fermate il treno! Si è avvelenato. Quell’odore proviene da questa bottiglia che ha in mano!”

La mano l’aveva afferrata con forza. Con quella rigidità nella presa che nessun uomo vivo, nel pieno delle sue forze e energie, potrebbe avere nell’afferrare qualcosa che ha vinto.

Lo trascinarono fuori nella strada buia; ma la giuria, il giudice e l’impiccatore non avrebbero potuto fare di più, e ora non possono fare nulla. Morto, morto, morto.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

IN WHICH THE TABLES ARE TURNED, COMPLETELY UPSIDE DOWN

Old Martin’s cherished projects, so long hidden in his own breast, so frequently in danger of abrupt disclosure through the bursting forth of the indignation he had hoarded up during his residence with Mr Pecksniff, were retarded, but not beyond a few hours, by the occurrences just now related. Stunned, as he had been at first by the intelligence conveyed to him through Tom Pinch and John Westlock, of the supposed manner of his brother’s death; overwhelmed as he was by the subsequent narratives of Chuffey and Nadgett, and the forging of that chain of circumstances ending in the death of Jonas, of which catastrophe he was immediately informed; scattered as his purposes and hopes were for the moment, by the crowding in of all these incidents between him and his end; still their very intensity and the tumult of their assemblage nerved him to the rapid and unyielding execution of his scheme. In every single circumstance, whether it were cruel, cowardly, or false, he saw the flowering of the same pregnant seed. Self; grasping, eager, narrow-ranging, overreaching self; with its long train of suspicions, lusts, deceits, and all their growing consequences; was the root of the vile tree. Mr Pecksniff had so presented his character before the old man’s eyes, that he—the good, the tolerant, enduring Pecksniff—had become the incarnation of all selfishness and treachery; and the more odious the shapes in which those vices ranged themselves before him now, the sterner consolation he had in his design of setting Mr Pecksniff right and Mr Pecksniff’s victims too.

To this work he brought, not only the energy and determination natural to his character (which, as the reader may have observed in the beginning of his or her acquaintance with this gentleman, was remarkable for the strong development of those qualities), but all the forced and unnaturally nurtured energy consequent upon their long suppression. And these two tides of resolution setting into one and sweeping on, became so strong and vigorous, that, to prevent themselves from being carried away before it, Heaven knows where, was as much as John Westlock and Mark Tapley together (though they were tolerably energetic too) could manage to effect.

He had sent for John Westlock immediately on his arrival; and John, under the conduct of Tom Pinch, had waited on him. Having a lively recollection of Mr Tapley, he had caused that gentleman’s attendance to be secured, through John’s means, without delay; and thus, as we have seen, they had all repaired together to the City. But his grandson he had refused to see until to-morrow, when Mr Tapley was instructed to summon him to the Temple at ten o’clock in the forenoon. Tom he would not allow to be employed in anything, lest he should be wrongfully suspected; but he was a party to all their proceedings, and was with them until late at night—until after they knew of the death of Jonas; when he went home to tell all these wonders to little Ruth, and to prepare her for accompanying him to the Temple in the morning, agreeably to Mr Chuzzlewit’s particular injunction.

It was characteristic of old Martin, and his looking on to something which he had distinctly before him, that he communicated to them nothing of his intentions, beyond such hints of reprisal on Mr Pecksniff as they gathered from the game he had played in that gentleman’s house, and the brightening of his eyes whenever his name was mentioned. Even to John Westlock, in whom he was evidently disposed to place great confidence (which may indeed be said of every one of them), he gave no explanation whatever. He merely requested him to return in the morning; and with this for their utmost satisfaction, they left him, when the night was far advanced, alone.

The events of such a day might have worn out the body and spirit of a much younger man than he, but he sat in deep and painful meditation until the morning was bright. Nor did he even then seek any prolonged repose, but merely slumbered in his chair, until seven o’clock, when Mr Tapley had appointed to come to him by his desire; and came—as fresh and clean and cheerful as the morning itself.

‘You are punctual,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit, opening the door to him in reply to his light knock, which had roused him instantly.

‘My wishes, sir,’ replied Mr Tapley, whose mind would appear from the context to have been running on the matrimonial service, ‘is to love, honour, and obey. The clock’s a-striking now, sir.’

‘Come in!’

‘Thank’ee, sir,’ rejoined Mr Tapley, ‘what could I do for you first, sir?’

‘You gave my message to Martin?’ said the old man, bending his eyes upon him.

‘I did, sir,’ returned Mark; ‘and you never see a gentleman more surprised in all your born days than he was.’

‘What more did you tell him?’ Mr Chuzzlewit inquired.

‘Why, sir,’ said Mr Tapley, smiling, ‘I should have liked to tell him a deal more, but not being able, sir, I didn’t tell it him.’

‘You told him all you knew?’

‘But it was precious little, sir,’ retorted Mr Tapley. ‘There was very little respectin’ you that I was able to tell him, sir. I only mentioned my opinion that Mr Pecksniff would find himself deceived, sir, and that you would find yourself deceived, and that he would find himself deceived, sir.’

‘In what?’ asked Mr Chuzzlewit.

‘Meaning him, sir?’

‘Meaning both him and me.’

‘Well, sir,’ said Mr Tapley. ‘In your old opinions of each other. As to him, sir, and his opinions, I know he’s a altered man. I know it. I know’d it long afore he spoke to you t’other day, and I must say it. Nobody don’t know half as much of him as I do. Nobody can’t. There was always a deal of good in him, but a little of it got crusted over, somehow. I can’t say who rolled the paste of that ‘ere crust myself, but—’

CAPITOLO CINQUANTADUE

In cui i tavoli vengono capovolti completamente

I progetti tanto cari a vecchio Martin, a lungo nascosti nel suo cuore e spesso in pericolo di venire rivelati improvvisamente a causa dell’indignazione che aveva accumulato durante il suo soggiorno con il signor Pecksniff, furono ritardati, ma non per più di qualche ora, dagli eventi appena descritti. Sbalordito, come all’inizio dall’informazione ricevuta attraverso Tom Pinch e John Westlock riguardo al presunto modo in cui suo fratello era morto; sopraffatto dalle successive narrazioni di Chuffey e Nadgett, nonché dalla scoperta della catena di circostanze che avevano portato alla morte di Jonas, di cui fu immediatamente informato; con i suoi progetti e le sue speranze momentaneamente sconvolti da tutti questi avvenimenti, la stessa intensità di questi eventi e il loro tumultuoso insieme lo spinsero ad attuare rapidamente e con determinazione il suo piano. In ogni singola circostanza, che fosse crudele, codarda o falsa, vedeva sbocciare lo stesso seme malvagio: l’ego – avido, meschino, estremamente egoistico; con la sua lunga serie di sospetti, desideri, inganni e tutte le loro conseguenze negative – era la radice di quell’albero perverso. Il signor Pecksniff aveva presentato il proprio carattere davanti agli occhi dell’anziano in modo tale che lui – il buon, tollerante, paziente Pecksniff – era diventato l’incarnazione di ogni forma di egoismo e tradimento; e più odiosi apparivano ora quei vizi sotto i loro vari aspetti, più ferma rimaneva la sua determinazione a rimettere in ordine le cose, punendo sia il signor Pecksniff che le sue vittime.

A questo lavoro portò non solo l’energia e la determinazione naturali del suo carattere (che, come il lettore avrà notato all’inizio della sua conoscenza di questo gentiluomo, erano particolarmente evidenti per lo sviluppo intenso di tali qualità), ma anche tutta quell’energia forzata e artificialmente alimentata a seguito della loro lunga repressione. Questi due impulsi di risolutezza, unendosi in uno solo e diventando sempre più potenti, erano così intensi che, per impedirsi di essere trascinati chissà dove, fu necessario l’impegno congiunto di John Westlock e Mark Tapley (sebbene anche loro fossero piuttosto energici).

Non appena era arrivato, aveva subito chiamato John Westlock; e John, sotto la guida di Tom Pinch, lo aveva assistito. Avendo un ricordo vivido di Mr Tapley, aveva fatto in modo che quel gentiluomo fosse convocato senza indugio tramite John; così, come abbiamo visto, erano tutti andati insieme nella Città. Tuttavia, si era rifiutato di incontrare suo nipote fino al giorno seguente, quando Mr Tapley fu incaricato di chiamarlo al Tempio alle dieci del mattino. Non voleva che Tom fosse coinvolto in nulla, per evitare che venisse sospettato ingiustamente; ma partecipava a tutte le loro attività e rimase con loro fino a tardi nella notte – fino a quando non appresero della morte di Jonas. Allora tornò a casa per raccontare tutte queste cose a piccola Ruth e prepararla ad accompagnarlo al Tempio la mattina seguente, come aveva espressamente richiesto Mr Chuzzlewit.

Era tipico dell’anziano Martin il fatto che, pur avendo qualcosa di chiaro davanti agli occhi, non comunicasse loro nulla riguardo alle sue intenzioni, se non indizi vaghi su possibili rappresaglie nei confronti del signor Pecksniff, deducibili dalle azioni che aveva compiuto nella sua casa, e il fatto che i suoi occhi si illuminassero ogni volta che veniva menzionato quel nome. Nemmeno a John Westlock, in cui evidentemente riponeva grande fiducia (e ciò valeva per tutti loro), diede alcuna spiegazione; gli chiese semplicemente di tornare la mattina seguente. Con questo, e con la massima soddisfazione, lo lasciarono da solo, quando la notte era ormai avanzata.

Gli eventi di una giornata del genere avrebbero probabilmente logorato il corpo e lo spirito di un uomo molto più giovane di lui, ma lui rimase immerso in una meditazione profonda e dolorosa fino a quando non spuntò l’alba. Nemmeno allora cercò un riposo prolungato; si limitò ad assopirsi sulla sedia fino alle sette, l’ora in cui il signor Tapley aveva stabilito di venire da lui per suo desiderio. E arrivò, fresco, pulito e allegro come la stessa alba.

“Sei puntuale,” disse il signor Chuzzlewit, aprendogli la porta in risposta al suo leggero bussare, che lo aveva immediatamente svegliato.

“I miei desideri, signore,” rispose il signor Tapley, il cui pensiero, a giudicare dal contesto, doveva essere rivolto al rito matrimoniale, “sono l’amore, l’onore e l’obbedienza. L’orologio sta battendo ora, signore.”

“Entra!”

“Grazie mille, signore,” rispose il signor Tapley, “in cosa posso esservi d’aiuto per prima cosa?”

“Hai consegnato il mio messaggio a Martin?”, disse l’uomo anziano, fissandolo negli occhi.

“Sì, signore,” rispose Mark; “e non avete mai visto un gentiluomo più sorpreso in tutta la sua vita di quanto lo fu lui.”

“Gli hai detto altro?” chiese il signor Chuzzlewit.

“Perché, signore,” disse il signor Tapley sorridendo, “avrei voluto raccontargli ancora qualcosa, ma non essendone stato in grado, signore, non l’ho fatto.”

“Gli hai detto tutto quello che sapevi?”

“Ma era davvero molto poco, signore,” ribatté il signor Tapley. “Non c’era quasi alcun rispetto per voi che potessi esprimere nei miei discorsi. Ho solo menzionato la mia opinione secondo cui il signor Pecksniff si sarebbe trovato ingannato, e che anche voi vi sareste trovati ingannati.”

“Di cosa?” chiese il signor Chuzzlewit.

“Intendete dire lui, signore?”

“Significa sia lui che me.”

“Beh, signore,” disse il signor Tapley. “Per quanto riguarda le vostre vecchie opinioni l’uno sull’altro. Per quanto lo riguarda lui e le sue idee, so che è un uomo cambiato. Lo so davvero. L’avevo capito molto tempo prima che vi parlasse l’altro giorno, e devo dirlo: nessuno conosce di lui la metà di ciò che conosco io. Non c’è modo. C’era sempre del bene in lui, ma in qualche modo quella parte buona si era come “incrostata”. Non posso dire chi sia stato a creare questa crosta. Ma, ”

‘Go on,’ said Martin. ‘Why do you stop?’

‘But it—well! I beg your pardon, but I think it may have been you, sir. Unintentional I think it may have been you. I don’t believe that neither of you gave the other quite a fair chance. There! Now I’ve got rid on it,’ said Mr Tapley in a fit of desperation: ‘I can’t go a-carryin’ it about in my own mind, bustin’ myself with it; yesterday was quite long enough. It’s out now. I can’t help it. I’m sorry for it. Don’t wisit on him, sir, that’s all.’

It was clear that Mark expected to be ordered out immediately, and was quite prepared to go.

‘So you think,’ said Martin, ‘that his old faults are, in some degree, of my creation, do you?’

‘Well, sir,’ retorted Mr Tapley, ‘I’m werry sorry, but I can’t unsay it. It’s hardly fair of you, sir, to make a ignorant man conwict himself in this way, but I DO think so. I am as respectful disposed to you, sir, as a man can be; but I DO think so.’

The light of a faint smile seemed to break through the dull steadiness of Martin’s face, as he looked attentively at him, without replying.

‘Yet you are an ignorant man, you say,’ he observed after a long pause.

‘Werry much so,’ Mr Tapley replied.

‘And I a learned, well-instructed man, you think?’

‘Likewise wery much so,’ Mr Tapley answered.

The old man, with his chin resting on his hand, paced the room twice or thrice before he added:

‘You have left him this morning?’

‘Come straight from him now, sir.’

‘For what does he suppose?’

‘He don’t know what to suppose, sir, no more than myself. I told him jest wot passed yesterday, sir, and that you had said to me, “Can you be here by seven in the morning?” and that you had said to him, through me, “Can you be here by ten in the morning?” and that I had said “Yes” to both. That’s all, sir.’

His frankness was so genuine that it plainly WAS all.

‘Perhaps,’ said Martin, ‘he may think you are going to desert him, and to serve me?’

‘I have served him in that sort of way, sir,’ replied Mark, without the loss of any atom of his self-possession; ‘and we have been that sort of companions in misfortune, that my opinion is, he don’t believe a word on it. No more than you do, sir.’

‘Will you help me to dress, and get me some breakfast from the hotel?’ asked Martin.

‘With pleasure, sir,’ said Mark.

‘And by-and-bye,’ said Martin, ‘remaining in the room, as I wish you to do, will you attend to the door yonder—give admission to visitors, I mean, when they knock?’

‘Certainly, sir,’ said Mr Tapley.

‘You will not find it necessary to express surprise at their appearance,’ Martin suggested.

‘Oh dear no, sir!’ said Mr Tapley, ‘not at all.’

Although he pledged himself to this with perfect confidence, he was in a state of unbounded astonishment even now. Martin appeared to observe it, and to have some sense of the ludicrous bearing of Mr Tapley under these perplexing circumstances; for, in spite of the composure of his voice and the gravity of his face, the same indistinct light flickered on the latter several times. Mark bestirred himself, however, to execute the offices with which he was entrusted; and soon lost all tendency to any outward expression of his surprise, in the occupation of being brisk and busy.

But when he had put Mr Chuzzlewit’s clothes in good order for dressing, and when that gentleman was dressed and sitting at his breakfast, Mr Tapley’s feelings of wonder began to return upon him with great violence; and, standing beside the old man with a napkin under his arm (it was as natural and easy to joke to Mark to be a butler in the Temple, as it had been to volunteer as cook on board the Screw), he found it difficult to resist the temptation of casting sidelong glances at him very often. Nay, he found it impossible; and accordingly yielded to this impulse so often, that Martin caught him in the fact some fifty times. The extraordinary things Mr Tapley did with his own face when any of these detections occurred; the sudden occasions he had to rub his eyes or his nose or his chin; the look of wisdom with which he immediately plunged into the deepest thought, or became intensely interested in the habits and customs of the flies upon the ceiling, or the sparrows out of doors; or the overwhelming politeness with which he endeavoured to hide his confusion by handing the muffin; may not unreasonably be assumed to have exercised the utmost power of feature that even Martin Chuzzlewit the elder possessed.

But he sat perfectly quiet and took his breakfast at his leisure, or made a show of doing so, for he scarcely ate or drank, and frequently lapsed into long intervals of musing. When he had finished, Mark sat down to his breakfast at the same table; and Mr Chuzzlewit, quite silent still, walked up and down the room.

Mark cleared away in due course, and set a chair out for him, in which, as the time drew on towards ten o’clock, he took his seat, leaning his hands upon his stick, and clenching them upon the handle, and resting his chin on them again. All his impatience and abstraction of manner had vanished now; and as he sat there, looking, with his keen eyes, steadily towards the door, Mark could not help thinking what a firm, square, powerful face it was; or exulting in the thought that Mr Pecksniff, after playing a pretty long game of bowls with its owner, seemed to be at last in a very fair way of coming in for a rubber or two.

Mark’s uncertainty in respect of what was going to be done or said, and by whom to whom, would have excited him in itself. But knowing for a certainty besides, that young Martin was coming, and in a very few minutes must arrive, he found it by no means easy to remain quiet and silent. But, excepting that he occasionally coughed in a hollow and unnatural manner to relieve himself, he behaved with great decorum through the longest ten minutes he had ever known.

A knock at the door. Mr Westlock. Mr Tapley, in admitting him, raised his eyebrows to the highest possible pitch, implying thereby that he considered himself in an unsatisfactory position. Mr Chuzzlewit received him very courteously.

“Vai avanti,” disse Martin. “Perché ti fermi?”

“Ma, beh! Mi scusi, ma penso che possa essere stato lei, signore. Probabilmente senza intenzione. Non credo che nessuno dei due abbia dato all’altro una vera opportunità. Ecco, ora l’ho detto,” disse il signor Tapley in un impeto di disperazione: “Non posso continuare a portarmi questo peso nella mente, a tormentarmi. Ieri è stato già abbastanza difficile. Ora l’ho detto. Non mi biasimi, per favore. Non tormentarlo più, signore, è tutto.”

Era evidente che Mark si aspettasse di essere mandato via immediatamente, ed era davvero pronto ad andarsene.

“Quindi pensi,” disse Martin, “che i suoi vecchi difetti siano, in qualche modo, frutto della mia influenza, vero?”

“Beh, signore,” ribatté il signor Tapley, “mi dispiace molto, ma non posso ritrattare ciò che ho detto. Non è affatto giusto da parte sua, signore, costringere un uomo ignorante a confessare qualcosa in questo modo. Ma io la penso davvero così. Rispetto lei più di quanto qualsiasi altro uomo possa rispettare qualcuno; ma io la penso davvero così.”

Un debole sorriso sembrò rompere la monotonia del volto di Martin, mentre lo guardava attentamente, senza rispondere.

“Eppure sei un uomo ignorante, dici tu,” osservò dopo una lunga pausa.

“Molto davvero,” rispose il signor Tapley.

“E io, un uomo istruito e ben colto, secondo te?”

“Anch’io la penso allo stesso modo,” rispose il signor Tapley.

L’uomo anziano, con il mento appoggiato sulla mano, camminò avanti e indietro nella stanza un paio di volte prima di aggiungere:

“L’hai lasciato questa mattina?”

“Rivelo tutto direttamente da lui, signore.”

“Per cosa pensa che lo faccia?”

‘Non sa cosa pensare, signore, proprio come me. Gli ho raccontato scherzando quello che è successo ieri, signore. Gli ho detto che lei mi aveva chiesto se potessi essere qui entro le sette di mattina, e che gli aveva anche chiesto, tramite me, se potesse arrivare entro le dieci. E io ho risposto “Sì” a entrambe le domande. Tutto qui, signore.’

La sua schiettezza era così autentica che rappresentava davvero tutto ciò che c’era in lui.

“Forse,” disse Martin, “penserà che tu intenda abbandonarlo per servire me.”

“Ho servito lui in quel modo, signore,” rispose Mark, senza perdere nemmeno un briciolo della sua autocontrollo; “e siamo stati compagni di sventura in quei momenti, perciò credo che non creda una parola di tutto ciò. Proprio come voi, signore.”

“Mi aiuterai a vestirmi e mi porterai qualche colazione dall’hotel?” chiese Martin.

“Con piacere, signore,” disse Mark.

“E tra poco,” disse Martin, “rimanendo nella stanza, come desidero che tu faccia, potresti occuparti di quella porta laggiù, cioè, far entrare le persone quando bussano, intendo?”

“Certamente, signore,” disse il signor Tapley.

“Non troverete necessario esprimere sorpresa alla loro apparizione,” suggerì Martin.

“Mio Dio, no, signore! Assolutamente no”, disse il signor Tapley.

Anche se si era impegnato con perfetta fiducia in questo compito, anche ora provava uno stato di stupore infinito. Sembrava che Martin se ne accorgesse e comprendesse l’aspetto ridicolo della condotta del signor Tapley in quelle circostanze confuse; infatti, nonostante la calma nella sua voce e la serietà sul suo volto, più volte appariva un leggero sorriso sulle sue labbra. Tuttavia, Mark si sforzò di svolgere correttamente i compiti che gli erano stati affidati; presto perse ogni traccia di sorpresa esteriore, impegnato com’era a lavorare con efficienza e diligenza.

Ma quando ebbe sistemato bene i vestiti del signor Chuzzlewit per che questi si potesse vestire, e quando quel gentiluomo fu pronto e seduto a colazione, i sentimenti di stupore di Mr Tapley iniziarono a tornare su di lui con grande intensità; e, stando accanto all’anziano con un tovagliolo sotto il braccio (per Mark era altrettanto naturale e facile scherzare sul fatto di essere un maggiordomo nel Tempio, quanto lo era stato offrirsi volontario come cuoco a bordo della nave Screw), trovò difficile resistere alla tentazione di lanciargli occhiate furtive molto spesso. Anzi, gli risultò impossibile; e così cedette a questo impulso così frequentemente che Martin lo sorprese in flagrante circa cinquanta volte. Le strane cose che Mr Tapley faceva con il proprio viso ogni volta che veniva scoperto; le occasioni impreviste in cui doveva strofinarsi gli occhi, il naso o il mento; l’aria di saggezza con cui immediatamente si immergeva nei pensieri più profondi, o mostrava un grande interesse per le abitudini e i comportamenti delle mosche sul soffitto o dei passeri fuori dalla finestra; o la cortesia estrema con cui cercava di nascondere il proprio imbarazzo porgendo il muffin. Tutto ciò potrebbe benissimo essere considerato un esempio dell’estrema capacità espressiva del viso che anche Martin Chuzzlewit il vecchio possedeva.

Ma sedeva perfettamente immobile e mangiava la colazione con calma, o almeno fingeva di farlo, perché quasi non mangiava né beveva, e spesso cadeva in lunghi momenti di riflessione. Dopo aver finito, Mark si sedette anche lui a tavola per la sua colazione; mentre il signor Chuzzlewit, ancora completamente silenzioso, andava avanti e indietro nella stanza.

Mark si allontanò dopo un po’ e gli preparò una sedia; verso le dieci di sera, vi si sedette, appoggiando le mani sul suo bastone e stringendo forte la sua impugnatura, con il mento posato su di esse. Tutta la sua impazienza e la sua distrazione erano ormai scomparse; mentre se ne stava lì, fissando con i suoi occhi acuti la porta, Mark non poteva fare a meno di pensare quanto fosse un viso deciso, solido e potente. E si compiacque nel pensiero che il signor Pecksniff, dopo aver giocato a bowling per un bel po’ con il suo “proprietario”, sembrasse finalmente essere giunto al punto in cui avrebbe potuto vincere ancora una o due partite.

L’incertezza di Mark riguardo a ciò che sarebbe stato fatto o detto, e da chi e a chi, avrebbe di per sé dovuto eccitarlo. Ma sapendo con certezza anche che quel giovane Martin stava arrivando e che sarebbe giunto in pochi minuti, non gli risultava affatto facile rimanere calmo e silenzioso. Tuttavia, ad eccezione di qualche colpo di tosse strano e innaturale per alleviare il disagio, si comportò con grande decoro durante quei dieci minuti più lunghi di qualsiasi altro avesse mai trascorso in simili circostanze.

Un colpo alla porta. Il signor Westlock. Quando il signor Tapley lo fece entrare, alzò le sopracciglia il più possibile, dando così a intendere di trovarsi in una situazione poco confortevole. Il signor Chuzzlewit lo accolse con grande cortesia.

Mark waited at the door for Tom Pinch and his sister, who were coming up the stairs. The old man went to meet them; took their hands in his; and kissed her on the cheek. As this looked promising, Mr Tapley smiled benignantly.

Mr Chuzzlewit had resumed his chair before young Martin, who was close behind them, entered. The old man, scarcely looking at him, pointed to a distant seat. This was less encouraging; and Mr Tapley’s spirits fell again.

He was quickly summoned to the door by another knock. He did not start, or cry, or tumble down, at sight of Miss Graham and Mrs Lupin, but he drew a very long breath, and came back perfectly resigned, looking on them and on the rest with an expression which seemed to say that nothing could surprise him any more; and that he was rather glad to have done with that sensation for ever.

The old man received Mary no less tenderly than he had received Tom Pinch’s sister. A look of friendly recognition passed between himself and Mrs Lupin, which implied the existence of a perfect understanding between them. It engendered no astonishment in Mr Tapley; for, as he afterwards observed, he had retired from the business, and sold off the stock.

Not the least curious feature in this assemblage was, that everybody present was so much surprised and embarrassed by the sight of everybody else, that nobody ventured to speak. Mr Chuzzlewit alone broke silence.

‘Set the door open, Mark!’ he said; ‘and come here.’

Mark obeyed.

The last appointed footstep sounded now upon the stairs. They all knew it. It was Mr Pecksniff’s; and Mr Pecksniff was in a hurry too, for he came bounding up with such uncommon expedition that he stumbled twice or thrice.

‘Where is my venerable friend?’ he cried upon the upper landing; and then with open arms came darting in.

Old Martin merely looked at him; but Mr Pecksniff started back as if he had received the charge from an electric battery.

‘My venerable friend is well?’ cried Mr Pecksniff.

‘Quite well.’

It seemed to reassure the anxious inquirer. He clasped his hands and, looking upwards with a pious joy, silently expressed his gratitude. He then looked round on the assembled group, and shook his head reproachfully. For such a man severely, quite severely.

‘Oh, vermin!’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Oh, bloodsuckers! Is it not enough that you have embittered the existence of an individual wholly unparalleled in the biographical records of amiable persons, but must you now, even now, when he has made his election, and reposed his trust in a Numble, but at least sincere and disinterested relative; must you now, vermin and swarmers (I regret to make use of these strong expressions, my dear sir, but there are times when honest indignation will not be controlled), must you now, vermin and swarmers (for I WILL repeat it), take advantage of his unprotected state, assemble round him from all quarters, as wolves and vultures, and other animals of the feathered tribe assemble round—I will not say round carrion or a carcass, for Mr Chuzzlewit is quite the contrary—but round their prey; their prey; to rifle and despoil; gorging their voracious maws, and staining their offensive beaks, with every description of carnivorous enjoyment!’

As he stopped to fetch his breath, he waved them off, in a solemn manner, with his hand.

‘Horde of unnatural plunderers and robbers!’ he continued; ‘leave him! leave him, I say! Begone! Abscond! You had better be off! Wander over the face of the earth, young sirs, like vagabonds as you are, and do not presume to remain in a spot which is hallowed by the grey hairs of the patriarchal gentleman to whose tottering limbs I have the honour to act as an unworthy, but I hope an unassuming, prop and staff. And you, my tender sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, addressing himself in a tone of gentle remonstrance to the old man, ‘how could you ever leave me, though even for this short period! You have absented yourself, I do not doubt, upon some act of kindness to me; bless you for it; but you must not do it; you must not be so venturesome. I should really be angry with you if I could, my friend!’

He advanced with outstretched arms to take the old man’s hand. But he had not seen how the hand clasped and clutched the stick within its grasp. As he came smiling on, and got within his reach, old Martin, with his burning indignation crowded into one vehement burst, and flashing out of every line and wrinkle in his face, rose up, and struck him down upon the ground.

With such a well-directed nervous blow, that down he went, as heavily and true as if the charge of a Life-Guardsman had tumbled him out of a saddle. And whether he was stunned by the shock, or only confused by the wonder and novelty of this warm reception, he did not offer to get up again; but lay there, looking about him with a disconcerted meekness in his face so enormously ridiculous, that neither Mark Tapley nor John Westlock could repress a smile, though both were actively interposing to prevent a repetition of the blow; which the old man’s gleaming eyes and vigorous attitude seemed to render one of the most probable events in the world.

‘Drag him away! Take him out of my reach!’ said Martin; ‘or I can’t help it. The strong restraint I have put upon my hands has been enough to palsy them. I am not master of myself while he is within their range. Drag him away!’

Seeing that he still did not rise, Mr Tapley, without any compromise about it, actually did drag him away, and stick him up on the floor, with his back against the opposite wall.

‘Hear me, rascal!’ said Mr Chuzzlewit. ‘I have summoned you here to witness your own work. I have summoned you here to witness it, because I know it will be gall and wormwood to you! I have summoned you here to witness it, because I know the sight of everybody here must be a dagger in your mean, false heart! What! do you know me as I am, at last!’

Mark aspettava alla porta per Tom Pinch e sua sorella, che stavano salendo le scale. L’uomo anziano andò ad accoglierli, prese loro le mani nelle sue e baciò la sorella sulla guancia. Vedendo che tutto sembrava promettente, il signor Tapley sorrise benignamente.

Il signor Chuzzlewit si era rimesso a sedere davanti alla sedia di giovane Martin, che era entrato poco dopo di loro. L’uomo anziano, senza quasi guardarlo, gli indicò un posto lontano. Questo non fu certo incoraggiante; e lo spirito del signor Tapley si abbassò di nuovo.

Fu subito chiamato alla porta da un altro colpo. Non iniziò a piangere, né a cadere a terra, non appena vide la signorina Graham e la signora Lupin; invece trasse un lungo respiro e tornò indietro, completamente rassegnato, guardandole e gli altri con un’espressione che sembrava dire che nulla avrebbe più potuto sorprenderlo. E che anzi era piuttosto contento di essersi finalmente liberato di quella sensazione.

L’uomo anziano trattò Mary con la stessa tenerezza con cui aveva trattato la sorella di Tom Pinch. Un sguardo di cordiale riconoscimento si scambiò tra lui e la signora Lupin, segno dell’esistenza di una perfetta comprensione reciproca. Questo non sorprese affatto il signor Tapley; infatti, come osservò in seguito, aveva già lasciato l’attività commerciale e venduto tutte le merci disponibili.

Una caratteristica non meno curiosa di questa situazione era che tutti i presenti erano così sorpresi ed imbarazzati dal vedere gli altri, che nessuno osava parlare. Solo il signor Chuzzlewit ruppe il silenzio.

“Apri la porta, Mark!”, disse; “vieni qui.”

Mark obbedì.

L’ultimo passo udito risuonava ora sulle scale. Lo sapevano tutti: era quello del signor Pecksniff. Anche lui aveva fretta, perché saliva a grandi balzi con tale velocità da inciampare un paio di volte.

“Dove è il mio stimato amico?” gridò sul pianerottolo superiore; poi, con le braccia aperte, corse dentro.

Il vecchio Martin si limitò a guardarlo; ma il signor Pecksniff indietreggiò di scatto, come se avesse ricevuto una scossa elettrica.

“Mio caro amico, sta bene?” gridò il signor Pecksniff.

“Abbastanza bene.”

Sembrava rassicurare l’inquirente ansioso. Chiuse le mani e, guardando verso l’alto con una gioia devota, esprime silenziosamente la sua gratitudine. Poi guardò intorno al gruppo riunito e scosse la testa in segno di rimprovero. Per un uomo del genere, davvero molto severamente.

‘Oh, parassiti!’ esclamò il signor Pecksniff. ‘Oh, succhiasangue! Non vi basta aver reso insopportabile l’esistenza di un individuo assolutamente senza eguali nei registri biografici delle persone amabili. Ma ora, proprio ora che ha fatto la sua scelta e ha riposto la sua fiducia in un parente forse un po’ ottuso, ma almeno sincero e disinteressato. Ora, parassiti e schiere di vermi (mi dispiace usare espressioni così forti, caro signore, ma ci sono momenti in cui una onesta indignazione non può essere trattenuta). Ora dovete approfittare della sua condizione indifesa, radunarvi intorno a lui da tutte le parti, come lupi, avvoltoi e altri animali rapaci che si riuniscono intorno alla loro preda. Non dirò che si tratti di carne putrefatta o di un cadavere. Il signor Chuzzlewit è tutt’altro. Ma della vostra preda. Per derubarlo, saccheggiarlo, saziare le vostre fauci voraci e imbrattare i vostri becchi con ogni sorta di piacere carnivoro!’

Mentre si fermava per riprendere fiato, li salutò con la mano, in modo solenne.

“Orda di predoni e ladri innaturali!” continuò; “lasciatelo in pace! Lasciatelo stare, dico io! Andatevene! Scomparite! È meglio che ve ne andiate! Vagabondate per tutta la terra, giovani signori, come veri vagabondi che siete, e non osate rimanere in un luogo sacro per i capelli grigi di quel gentiluomo patriarcale il cui corpo indebolito ho l’onore di assistere, anche se solo in modo insignificante. Ma voi, mio caro signore,” disse Mr Pecksniff, rivolgendosi al vecchio con tono dolce e rimproveratorio, “come avete potuto lasciarmi, anche solo per questo breve periodo? Sono sicuro che la vostra assenza sia dovuta a qualche atto di gentilezza verso di me. Benedetto voi per questo; ma non dovete farlo. Non dovete essere così temerari. Sarei davvero arrabbiato con voi, se potessi, ”

Avanzò con le braccia tese per prendere la mano dell’uomo anziano. Ma non aveva visto come quella mano stringesse forte il bastone che teneva tra le dita. Mentre si avvicinava sorridendo, arrivando a portata di mano, il vecchio Martin, con la sua indignazione ardente che esplodeva in un impeto violento, e che si rifletteva in ogni linea e ruga del suo viso, si alzò di scatto e lo colpì facendolo cadere a terra.

Con un colpo nervoso così ben indirizzato, cadde a terra con tale forza e precisione, come se fosse stato spinto giù dal sello da un guardia del corpo. Che fosse stordito dall’impatto o semplicemente confuso dalla novità e dall’incredibilità di quell’accoglienza calorosa, non cercò più di alzarsi; rimase sdraiato a guardarsi intorno con un’espressione di timida perplessità così ridicola da far sorridere sia Mark Tapley che John Westlock, anche se entrambi si affrettavano a intervenire per impedire che il colpo si ripetesse. Gli occhi brillanti dell’uomo anziano e la sua postura decisa sembravano rendere questa possibilità davvero molto probabile.

“Portatelo via! Allontanatelo dalla mia portata!” disse Martin; “altrimenti non riuscirò a trattenermi. La forte forza di volontà che ho impiegato per controllare le mie mani è stata sufficiente a paralizzarle. Non riesco più a dominarmi finché lui è nelle loro vicinanze. Portatelo via!”

Vedendo che non si alzava ancora, il signor Tapley, senza alcun compromesso, lo trascinò via e lo mise in piedi contro il muro opposto.

“Ascoltami bene, birichino!” disse il signor Chuzzlewit. “Ti ho chiamato qui per farti assistere al risultato delle tue stesse azioni. Ti ho chiamato qui perché so che sarà un dolore acuto per te. Ti ho chiamato qui perché so che la vista di tutti quanti qui presenti rappresenta una vera e propria pugnalata nel tuo cuore meschino e falso! Che cosa, finalmente mi riconosci per quello che sono!”

Mr Pecksniff had cause to stare at him, for the triumph in his face and speech and figure was a sight to stare at.

‘Look there!’ said the old man, pointing at him, and appealing to the rest. ‘Look there! And then—come hither, my dear Martin—look here! here! here!’ At every repetition of the word he pressed his grandson closer to his breast.

‘The passion I felt, Martin, when I dared not do this,’ he said, ‘was in the blow I struck just now. Why did we ever part! How could we ever part! How could you ever fly from me to him!’

Martin was about to answer, but he stopped him, and went on.

‘The fault was mine no less than yours. Mark has told me so today, and I have known it long; though not so long as I might have done. Mary, my love, come here.’

As she trembled and was very pale, he sat her in his own chair, and stood beside it with her hand in his; and Martin standing by him.

‘The curse of our house,’ said the old man, looking kindly down upon her, ‘has been the love of self; has ever been the love of self. How often have I said so, when I never knew that I had wrought it upon others.’

He drew one hand through Martin’s arm, and standing so, between them, proceeded thus:

‘You all know how I bred this orphan up, to tend me. None of you can know by what degrees I have come to regard her as a daughter; for she has won upon me, by her self-forgetfulness, her tenderness, her patience, all the goodness of her nature, when Heaven is her witness that I took but little pains to draw it forth. It blossomed without cultivation, and it ripened without heat. I cannot find it in my heart to say that I am sorry for it now, or yonder fellow might be holding up his head.’

Mr Pecksniff put his hand into his waistcoat, and slightly shook that part of him to which allusion had been made; as if to signify that it was still uppermost.

‘There is a kind of selfishness,’ said Martin—‘I have learned it in my own experience of my own breast—which is constantly upon the watch for selfishness in others; and holding others at a distance, by suspicions and distrusts, wonders why they don’t approach, and don’t confide, and calls that selfishness in them. Thus I once doubted those about me—not without reason in the beginning—and thus I once doubted you, Martin.’

‘Not without reason,’ Martin answered, ‘either.’

‘Listen, hypocrite! Listen, smooth-tongued, servile, crawling knave!’ said Martin. ‘Listen, you shallow dog. What! When I was seeking him, you had already spread your nets; you were already fishing for him, were ye? When I lay ill in this good woman’s house and your meek spirit pleaded for my grandson, you had already caught him, had ye? Counting on the restoration of the love you knew I bore him, you designed him for one of your two daughters did ye? Or failing that, you traded in him as a speculation which at any rate should blind me with the lustre of your charity, and found a claim upon me! Why, even then I knew you, and I told you so. Did I tell you that I knew you, even then?’

‘I am not angry, sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, softly. ‘I can bear a great deal from you. I will never contradict you, Mr Chuzzlewit.’

‘Observe!’ said Martin, looking round. ‘I put myself in that man’s hands on terms as mean and base, and as degrading to himself, as I could render them in words. I stated them at length to him, before his own children, syllable by syllable, as coarsely as I could, and with as much offence, and with as plain an exposition of my contempt, as words—not looks and manner merely—could convey. If I had only called the angry blood into his face, I would have wavered in my purpose. If I had only stung him into being a man for a minute I would have abandoned it. If he had offered me one word of remonstrance, in favour of the grandson whom he supposed I had disinherited; if he had pleaded with me, though never so faintly, against my appeal to him to abandon him to misery and cast him from his house; I think I could have borne with him for ever afterwards. But not a word, not a word. Pandering to the worst of human passions was the office of his nature; and faithfully he did his work!’

‘I am not angry,’ observed Mr Pecksniff. ‘I am hurt, Mr Chuzzlewit; wounded in my feelings; but I am not angry, my good sir.’

Mr Chuzzlewit resumed.

‘Once resolved to try him, I was resolute to pursue the trial to the end; but while I was bent on fathoming the depth of his duplicity, I made a sacred compact with myself that I would give him credit on the other side for any latent spark of goodness, honour, forbearance—any virtue—that might glimmer in him. For first to last there has been no such thing. Not once. He cannot say I have not given him opportunity. He cannot say I have ever led him on. He cannot say I have not left him freely to himself in all things; or that I have not been a passive instrument in his hands, which he might have used for good as easily as evil. Or if he can, he Lies! And that’s his nature, too.’

‘Mr Chuzzlewit,’ interrupted Pecksniff, shedding tears. ‘I am not angry, sir. I cannot be angry with you. But did you never, my dear sir, express a desire that the unnatural young man who by his wicked arts has estranged your good opinion from me, for the time being; only for the time being; that your grandson, Mr Chuzzlewit, should be dismissed my house? Recollect yourself, my Christian friend.’

‘I have said so, have I not?’ retorted the old man, sternly. ‘I could not tell how far your specious hypocrisy had deceived him, knave; and knew no better way of opening his eyes than by presenting you before him in your own servile character. Yes. I did express that desire. And you leaped to meet it; and you met it; and turning in an instant on the hand you had licked and beslavered, as only such hounds can, you strengthened, and confirmed, and justified me in my scheme.’

Il signor Pecksniff aveva motivo di fissarlo: la trionfale espressione sul suo viso, nel suo modo di parlare e nella sua postura erano davvero qualcosa che meritava di essere osservato attentamente.

“Guardate lì!” disse l’uomo anziano, indicandolo e rivolgendosi agli altri. “Guardate lì! E poi, vieni qui, caro Martin, guarda qui! Qui! Qui!” Ogni volta che ripeteva quella parola, stringeva il nipote più forte al proprio petto.

“La passione che provai, Martin,” disse, “quando non osavo farlo, era proprio nel colpo che ho sferrato poco fa. Perché ci siamo mai separati? Come abbiamo potuto separarci? Come hai potuto allontanarti da me per andare da lui!”

Martin stava per rispondere, ma lo fermò e continuò a parlare.

“La colpa era tanto mia quanto tua. Mark me l’ha detto oggi, e lo sapevo da tempo, anche se non abbastanza presto da poter intervenire. Mary, il mio amore, vieni qui.”

Mentre lei tremava e era molto pallida, lui la fece sedere sulla propria sedia e rimase accanto a lei tenendole la mano; Martin stava al suo fianco.

“La maledizione della nostra casa,” disse l’uomo anziano, guardandola con affetto, “è stata l’amore per se stessi; è sempre stato l’amore per se stessi. Quante volte l’ho detto, senza mai sapere che in realtà lo avevo causato anche agli altri.”

“Intrecciò una mano con quella di Martin e, stando così in mezzo a loro, proseguì così, ”

“Voi tutti sapete come ho cresciuto questa orfana affinché si prendesse cura di me. Nessuno di voi può immaginare fino a che punto io abbia iniziato a considerarla una figlia; infatti, con la sua oblio di sé, la sua tenerezza, la sua pazienza, e tutta la bontà della sua natura, lei ha conquistato il mio cuore. E se anche il Cielo ne è testimone, devo ammettere che non ho fatto quasi nulla per farle sviluppare queste qualità. È fiorita senza alcun cura e si è maturata senza bisogno di calore. Non riesco proprio a provare rimorso per lei ora; anzi, quel ragazzo laggiù potrebbe anche alzare la testa con orgoglio.”

Il signor Pecksniff mise la mano nel gilet e lo scosse leggermente in quella parte di cui era stata fatta allusione; come per significare che essa rimaneva ancora la più importante.

“Esiste un certo tipo di egoismo,” disse Martin, “l’ho imparato dalla mia stessa esperienza. Un egoismo che è sempre all’erta per individuarlo negli altri; che tiene le persone a distanza, attraverso sospetti e diffidenze, chiedendosi perché non si avvicinino o non confidino in noi, e definendo proprio quell’atteggiamento egoismo altrui. Così anch’io ho dubitato delle persone intorno a me. All’inizio, non senza motivo. E così ho anche dubitato di te, Martin.”

“Non senza motivo,” rispose Martin, “assolutamente.”

“Ascolta, ipocrita! Ascolta, linguacciuto, servile, spregevole individuo!” disse Martin. “Ascolta, tu cane superficiale. Cosa? Quando io lo cercavo, tu avevi già teso le tue reti; stavi già cercando di catturarlo, non è vero? Mentre ero malato in questa casa di una brava donna e il tuo atteggiamento umile pregava per mio nipote, tu l’avevi già preso in tuo potere, non è vero? Sperando nel ritorno dell’amore che sapevi io provassi per lui, l’hai destinato a una delle tue due figlie, non è vero? E se questo non fosse stato possibile, l’hai comunque usato come un mezzo per ingannarmi, facendo leva sul fascino della tua cosiddetta ‘carità’, e hai trovato il modo di approfittare di me. Perché, anche allora ti conoscevo, e te lo dissi. Ti ho detto che ti conoscevo, anche allora, ”

“Non sono arrabbiato, signore,” disse gentilmente il signor Pecksniff. “Posso sopportare molto da parte sua. Non la contraddirò mai, signor Chuzzlewit.”

“Guardate!” disse Martin, guardandosi intorno. “Mi sono messo nelle mani di quell’uomo con termini così meschini e volgari, così degradanti per lui stesso, quanto fosse possibile esprimerli a parole. Gli li ho spiegati dettagliatamente, davanti ai suoi stessi figli, sillaba dopo sillaba, nel modo più grossolano e offensivo possibile, con un’esposizione chiara e palese del mio disprezzo, parole, non solo sguardi o gesti. Se solo avessi insultato apertamente quell’uomo furioso, avrei esitato nel mio proposito; se solo lo avessi spinto a comportarsi da uomo per un momento, avrei rinunciato. Se solo mi avesse detto una parola di rimprovero a favore del nipote che credeva fossi stato privato dell’eredità, se solo si fosse opposto, anche solo debolmente, alla mia decisione di abbandonarlo alla miseria e cacciarlo dalla sua casa, penso che avrei potuto perdonarlo per sempre. Ma nessuna parola. Nessuna. Adulare le peggiori passioni umane era il compito della sua natura; e lui l’ha adempiuto fedelmente.”

“Non sono arrabbiato,” osservò il signor Pecksniff. “Sono ferito, signor Chuzzlewit; offeso nei miei sentimenti, ma non sono arrabbiato, mio buon signore.”

Il signor Chuzzlewit continuò.

‘Una volta deciso a metterlo alla prova, fui risoluto a portare il processo a termine; ma mentre cercavo di comprendere fino in fondo la profondità della sua doppiezza, feci con me stesso un patto sacro: avrei riconosciuto in lui qualsiasi scintilla di bontà, onore, tolleranza, o qualsiasi virtù potesse esserci. Ma da capo a fondo, non c’è mai stata nulla del genere. Nemmeno una volta. Non può dire che non gli abbia dato opportunità; non può dire che l’abbia mai incoraggiato; non può dire che non lo abbia lasciato libero di fare ciò che voleva in tutto. O che non sia stato soltanto uno strumento passivo nelle sue mani, che poteva utilizzare tanto per il bene quanto per il male. E se riesce a dirlo, allora mente! Ed è proprio questa la sua natura.’

“Signor Chuzzlewit,” interruppe Pecksniff, versando lacrime. “Non sono arrabbiato, signore. Non posso certo arrabbiarmi con voi. Ma non avete mai, mio caro signore, espresso il desiderio che quel giovane innaturale, che con le sue malvagie arti ha allontanato la vostra stima da me, almeno per il momento. Solo per il momento. Che vostro nipote, il signor Chuzzlewit, venisse cacciato dalla mia casa? Riprendetevi, mio caro amico.”

“Lo ho detto, non è vero?”, ribatté l’uomo anziano con severità. “Non potevo sapere fino a che punto la tua ipocrisia ingannevole lo avesse tratto in inganno, furfante; e non conoscevo modo migliore per fargli aprire gli occhi se non presentandoti davanti a lui nella tua vera natura servile. Sì, ho espresso proprio quel desiderio. E tu ne hai approfittato immediatamente; ti sei precipitato ad esaudirlo. E, rivoltandoti in un istante contro chi avevi appena lusingato e umiliato – come fanno solo cani del genere – hai rafforzato, confermato e giustificato il mio piano.”

Mr Pecksniff made a bow; a submissive, not to say a grovelling and an abject bow. If he had been complimented on his practice of the loftiest virtues, he never could have bowed as he bowed then.

‘The wretched man who has been murdered,’ Mr Chuzzlewit went on to say; ‘then passing by the name of—’

‘Tigg,’ suggested Mark.

‘Of Tigg; brought begging messages to me on behalf of a friend of his, and an unworthy relative of mine; and finding him a man well enough suited to my purpose, I employed him to glean some news of you, Martin, for me. It was from him I learned that you had taken up your abode with yonder fellow. It was he, who meeting you here in town, one evening—you remember where?’

‘At the pawnbroker’s shop,’ said Martin.

‘Yes; watched you to your lodging, and enabled me to send you a bank-note.’

‘I little thought,’ said Martin, greatly moved, ‘that it had come from you; I little thought that you were interested in my fate. If I had—’

‘If you had,’ returned the old man, sorrowfully, ‘you would have shown less knowledge of me as I seemed to be, and as I really was. I hoped to bring you back, Martin, penitent and humbled. I hoped to distress you into coming back to me. Much as I loved you, I had that to acknowledge which I could not reconcile it to myself to avow, then, unless you made submission to me first. Thus it was I lost you. If I have had, indirectly, any act or part in the fate of that unhappy man, by putting means, however small, within his reach, Heaven forgive me! I might have known, perhaps, that he would misuse money; that it was ill-bestowed upon him; and that sown by his hands it could engender mischief only. But I never thought of him at that time as having the disposition or ability to be a serious impostor, or otherwise than as a thoughtless, idle-humoured, dissipated spendthrift, sinning more against himself than others, and frequenting low haunts and indulging vicious tastes, to his own ruin only.’

‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir,’ said Mr Tapley, who had Mrs Lupin on his arm by this time, quite agreeably; ‘if I may make so bold as say so, my opinion is, as you was quite correct, and that he turned out perfectly nat’ral for all that. There’s surprisin’ number of men sir, who as long as they’ve only got their own shoes and stockings to depend upon, will walk down hill, along the gutters quiet enough and by themselves, and not do much harm. But set any on ‘em up with a coach and horses, sir; and it’s wonderful what a knowledge of drivin’ he’ll show, and how he’ll fill his wehicle with passengers, and start off in the middle of the road, neck or nothing, to the Devil! Bless your heart, sir, there’s ever so many Tiggs a-passin’ this here Temple-gate any hour in the day, that only want a chance to turn out full-blown Montagues every one!’

‘Your ignorance, as you call it, Mark,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit, ‘is wiser than some men’s enlightenment, and mine among them. You are right; not for the first time to-day. Now hear me out, my dears. And hear me, you, who, if what I have been told be accurately stated, are Bankrupt in pocket no less than in good name! And when you have heard me, leave this place, and poison my sight no more!’

Mr Pecksniff laid his hand upon his breast, and bowed again.

‘The penance I have done in this house,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit, ‘has earned this reflection with it constantly, above all others. That if it had pleased Heaven to visit such infirmity on my old age as really had reduced me to the state in which I feigned to be, I should have brought its misery upon myself. Oh, you whose wealth, like mine, has been a source of continual unhappiness, leading you to distrust the nearest and dearest, and to dig yourself a living grave of suspicion and reserve; take heed that, having cast off all whom you might have bound to you, and tenderly, you do not become in your decay the instrument of such a man as this, and waken in another world to the knowledge of such wrong as would embitter Heaven itself, if wrong or you could ever reach it!’

And then he told them how he had sometimes thought, in the beginning, that love might grow up between Mary and Martin; and how he had pleased his fancy with the picture of observing it when it was new, and taking them to task, apart, in counterfeited doubt, and then confessing to them that it had been an object dear to his heart; and by his sympathy with them, and generous provision for their young fortunes, establishing a claim on their affection and regard which nothing should wither, and which should surround his old age with means of happiness. How in the first dawn of this design, and when the pleasure of such a scheme for the happiness of others was new and indistinct within him, Martin had come to tell him that he had already chosen for himself; knowing that he, the old man, had some faint project on that head, but ignorant whom it concerned. How it was little comfort to him to know that Martin had chosen Her, because the grace of his design was lost, and because finding that she had returned his love, he tortured himself with the reflection that they, so young, to whom he had been so kind a benefactor, were already like the world, and bent on their own selfish, stealthy ends. How in the bitterness of this impression, and of his past experience, he had reproached Martin so harshly (forgetting that he had never invited his confidence on such a point, and confounding what he had meant to do with what he had done), that high words sprung up between them, and they separated in wrath. How he loved him still, and hoped he would return. How on the night of his illness at the Dragon, he had secretly written tenderly of him, and made him his heir, and sanctioned his marriage with Mary; and how, after his interview with Mr Pecksniff, he had distrusted him again, and burnt the paper to ashes, and had lain down in his bed distracted by suspicions, doubts, and regrets.

Il signor Pecksniff fece un inchino; un inchino sottomesso, per non dire umiliante e spregevole. Anche se gli avessero fatto i complimenti per la pratica delle virtù più elevate, non avrebbe mai potuto inchinarsi in quel modo.

“Quell’infelice uomo che è stato assassinato,” continuò a dire il signor Chuzzlewit; “poi, menzionando il suo nome, ”

“Tigg,” suggerì Mark.

‘Di Tigg: mi portava messaggi di supplica a nome di un suo amico e di un parente indegno mio; essendomi sembrato un uomo abbastanza adatto ai miei scopi, lo ho assunto per raccogliere informazioni su di te, Martin. È stato lui a dirmi che ti eri stabilito con quel tizio laggiù. È stato lui anche ad incontrarti in città, una sera. Ti ricordi dove?’

“Nella bottega dell’usuraio,” disse Martin.

“Sì; ti ho seguito fino al tuo alloggio e questo mi ha permesso di inviarti una banconota.”

“Non me lo sarei mai aspettato,” disse Martin, profondamente commosso, “che provenisse da te; non avrei mai pensato che tu fossi interessato al mio destino. Se solo io, ”

“Se l’avessi fatto,” rispose l’uomo anziano con tristezza, “avresti dimostrato di conoscere meno me di quanto sembrassi e di quanto fossi realmente. Speravo di farti tornare da me, Martin, pentito e umile. Speravo che il dolore ti spingesse a riconciliarti con me. Per quanto ti amassi, dovevo ammettere qualcosa che non riuscivo a confessare apertamente, a meno che tu non mi sottomettessi prima. Ed è così che ti ho perso. Se, in modo indiretto, ho avuto qualche responsabilità nel destino di quell’uomo sfortunato, offrendogli mezzi, per quanto modesti, per raggiungere i suoi scopi. Che il Cielo mi perdoni! Forse avrei dovuto sapere che avrebbe abusato del denaro. Che riceverlo era stato un errore. E che ciò che aveva ottenuto con esso avrebbe portato solo disastro. Ma in quel momento non pensavo affatto che potesse essere un impostore serio. O, almeno, non che fosse una persona superficiale, dissipata e incline al vizio. Che peccasse soprattutto contro se stesso, frequentando ambienti bassi e indulgendo in gusti perversi. Solo a suo proprio danno.”

“Perdonatemi, signore,” disse il signor Tapley, che a quel momento aveva la signora Lupin sottobraccio; “se posso osare dirlo. Secondo me, avete perfettamente ragione: quell’uomo si è rivelato del tutto normale in tutto ciò. Ci sono davvero molti uomini, signore, che, finché hanno soltanto le loro scarpe e i loro calzini su cui contare, sono capaci di camminare da soli lungo i canali di scolo, senza causare troppi problemi. Ma date loro una carrozza e dei cavalli. Vedrete quanta abilità nel guidarla dimostreranno, quanto saranno bravi a riempirla di passeggeri. E partiranno dritti in mezzo alla strada, senza curarsi di nulla! Perbacco, signore. Ci sono così tanti individui come il signor Tigg che passano davanti a Temple-gate in qualsiasi momento della giornata. Basta loro solo l’occasione per trasformarsi in veri e propri “Montague”, ”

“La tua ignoranza, come la chiami tu, Mark,” disse il signor Chuzzlewit, “è più saggia dell’illuminazione di alcuni uomini, e della mia compresa. Hai ragione; non è la prima volta oggi che lo dici. Ora ascoltami attentamente, miei cari. E anche voi, che, se quanto mi è stato detto è vero, siete in bancarotta sia finanziariamente che moralmente! Una volta che avrete ascoltato, lasciate questo posto e smettete di offuscarmi la vista con le vostre parole!”

Il signor Pecksniff si mise la mano sul petto e si inchinò di nuovo.

“La penitenza che ho compiuto in questa casa,” disse il signor Chuzzlewit, “mi ha fatto riflettere costantemente su una cosa: se fosse piaciuto al Cielo colpire la mia vecchiaia con una tale infermità, riducendomi effettivamente nello stato in cui fingevo di trovarmi, avrei meritato quella sofferenza. Oh, voi che, come me, avete visto la vostra ricchezza diventare fonte di continua infelicità, portandovi a diffidare dei più vicini e cari, scavandovi una tomba di sospetti e riserve, fate attenzione: dopo aver allontanato tutte le persone che avreste potuto tenere accanto a voi, non diventiate nella vostra decadenza lo strumento di un uomo del genere; svegliatevi nell’altro mondo con la consapevolezza di aver commesso un torto così grave da offendere persino il Cielo, se mai ci riusciste, ”

E poi raccontò loro come a volte, all’inizio, avesse pensato che tra Mary e Martin potesse nascere un amore; come si fosse immaginato di assistervi nei primi momenti, di rimproverarli fingendo di dubitare, per poi confessare loro quanto quel sentimento fosse caro al suo cuore; e come, con la sua simpatia verso di loro e le generose provviste che aveva fornito per il loro futuro, avesse cercato di conquistare il loro affetto e la loro stima, affinché nulla potesse distruggerli e affinché la sua vecchiaia fosse circondata da felicità. Raccontò anche come, nei primi momenti in cui aveva concepito questo piano per la felicità altrui, Martin gli avesse detto di aver già scelto qualcuno per sé; sapeva che l’anziano aveva qualche vaga idea in merito, ma ignorava a chi si riferisse. Non fu certo un grande conforto scoprire che Martin aveva scelto lei: il fascino del suo piano svanì all’istante, e il pensiero che loro, così giovani e a cui aveva dato tanto, fossero ormai guidati solo da interessi egoistici lo tormentò profondamente. Nella amarezza di questi sentimenti e ricordando le sue esperienze passate, rimproverò Martin con durezza (dimenticando che non gli aveva mai chiesto di confidarsi su quel punto, e confondendo ciò che avrebbe voluto fare con ciò che aveva realmente fatto), tanto da scatenare una violenta discussione tra loro e far sì che si separassero in preda alla rabbia. Amava ancora Martin e sperava che tornasse da lui. Nella notte in cui si ammalò al Dragon, gli scrisse dolcemente, nominandolo suo erede e approvando il suo matrimonio con Mary; ma dopo l’incontro con Mr Pecksniff, riprese a dubitare di lui, bruciò la lettera e rimase a letto, sopraffatto da sospetti, dubbi e rimpianti.

And then he told them how, resolved to probe this Pecksniff, and to prove the constancy and truth of Mary (to himself no less than Martin), he had conceived and entered on his plan; and how, beneath her gentleness and patience, he had softened more and more; still more and more beneath the goodness and simplicity, the honour and the manly faith of Tom. And when he spoke of Tom, he said God bless him; and the tears were in his eyes; for he said that Tom, mistrusted and disliked by him at first, had come like summer rain upon his heart; and had disposed it to believe in better things. And Martin took him by the hand, and Mary too, and John, his old friend, stoutly too; and Mark, and Mrs Lupin, and his sister, little Ruth. And peace of mind, deep, tranquil peace of mind, was in Tom’s heart.

The old man then related how nobly Mr Pecksniff had performed the duty in which he stood indebted to society, in the matter of Tom’s dismissal; and how, having often heard disparagement of Mr Westlock from Pecksniffian lips, and knowing him to be a friend to Tom, he had used, through his confidential agent and solicitor, that little artifice which had kept him in readiness to receive his unknown friend in London. And he called on Mr Pecksniff (by the name of Scoundrel) to remember that there again he had not trapped him to do evil, but that he had done it of his own free will and agency; nay, that he had cautioned him against it. And once again he called on Mr Pecksniff (by the name of Hang-dog) to remember that when Martin coming home at last, an altered man, had sued for the forgiveness which awaited him, he, Pecksniff, had rejected him in language of his own, and had remorsely stepped in between him and the least touch of natural tenderness. ‘For which,’ said the old man, ‘if the bending of my finger would remove a halter from your neck, I wouldn’t bend it!’

‘Martin,’ he added, ‘your rival has not been a dangerous one, but Mrs Lupin here has played duenna for some weeks; not so much to watch your love as to watch her lover. For that Ghoul’—his fertility in finding names for Mr Pecksniff was astonishing—‘would have crawled into her daily walks otherwise, and polluted the fresh air. What’s this? Her hand is trembling strangely. See if you can hold it.’

Hold it! If he clasped it half as tightly as he did her waist. Well, well!

But it was good in him that even then, in his high fortune and happiness, with her lips nearly printed on his own, and her proud young beauty in his close embrace, he had a hand still left to stretch out to Tom Pinch.

‘Oh, Tom! Dear Tom! I saw you, accidentally, coming here. Forgive me!’

‘Forgive!’ cried Tom. ‘I’ll never forgive you as long as I live, Martin, if you say another syllable about it. Joy to you both! Joy, my dear fellow, fifty thousand times.’

Joy! There is not a blessing on earth that Tom did not wish them. There is not a blessing on earth that Tom would not have bestowed upon them, if he could.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Mr Tapley, stepping forward, ‘but yow was mentionin’, just now, a lady of the name of Lupin, sir.’

‘I was,’ returned old Martin

‘Yes, sir. It’s a pretty name, sir?’

‘A very good name,’ said Martin.

‘It seems a’most a pity to change such a name into Tapley. Don’t it, sir?’ said Mark.

‘That depends upon the lady. What is HER opinion?’

‘Why, sir,’ said Mr Tapley, retiring, with a bow, towards the buxom hostess, ‘her opinion is as the name ain’t a change for the better, but the indiwidual may be, and, therefore, if nobody ain’t acquainted with no jest cause or impediment, et cetrer, the Blue Dragon will be con-werted into the Jolly Tapley. A sign of my own inwention, sir. Wery new, conwivial, and expressive!’

The whole of these proceedings were so agreeable to Mr Pecksniff that he stood with his eyes fixed upon the floor and his hands clasping one another alternately, as if a host of penal sentences were being passed upon him. Not only did his figure appear to have shrunk, but his discomfiture seemed to have extended itself even to his dress. His clothes seemed to have grown shabbier, his linen to have turned yellow, his hair to have become lank and frowsy; his very boots looked villanous and dim, as if their gloss had departed with his own.

Feeling, rather than seeing, that the old man now pointed to the door, he raised his eyes, picked up his hat, and thus addressed him:

‘Mr Chuzzlewit, sir! you have partaken of my hospitality.’

‘And paid for it,’ he observed.

‘Thank you. That savours,’ said Mr Pecksniff, taking out his pocket-handkerchief, ‘of your old familiar frankness. You have paid for it. I was about to make the remark. You have deceived me, sir. Thank you again. I am glad of it. To see you in the possession of your health and faculties on any terms, is, in itself, a sufficient recompense. To have been deceived implies a trusting nature. Mine is a trusting nature. I am thankful for it. I would rather have a trusting nature, do you know, sir, than a doubting one!’

Here Mr Pecksniff, with a sad smile, bowed, and wiped his eyes.

‘There is hardly any person present, Mr Chuzzlewit,’ said Pecksniff, ‘by whom I have not been deceived. I have forgiven those persons on the spot. That was my duty; and, of course, I have done it. Whether it was worthy of you to partake of my hospitality, and to act the part you did act in my house, that, sir, is a question which I leave to your own conscience. And your conscience does not acquit you. No, sir, no!’

Pronouncing these last words in a loud and solemn voice, Mr Pecksniff was not so absolutely lost in his own fervour as to be unmindful of the expediency of getting a little nearer to the door.

‘I have been struck this day,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘with a walking stick (which I have every reason to believe has knobs upon it), on that delicate and exquisite portion of the human anatomy—the brain. Several blows have been inflicted, sir, without a walking-stick, upon that tenderer portion of my frame—my heart. You have mentioned, sir, my being bankrupt in my purse. Yes, sir, I am. By an unfortunate speculation, combined with treachery, I find myself reduced to poverty; at a time, sir, when the child of my bosom is widowed, and affliction and disgrace are in my family.’

E poi raccontò loro come, deciso a indagare su quel Pecksniff e a dimostrare la fedeltà e la _verità di Mary (non meno che per Martin), avesse concepito e messo in atto il suo piano; e come, sotto la sua gentilezza e pazienza, si fosse gradualmente ammorbidito sempre di più; ancora di più sotto la bontà e semplicità, l’‘onore e la fedeltà virile di Tom. E quando parlava di Tom, diceva che Dio lo benedicesse; gli occhi gli si riempivano di lacrime, perché raccontava che Tom, inizialmente diffidato e disprezzato da lui, era stato come la pioggia estiva sul suo cuore, riuscendo a fargli credere in cose migliori. E Martin gli prese la mano, così come Mary e John, il suo vecchio amico; Mark, la signora Lupin e sua sorella, piccola Ruth. E nel cuore di Tom regnava una pace profonda, tranquilla.

L’uomo anziano raccontò quindi come il signor Pecksniff avesse adempiuto con nobiltà al dovere che lo legava alla società, riguardo alla destituzione di Tom; e come, avendo spesso sentito critiche nei confronti del signor Westlock dalle labbra stesse di Pecksniff, e sapendolo amico di Tom, avesse utilizzato quell’astuzia per tenersi pronto ad accogliere il proprio “amico sconosciuto” a Londra. E chiamò il signor Pecksniff (chiamandolo “mascalzone”) a ricordare che in quel caso non lo aveva ingannato per farlo compiere un atto malvagio, ma che lui stesso l’aveva fatto di sua spontanea volontà; anzi, gli aveva persino messo in guardia contro tale comportamento. E ancora una volta ricordò al signor Pecksniff (chiamandolo “canaglia”) che quando Martin, tornato a casa trasformato, aveva chiesto il perdono che gli spettava, lui, Pecksniff, lo aveva rifiutato con le sue stesse parole, impedendogli così di provare anche solo un minimo di tenerezza naturale. “Per questo,” disse l’uomo anziano, “se piegare un dito potesse togliervi il cappio dal collo, non lo piegherei mai!”

“Martin,” aggiunse, “il tuo rivale non è stato davvero pericoloso, ma la signora Lupin, qui presente, ha svolto il ruolo di ‘duenna’ per alcune settimane; non tanto per sorvegliare il tuo amore, quanto piuttosto il suo innamorato. Altrimenti, quel ‘Ghoul’ – la sua capacità di inventare nomi assurdi per il signor Pecksniff era davvero sorprendente – sarebbe sicuramente approfittato delle sue uscite quotidiane per contaminare l’aria fresca. Che cos’è? La sua mano sta tremando in modo strano. Vedi se riesci a fermarla.”

Aspetta! Se l’avesse stretto anche solo la metà di quanto stringeva la sua vita. Beh, beh!

Ma era una bella qualità in lui il fatto che, anche allora, nella sua grande fortuna e felicità, con le sue labbra quasi incollate alle sue e la sua orgogliosa giovane bellezza stretta tra le sue braccia, avesse ancora una mano libera per tenderla verso Tom Pinch.

“Oh, Tom! Caro Tom! Ti ho visto arrivare qui per caso. Perdonami!”

“Perdona!” gridò Tom. “Non ti perdonerò mai finché vivrò, Martin, se osi dire ancora una parola al riguardo. Gioia a entrambi! Gioia, mio caro amico, cinquantamila volte di più.”

Gioia! Non esiste alcuna benedizione al mondo che Tom non desiderasse per loro. Non esiste alcuna benedizione al mondo che Tom non avrebbe concesso loro, se ne avesse avuto la possibilità.

“Perdonatemi, signore,” disse il signor Tapley avvicinandosi, “ma poco fa avete menzionato una signora di nome Lupin, vero?”

“Ero,” rispose il vecchio Martin.

“Sì, signore. È un nome davvero bello, non crede?”

“Un nome davvero molto bello,” disse Martin.

“Sembra davvero un peccato cambiare un nome del genere in Tapley. Non è vero, signore?” disse Mark.

“Dipende dalla signora. Qual è la SUA opinione?”

“Perché, signore,” disse il signor Tapley, inchinandosi e allontanandosi verso la rotonda padrona di casa, “il nome stesso non rappresenta certo un miglioramento, ma la persona sì. Pertanto, se nessuno ha obiezioni o impedimenti, il Blue Dragon potrà essere trasformato nel Jolly Tapley. Un’idea tutta mia, signore. Molto originale, divertente ed efficace!”

Tutta questa procedura risultò così gradita al signor Pecksniff che rimase fermo, con lo sguardo fisso sul pavimento e le mani intrecciate l’una nell’altra, come se gli stessero essere inflitte numerose pene. Non solo la sua figura sembrava essersi rimpicciolita, ma anche il suo stato di disagio si era esteso fino al suo abbigliamento: i suoi vestiti apparivano ancora più logori, la biancheria aveva preso un colore giallastro, i capelli erano diventati lisci e spettinati; persino le sue scarpe sembravano rovinate e opache, come se anche il loro lucido fosse andato perduto insieme a tutto il resto.

Sentendo, piuttosto che vedendo, che l’uomo anziano ora indicava la porta, alzò lo sguardo, prese il cappello e gli disse così:

“Signor Chuzzlewit, signore! Ha goduto della mia ospitalità.”

“E l’ha pagata,” osservò.

“Grazie. Questo dimostra,” disse il signor Pecksniff estraendo il fazzoletto di tasca, “la tua vecchia franchezza, quella che ci era sempre stata tra noi. L’hai dimostrata ancora una volta. Mi hai ingannato, signore. Grazie ancora. Ne sono felice. Vederti in possesso della tua salute e delle tue facoltà, in qualsiasi modo sia avvenuto, è di per sé una ricompensa sufficiente. Il fatto che tu mi abbia ingannato dimostra che hai un carattere fiducioso. Io ho proprio un carattere fiducioso. Ne sono grato. Preferirei avere un carattere fiducioso, sa signore, piuttosto che uno scettico!”

Ecco il signor Pecksniff: con un sorriso triste si inchinò e si asciugò gli occhi.

“Quasi nessuna persona presente qui, signor Chuzzlewit,” disse Pecksniff, “non mi ha mai ingannato. Ho perdonato quelle persone sul posto stesso. Era mio dovere, e naturalmente l’ho fatto. Se sia stato degno di voi partecipare alla mia ospitalità e comportarvi come avete fatto nella mia casa, beh, signore, questa è una questione che lascio alla vostra coscienza. E la vostra coscienza non vi assolve. No, signore, assolutamente no!”

Pronunciando queste ultime parole con voce alta e solenne, il signor Pecksniff non era così completamente immerso nella propria passione da non rendersi conto dell’opportunità di avvicinarsi un po’ di più alla porta.

“Oggi sono stato colpito,” disse il signor Pecksniff, “con un bastone da passeggio (di cui ho tutte le ragioni di credere che abbia nodi), proprio in quella parte delicata ed eccellente dell’anatomia umana: il cervello. Sono stati inferti diversi colpi, signore, senza però l’uso di un bastone da passeggio; questi colpi hanno riguardato invece quella parte più tenera del mio corpo: il mio cuore. Avete menzionato, signore, che sono fallito finanziariamente. Sì, signore, lo sono. A causa di una sfortunata speculazione, unita a tradimenti, mi trovo ora ridotto alla povertà; in un momento, signore, in cui il figlio che porto in grembo è rimasto vedovo, e sofferenza e disonore hanno invaso la mia famiglia.”

Here Mr Pecksniff wiped his eyes again, and gave himself two or three little knocks upon the breast, as if he were answering two or three other little knocks from within, given by the tinkling hammer of his conscience, to express ‘Cheer up, my boy!’

‘I know the human mind, although I trust it. That is my weakness. Do I not know, sir’—here he became exceedingly plaintive and was observed to glance towards Tom Pinch—‘that my misfortunes bring this treatment on me? Do I not know, sir, that but for them I never should have heard what I have heard to-day? Do I not know that in the silence and the solitude of night, a little voice will whisper in your ear, Mr Chuzzlewit, “This was not well. This was not well, sir!” Think of this, sir (if you will have the goodness), remote from the impulses of passion, and apart from the specialities, if I may use that strong remark, of prejudice. And if you ever contemplate the silent tomb, sir, which you will excuse me for entertaining some doubt of your doing, after the conduct into which you have allowed yourself to be betrayed this day; if you ever contemplate the silent tomb sir, think of me. If you find yourself approaching to the silent tomb, sir, think of me. If you should wish to have anything inscribed upon your silent tomb, sir, let it be, that I—ah, my remorseful sir! that I—the humble individual who has now the honour of reproaching you, forgave you. That I forgave you when my injuries were fresh, and when my bosom was newly wrung. It may be bitterness to you to hear it now, sir, but you will live to seek a consolation in it. May you find a consolation in it when you want it, sir! Good morning!’

With this sublime address, Mr Pecksniff departed. But the effect of his departure was much impaired by his being immediately afterwards run against, and nearly knocked down, by a monstrously excited little man in velveteen shorts and a very tall hat; who came bursting up the stairs, and straight into the chambers of Mr Chuzzlewit, as if he were deranged.

‘Is there anybody here that knows him?’ cried the little man. ‘Is there anybody here that knows him? Oh, my stars, is there anybody here that knows him?’

They looked at each other for an explanation; but nobody knew anything more than that here was an excited little man with a very tall hat on, running in and out of the room as hard as he could go; making his single pair of bright blue stockings appear at least a dozen; and constantly repeating in a shrill voice, ‘IS there anybody here that knows him?’

‘If your brains is not turned topjy turjey, Mr Sweedlepipes!’ exclaimed another voice, ‘hold that there nige of yourn, I beg you, sir.’

At the same time Mrs Gamp was seen in the doorway; out of breath from coming up so many stairs, and panting fearfully; but dropping curtseys to the last.

‘Excuge the weakness of the man,’ said Mrs Gamp, eyeing Mr Sweedlepipe with great indignation; ‘and well I might expect it, as I should have know’d, and wishin’ he was drownded in the Thames afore I had brought him here, which not a blessed hour ago he nearly shaved the noge off from the father of as lovely a family as ever, Mr Chuzzlewit, was born three sets of twins, and would have done it, only he see it a-goin’ in the glass, and dodged the rager. And never, Mr Sweedlepipes, I do assure you, sir, did I so well know what a misfortun it was to be acquainted with you, as now I do, which so I say, sir, and I don’t deceive you!’

‘I ask your pardon, ladies and gentlemen all,’ cried the little barber, taking off his hat, ‘and yours too, Mrs Gamp. But—but,’ he added this half laughing and half crying, ‘IS there anybody here that knows him?’

As the barber said these words, a something in top-boots, with its head bandaged up, staggered into the room, and began going round and round and round, apparently under the impression that it was walking straight forward.

‘Look at him!’ cried the excited little barber. ‘Here he is! That’ll soon wear off, and then he’ll be all right again. He’s no more dead than I am. He’s all alive and hearty. Aint you, Bailey?’

‘R—r—reether so, Poll!’ replied that gentleman.

‘Look here!’ cried the little barber, laughing and crying in the same breath. ‘When I steady him he comes all right. There! He’s all right now. Nothing’s the matter with him now, except that he’s a little shook and rather giddy; is there, Bailey?’

‘R—r—reether shook, Poll—reether so!’ said Mr Bailey. ‘What, my lovely Sairey! There you air!’

‘What a boy he is!’ cried the tender-hearted Poll, actually sobbing over him. ‘I never see sech a boy! It’s all his fun. He’s full of it. He shall go into the business along with me. I am determined he shall. We’ll make it Sweedlepipe and Bailey. He shall have the sporting branch (what a one he’ll be for the matches!) and me the shavin’. I’ll make over the birds to him as soon as ever he’s well enough. He shall have the little bullfinch in the shop, and all. He’s sech a boy! I ask your pardon, ladies and gentlemen, but I thought there might be some one here that know’d him!’

Mrs Gamp had observed, not without jealousy and scorn, that a favourable impression appeared to exist in behalf of Mr Sweedlepipe and his young friend; and that she had fallen rather into the background in consequence. She now struggled to the front, therefore, and stated her business.

‘Which, Mr Chuzzlewit,’ she said, ‘is well beknown to Mrs Harris as has one sweet infant (though she DO not wish it known) in her own family by the mother’s side, kep in spirits in a bottle; and that sweet babe she see at Greenwich Fair, a-travelling in company with a pink-eyed lady, Prooshan dwarf, and livin’ skelinton, which judge her feelings when the barrel organ played, and she was showed her own dear sister’s child, the same not bein’ expected from the outside picter, where it was painted quite contrairy in a livin’ state, a many sizes larger, and performing beautiful upon the Arp, which never did that dear child know or do; since breathe it never did, to speak on in this wale! And Mrs Harris, Mr Chuzzlewit, has knowed me many year, and can give you information that the lady which is widdered can’t do better and may do worse, than let me wait upon her, which I hope to do. Permittin’ the sweet faces as I see afore me.’

Qui il signor Pecksniff si asciugò di nuovo gli occhi e si diede due o tre colpetti leggeri sul petto, come se stesse rispondendo a altri due o tre colpetti provenienti dall’interno, emessi dal “martello tintinnante” della sua coscienza, per esprimere: “Su, coraggio, ragazzo mio!”

“Conosco la mente umana, anche se ci credo. Questa è la mia debolezza. Non so forse, signore” – qui divenne estremamente supplichevole e si notò che lanciava uno sguardo verso Tom Pinch – “che le mie sfortune sono la causa di questo trattamento? Non so forse, signore, che senza di esse non avrei mai sentito ciò che ho sentito oggi? Non so forse che nel silenzio e nella solitudine della notte una voce sussurra nelle vostre orecchie: ‘Questo non è stato giusto. Questo non è stato corretto, signore’? Pensateci, signore. Lontano dagli impulsi della passione, e al di fuori delle particolari pregiudizi che possiedo. Se mai considererete quella tomba silenziosa, signore – e mi scusate se nutro qualche dubbio su chi l’abbia scavata, dopo il comportamento in cui vi siete lasciato trascinare oggi. Se mai penserete a quella tomba silenziosa, pensate a me. Se vi avvicinerete a essa, pensate a me. E se desideraste che qualcosa fosse scritto sulla sua lapide, che sia questo: ‘Io, ah, mio povero signore! Io, quest’umile individuo che ora ha l’onore di rimproverarvi, vi ho perdonato. Vi ho perdonato quando le mie ferite erano ancora fresche, quando il mio cuore era ancora pieno di dolore. Forse adesso vi sembrerà amaro sentirlo dire, signore. Ma vivrete abbastanza a lungo da trovarvi in essa una consolazione. Che possiate trovarla, quando ne avrete bisogno. Buongiorno!’”

Con questo sublime discorso, il signor Pecksniff se ne andò. Tuttavia, l’impatto della sua partenza fu notevolmente ridotto dal fatto che, subito dopo, venne urtato e quasi fatto cadere da un uomo piccolo e molto eccitato, vestito con pantaloncini di velluto e un cappello molto alto; quest’ultimo arrivò correndo su per le scale e direttamente nelle stanze del signor Chuzzlewit, come se fosse pazzo.

“C’è qualcuno qui che lo conosce?” gridò il piccolo uomo. “C’è qualcuno qui che lo conosce? Oh, mie stelle, c’è davvero qualcuno qui che lo conosce?”

Si guardarono l’un l’altro in attesa di una spiegazione; ma nessuno sapeva nulla di più, se non che c’era un piccolo uomo eccitato, con un cappello molto alto, che correva avanti e indietro nella stanza il più velocemente possibile; facendo sì che le sue sole calze blu brillanti sembrassero apparire almeno una dozzina di volte; e ripetendo continuamente, con voce stridula: “C’è qualcuno qui che lo conosce?”

“Se non avete la testa a posto, signor Sweedlepipes!”, esclamò un’altra voce. “Per favore, tenetela ferma, vi prego, signore.”

Nello stesso momento, la signora Gamp fu vista sulla soglia: senza fiato per essere salita tante scale, e ansimando in modo preoccupante; ma continuò comunque a fare riverenze fino alla fine.

“Scusate la debolezza di quell’uomo,” disse la signora Gamp, guardando il signor Sweedlepipe con grande indignazione; “e in effetti me l’aspettavo. Avrei dovuto saperlo fin dall’inizio. Vorrei che fosse annegato nel Tamigi prima ancora di portarlo qui. Solo un’ora fa, per poco non gli ha rasato via la testa al padre di una famiglia così meravigliosa. Il signor Chuzzlewit aveva appena avuto tre coppie di gemelli. Avrebbe davvero potuto farlo. Se solo non avesse visto il proprio riflesso nello specchio e fosse riuscito a sfuggire alla sua furia. E vi assicuro, signor Sweedlepipe, che mai prima d’ora avevo capito fino in fondo quanto fosse sfortunato conoscervi, ”

“Chiedo scusa a tutte voi, signore e signori,” gridò il piccolo barbiere, togliendosi il cappello, “e anche a voi, signora Gamp. Ma, ma, ” aggiunse, metà ridendo e metà piangendo, “c’è qualcuno qui che lo conosce?”

Mentre il barbiere pronunciava queste parole, qualcuno con stivali alti e la testa fasciata entrò nella stanza barcollando e iniziò a camminare in cerchio, apparentemente convinto di stare andando dritto avanti.

“Guardatelo!” esclamò il piccolo barbiere eccitato. “Eccolo lì! Quel dolore passerà presto, e poi starà di nuovo bene. Non è morto, proprio come non lo sono io. È completamente vivo e in salute, vero, Bailey?”

“R–r–reether, allora, Poll!” rispose quel gentiluomo.

“Guardate qui!” gridò il piccolo barbiere, ridendo e piangendo contemporaneamente. “Quando lo tengo fermo, funziona perfettamente. Ecco! Ora va tutto bene. Non gli è successo nulla, tranne che è un po’ scosso e leggermente stordito. Vero, Bailey?”

“Ree–theer si sta scuotendo, Poo–theer si sta muovendo!” disse il signor Bailey. “Ma che cosa, mia adorabile Sairey! Ecco che ti sei svegliata!”

“Che ragazzo meraviglioso!” esclamò la gentile Poll, piangendo davvero per lui. “Non ho mai visto un ragazzo del genere. Per lui è tutto una grande avventura; è pieno di energia e vitalità. Entrerà nel mio business con me. Ne sono assolutamente sicura. Diventeremo ‘Sweedlepipe e Bailey’: lui si occuperà delle attività sportive (sarà perfetto per gli eventi sportivi!), mentre io mi dedicherò alle rasature. Gli darò anche i piccoli uccellini. È davvero un ragazzo straordinario! Scusate, signore e signori, ma ho pensato che forse qualcuno qui lo conoscesse, ”

La signora Gamp aveva notato, non senza invidia e disprezzo, che sembrava esistere un’opinione favorevole nei confronti del signor Sweedlepipe e della sua giovane amica; e che di conseguenza lei stessa era finita un po’ in secondo piano. Ora, quindi, cercò di farsi notare e presentò le sue ragioni.

“Questo, signor Chuzzlewit,” disse lei, “è ben noto a Mrs Harris: quella signora ha un adorabile bambino (sebbene non desideri che si sappia) nella sua stessa famiglia, figlio della madre; quel dolce bambino che vedete alla Fiera di Greenwich viaggia in compagnia di una donna dai occhi rosa, di un nano di nome Prooshan e di un omino magro. Essi comprendono i suoi sentimenti quando suona l’organo a barile. E poi c’è la figlia della sua cara sorella. Una bambina che, secondo quanto si vede in quell’immagine dipinta, non assomiglia affatto alla realtà: è molto più grande, suona meravigliosamente sull’arpa. Ma quella povera bambina vera non ha mai fatto nulla del genere. Non ha mai nemmeno respirato, per quanto ne so! E Mrs Harris, signor Chuzzlewit, mi conosce da molti anni. Può darvi informazioni utili. Quella signora vedova non potrebbe trovare nessuno migliore di me per prendersi cura di lei. E io spero davvero di poterlo fare. Guardate quelle adorabili faccine davanti a voi, ”

‘Oh!’ said Mr Chuzzlewit. ‘Is that your business? Was this good person paid for the trouble we gave her?’

‘I paid her, sir,’ returned Mark Tapley; ‘liberal.’

‘The young man’s words is true,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘and thank you kindly.’

‘Then here we will close our acquaintance, Mrs Gamp,’ retorted Mr Chuzzlewit. ‘And Mr Sweedlepipe—is that your name?’

‘That is my name, sir,’ replied Poll, accepting with a profusion of gratitude, some chinking pieces which the old man slipped into his hand.

‘Mr Sweedlepipe, take as much care of your lady-lodger as you can, and give her a word or two of good advice now and then. Such,’ said old Martin, looking gravely at the astonished Mrs Gamp, ‘as hinting at the expediency of a little less liquor, and a little more humanity, and a little less regard for herself, and a little more regard for her patients, and perhaps a trifle of additional honesty. Or when Mrs Gamp gets into trouble, Mr Sweedlepipe, it had better not be at a time when I am near enough to the Old Bailey to volunteer myself as a witness to her character. Endeavour to impress that upon her at your leisure, if you please.’

Mrs Gamp clasped her hands, turned up her eyes until they were quite invisible, threw back her bonnet for the admission of fresh air to her heated brow; and in the act of saying faintly—‘Less liquor!—Sairey Gamp—Bottle on the chimney-piece, and let me put my lips to it, when I am so dispoged!’—fell into one of the walking swoons; in which pitiable state she was conducted forth by Mr Sweedlepipe, who, between his two patients, the swooning Mrs Gamp and the revolving Bailey, had enough to do, poor fellow.

The old man looked about him, with a smile, until his eyes rested on Tom Pinch’s sister; when he smiled the more.

‘We will all dine here together,’ he said; ‘and as you and Mary have enough to talk of, Martin, you shall keep house for us until the afternoon, with Mr and Mrs Tapley. I must see your lodgings in the meanwhile, Tom.’

Tom was quite delighted. So was Ruth. She would go with them.

‘Thank you, my love,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit. ‘But I am afraid I must take Tom a little out of the way, on business. Suppose you go on first, my dear?’

Pretty little Ruth was equally delighted to do that.

‘But not alone,’ said Martin, ‘not alone. Mr Westlock, I dare say, will escort you.’

Why, of course he would: what else had Mr Westlock in his mind? How dull these old men are!

‘You are sure you have no engagement?’ he persisted.

Engagement! As if he could have any engagement!

So they went off arm-in-arm. When Tom and Mr Chuzzlewit went off arm-in-arm a few minutes after them, the latter was still smiling; and really, for a gentleman of his habits, in rather a knowing manner.

“Oh!”, disse il signor Chuzzlewit. “È affar tuo? Questa brava persona è stata pagata per le difficoltà che le abbiamo causato?”

“Le ho pagato, signore,” rispose Mark Tapley; “in abbondanza.”

“Le parole di quel giovane sono vere,” disse la signora Gamp, “e vi ringrazio molto.”

“Allora, qui concluderemo la nostra conoscenza, signora Gamp,” ribatté il signor Chuzzlewit. “E lei, signor Sweedlepipe, è questo il suo nome?”

“Quello è il mio nome, signore,” rispose Poll, accettando con grande gratitudine alcuni pezzi di moneta che l’uomo anziano gli mise in mano.

“Signor Sweedlepipe, si prenda cura della sua inquilina come meglio può e, di tanto in tanto, le dia qualche consiglio utile. Ad esempio,” disse il vecchio Martin, guardando seriamente la sorpresa signora Gamp, “potrebbe suggerirle di bere meno alcol, di essere un po’ più umana, di prestare meno attenzione a se stessa e un po’ di più ai suoi pazienti. E magari anche di essere un po’ più onesta. O, quando la signora Gamp si troverà nei guai, che non accada in un momento in cui io mi trovi abbastanza vicino al tribunale per offrirmi volontario come testimone del suo carattere. Cerchi di farglielo capire, quando ne avrai l’occasione.”

La signora Gamp si mise le mani giunte, alzò gli occhi fino a quando non divennero quasi invisibili, si tolse il cappello per far entrare aria fresca sulla sua fronte calda; e mentre mormorava debolmente: “Meno liquore. Sairey Gamp. La bottiglia è sul caminetto, lasciatemi bere un sorso, quando mi sentirò meglio!”, cadde in uno di quei svenimenti. In tale stato pietoso, fu portata via dal signor Sweedlepipe, che, tra i suoi due pazienti – la svenuta signora Gamp e il continuamente barcollante Bailey – aveva davvero molto da fare. Povero uomo.

L’uomo anziano guardò intorno a sé, sorridendo, finché i suoi occhi non si posarono sulla sorella di Tom Pinch; allora sorrise ancora di più.

“Tutti pranzeremo qui insieme,” disse; “e poiché tu e Mary avete abbastanza di cui parlare, Martin, tu potrai occuparti della casa per noi fino al pomeriggio, insieme a Mr e Mrs Tapley. Nel frattempo devo vedere dove ti trovi, Tom.”

Tom era molto felice. Lo era anche Ruth; avrebbe viaggiato con loro.

“Grazie, mio amore”, disse il signor Chuzzlewit. “Ma temo di dover portare Tom via per un po’, per affari. Forse potresti andare tu prima, cara?”

Anche la piccola e carina Ruth era altrettanto felice di farlo.

“Ma non da solo,” disse Martin, “non da solo. Sono sicuro che il signor Westlock vi accompagnerà.”

Certo che lo avrebbe fatto: cosa altro poteva avere in mente il signor Westlock? Che noiosi sono questi vecchi uomini.

“Sei sicuro di non avere nessun impegno?” insistette.

Un fidanzamento. Come se potesse mai avere un fidanzamento!

Si allontanarono tenendosi per mano. Quando anche Tom e il signor Chuzzlewit se ne andarono allo stesso modo pochi minuti dopo di loro, quest’ultimo continuava a sorridere; anzi, considerando le sue abitudini, quel sorriso aveva un certo sottinteso.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

WHAT JOHN WESTLOCK SAID TO TOM PINCH’S SISTER; WHAT TOM PINCH’S SISTER SAID TO JOHN WESTLOCK; WHAT TOM PINCH SAID TO BOTH OF THEM; AND HOW THEY ALL PASSED THE REMAINDER OF THE DAY

Brilliantly the Temple Fountain sparkled in the sun, and laughingly its liquid music played, and merrily the idle drops of water danced and danced, and peeping out in sport among the trees, plunged lightly down to hide themselves, as little Ruth and her companion came toward it.

And why they came toward the Fountain at all is a mystery; for they had no business there. It was not in their way. It was quite out of their way. They had no more to do with the Fountain, bless you, than they had with—with Love, or any out-of-the-way thing of that sort.

It was all very well for Tom and his sister to make appointments by the Fountain, but that was quite another affair. Because, of course, when she had to wait a minute or two, it would have been very awkward for her to have had to wait in any but a tolerably quiet spot; but that was as quiet a spot, everything considered, as they could choose. But when she had John Westlock to take care of her, and was going home with her arm in his (home being in a different direction altogether), their coming anywhere near that Fountain was quite extraordinary.

However, there they found themselves. And another extraordinary part of the matter was, that they seemed to have come there, by a silent understanding. Yet when they got there, they were a little confused by being there, which was the strangest part of all; because there is nothing naturally confusing in a Fountain. We all know that.

‘What a good old place it was!’ John said. With quite an earnest affection for it.

‘A pleasant place indeed,’ said little Ruth. ‘So shady!’

Oh wicked little Ruth!

They came to a stop when John began to praise it. The day was exquisite; and stopping at all, it was quite natural—nothing could be more so—that they should glance down Garden Court; because Garden Court ends in the Garden, and the Garden ends in the River, and that glimpse is very bright and fresh and shining on a summer’s day. Then, oh, little Ruth, why not look boldly at it! Why fit that tiny, precious, blessed little foot into the cracked corner of an insensible old flagstone in the pavement; and be so very anxious to adjust it to a nicety!

If the Fiery-faced matron in the crunched bonnet could have seen them as they walked away, how many years’ purchase might Fiery Face have been disposed to take for her situation in Furnival’s Inn as laundress to Mr Westlock!

They went away, but not through London’s streets! Through some enchanted city, where the pavements were of air; where all the rough sounds of a stirring town were softened into gentle music; where everything was happy; where there was no distance, and no time. There were two good-tempered burly draymen letting down big butts of beer into a cellar, somewhere; and when John helped her—almost lifted her—the lightest, easiest, neatest thing you ever saw—across the rope, they said he owed them a good turn for giving him the chance. Celestial draymen!

Green pastures in the summer tide, deep-littered straw yards in the winter, no start of corn and clover, ever, to that noble horse who WOULD dance on the pavement with a gig behind him, and who frightened her, and made her clasp his arm with both hands (both hands meeting one upon the another so endearingly!), and caused her to implore him to take refuge in the pastry-cook’s, and afterwards to peep out at the door so shrinkingly; and then, looking at him with those eyes, to ask him was he sure—now was he sure—they might go safely on! Oh for a string of rampant horses! For a lion, for a bear, for a mad bull, for anything to bring the little hands together on his arm again!

They talked, of course. They talked of Tom, and all these changes and the attachment Mr Chuzzlewit had conceived for him, and the bright prospects he had in such a friend, and a great deal more to the same purpose. The more they talked, the more afraid this fluttering little Ruth became of any pause; and sooner than have a pause she would say the same things over again; and if she hadn’t courage or presence of mind enough for that (to say the truth she very seldom had), she was ten thousand times more charming and irresistible than she had been before.

‘Martin will be married very soon now, I suppose?’ said John.

She supposed he would. Never did a bewitching little woman suppose anything in such a faint voice as Ruth supposed that.

But seeing that another of those alarming pauses was approaching, she remarked that he would have a beautiful wife. Didn’t Mr Westlock think so?

‘Ye—yes,’ said John, ‘oh, yes.’

She feared he was rather hard to please, he spoke so coldly.

‘Rather say already pleased,’ said John. ‘I have scarcely seen her. I had no care to see her. I had no eyes for HER, this morning.’

Oh, good gracious!

It was well they had reached their destination. She never could have gone any further. It would have been impossible to walk in such a tremble.

Tom had not come in. They entered the triangular parlour together, and alone. Fiery Face, Fiery Face, how many years’ purchase NOW!

She sat down on the little sofa, and untied her bonnet-strings. He sat down by her side, and very near her; very, very near her. Oh rapid, swelling, bursting little heart, you knew that it would come to this, and hoped it would. Why beat so wildly, heart!

‘Dear Ruth! Sweet Ruth! If I had loved you less, I could have told you that I loved you, long ago. I have loved you from the first. There never was a creature in the world more truly loved than you, dear Ruth, by me!’

She clasped her little hands before her face. The gushing tears of joy, and pride, and hope, and innocent affection, would not be restrained. Fresh from her full young heart they came to answer him.

CAPITOLO CINQUANTATRE

Quello che John Westlock disse alla sorella di Tom Pinch; quello che la sorella di Tom Pinch disse a John Westlock; quello che Tom Pinch disse a entrambi; e come trascorsero il resto della giornata.

Con splendore, la fontana del Tempio brillava al sole; ridendo, la sua “musica liquida” suonava, e le gocce d’acqua danzavano gioiosamente. Apparivano tra gli alberi per poi tuffarsi leggere nel basso, mentre piccola Ruth e la sua compagna si avvicinavano a lei.

E il motivo per cui si diressero verso la Fontana è un mistero; in fondo, non avevano nulla a che fare lì. Non era nel loro cammino. Era completamente al di fuori del loro ambito di interessi. Non avevano alcun legame con quella Fontana, perdonatemi, proprio come non ne avevano con, con l’Amore o qualsiasi altra cosa del genere, completamente irrilevante per loro.

Tutto andava molto bene per Tom e sua sorella quando fissavano appuntamenti vicino alla Fontana, ma quella era un’altra storia. Perché, ovviamente, quando dovevano aspettare un minuto o due, sarebbe stato molto imbarazzante doverlo fare in un posto che non fosse abbastanza tranquillo; tuttavia, considerando tutto, quel luogo era il più silenzioso che potessero scegliere. Ma quando avevano John Westlock a prendersi cura di loro e tornavano a casa tenendosi per il braccio (la sua casa essendo in una direzione completamente diversa), il fatto che andassero anche solo vicino a quella Fontana era davvero insolito.

Tuttavia, si trovarono lì. Un altro aspetto straordinario della situazione era che sembrava che fossero arrivati lì grazie a un tacito accordo. Eppure, una volta arrivati, furono un po’ confusi dal fatto di essere lì, il che era davvero la parte più strana di tutto; perché, in fondo, non c’è nulla di naturalmente confuso in una fontana. Lo sappiamo tutti.

“Che bel posto vecchio, ” disse John, con un vero affetto per esso.

“Un posto davvero piacevole,” disse la piccola Ruth. “Che ombreggiato!”

Oh, piccola Ruth malvagia!

Si fermarono quando John iniziò a lodarlo. Quel giorno era davvero incantevole; quindi fermarsi un attimo, per loro, fu del tutto naturale. Non c’era nulla di più logico che gettare uno sguardo verso il Giardino e la >Aia; infatti il Giardino si estende fino al Giardino, e questo giardino, a sua volta, sfocia nel [Fiume. Quel panorama era così luminoso, fresco e splendente in una giornata d’estate. Oh, piccola Ruth, perché non guardarlo con coraggio? Perché nascondere quel tuo piedino minuscolo, prezioso e benedetto in un angolo crepato di una vecchia pietra del marciapiede, e preoccuparti tanto di sistemarlo nel modo giusto?

Se quella matrona dal viso rossastro, con quel cappello stretto, avesse potuto vederli mentre se ne andavano, quante anni di lavoro avrebbe probabilmente accettato in cambio della sua situazione presso l’ostello Furnival’s Inn, lavorando come lavandaia per il signor Westlock!

Se ne andarono, ma non per le strade di Londra! Attraverso una qualche città incantata, dove i marciapiedi erano fatti d’aria; dove tutti i suoni aspri e caotici di una città vivace si trasformavano in musica dolce; dove tutto era felice; dove non esistevano distanze né tempo. C’erano due robusti carrettieri dal carattere gentile che stavano versando grandi bottiglie di birra in un seminterrato, da qualche parte. E quando John la aiutò – quasi sollevandola – fu uno dei gesti più leggeri, semplici e precisi che si possano immaginare. Dissero che gli dovevano un favore per avergli dato quell’opportunità. Carrettieri celesti!

Praterie verdi al ritmo dell’estate, cortili pieni di paglia in inverno. Mai un filo di mais o di trifoglio per quel nobile cavallo che era solito “danzare” sul selciato con una musica alle spalle, che la spaventava e la faceva stringere il suo braccio con entrambe le mani (le due mani si incontravano in modo così affettuoso, ), che la induceva a supplicarlo di rifugiarsi nella casa del pasticciere. E poi, guardandolo con quegli occhi, gli chiedeva se fosse davvero sicuro. Ora era davvero sicuro che potessero andare avanti senza pericoli? Oh, quanto vorrei avere un branco di cavalli selvaggi. Un leone, un orso, un toro furioso. Qualsiasi cosa che potesse far riunire quelle piccole mani sul suo braccio ancora una volta!

Parlarono, naturalmente. Parlarono di Tom, di tutti questi cambiamenti e dell’affetto che il signor Chuzzlewit aveva sviluppato per lui, delle grandi opportunità che gli offriva un amico del genere, e molto altro ancora nello stesso senso. Più parlavano, più quella timida e nervosa piccola Ruth temeva qualsiasi pausa nel loro dialogo; e piuttosto che lasciare che ci fosse una pausa, preferiva ripetere le stesse cose ancora e ancora. E se non avesse avuto abbastanza coraggio o presenza di spirito per farlo (per dire quella verità che molto raramente osava esprimere), sarebbe stata diecimila volte più affascinante e irresistibile di prima.

“Martin si sposerà molto presto, immagino?” disse John.

Supponeva che lo avrebbe fatto. Mai una donna così incantevole avrebbe potuto supporre qualcosa con una voce così debole come quella di Ruth.

Ma vedendo che si avvicinava un’altra di quelle pause inquietanti, osservò che avrebbe avuto una moglie bellissima. Non lo pensava anche il signor Westlock?

“Sì, sì,” disse John, “oh, sì.”

Temeva che fosse piuttosto difficile compiacerlo, parlava in modo così freddo.

“Piuttosto dire che sono già soddisfatto,” disse John. “L’ho vista appena. Non avevo alcun desiderio di vederla. Questa mattina, non avevo occhi per lei.”

Oh, mio Dio!

Era davvero bene che avessero raggiunto la loro destinazione. Non avrebbe mai potuto andare oltre. Camminare in quel modo, tremando così tanto, sarebbe stato impossibile.

Tom non era ancora entrato. Entrarono insieme nella sala triangolare, e da soli. Volto di Fuoco, Volto di Fuoco, quanti anni di acquisti accumulati ora!

Si sedette sul piccolo divano e sciolse i lacci del suo cappello. Lui si sedette accanto a lei, molto vicino a lei. Oh cuore mio, così veloce, che sembra scoppiare. Lo sapevi già che sarebbe arrivato a questo punto. E forse lo speravi anche tu. Perché battere così disperatamente, cuore mio?

“Carissima Ruth! Dolce Ruth. Se ti avessi amata di meno, avrei potuto dirtelo molto tempo fa: ti ho amata fin dal primo momento. Non c’è mai stata nessuna altra persona al mondo che io abbia amato così sinceramente come te, cara Ruth, ”

Si mise le manine davanti al viso. Le lacrime che scorrevano copiose, a causa della gioia, dell’orgoglio, della speranza e di un affetto innocente, non potevano essere trattenute. Nascevano direttamente dal suo giovane cuore pieno di emozioni e venivano verso di lui come risposta alle sue parole.

‘My dear love! If this is—I almost dare to hope it is, now—not painful or distressing to you, you make me happier than I can tell, or you imagine. Darling Ruth! My own good, gentle, winning Ruth! I hope I know the value of your heart, I hope I know the worth of your angel nature. Let me try and show you that I do; and you will make me happier, Ruth—’

‘Not happier,’ she sobbed, ‘than you make me. No one can be happier, John, than you make me!’

Fiery Face, provide yourself! The usual wages or the usual warning. It’s all over, Fiery Face. We needn’t trouble you any further.

The little hands could meet each other now, without a rampant horse to urge them. There was no occasion for lions, bears, or mad bulls. It could all be done, and infinitely better, without their assistance. No burly drayman or big butts of beer, were wanted for apologies. No apology at all was wanted. The soft light touch fell coyly, but quite naturally, upon the lover’s shoulder; the delicate waist, the drooping head, the blushing cheek, the beautiful eyes, the exquisite mouth itself, were all as natural as possible. If all the horses in Araby had run away at once, they couldn’t have improved upon it.

They soon began to talk of Tom again.

‘I hope he will be glad to hear of it!’ said John, with sparkling eyes.

Ruth drew the little hands a little tighter when he said it, and looked up seriously into his face.

‘I am never to leave him, AM I, dear? I could never leave Tom. I am sure you know that.’

‘Do you think I would ask you?’ he returned, with a—well! Never mind with what.

‘I am sure you never would,’ she answered, the bright tears standing in her eyes.

‘And I will swear it, Ruth, my darling, if you please. Leave Tom! That would be a strange beginning. Leave Tom, dear! If Tom and we be not inseparable, and Tom (God bless him) have not all honour and all love in our home, my little wife, may that home never be! And that’s a strong oath, Ruth.’

Shall it be recorded how she thanked him? Yes, it shall. In all simplicity and innocence and purity of heart, yet with a timid, graceful, half-determined hesitation, she set a little rosy seal upon the vow, whose colour was reflected in her face, and flashed up to the braiding of her dark brown hair.

‘Tom will be so happy, and so proud, and glad,’ she said, clasping her little hands. ‘But so surprised! I am sure he had never thought of such a thing.’

Of course John asked her immediately—because you know they were in that foolish state when great allowances must be made—when SHE had begun to think of such a thing, and this made a little diversion in their talk; a charming diversion to them, but not so interesting to us; at the end of which, they came back to Tom again.

‘Ah! dear Tom!’ said Ruth. ‘I suppose I ought to tell you everything now. I should have no secrets from you. Should I, John, love?’

It is of no use saying how that preposterous John answered her, because he answered in a manner which is untranslatable on paper though highly satisfactory in itself. But what he conveyed was, No no no, sweet Ruth; or something to that effect.

Then she told him Tom’s great secret; not exactly saying how she had found it out, but leaving him to understand it if he liked; and John was sadly grieved to hear it, and was full of sympathy and sorrow. But they would try, he said, only the more, on this account to make him happy, and to beguile him with his favourite pursuits. And then, in all the confidence of such a time, he told her how he had a capital opportunity of establishing himself in his old profession in the country; and how he had been thinking, in the event of that happiness coming upon him which had actually come—there was another slight diversion here—how he had been thinking that it would afford occupation to Tom, and enable them to live together in the easiest manner, without any sense of dependence on Tom’s part; and to be as happy as the day was long. And Ruth receiving this with joy, they went on catering for Tom to that extent that they had already purchased him a select library and built him an organ, on which he was performing with the greatest satisfaction, when they heard him knocking at the door.

Though she longed to tell him what had happened, poor little Ruth was greatly agitated by his arrival; the more so because she knew that Mr Chuzzlewit was with him. So she said, all in a tremble:

‘What shall I do, dear John! I can’t bear that he should hear it from any one but me, and I could not tell him, unless we were alone.’

‘Do, my love,’ said John, ‘whatever is natural to you on the impulse of the moment, and I am sure it will be right.’

He had hardly time to say thus much, and Ruth had hardly time to—just to get a little farther off—upon the sofa, when Tom and Mr Chuzzlewit came in. Mr Chuzzlewit came first, and Tom was a few seconds behind him.

Now Ruth had hastily resolved that she would beckon Tom upstairs after a short time, and would tell him in his little bedroom. But when she saw his dear old face come in, her heart was so touched that she ran into his arms, and laid her head down on his breast and sobbed out, ‘Bless me, Tom! My dearest brother!’

Tom looked up, in surprise, and saw John Westlock close beside him, holding out his hand.

‘John!’ cried Tom. ‘John!’

‘Dear Tom,’ said his friend, ‘give me your hand. We are brothers, Tom.’

Tom wrung it with all his force, embraced his sister fervently, and put her in John Westlock’s arms.

‘Don’t speak to me, John. Heaven is very good to us. I—’ Tom could find no further utterance, but left the room; and Ruth went after him.

And when they came back, which they did by-and-bye, she looked more beautiful, and Tom more good and true (if that were possible) than ever. And though Tom could not speak upon the subject even now; being yet too newly glad, he put both his hands in both of John’s with emphasis sufficient for the best speech ever spoken.

‘Mia cara amata! Se questo è, quasi oso sperare che sia così, se non ti causa dolore o angoscia, allora mi rendi felice più di quanto possa esprimere o tu possa immaginare. Carissima Ruth! La mia buona, gentile, adorabile Ruth. Spero davvero di conoscere il valore del tuo cuore, spero di comprendere la bontà della tua natura angelica. Lascia che tenti di dimostrartelo; e tu mi renderai ancora più felice, Ruth, ’

“Non potrei essere più felice,” singhiozzò, “di quanto tu mi renda felice. Nessuno potrebbe essere più felice, John, di quanto tu mi faccia sentire!”

Faccia di Fuoco, procurati ciò che desideri! Il solito compenso, o l’usuale avvertimento. È finita, Faccia di Fuoco. Non c’è bisogno di disturbarti ulteriormente.

Le piccole mani potevano ora incontrarsi l’una con l’altra, senza che alcun cavallo le spingesse con forza. Non c’era bisogno di leoni, orsi o tori furiosi: tutto poteva essere fatto, e anzi in modo infinitamente migliore, senza il loro aiuto. Non erano necessari né robusti carrettieri né grandi quantità di birra per scusarsi. Nessuna scusa era affatto richiesta. Il dolce tocco si posò timidamente, ma in modo del tutto naturale, sulla spalla dell’innamorato; la snella vita, la testa china, la guancia arrossita, gli occhi bellissimi, tutto era estremamente naturale. Anche se tutti i cavalli d’Arabia fossero fuggiti all’improvviso, nulla avrebbe potuto migliorare quella scena.

Presto iniziarono di nuovo a parlare di Tom.

“Spero che sarà felice di saperlo!”, disse John, con gli occhi che brillavano.

Quando lo disse, Ruth strinse un po’ di più quelle piccole manine e alzò lo sguardo verso di lui con serietà.

“Non dovrò mai lasciarlo, vero? Non potrei mai abbandonare Tom. Ne sono sicura che tu lo sappia.”

“Pensi davvero che ti chiederei una cosa del genere?”, rispose lui, con un tono di benissimo. Lascia perdere, comunque.

“Sono sicura che tu non lo faresti mai,” rispose lei, con le luminose lacrime negli occhi.

“E te lo giuro, Ruth, mia cara. Se vuoi, lascia Tom. Sarebbe un inizio davvero strano. Lascialo, tesoro! Se Tom e noi non siamo inseparabili, e se Tom (che Dio lo benedica) non ha tutta la onore e tutto l’amore nella nostra casa, allora, che quella casa non esista mai! E questa è una promessa solenne, Ruth.”

Dovrà essere registrato come lo ringraziò? Sì, dovrà esserlo. Con tutta la sua semplicità, innocenza e purezza di cuore, ma con un’esitazione timida, graziosa e quasi incerta, lei pose un piccolo “sigillo rosa” su quel voto; il colore di quel sigillo si rifletteva sul suo viso e brillava anche tra i suoi capelli castano scuro.

“Tom sarà così felice, così orgoglioso e contento,” disse lei, stringendo le sue piccole mani. “Ma anche molto sorpreso. Sono sicura che non avesse mai pensato a una cosa del genere.”

Naturalmente John glielo chiese subito, perché, come sapete, erano in quello stato folle in cui bisognava fare grandi concessioni. Quando lei aveva iniziato a pensare a una cosa del genere, questo cambiò leggermente argomento della loro conversazione; un argomento piacevole per loro, ma non così interessante per noi. Alla fine, tornarono di nuovo a parlare di Tom.

“Ah! caro Tom!” disse Ruth. “Suppongo che ora debba dirti tutto. Non dovrei più avere alcun segreto per te, vero? Giusto, John, mio amore?”

Non ha alcun senso descrivere come quell’assurdo John le abbia risposto, perché l’ha fatto in un modo che non può essere tradotto per iscritto, anche se in sé molto soddisfacente. Ma ciò che ha voluto comunicare era: “No, no, no, cara Ruth”; o qualcosa del genere.

Allora lei gli rivelò il grande segreto di Tom; non disse esattamente come lo avesse scoperto, ma lasciò che lui capisse da solo se voleva; e John ne fu profondamente addolorato, pieno di compassione e tristezza. Ma dissero che, proprio per questo motivo, avrebbero cercato ancora di più di renderlo felice e di distrarlo con le sue attività preferite. E poi, nella fiducia tipica di quel momento, lui le raccontò di aver avuto un’ottima opportunità per riprendere la sua vecchia professione in campagna; e che aveva pensato, nel caso quella fortuna gli capitasse davvero – qui fece un piccolo digresso – che ciò avrebbe fornito un lavoro a Tom e avrebbe permesso loro di vivere insieme in modo molto confortevole, senza che Tom dovesse dipendere da loro; e sarebbero stati felici per tutta la vita. Ruth accolse questa notizia con gioia, e continuarono a prendersi cura di Tom al punto di acquistargli una biblioteca selezionata e costruirgli un organo, su cui lui suonava con grande soddisfazione, quando sentirono bussare alla porta.

Anche se desiderava moltissimo raccontargli ciò che era accaduto, povera piccola Ruth era profondamente agitata dal suo arrivo; soprattutto perché sapeva che il signor Chuzzlewit era con lui. Così disse, tremando:

“Cosa devo fare, caro John? Non posso sopportare che lui lo venga a sapere da qualcun altro oltre a me. E non potrei dirglielo se non fossimo soli.”

“Fa’ ciò che è naturale per te in questo momento, mio amore”, disse John, “sono sicuro che sarà la cosa giusta.”

Non ebbe quasi il tempo di dire tutto ciò; Ruth nemmeno il tempo di allontanarsi un po’ di più sul divano, quando Tom e il signor Chuzzlewit entrarono. Il signor Chuzzlewit arrivò per primo, seguito da Tom qualche secondo dopo.

Ora Ruth aveva deciso in fretta di chiamare Tom al piano di sopra dopo poco tempo e di parlargli nella sua piccola camera da letto. Ma quando vide il suo caro vecchio volto entrare, il suo cuore fu così commosso che corse tra le sue braccia, appoggiò la testa sul suo petto e scoppiò in lacrime: “Beneditemi, Tom. Mio carissimo fratello!”

Tom alzò lo sguardo, sorpreso, e vide John Westlock accanto a lui, che gli tendeva la mano.

“John!” gridò Tom. “John!”

“Caro Tom,” disse il suo amico, “dammi la tua mano. Siamo fratelli, Tom.”

Tom la strinse con tutte le sue forze, abbracciò sua sorella con affetto e la mise tra le braccia di John Westlock.

“Non parlarmi, John. Il cielo è molto buono con noi. Io, ” Tom non riuscì a continuare e lasciò la stanza; Ruth lo seguì.

E quando tornarono, il che avvenne dopo un po’, lei sembrava ancora più bella, e Tom ancora più buono e sincero (se ciò fosse stato possibile) di prima. E sebbene Tom non potesse parlare dell’argomento nemmeno ora, essendo ancora troppo felice, mise entrambe le sue mani nelle mani di John con un gesto che aveva tutto il significato di qualsiasi discorso più bello mai pronunciato.

‘I am glad you chose to-day,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit to John; with the same knowing smile as when they had left him. ‘I thought you would. I hoped Tom and I lingered behind a discreet time. It’s so long since I had any practical knowledge of these subjects, that I have been anxious, I assure you.’

‘Your knowledge is still pretty accurate, sir,’ returned John, laughing, ‘if it led you to foresee what would happen to-day.’

‘Why, I am not sure, Mr Westlock,’ said the old man, ‘that any great spirit of prophecy was needed, after seeing you and Ruth together. Come hither, pretty one. See what Tom and I purchased this morning, while you were dealing in exchange with that young merchant there.’

The old man’s way of seating her beside him, and humouring his voice as if she were a child, was whimsical enough, but full of tenderness, and not ill adapted, somehow, to little Ruth.

‘See here!’ he said, taking a case from his pocket, ‘what a beautiful necklace. Ah! How it glitters! Earrings, too, and bracelets, and a zone for your waist. This set is yours, and Mary has another like it. Tom couldn’t understand why I wanted two. What a short-sighted Tom! Earrings and bracelets, and a zone for your waist! Ah! Beautiful! Let us see how brave they look. Ask Mr Westlock to clasp them on.’

It was the prettiest thing to see her holding out her round, white arm; and John (oh deep, deep John!) pretending that the bracelet was very hard to fasten; it was the prettiest thing to see her girding on the precious little zone, and yet obliged to have assistance because her fingers were in such terrible perplexity; it was the prettiest thing to see her so confused and bashful, with the smiles and blushes playing brightly on her face, like the sparkling light upon the jewels; it was the prettiest thing that you would see, in the common experiences of a twelvemonth, rely upon it.

‘The set of jewels and the wearer are so well matched,’ said the old man, ‘that I don’t know which becomes the other most. Mr Westlock could tell me, I have no doubt, but I’ll not ask him, for he is bribed. Health to wear them, my dear, and happiness to make you forgetful of them, except as a remembrance from a loving friend!’

He patted her upon the cheek, and said to Tom:

‘I must play the part of a father here, Tom, also. There are not many fathers who marry two such daughters on the same day; but we will overlook the improbability for the gratification of an old man’s fancy. I may claim that much indulgence,’ he added, ‘for I have gratified few fancies enough in my life tending to the happiness of others, Heaven knows!’

These various proceedings had occupied so much time, and they fell into such a pleasant conversation now, that it was within a quarter of an hour of the time appointed for dinner before any of them thought about it. A hackney-coach soon carried them to the Temple, however; and there they found everything prepared for their reception.

Mr Tapley having been furnished with unlimited credentials relative to the ordering of dinner, had so exerted himself for the honour of the party, that a prodigious banquet was served, under the joint direction of himself and his Intended. Mr Chuzzlewit would have had them of the party, and Martin urgently seconded his wish, but Mark could by no means be persuaded to sit down at table; observing, that in having the honour of attending to their comforts, he felt himself, indeed, the landlord of the Jolly Tapley, and could almost delude himself into the belief that the entertainment was actually being held under the Jolly Tapley’s roof.

For the better encouragement of himself in this fable, Mr Tapley took it upon him to issue divers general directions to the waiters from the hotel, relative to the disposal of the dishes and so forth; and as they were usually in direct opposition to all precedent, and were always issued in his most facetious form of thought and speech, they occasioned great merriment among those attendants; in which Mr Tapley participated, with an infinite enjoyment of his own humour. He likewise entertained them with short anecdotes of his travels appropriate to the occasion; and now and then with some comic passage or other between himself and Mrs Lupin; so that explosive laughs were constantly issuing from the side-board, and from the backs of chairs; and the head-waiter (who wore powder, and knee-smalls, and was usually a grave man) got to be a bright scarlet in the face, and broke his waistcoat-strings audibly.

Young Martin sat at the head of the table, and Tom Pinch at the foot; and if there were a genial face at that board, it was Tom’s. They all took their tone from Tom. Everybody drank to him, everybody looked to him, everybody thought of him, everybody loved him. If he so much as laid down his knife and fork, somebody put out a hand to shake with him. Martin and Mary had taken him aside before dinner, and spoken to him so heartily of the time to come, laying such fervent stress upon the trust they had in his completion of their felicity, by his society and closest friendship, that Tom was positively moved to tears. He couldn’t bear it. His heart was full, he said, of happiness. And so it was. Tom spoke the honest truth. It was. Large as thy heart was, dear Tom Pinch, it had no room that day for anything but happiness and sympathy!

And there was Fips, old Fips of Austin Friars, present at the dinner, and turning out to be the jolliest old dog that ever did violence to his convivial sentiments by shutting himself up in a dark office. ‘Where is he?’ said Fips, when he came in. And then he pounced on Tom, and told him that he wanted to relieve himself of all his old constraint; and in the first place shook him by one hand, and in the second place shook him by the other, and in the third place nudged him in the waistcoat, and in the fourth place said, ‘How are you?’ and in a great many other places did a great many other things to show his friendliness and joy. And he sang songs, did Fips; and made speeches, did Fips; and knocked off his wine pretty handsomely, did Fips; and in short, he showed himself a perfect Trump, did Fips, in all respects.

“Sono felice che tu abbia scelto oggi,” disse il signor Chuzzlewit a John, con lo stesso sorriso complice di quando lo avevano lasciato. “Me l’aspettavo. Speravo che Tom ed io ci trattenessimo un po’ dopo, in un momento opportuno. È passato così tanto tempo da quando ho avuto una vera conoscenza pratica di queste materie, che ero davvero ansioso, ”

“La sua conoscenza è ancora abbastanza accurata, signore,” rispose John ridendo, “se questo le ha permesso di prevedere ciò che sarebbe accaduto oggi.”

“Beh, non ne sono sicuro, signor Westlock,” disse l’uomo anziano, “credo che non sia davvero necessario alcun grande spirito di profezia, dopo avervi visto insieme, voi e Ruth. Vieni qui, cara; guarda cosa Tom ed io abbiamo comprato stamattina, mentre tu eri impegnata a scambiare merci con quel giovane commerciante laggiù.”

Il modo in cui l’uomo anziano la faceva sedere accanto a sé e si comportava con lei come se fosse una >bambina, era abbastanza stravagante, ma pieno di tenerezza. E, in qualche modo, molto adatto a piccola Ruth.

“Guardate qui!” disse, tirando fuori una scatola dalla tasca. “Che bellissimo collare. Ah, come luccica! Ci sono anche orecchini, braccialetti e un accessorio per la vita. Questo set è tuo; Mary ne ha uno uguale. Tom non riusciva a capire perché volessi due. Che miope che è! Orecchini, braccialetti. Ah, meraviglioso! Vediamo com’è bello quando è indossato. Chiedi al signor Westlock di mettertelo.”

Era la cosa più bella da vedere: lei che tendeva il suo braccio rotondo e bianco; e John (oh, quel profondo, sincero John!) che fingeva che il braccialetto fosse molto difficile da allacciare. Era davvero la cosa più bella da vedere mentre lei si infilava quell’oggetto prezioso, ma costretta ad avere aiuto perché le sue dita erano in un tale stato di confusione. Era la cosa più bella da vedere: lei così imbarazzata e timida, con i sorrisi e i rossori che si alternavano sul suo viso, come i bagliori scintillanti delle gemme. Era davvero la cosa più bella che si potesse vedere, nelle normali esperienze di una vita quotidiana. Ve lo assicuro.

“Questo insieme di gioielli e la persona che li indossa sono così ben abbinati,” disse l’uomo anziano, “che non so quale dei due sia più importante. Il signor Westlock potrebbe dirmelo, ne ho nessun dubbio, ma non glielo chiederò, perché è stato corrotto. Che tu possa indossarli con felicità, mia cara, e che ti aiutino a dimenticartene, tranne come ricordo di un amico affettuoso!”

Le diede una pacca sulla guancia e disse a Tom:

“Devo anche assumere il ruolo di padre in questa situazione, Tom. Non ci sono molti padri che sposano due figlie come queste lo stesso giorno; ma tralasceremo questa improbabilità per soddisfare una vecchia fantasia. Posso certo chiedere tale indulgenza”, aggiunse, “poiché nella mia vita ho soddisfatto poche fantasie al fine di rendere felici gli altri. Che Dio lo sappia!”

Tutti questi vari procedimenti avevano occupato così tanto tempo, e ora erano immersi in una conversazione così piacevole che, meno di un quarto d’ora prima dell’orario stabilito per la cena, nessuno di loro ci pensò nemmeno. Tuttavia, poco dopo un calesse li portò al Temple; lì trovarono tutto pronto per il loro arrivo.

A Mr Tapley erano state fornite credenziali illimitate per l’organizzazione della cena; egli si era impegnato al massimo per l’’onore del gruppo, tanto che fu servito un banchetto straordinario, sotto la direzione congiunta di lui e della sua compagna. Mr Chuzzlewit avrebbe voluto partecipare anch’egli, e Martin lo sostenne con insistenza, ma Mark non poté essere convinto a sedersi a tavola; egli osservava infatti che, essendo l’responsabile del benessere di tutti, si sentiva davvero il padrone del Jolly Tapley, e quasi riusciva a convincersi che l’evento si stesse svolgendo effettivamente sotto il suo tetto.

Per incoraggiarsi ulteriormente nella realizzazione di questa favola, il signor Tapley decise di impartire ai camerieri dell’hotel diverse istruzioni generali riguardanti la disposizione dei piatti e simili; poiché queste istruzioni erano solitamente in netto contrasto con le abitudini consolidate, e venivano espresse nel modo più scherzoso possibile, suscitarono grande ilarità tra i camerieri stessi. Il signor Tapley partecipava attivamente a queste risate, godendo immensamente del proprio umorismo. Inoltre, raccontava loro brevi aneddoti relativi ai suoi viaggi, adatti all’occasione; di tanto in tanto aggiungeva anche battute comiche tra lui e la signora Lupin. Così, risate fragorose echeggiavano continuamente intorno al tavolo e sulle sedie. Il capocameriere, che indossava poudre, calzamaglie a righe e solitamente aveva un aspetto molto serio, finiva per arrossire fino alle guance e per strapparsi i lacci del gilet.

Il giovane Martin sedeva all’estremità della tavola, mentre Tom Pinch era all’altro capo; se c’era un volto cordiale attorno a quel tavolo, quello era sicuramente il volto di Tom. Tutti imitavano il suo modo di comportarsi; tutti bevevano in suo onore, tutti lo guardavano, tutti pensavano a lui, tutti lo amavano. Se solo avesse posato forchetta e coltello, qualcuno si sarebbe immediatamente alzato per stringergli la mano. Prima di cena, Martin e Mary lo avevano preso da parte e gli avevano parlato con grande affetto della futura, sottolineando con fervore la fiducia che riponevano nel fatto che lui avrebbe realizzato il loro sogno di felicità, grazie alla sua compagnia e alla sua stretta amicizia. Tom ne era così commosso da versare le lacrime. Non riusciva a trattenersi. Il suo cuore era pieno di felicità, e davvero lo era. Tom diceva la verità: per quanto grande fosse il tuo cuore, caro Tom Pinch, quel giorno non c’era spazio in esso se non per la felicità e la compassione!

E c’era anche Fips, il vecchio Fips degli Austin Friars, presente a quella cena. E si rivelò essere il cane più allegro che ci fosse mai stato: un vero e proprio esempio di gioia e affetto, nonostante avesse l’abitudine di chiudersi in un ufficio buio, rovinando così i suoi momenti conviviali. “Dov’è?” disse Fips appena entrato. Poi si avvicinò a Tom e gli disse che voleva liberarsi da tutte le restrizioni che lo opprimevano. Prima lo scosse con una mano, poi con l’altra; dopo lo spinse leggermente sul gilet, gli chiese “Come stai?”, e in molti altri modi dimostrò tutta la sua affabilità e felicità. Cantò anche delle canzoni. E, insomma, si comportò davvero come un perfetto esempio di amicizia e allegria.

But ah! the happiness of strolling home at night—obstinate little Ruth, she wouldn’t hear of riding!—as they had done on that dear night, from Furnival’s Inn! The happiness of being able to talk about it, and to confide their happiness to each other! The happiness of stating all their little plans to Tom, and seeing his bright face grow brighter as they spoke!

When they reached home, Tom left John and his sister in the parlour, and went upstairs into his own room, under pretence of seeking a book. And Tom actually winked to himself when he got upstairs; he thought it such a deep thing to have done.

‘They like to be by themselves, of course,’ said Tom; ‘and I came away so naturally, that I have no doubt they are expecting me, every moment, to return. That’s capital!’

But he had not sat reading very long, when he heard a tap at his door.

‘May I come in?’ said John.

‘Oh, surely!’ Tom replied.

‘Don’t leave us, Tom. Don’t sit by yourself. We want to make you merry; not melancholy.’

‘My dear friend,’ said Tom, with a cheerful smile.

‘Brother, Tom. Brother.’

‘My dear brother,’ said Tom; ‘there is no danger of my being melancholy, how can I be melancholy, when I know that you and Ruth are so blest in each other! I think I can find my tongue tonight, John,’ he added, after a moment’s pause. ‘But I never can tell you what unutterable joy this day has given me. It would be unjust to you to speak of your having chosen a portionless girl, for I feel that you know her worth; I am sure you know her worth. Nor will it diminish in your estimation, John, which money might.’

‘Which money would, Tom,’ he returned. ‘Her worth! Oh, who could see her here, and not love her! Who could know her, Tom, and not honour her! Who could ever stand possessed of such a heart as hers, and grow indifferent to the treasure! Who could feel the rapture that I feel to-day, and love as I love her, Tom, without knowing something of her worth! Your joy unutterable! No, no, Tom. It’s mine, it’s mine.

‘No, no, John,’ said Tom. ‘It’s mine, it’s mine.’

Their friendly contention was brought to a close by little Ruth herself, who came peeping in at the door. And oh, the look, the glorious, half-proud, half-timid look she gave Tom, when her lover drew her to his side! As much as to say, ‘Yes, indeed, Tom, he will do it. But then he has a right, you know. Because I AM fond of him, Tom.’

As to Tom, he was perfectly delighted. He could have sat and looked at them, just as they were, for hours.

‘I have told Tom, love, as we agreed, that we are not going to permit him to run away, and that we cannot possibly allow it. The loss of one person, and such a person as Tom, too, out of our small household of three, is not to be endured; and so I have told him. Whether he is considerate, or whether he is only selfish, I don’t know. But he needn’t be considerate, for he is not the least restraint upon us. Is he, dearest Ruth?’

Well! He really did not seem to be any particular restraint upon them. Judging from what ensued.

Was it folly in Tom to be so pleased by their remembrance of him at such a time? Was their graceful love a folly, were their dear caresses follies, was their lengthened parting folly? Was it folly in him to watch her window from the street, and rate its scantiest gleam of light above all diamonds; folly in her to breathe his name upon her knees, and pour out her pure heart before that Being from whom such hearts and such affections come?

If these be follies, then Fiery Face go on and prosper! If they be not, then Fiery Face avaunt! But set the crunched bonnet at some other single gentleman, in any case, for one is lost to thee for ever!

Ma ah! La felicità di tornare a casa di notte. Quella testarda piccola Ruth, non voleva assolutamente andare in carrozza. Proprio come avevano fatto quella bella notte, partendo dall’Osteria Furnival! La felicità di poterne parlare, di condividere la propria gioia l’uno con l’altro. La felicità di raccontare a Tom tutti i loro piccoli piani, e vedere il suo viso illuminarsi sempre di più mentre parlavano!

Quando arrivarono a casa, Tom lasciò John e sua sorella in salotto e andò di sopra, nella propria stanza, fingendo di cercare un libro. In realtà, quando salì al piano di sopra, si fece l’occhiolino da solo; pensava che fosse una cosa davvero astuta da fare.

“Certo che a loro piace stare da soli,” disse Tom; “e sono andato via in modo così naturale che non ho alcun dubbio che mi aspettino di tornare da un momento all’altro. Ottimo!”

Ma non aveva ancora letto per molto, quando sentì bussare alla sua porta.

“Posso entrare?” chiese John.

“Oh, sicuramente!” rispose Tom.

“Non lasciarci, Tom. Non stare da solo. Vogliamo farti felice, non triste.”

“Mio caro amico,” disse Tom, con un sorriso felice.

“Fratello, Tom. Fratello.”

“Mio caro fratello,” disse Tom, “non c’è alcun pericolo che io diventi melanconico; come potrei essere melanconico, se so che tu e Ruth siete così felici insieme! Penso che stasera riuscirò a trovare le parole giuste, John,” aggiunse dopo una breve pausa. “Ma non riesco mai a esprimere tutta la gioia immensa che questo giorno mi ha portato. Sarebbe ingiusto da parte mia dire che tu abbia scelto una ragazza senza alcuna dote, perché so bene quanto sia preziosa; ne sono sicuro. E nemmeno il denaro potrebbe diminuire il valore che hai per lei, John.”

“Quale denaro, Tom, ”, rispose. “Il suo valore! Oh, chi potrebbe vederla qui e non amarla! Chi potrebbe conoscerla e non onorarla! Chi potrebbe possedere un cuore come il suo e rimanere indifferente a tale tesoro. Chi potrebbe provare la gioia che provo io oggi, e amare come la amo io, Tom, senza conoscere il suo vero valore? La tua felicità è inesprimibile. No, no, Tom: è mia, è tutta mia.”

“No, no, John,” disse Tom. “È mio, è mio.”

La loro amichevole discussione terminò proprio per mano di piccola Ruth, che venne a sbirciare dalla porta. E oh, quel suo sguardo, glorioso, metà orgoglioso, metà timido, quando il suo innamorato la tirò da parte! Era come se dicesse: “Sì, davvero, Tom. Lui lo farà. Ma ha tutto il diritto di farlo, capisci? Perché IO gli piaccio, Tom.”

Per quanto riguarda Tom, era perfettamente felice. Avrebbe potuto sedersi e guardarli così come erano per ore intere.

“Gli ho detto, a Tom, come avevamo concordato, che non gli permetteremo di scappare, e che semplicemente non possiamo permetterlo. La perdita di una persona, per di più una persona come Tom, dalla nostra piccola famiglia di tre persone, è qualcosa che non possiamo sopportare; ed è proprio questo che gli ho detto. Non so se sia considerato o solo egoista. Ma non ha bisogno nemmeno di essere considerato: lui non rappresenta affatto un ostacolo per noi. Non è vero, cara Ruth?”

Beh! Davvero non sembrava che ci fossero alcune restrizioni particolari nei loro confronti, a giudicare da ciò che accadde in seguito.

Era forse una follia da parte di Tom essere così felice del loro ricordo di lui in un momento del genere? Era forse una follia il loro amore gentile, le loro carezze affettuose, la loro lunga separazione? Era forse una follia da parte sua osservare dalla strada la sua finestra e considerare ogni debole luce che vi filtrava più preziosa di tutti i diamanti; era forse una follia da parte sua che lei pronunciasse il suo nome sulle proprie ginocchia, riversando il proprio cuore puro davanti a quell’Essere dal quale provenivano cuori e affetti del genere?

Se queste sono follie, allora che “Faccia di Fuoco” continui e prosperi! Se non lo sono, allora che “Faccia di Fuoco” avanzi senza esitazioni. Ma comunque, metti quel cappello schiacciato su un altro gentiluomo qualsiasi: in ogni caso, uno è perduto per te per sempre!

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

GIVES THE AUTHOR GREAT CONCERN. FOR IT IS THE LAST IN THE BOOK

Todger’s was in high feather, and mighty preparations for a late breakfast were astir in its commercial bowers. The blissful morning had arrived when Miss Pecksniff was to be united in holy matrimony, to Augustus.

Miss Pecksniff was in a frame of mind equally becoming to herself and the occasion. She was full of clemency and conciliation. She had laid in several caldrons of live coals, and was prepared to heap them on the heads of her enemies. She bore no spite nor malice in her heart. Not the least.

Quarrels, Miss Pecksniff said, were dreadful things in families; and though she never could forgive her dear papa, she was willing to receive her other relations. They had been separated, she observed, too long. It was enough to call down a judgment upon the family. She believed the death of Jonas WAS a judgment on them for their internal dissensions. And Miss Pecksniff was confirmed in this belief, by the lightness with which the visitation had fallen on herself.

By way of doing sacrifice—not in triumph; not, of course, in triumph, but in humiliation of spirit—this amiable young person wrote, therefore, to her kinswoman of the strong mind, and informed her that her nuptials would take place on such a day. That she had been much hurt by the unnatural conduct of herself and daughters, and hoped they might not have suffered in their consciences. That, being desirous to forgive her enemies, and make her peace with the world before entering into the most solemn of covenants with the most devoted of men, she now held out the hand of friendship. That if the strong-minded women took that hand, in the temper in which it was extended to her, she, Miss Pecksniff, did invite her to be present at the ceremony of her marriage, and did furthermore invite the three red-nosed spinsters, her daughters (but Miss Pecksniff did not particularize their noses), to attend as bridesmaids.

The strong-minded women returned for answer, that herself and daughters were, as regarded their consciences, in the enjoyment of robust health, which she knew Miss Pecksniff would be glad to hear. That she had received Miss Pecksniff’s note with unalloyed delight, because she never had attached the least importance to the paltry and insignificant jealousies with which herself and circle had been assailed; otherwise than as she had found them, in the contemplation, a harmless source of innocent mirth. That she would joyfully attend Miss Pecksniff’s bridal; and that her three dear daughters would be happy to assist, on so interesting, and SO VERY UNEXPECTED—which the strong-minded woman underlined—SO VERY UNEXPECTED an occasion.

On the receipt of this gracious reply, Miss Pecksniff extended her forgiveness and her invitations to Mr and Mrs Spottletoe; to Mr George Chuzzlewit the bachelor cousin; to the solitary female who usually had the toothache; and to the hairy young gentleman with the outline of a face; surviving remnants of the party that had once assembled in Mr Pecksniff’s parlour. After which Miss Pecksniff remarked that there was a sweetness in doing our duty, which neutralized the bitter in our cups.

The wedding guests had not yet assembled, and indeed it was so early that Miss Pecksniff herself was in the act of dressing at her leisure, when a carriage stopped near the Monument; and Mark, dismounting from the rumble, assisted Mr Chuzzlewit to alight. The carriage remained in waiting; so did Mr Tapley. Mr Chuzzlewit betook himself to Todger’s.

He was shown, by the degenerate successor of Mr Bailey, into the dining-parlour; where—for his visit was expected—Mrs Todgers immediately appeared.

‘You are dressed, I see, for the wedding,’ he said.

Mrs Todgers, who was greatly flurried by the preparations, replied in the affirmative.

‘It goes against my wishes to have it in progress just now, I assure you, sir,’ said Mrs Todgers; ‘but Miss Pecksniff’s mind was set upon it, and it really is time that Miss Pecksniff was married. That cannot be denied, sir.’

‘No,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit, ‘assuredly not. Her sister takes no part in the proceedings?’

‘Oh, dear no, sir. Poor thing!’ said Mrs Todgers, shaking her head, and dropping her voice. ‘Since she has known the worst, she has never left my room; the next room.’

‘Is she prepared to see me?’ he inquired.

‘Quite prepared, sir.’

‘Then let us lose no time.’

Mrs Todgers conducted him into the little back chamber commanding the prospect of the cistern; and there, sadly different from when it had first been her lodging, sat poor Merry, in mourning weeds. The room looked very dark and sorrowful; and so did she; but she had one friend beside her, faithful to the last. Old Chuffey.

When Mr Chuzzlewit sat down at her side, she took his hand and put it to her lips. She was in great grief. He too was agitated; for he had not seen her since their parting in the churchyard.

‘I judged you hastily,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘I fear I judged you cruelly. Let me know that I have your forgiveness.’

She kissed his hand again; and retaining it in hers, thanked him in a broken voice, for all his kindness to her since.

‘Tom Pinch,’ said Martin, ‘has faithfully related to me all that you desired him to convey; at a time when he deemed it very improbable that he would ever have an opportunity of delivering your message. Believe me, that if I ever deal again with an ill-advised and unawakened nature, hiding the strength it thinks its weakness, I will have long and merciful consideration for it.’

‘You had for me; even for me,’ she answered. ‘I quite believe it. I said the words you have repeated, when my distress was very sharp and hard to bear; I say them now for others; but I cannot urge them for myself. You spoke to me after you had seen and watched me day by day. There was great consideration in that. You might have spoken, perhaps, more kindly; you might have tried to invite my confidence by greater gentleness; but the end would have been the same.’

CAPITOLO CINQUANTA QUATTRO

Un argomento che preoccupa molto l’autore. Poiché è l’ultimo capitolo del libro.

Todger era al settimo cielo; nei suoi locali commerciali si stavano facendo grandi preparativi per una colazione tardiva. Quella mattina felice era arrivata: la signorina Pecksniff stava per unirsi in matrimonio sacro ad Augustus.

Miss Pecksniff era nel perfetto stato d’animo adatto sia a lei stessa che all’occasione. Era piena di clemenza e disponibilità al compromesso; aveva preparato diversi pentoloni pieni di carbone ardente, pronta a riversarli sulla testa dei suoi nemici. Ma nel suo cuore non c’era alcun rancore né malizia, nemmeno la minima traccia.

“Le liti,” disse la signorina Pecksniff, “sono cose terribili nelle famiglie; e anche se non riusciva mai a perdonare suo caro papà, era disposta ad accettare gli altri suoi parenti. Erano stati separati troppo a lungo, osservò. Era sufficiente questo per attirare su di loro una sorta di giudizio divino. Credeva che la morte di Jonas fosse proprio un castigo per le loro divisioni interne.” E questa convinzione della signorina Pecksniff fu ulteriormente rafforzata dalla facilità con cui quella visita si era svolta.

Nel segno di un sacrificio – non per trionfo, ma certo non nemmeno per trionfo, bensì per umiliazione d’animo – questa gentile giovane scrisse, pertanto, alla sua parente dal carattere forte, informandola che il suo matrimonio avrebbe avuto luogo in quel giorno. Disse di essere stata profondamente ferita dal comportamento inappropriato da lei e dalle sue figlie, e sperava che queste ultime non avessero sofferto nel loro cuore. Desiderosa di perdonare i propri nemici e di riconciliarsi con il mondo prima di intraprendere l’impegno più solenne con l’uomo più devoto, le tendeva ora la mano dell’amicizia. Se quelle donne dal carattere forte avessero accettato quella mano, nel modo in cui le veniva offerta, lei, Miss Pecksniff, le invitava ad assistere alla cerimonia del suo matrimonio e, inoltre, invitava anche le tre zitelle dal naso rosso, sue figlie (sebbene Miss Pecksniff non specificasse esplicitamente il colore dei loro nasi), a partecipare come damigelle d’onore.

Le donne di forte carattere tornarono per chiedere una risposta; dissero che lei e le sue figlie, dal punto di vista della coscienza, godevano di buona salute, il che sapevano che la signorina Pecksniff avrebbe apprezzato molto. Aggiunsero di aver ricevuto la lettera della signorina Pecksniff con grande gioia, perché non avevano mai dato la minima importanza a quelle meschine e insignificanti gelosie con cui lei e il suo circolo erano stati attaccati; anzi, le consideravano soltanto una fonte inoffensiva di innocente divertimento. Dissero anche che avrebbero partecipato con gioia al matrimonio della signorina Pecksniff, e che le loro tre care figlie sarebbero state felici di contribuire a un’occasione così interessante. E COSÌ INASPETTATA – sottolineò la donna di forte carattere – COSÌ INASPETTATA.

Al ricevere questa gentile risposta, la signorina Pecksniff concesse il proprio perdono e inviò inviti al signore e alla signora Spottletoe; al signor George Chuzzlewit, cugino scapolo; alla donna solitaria che di solito soffriva di mal di denti; e al giovane gentiluomo peloso, le cui sembianze facciali erano appena visibili, i pochi sopravvissuti del gruppo che un tempo si era riunito nel salotto del signor Pecksniff. Dopo averlo fatto, la signorina Pecksniff osservò che c’è una dolcezza nel compiere il proprio dovere, una dolcezza in grado di neutralizzare l’amarezza della vita.

Gli invitati al matrimonio non si erano ancora radunati; era davvero troppo presto, tanto che la stessa signorina Pecksniff si stava ancora vestendo con calma, quando una carrozza si fermò vicino al Monumento. Mark scese dalla carrozza e aiutò il signor Chuzzlewit a mettersi a terra. La carrozza rimase in attesa, così come il signor Tapley. Il signor Chuzzlewit si diresse poi verso la casa di Todger.

Fu accompagnato dal successore degenerato del signor Bailey nel salone da pranzo; lì – poiché si aspettava la sua visita – la signora Todgers apparve immediatamente.

“Vedo che sei vestito per il matrimonio,” disse.

La signora Todgers, molto agitata a causa dei preparativi, rispose affermativamente.

“Contraddice i miei desideri far sì che tutto ciò avvenga proprio in questo momento, vi assicuro, signore,” disse la signora Todgers; “ma la signorina Pecksniff era decisa a farlo, e in realtà è davvero arrivato il tempo che la signorina Pecksniff si sposi. Questo non si può negare, signore.”

“No,” disse il signor Chuzzlewit, “assolutamente no. Sua sorella non partecipa alle procedure?”

“Oh, no, signore. Poverina!” disse la signora Todgers scuotendo la testa e abbassando la voce. “Da quando ha saputo la verità peggiore, non ha mai lasciato la mia stanza, né quella accanto.”

“È pronta a vedermi?” chiese lui.

“Completamente pronto, signore.”

“Allora non perdiamo più tempo.”

La signora Todgers lo accompagnò nella piccola stanza sul retro, da cui si poteva ammirare la cisterna; lì, molto diversa rispetto al momento in cui era stata il suo primo rifugio, sedeva povera Merry, vestita a lutto. La stanza sembrava molto buia e triste; lo stesso valeva per lei. Ma aveva ancora un amico al suo fianco, fedele fino all’ultimo istante: il vecchio Chuffey.

Quando il signor Chuzzlewit si sedette al suo fianco, lei prese la sua mano e la portò alle sue labbra. Era profondamente addolorata. Anche lui era turbato; non l’aveva più vista da quando si erano separati nel cimitero.

“Ti ho giudicato troppo in fretta,” disse a bassa voce. “Temo di averti giudicato crudelmente. Dimmi che mi perdoni.”

Lo baciò di nuovo sulla mano; tenendola poi tra le sue, gli ringraziò con voce rotta per tutta la sua gentilezza verso di lei da allora.

‘Tom Pinch,’ disse Martin, ‘mi ha riferito fedelmente tutto ciò che volevate fosse trasmesso; in un momento in cui riteneva molto improbabile di avere mai l’opportunità di portare a termine il vostro messaggio. Credetemi: se in futuro dovesse trattare ancora con una persona imprudente e ignorante, che nasconde la propria forza sotto l’apparenza della debolezza, le riserverò sicuramente molta considerazione e misericordia.’

“Le hai dette per me, anche per me,” rispose lei. “Ci credo davvero. Le ho pronunciate io stessa quando la mia sofferenza era estrema e insopportabile; ora le ripeto per gli altri, ma non posso chiederle per me stessa. Hai parlato con me dopo avermi osservata giorno dopo giorno. C’era molta considerazione in quel tuo comportamento. Forse avresti potuto parlarmi in modo più gentile, o cercare di conquistare la mia fiducia con maggiore dolcezza, ma il risultato sarebbe stato lo stesso.”

He shook his head in doubt, and not without some inward self-reproach.

‘How can I hope,’ she said, ‘that your interposition would have prevailed with me, when I know how obdurate I was! I never thought at all; dear Mr Chuzzlewit, I never thought at all; I had no thought, no heart, no care to find one; at that time. It has grown out of my trouble. I have felt it in my trouble. I wouldn’t recall my trouble such as it is and has been—and it is light in comparison with trials which hundreds of good people suffer every day, I know—I wouldn’t recall it to-morrow, if I could. It has been my friend, for without it no one could have changed me; nothing could have changed me. Do not mistrust me because of these tears; I cannot help them. I am grateful for it, in my soul. Indeed I am!’

‘Indeed she is!’ said Mrs Todgers. ‘I believe it, sir.’

‘And so do I!’ said Mr Chuzzlewit. ‘Now, attend to me, my dear. Your late husband’s estate, if not wasted by the confession of a large debt to the broken office (which document, being useless to the runaways, has been sent over to England by them; not so much for the sake of the creditors as for the gratification of their dislike to him, whom they suppose to be still living), will be seized upon by law; for it is not exempt, as I learn, from the claims of those who have suffered by the fraud in which he was engaged. Your father’s property was all, or nearly all, embarked in the same transaction. If there be any left, it will be seized on, in like manner. There is no home THERE.’

‘I couldn’t return to him,’ she said, with an instinctive reference to his having forced her marriage on. ‘I could not return to him.’

‘I know it,’ Mr Chuzzlewit resumed; ‘and I am here because I know it. Come with me! From all who are about me, you are certain (I have ascertained it) of a generous welcome. But until your health is re-established, and you are sufficiently composed to bear that welcome, you shall have your abode in any quiet retreat of your own choosing, near London; not so far removed but that this kind-hearted lady may still visit you as often as she pleases. You have suffered much; but you are young, and have a brighter and a better future stretching out before you. Come with me. Your sister is careless of you, I know. She hurries on and publishes her marriage, in a spirit which (to say no more of it) is barely decent, is unsisterly, and bad. Leave the house before her guests arrive. She means to give you pain. Spare her the offence, and come with me!’

Mrs Todgers, though most unwilling to part with her, added her persuasions. Even poor old Chuffey (of course included in the project) added his. She hurriedly attired herself, and was ready to depart, when Miss Pecksniff dashed into the room.

Miss Pecksniff dashed in so suddenly, that she was placed in an embarrassing position. For though she had completed her bridal toilette as to her head, on which she wore a bridal bonnet with orange flowers, she had not completed it as to her skirts, which displayed no choicer decoration than a dimity bedgown. She had dashed in, in fact, about half-way through, to console her sister, in her affliction, with a sight of the aforesaid bonnet; and being quite unconscious of the presence of a visitor, until she found Mr Chuzzlewit standing face to face with her, her surprise was an uncomfortable one.

‘So, young lady!’ said the old man, eyeing her with strong disfavour. ‘You are to be married to-day!’

‘Yes, sir,’ returned Miss Pecksniff, modestly. ‘I am. I—my dress is rather—really, Mrs Todgers!’

‘Your delicacy,’ said old Martin, ‘is troubled, I perceive. I am not surprised to find it so. You have chosen the period of your marriage unfortunately.’

‘I beg your pardon, Mr Chuzzlewit,’ retorted Cherry; very red and angry in a moment; ‘but if you have anything to say on that subject, I must beg to refer you to Augustus. You will scarcely think it manly, I hope, to force an argument on me, when Augustus is at all times ready to discuss it with you. I have nothing to do with any deceptions that may have been practiced on my parent,’ said Miss Pecksniff, pointedly; ‘and as I wish to be on good terms with everybody at such a time, I should have been glad if you would have favoured us with your company at breakfast. But I will not ask you as it is; seeing that you have been prepossessed and set against me in another quarter. I hope I have my natural affections for another quarter, and my natural pity for another quarter; but I cannot always submit to be subservient to it, Mr Chuzzlewit. That would be a little too much. I trust I have more respect for myself, as well as for the man who claims me as his Bride.’

‘Your sister, meeting—as I think; not as she says, for she has said nothing about it—with little consideration from you, is going away with me,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit.

‘I am very happy to find that she has some good fortune at last,’ returned Miss Pecksniff, tossing her head. ‘I congratulate her, I am sure. I am not surprised that this event should be painful to her—painful to her—but I can’t help that, Mr Chuzzlewit. It’s not my fault.’

‘Come, Miss Pecksniff!’ said the old man, quietly. ‘I should like to see a better parting between you. I should like to see a better parting on your side, in such circumstances. It would make me your friend. You may want a friend one day or other.’

‘Every relation of life, Mr Chuzzlewit, begging your pardon; and every friend in life,’ returned Miss Pecksniff, with dignity, ‘is now bound up and cemented in Augustus. So long as Augustus is my own, I cannot want a friend. When you speak of friends, sir, I must beg, once for all, to refer you to Augustus. That is my impression of the religious ceremony in which I am so soon to take a part at that altar to which Augustus will conduct me. I bear no malice at any time, much less in a moment of triumph, towards any one; much less towards my sister. On the contrary, I congratulate her. If you didn’t hear me say so, I am not to blame. And as I owe it to Augustus, to be punctual on an occasion when he may naturally be supposed to be—to be impatient—really, Mrs Todgers!—I must beg your leave, sir, to retire.’

Scosse la testa con >dubbio, e non senza un certo senso di auto-rimprovero interiore.

“Come posso sperare,” disse lei, “che la tua intercessione abbia avuto effetto su di me, quando so quanto fossi testarda! Non ci ho mai pensato affatto; caro signor Chuzzlewit, non ci ho mai pensato. In quel momento, non avevo né pensieri, né cuore, né voglia di trovarne alcuno. È nata dalla mia difficoltà. L’ho sentita dentro di me durante quella difficoltà. Non vorrei ricordare quella situazione così com’è stata. E in realtà è nulla rispetto alle prove che centinaia di persone buone affrontano ogni giorno. Non la ricorderei nemmeno domani, se potessi. È stata mia amica. Perché senza di essa, nessuno avrebbe potuto cambiarmi; nulla avrebbe potuto cambiarmi. Non fraintendermi a causa di queste lacrime. Non posso evitarle. Ne sono grata, nel profondo del mio cuore. Davvero!”

“Certamente che lo è!” disse la signora Todgers. “Lo credo davvero, signore.”

“Anch’io lo stesso!” disse il signor Chuzzlewit. “Ora, ascoltami attentamente, mia cara. L’eredità di tuo defunto marito, se non è stata distrutta dalla confessione di un enorme debito verso quell’ufficio fallito (il documento, essendo inutile per i fuggitivi, è stato inviato in Inghilterra da loro; non tanto per il bene dei creditori, quanto per soddisfare il loro disprezzo nei suoi confronti, poiché presumono che sia ancora vivo), verrà sequestrata legalmente; infatti, a quanto ho appreso, non è esente dalle richieste di coloro che hanno subito danni a causa della truffa in cui era coinvolto. Anche la proprietà di tuo padre è stata interamente, o quasi interamente, investita nella stessa operazione. Se ne dovesse rimanere qualcosa, anch’esso verrebbe sequestrato allo stesso modo. Lì non c’è più nessuna >casa.”

“Non potevo tornare da lui,” disse, facendo riferimento in modo istintivo al fatto che lui l’aveva costretta a quel matrimonio. “Non potevo tornare da lui.”

“Lo so,” riprese il signor Chuzzlewit; “e sono qui proprio perché lo so. Vieni con me! Tra tutte le persone che mi circondano, tu sarai certamente accolto con generosità (l’ho verificato personalmente). Ma finché la tua salute non sarà completamente ripresa e non sarai in grado di affrontare tale accoglienza, potrai scegliere una tranquilla dimora vicino a Londra; abbastanza vicina da permettere a questa gentile signora di venirti a trovare ogni volta che desidera. Hai sofferto molto, ma sei giovane, e davanti a te c’è un futuro più luminoso e migliore. Vieni con me. So che tua sorella non si preoccupa per te: sta facendo in fretta a organizzare il suo matrimonio in modo davvero indecente e irrispettoso nei tuoi confronti. Lascia quella casa prima dell’arrivo degli ospiti. Lei intende farti soffrire ancora. Risparmiala questa umiliazione, e vieni con me!”

La signora Todgers, sebbene molto riluttante a separarsene, aggiunse le sue persuasioni. Anche il povero vecchio Chuffey (naturalmente incluso nel progetto) ne aggiunse altre. Si vestì in fretta e fu pronta a partire, quando la signorina Pecksniff irruppe nella stanza.

La signorina Pecksniff entrò così all’improvviso che si trovò in una situazione imbarazzante. Infatti, sebbene avesse completato il proprio abbigliamento da sposa per la parte superiore del corpo – indossando un cappello da sposa decorato con fiori arancioni – non aveva ancora finito di vestirsi per la parte inferiore; i suoi abiti presentavano infatti come unica decorazione una semplice camicia da notte. In realtà, era entrata lì soltanto per consolare sua sorella nel suo dolore, mostrandole quel cappello; e non essendo affatto a conoscenza della presenza di un visitatore, rimase molto sorpresa quando si trovò faccia a faccia con il signor Chuzzlewit.

“Lo so, giovane signora!” disse l’uomo anziano, guardandola con grande disapprovazione. “Oggi sposerai qualcuno!”

“Sì, signore,” rispose Miss Pecksniff in modo modesto. “Lo sono. Beh, il mio abito è un po’, davvero, signora Todgers!”

“La tua delicatezza,” disse il vecchio Martin, “è turbata, mi pare. Non mi sorprende affatto che sia così. Hai scelto sfortunatamente questo periodo per il tuo matrimonio.”

“Mi scusi, signor Chuzzlewit,” ribatté Cherry; arrossita e arrabbiata in un istante; “ma se ha qualcosa da dire sull’argomento, devo chiederle di rivolgersi ad Augustus. Spero che non ritenga virile costringermi a discutere su questo argomento, visto che Augustus è sempre pronto a parlarne con lei. Non ho nulla a che fare con eventuali inganni che possano essere stati perpetrati contro mio padre,” disse Miss Pecksniff in tono deciso; “e poiché desidero mantenere buoni rapporti con tutti in un momento del genere, sarei stata felice se avesse voluto onorarci della sua compagnia a colazione. Ma non glielo chiederò più, visto che è già prevenuto contro di me. Spero di provare affetto naturale per qualcun altro, e compassione naturale per qualcun altro; ma non posso sempre subire queste pressioni, signor Chuzzlewit. Sarebbe davvero troppo. Spero di rispettarmi abbastanza, così come l’uomo che mi considera sua moglie.”

“Tua sorella, che, a quanto credo, si è incontrata con lui – non come dice lei, visto che non ne ha parlato affatto – e senza alcuna considerazione da parte tua, sta per andarsene con me,” disse il signor Chuzzlewit.

“Sono molto felice di scoprire che finalmente le è capitata un po’ di fortuna,” rispose la signorina Pecksniff scuotendo la testa. “La congratulo, ne sono sicura. Non mi sorprende affatto che questo evento possa essere doloroso per lei, ma non posso farci nulla, signor Chuzzlewit. Non è colpa mia.”

“Ma come, signorina Pecksniff!” disse l’uomo anziano, in tono tranquillo. “Mi piacerebbe vedere una separazione più dignitosa tra voi. Mi piacerebbe che anche da parte vostra ci fosse un comportamento più appropriato in circostanze del genere. Questo mi farebbe diventare vostro amico. Forse un giorno avrete bisogno di un amico.”

“Ogni relazione nella vita, signor Chuzzlewit, mi perdoni; e ogni amico nella vita,” rispose Miss Pecksniff con dignità, “è ormai legata a Augustus. Finché Augustus è mio, non ho bisogno di altri amici. Quando parla di amici, signore, devo chiederle, una volta per tutte, di fare riferimento ad Augustus. Questa è la mia opinione sulla cerimonia religiosa in cui presto prenderò parte, presso quell’altare verso il quale Augustus mi condurrà. Non provo alcun rancore, mai, tantomeno in un momento di trionfo, verso nessuno; tanto meno verso mia sorella. Al contrario, la congratulo. Se non mi ha sentita dirlo, non è colpa mia. E poiché lo devo ad Augustus, essere puntuale in un’occasione in cui si potrebbe naturalmente pensare che lui sia impaziente, davvero, signora Todgers! Devo chiederle il permesso di andarmene.”

After these words the bridal bonnet disappeared; with as much state as the dimity bedgown left in it.

Old Martin gave his arm to the younger sister without speaking; and led her out. Mrs Todgers, with her holiday garments fluttering in the wind, accompanied them to the carriage, clung round Merry’s neck at parting, and ran back to her own dingy house, crying the whole way. She had a lean, lank body, Mrs Todgers, but a well-conditioned soul within. Perhaps the good Samaritan was lean and lank, and found it hard to live. Who knows!

Mr Chuzzlewit followed her so closely with his eyes, that, until she had shut her own door, they did not encounter Mr Tapley’s face.

‘Why, Mark!’ he said, as soon as he observed it, ‘what’s the matter?’

‘The wonderfulest ewent, sir!’ returned Mark, pumping at his voice in a most laborious manner, and hardly able to articulate with all his efforts. ‘A coincidence as never was equalled! I’m blessed if here ain’t two old neighbours of ourn, sir!’

‘What neighbours?’ cried old Martin, looking out of window. ‘Where?’

‘I was a-walkin’ up and down not five yards from this spot,’ said Mr Tapley, breathless, ‘and they come upon me like their own ghosts, as I thought they was! It’s the wonderfulest ewent that ever happened. Bring a feather, somebody, and knock me down with it!’

‘What do you mean!’ exclaimed old Martin, quite as much excited by the spectacle of Mark’s excitement as that strange person was himself. ‘Neighbours, where?’

‘Here, sir!’ replied Mr Tapley. ‘Here in the city of London! Here upon these very stones! Here they are, sir! Don’t I know ‘em? Lord love their welcome faces, don’t I know ‘em!’

With which ejaculations Mr Tapley not only pointed to a decent-looking man and woman standing by, but commenced embracing them alternately, over and over again, in Monument Yard.

‘Neighbours, WHERE? old Martin shouted; almost maddened by his ineffectual efforts to get out at the coach-door.

‘Neighbours in America! Neighbours in Eden!’ cried Mark. ‘Neighbours in the swamp, neighbours in the bush, neighbours in the fever. Didn’t she nurse us! Didn’t he help us! Shouldn’t we both have died without ‘em! Haven’t they come a-strugglin’ back, without a single child for their consolation! And talk to me of neighbours!’

Away he went again, in a perfectly wild state, hugging them, and skipping round them, and cutting in between them, as if he were performing some frantic and outlandish dance.

Mr Chuzzlewit no sooner gathered who these people were, than he burst open the coach-door somehow or other, and came tumbling out among them; and as if the lunacy of Mr Tapley were contagious, he immediately began to shake hands too, and exhibit every demonstration of the liveliest joy.

‘Get up, behind!’ he said. ‘Get up in the rumble. Come along with me! Go you on the box, Mark. Home! Home!’

‘Home!’ cried Mr Tapley, seizing the old man’s hand in a burst of enthusiasm. ‘Exactly my opinion, sir. Home for ever! Excuse the liberty, sir, I can’t help it. Success to the Jolly Tapley! There’s nothin’ in the house they shan’t have for the askin’ for, except a bill. Home to be sure! Hurrah!’

Home they rolled accordingly, when he had got the old man in again, as fast as they could go; Mark abating nothing of his fervour by the way, by allowing it to vent itself as unrestrainedly as if he had been on Salisbury Plain.

And now the wedding party began to assemble at Todgers’s. Mr Jinkins, the only boarder invited, was on the ground first. He wore a white favour in his button-hole, and a bran new extra super double-milled blue saxony dress coat (that was its description in the bill), with a variety of tortuous embellishments about the pockets, invented by the artist to do honour to the day. The miserable Augustus no longer felt strongly even on the subject of Jinkins. He hadn’t strength of mind enough to do it. ‘Let him come!’ he had said, in answer to Miss Pecksniff, when she urged the point. ‘Let him come! He has ever been my rock ahead through life. ‘Tis meet he should be there. Ha, ha! Oh, yes! let Jinkins come!’

Jinkins had come with all the pleasure in life, and there he was. For some few minutes he had no companion but the breakfast, which was set forth in the drawing-room, with unusual taste and ceremony. But Mrs Todgers soon joined him; and the bachelor cousin, the hairy young gentleman, and Mr and Mrs Spottletoe, arrived in quick succession.

Mr Spottletoe honoured Jinkins with an encouraging bow. ‘Glad to know you, sir,’ he said. ‘Give you joy!’ Under the impression that Jinkins was the happy man.

Mr Jinkins explained. He was merely doing the honours for his friend Moddle, who had ceased to reside in the house, and had not yet arrived.

‘Not arrived, sir!’ exclaimed Spottletoe, in a great heat.

‘Not yet,’ said Mr Jinkins.

‘Upon my soul!’ cried Spottletoe. ‘He begins well! Upon my life and honour this young man begins well! But I should very much like to know how it is that every one who comes into contact with this family is guilty of some gross insult to it. Death! Not arrived yet. Not here to receive us!’

The nephew with the outline of a countenance, suggested that perhaps he had ordered a new pair of boots, and they hadn’t come home.

‘Don’t talk to me of Boots, sir!’ retorted Spottletoe, with immense indignation. ‘He is bound to come here in his slippers then; he is bound to come here barefoot. Don’t offer such a wretched and evasive plea to me on behalf of your friend, as Boots, sir.’

‘He is not MY friend,’ said the nephew. ‘I never saw him.’

‘Very well, sir,’ returned the fiery Spottletoe. ‘Then don’t talk to me!’

The door was thrown open at this juncture, and Miss Pecksniff entered, tottering, and supported by her three bridesmaids. The strong-minded woman brought up the rear; having waited outside until now, for the purpose of spoiling the effect.

Dopo queste parole, il cappello da sposa scomparve; insieme ad esso, anche la semplice camicia da notte rimasta all’interno.

Il vecchio Martin porse il suo braccio alla sorella minore senza dire una parola e la portò fuori. La signora Todgers, con i suoi abiti da vacanza che svolazzavano nel vento, li accompagnò fino alla carrozza; al momento dell’addio si aggrappò al collo di Merry e corse indietro verso la sua umile casa, piangendo per tutto il cammino. La signora Todgers aveva un corpo magro e snello, ma un ’anima davvero buona. Forse anche quel buon samaritano era magro e snello, e trovava difficile vivere. Chi lo sa!

Il signor Chuzzlewit la seguiva con lo sguardo così da vicino che, finché lei non ebbe chiuso la sua porta, i suoi occhi non incrociarono mai il viso del signor Tapley.

“Ma Mark!”, esclamò non appena se ne accorse, “che cosa è successo?”

“L’evento più meraviglioso di sempre, signore!” rispose Mark, alzando la voce con grande sforzo, a malapena riuscendo a pronunciare chiaramente le parole. “Una coincidenza senza precedenti! Sono davvero fortunato. Non ci sono forse due vecchi vicini nostri qui, signore?”

“Quali vicini?”, gridò il vecchio Martin, guardando fuori dalla finestra. “Dove?”

“Stavo camminando avanti e indietro a meno di cinque metri da questo posto,” disse il signor Tapley, senza fiato, “e loro sono apparsi davanti a me come i loro stessi fantasmi, proprio come pensavo che fossero! È l’evento più straordinario che sia mai accaduto. Portate una piuma, qualcuno, e colpitemi con quella!”

“Cosa intendi dire!”, esclamò il vecchio Martin, altrettanto eccitato dallo spettacolo dell’emozione di Mark quanto lo era quella strana persona stessa. “Vicini, dove?”

“Eccole qua, signore!” rispose il signor Tapley. “Qui, nella città di Londra! Proprio su queste pietre. Ecco, sono qui! Non le riconosco forse? Il Signore ama i loro volti sorridenti, non è vero?”

Con quelle esclamazioni, il signor Tapley non solo indicò un uomo e una donna di aspetto decente che si trovavano lì vicino, ma iniziò anche ad abbracciarli uno dopo l’altro, più e più volte, nel cortile del Monumento.

“Vicini, DOVE?”, gridava il vecchio Martin, quasi impazzito per i suoi tentativi vani di uscire dalla porta del vagone.

“Vicini in America! Vicini in Eden!” gridò Mark. “Vicini nella palude, vicini nella boscaglia, vicini durante la febbre. Non è stata lei a curarci? Non è stato lui ad aiutarci? Senza di loro, forse saremmo morti entrambi! Eppure sono tornati indietro, senza nemmeno un bambino che potesse consolarli. E ancora vi parlate di vicini, ”

Se ne andò di nuovo, in uno stato completamente selvaggio: li abbracciava, saltellava intorno a loro e si infilava tra di loro, come se stesse eseguendo una qualche danza folle e stravagante.

Non appena il signor Chuzzlewit capì chi fossero quelle persone, in qualche modo riuscì ad aprire la porta della carrozza e ne uscì barcollando in mezzo a loro; e come se la follia del signor Tapley fosse contagiosa, anche lui immediatamente iniziò a stringere mani e a mostrare ogni segno di grande gioia.

“Alzati, sali dietro!” disse. “Salisci sul cassone, vieni con me! Tu siediti lì sopra, Mark. Casa! Casa!”

‘Casa!’ esclamò il signor Tapley, afferrando la mano dell’uomo anziano con entusiasmo. ‘Esattamente la mia opinione, signore. Casa per sempre! Scusi se mi permetto di dirlo, ma non posso fare a meno. Successo al caro Tapley! Non c’è niente in quella casa che non possano avere, se lo chiedono, tranne forse un conto da pagare. Casa, insomma! Evviva!’

A casa, si misero in movimento immediatamente; non appena riuscirono a riportare l’uomo anziano dentro, accelerarono al massimo; Mark, intanto, non diminuì affatto il proprio impegno, lasciando che tutto avvenisse con la stessa intensità come se si fossero trovati nella piana di Salisbury.

E ora la comitiva nuziale iniziò a radunarsi da Todgers’s. Il signor Jinkins, l’unico ospite invitato, fu il primo ad arrivare. Indossava un fiore bianco nel bottone del colletto e un abito blu di ottima qualità, con vari ornamenti complicati sui taschi, creati appositamente dall’artista per onorare questa giornata speciale. Il povero Augustus ormai non provava più alcun interesse riguardo a Jinkins. Non aveva più la forza mentale necessaria. “Lasciatelo venire!”, disse quando la signorina Pecksniff insistette sull’argomento. “Lasciatelo venire. È sempre stato il mio sostegno nella vita. È giusto che sia presente. Ah, sì. Lasciate venire Jinkins!”

Jinkins era arrivato con tutta la gioia che si possa provare nella vita. E lì se ne stava. Per qualche minuto non ebbe compagnia se non quella della colazione, servita nel salotto con un gusto e una cerimonia insoliti. Ma presto lo raggiunse anche la signora Todgers; in seguito arrivarono uno dopo l’altro il cugino scapolo, quel giovane gentiluomo peloso, nonché il signor e la signora Spottletoe.

Il signor Spottletoe fece un inchino incoraggiante a Jinkins. “È un piacere conoscerla, signore,” disse. “Che le porti gioia!” Pensando che Jinkins fosse davvero l’uomo felice.

Il signor Jinkins spiegò: stava semplicemente adempiendo a un dovere verso il suo amico Moddle, che aveva smesso di risiedere nella quella casa e non era ancora arrivato.

“Non è ancora arrivato, signore!” esclamò Spottletoe, con grande agitazione.

“Non ancora,” disse il signor Jinkins.

“Per la mia ‘anima!” gridò Spottletoe. “Inizia bene. Per la mia vita e la mia ‘onore, questo giovane sta andando davvero bene! Ma mi chiedo molto come mai chiunque entri in contatto con questa famiglia finisca per commettere qualche grave offesa nei loro confronti. Morte! Non è ancora arrivata. Non è qui ad accoglierci!”

Il nipote, con quel viso dai tratti vagamente aristocratici, sembrava suggerire che forse aveva ordinato un nuovo paio di stivali, ma che questi non fossero ancora arrivati a casa.

“Non parlate di Boots con me, signore!” ribatté Spottletoe con immensa indignazione. “Allora verrà qui in pantofole, o forse a piedi nudi. Non presentatemi una scusa così patetica e evasiva a nome del vostro amico, come Boots, signore.”

“Non è mio amico”, disse il nipote. “Non l’ho mai visto”.

“Molto bene, signore,” rispose il focoso Spottletoe. “Allora non parlatemi più!”

In questo momento la porta fu spalancata e Miss Pecksniff entrò, barcollando e sostenuta dalle sue tre damigelle d’onore. Quella donna di forte carattere era rimasta fuori fino ad allora, con l’intento di rovinare tutto.

‘How do you do, ma’am!’ said Spottletoe to the strong-minded woman in a tone of defiance. ‘I believe you see Mrs Spottletoe, ma’am?’

The strong-minded woman with an air of great interest in Mrs Spottletoe’s health, regretted that she was not more easily seen. Nature erring, in that lady’s case, upon the slim side.

‘Mrs Spottletoe is at least more easily seen than the bridegroom, ma’am,’ returned that lady’s husband. ‘That is, unless he has confined his attentions to any particular part or branch of this family, which would be quite in keeping with its usual proceedings.’

‘If you allude to me, sir—’ the strong-minded woman began.

‘Pray,’ interposed Miss Pecksniff, ‘do not allow Augustus, at this awful moment of his life and mine, to be the means of disturbing that harmony which it is ever Augustus’s and my wish to maintain. Augustus has not been introduced to any of my relations now present. He preferred not.’

‘Why, then, I venture to assert,’ cried Mr Spottletoe, ‘that the man who aspires to join this family, and “prefers not” to be introduced to its members, is an impertinent Puppy. That is my opinion of HIM!’

The strong-minded woman remarked with great suavity, that she was afraid he must be. Her three daughters observed aloud that it was ‘Shameful!’

‘You do not know Augustus,’ said Miss Pecksniff, tearfully, ‘indeed you do not know him. Augustus is all mildness and humility. Wait till you see Augustus, and I am sure he will conciliate your affections.’

‘The question arises,’ said Spottletoe, folding his arms: ‘How long we are to wait. I am not accustomed to wait; that’s the fact. And I want to know how long we are expected to wait.’

‘Mrs Todgers!’ said Charity, ‘Mr Jinkins! I am afraid there must be some mistake. I think Augustus must have gone straight to the Altar!’

As such a thing was possible, and the church was close at hand, Mr Jinkins ran off to see, accompanied by Mr George Chuzzlewit the bachelor cousin, who preferred anything to the aggravation of sitting near the breakfast, without being able to eat it. But they came back with no other tidings than a familiar message from the clerk, importing that if they wanted to be married that morning they had better look sharp, as the curate wasn’t going to wait there all day.

The bride was now alarmed; seriously alarmed. Good Heavens, what could have happened! Augustus! Dear Augustus!

Mr Jinkins volunteered to take a cab, and seek him at the newly-furnished house. The strong-minded woman administered comfort to Miss Pecksniff. ‘It was a specimen of what she had to expect. It would do her good. It would dispel the romance of the affair.’ The red-nosed daughters also administered the kindest comfort. ‘Perhaps he’d come,’ they said. The sketchy nephew hinted that he might have fallen off a bridge. The wrath of Mr Spottletoe resisted all the entreaties of his wife. Everybody spoke at once, and Miss Pecksniff, with clasped hands, sought consolation everywhere and found it nowhere, when Jinkins, having met the postman at the door, came back with a letter, which he put into her hand.

Miss Pecksniff opened it, uttered a piercing shriek, threw it down upon the ground, and fainted away.

They picked it up; and crowding round, and looking over one another’s shoulders, read, in the words and dashes following, this communication:

‘OFF GRAVESEND.

‘CLIPPER SCHOONER, CUPID

‘Wednesday night

‘EVER INJURED MISS PECKSNIFF—Ere this reaches you, the undersigned will be—if not a corpse—on the way to Van Dieman’s Land. Send not in pursuit. I never will be taken alive!

‘The burden—300 tons per register—forgive, if in my distraction, I allude to the ship—on my mind—has been truly dreadful. Frequently—when you have sought to soothe my brow with kisses—has self-destruction flashed across me. Frequently—incredible as it may seem—have I abandoned the idea.

‘I love another. She is Another’s. Everything appears to be somebody else’s. Nothing in the world is mine—not even my Situation—which I have forfeited—by my rash conduct—in running away.

‘If you ever loved me, hear my last appeal! The last appeal of a miserable and blighted exile. Forward the inclosed—it is the key of my desk—to the office—by hand. Please address to Bobbs and Cholberry—I mean to Chobbs and Bolberry—but my mind is totally unhinged. I left a penknife—with a buckhorn handle—in your work-box. It will repay the messenger. May it make him happier than ever it did me!

‘Oh, Miss Pecksniff, why didn’t you leave me alone! Was it not cruel, CRUEL! Oh, my goodness, have you not been a witness of my feelings—have you not seen them flowing from my eyes—did you not, yourself, reproach me with weeping more than usual on that dreadful night when last we met—in that house—where I once was peaceful—though blighted—in the society of Mrs Todgers!

‘But it was written—in the Talmud—that you should involve yourself in the inscrutable and gloomy Fate which it is my mission to accomplish, and which wreathes itself—e’en now—about in temples. I will not reproach, for I have wronged you. May the Furniture make some amends!

‘Farewell! Be the proud bride of a ducal coronet, and forget me! Long may it be before you know the anguish with which I now subscribe myself—amid the tempestuous howlings of the—sailors,

‘Unalterably,

‘Never yours,

‘AUGUSTUS.’

They thought as little of Miss Pecksniff, while they greedily perused this letter, as if she were the very last person on earth whom it concerned. But Miss Pecksniff really had fainted away. The bitterness of her mortification; the bitterness of having summoned witnesses, and such witnesses, to behold it; the bitterness of knowing that the strong-minded women and the red-nosed daughters towered triumphant in this hour of their anticipated overthrow; was too much to be borne. Miss Pecksniff had fainted away in earnest.

“Come state, signora!” disse Spottletoe con tono di sfida alla donna decisa. “Credo che lei sia la signora Spottletoe, giusto?”

Quella donna di forte carattere, che mostrava un grande interesse per la salute della signora Spottletoe, rimpiangeva che questa non fosse più facilmente accessibile. In quel caso, la natura aveva commesso un errore, facendo sì che quella signora fosse piuttosto snella.

“La signora Spottletoe, almeno, è più facile da vedere del sposo, mia cara,” rispose il marito di quella donna. “Cioè, a meno che non abbia concentrato le sue attenzioni su qualche membro o ramo particolare di questa famiglia. Il che, in realtà, sarebbe molto in linea con le loro abitudini.”

“Se vi riferite a me, signore, ” iniziò la donna di forte carattere.

“Pregate,” intervenne la signorina Pecksniff, “non permettete che Augustus, in questo terribile momento della sua vita e della mia, diventi lo strumento che disturbi quell’armonia che è sempre stato il nostro desiderio mantenere. Augustus non è stato presentato a nessuno dei miei parenti presenti stasera. Lui stesso ha preferito di no.”

“Allora, oso affermare,” gridò il signor Spottletoe, “che l’uomo che desidera entrare in questa famiglia ma preferisce non essere presentato ai suoi membri è un individuo irrispettoso e maleducato. Questa è la mia opinione su di LUI!”

Quella donna di forte carattere osservò con grande dolcezza che temeva che lui dovesse esserlo. Le sue tre figlie esclamarono ad alta voce che era “Disgustoso”!

“Non conosci Augustus,” disse Miss Pecksniff, con le lacrime agli occhi, “davvero non lo conosci. Augustus è pieno di dolcezza e umiltà. Aspetta di incontrarlo, e sono sicura che riuscirà a conquistare il tuo affetto.”

“Si pone la domanda,” disse Spottletoe incrociando le braccia: “Per quanto tempo dobbiamo aspettare. Non sono abituato ad aspettare; è semplicemente così. E voglio sapere per quanto tempo ci si aspetta che aspettiamo.”

“Signora Todgers!” disse Charity, “Signor Jinkins! Temo ci sia stato qualche errore. Penso che Augustus debba essere andato direttamente all’Altare!”

Poiché una cosa del genere era possibile e la chiesa si trovava nelle vicinanze, il signor Jinkins corse subito a vedere, accompagnato dal signor George Chuzzlewit, suo cugino scapolo, che preferiva qualsiasi altra cosa all’idea di dover sedersi accanto al tavolo della colazione senza poter mangiare nulla. Tuttavia, tornarono indietro senza portare altre notizie, se non un messaggio del segretario che diceva che, se volevano sposarsi quella mattina, dovevano sbrigarsi, perché il curato non avrebbe aspettato lì tutto il giorno.

La sposa era ora allarmata; seriamente allarmata. Mio Dio, cosa poteva essere successo! Augusto. Caro Augusto!

Il signor Jinkins si offrì volontario di prendere un taxi per recarsi nella casa appena arredata. La donna decisa e risoluta cercò di consolare la signorina Pecksniff: “È proprio un esempio di ciò che lei avrebbe dovuto aspettarsi. Le farà bene, servirà a dissipare tutte quelle illusioni romantiche riguardo alla situazione.” Anche le figlie dal naso rosso offrirono il loro sostegno: “Forse verrà, ” Il nipote poco affidabile insinuò che potesse essere caduto da un ponte. La rabbia del signor Spottletoe resisteva a tutti i tentativi di sua moglie di calmarlo. Tutti parlavano contemporaneamente; la signorina Pecksniff, con le mani giunte, cercava conforto ovunque, ma non lo trovava da nessuna parte. Quando Jinkins tornò, dopo aver incontrato il postino alla porta, le consegnò una lettera che le mise tra le mani.

La signorina Pecksniff l’aprì, emise un grido stridulo, la gettò a terra e svenne.

Lo presero in mano; si affollarono intorno e, guardando oltre le spalle gli uni degli altri, lessero il seguente messaggio scritto con quelle parole e quei segni:

‘Off Gravestone.’

“Clipper Schooner, Cupid”

‘Mercoledì sera’

“Se mai dovesse accadere qualcosa alla signorina Pecksniff. Quando questa lettera vi raggiungerà, io sarò – se non già morto – in viaggio verso la Terra di Van Diemen. Non mandatemi nessuno all’inseguimento: non verrò mai catturato vivo!”

“Il carico, 300 tonnellate per registro. Perdonatemi, forse nella mia distrazione ho accennato alla nave che avevo in mente. È davvero terribile. Spesso, quando cercavate di consolarmi con i vostri baci, l’idea del autodistruzione mi attraversava la mente. Spesso, anche se sembra incredibile, abbandonavo quel pensiero.”

“Amo un’altra persona. Lei appartiene a qualcun altro. Tutto sembra appartenere a qualcun altro. Niente al mondo è mio. Nemmeno la mia situazione. Che ho perso a causa della mia condotta avventata, fuggendo via.”

‘Se mi hai mai amato, ascolta il mio ultimo appello. L’ultimo appello di un misero e sfortunato esiliato. Inviati per mano ciò che è allegato: è la chiave del mio ufficio. Per favore, indirizzatelo a Bobbs e Cholberry. Voglio dire, a Chobbs e Bolberry. Ma la mia mente è completamente sconvolta. Ho lasciato un coltello da tasca, con manico di corno d’antilope, nella tua scrivania. Sarà una ricompensa per chi lo consegnerà. Possa renderlo più felice di quanto non sia mai stato me!’

“Oh, Miss Pecksniff, perché non mi avete lasciato da solo? Non è stato crudele. CRUELLO! Oh, mio Dio, non avete forse visto i miei sentimenti. Non avete notato come scorrevano dai miei occhi? Non mi avete forse rimproverato voi stessa per aver pianto più del solito quella terribile notte in cui ci siamo incontrati l’ultima volta. In quella casa. Dove un tempo ero sereno. Anche se distrutto. Nella compagnia di Mrs Todgers, ”

“Ma è scritto nel Talmud che tu debba impegnarti in quel Destino misterioso e tenebroso il cui compimento è la mia missione. Un Destino che, anche ora, avvolge i templi stessi. Non ti rimprovererò, perché anch’io ti ho fatto del male. Che almeno i mobili possano compensare in qualche modo!”

“Addio! Sii la fiiera sposa di un duca e dimenticami. Possa trascorrere molto tempo prima che tu conosca l’angoscia con cui io, in mezzo ai furiosi ululati dei marinai, ”

“Immutabilmente”.

“Mai tuo, ”

“Augustus”.

Pensavano molto poco a Miss Pecksniff, mentre leggevano avidamente questa lettera, come se lei fosse l’ultima persona al mondo a cui riguardasse. Ma Miss Pecksniff era davvero svenuta. L’amarezza della sua umiliazione; l’amarezza di aver chiamato dei testimoni, e per di più testimoni del genere, ad assistere a quella scena; l’amarezza di sapere che quelle donne testarde e le figlie dal naso rosso trionfavano in quel momento in cui si aspettava la loro rovina. Era troppo da sopportare. Miss Pecksniff era davvero svenuta per davvero.

What sounds are these that fall so grandly on the ear! What darkening room is this!

And that mild figure seated at an organ, who is he! Ah Tom, dear Tom, old friend!

Thy head is prematurely grey, though Time has passed thee and our old association, Tom. But, in those sounds with which it is thy wont to bear the twilight company, the music of thy heart speaks out—the story of thy life relates itself.

Thy life is tranquil, calm, and happy, Tom. In the soft strain which ever and again comes stealing back upon the ear, the memory of thine old love may find a voice perhaps; but it is a pleasant, softened, whispering memory, like that in which we sometimes hold the dead, and does not pain or grieve thee, God be thanked.

Touch the notes lightly, Tom, as lightly as thou wilt, but never will thine hand fall half so lightly on that Instrument as on the head of thine old tyrant brought down very, very low; and never will it make as hollow a response to any touch of thine, as he does always.

For a drunken, begging, squalid, letter-writing man, called Pecksniff, with a shrewish daughter, haunts thee, Tom; and when he makes appeals to thee for cash, reminds thee that he built thy fortunes better than his own; and when he spends it, entertains the alehouse company with tales of thine ingratitude and his munificence towards thee once upon a time; and then he shows his elbows worn in holes, and puts his soleless shoes up on a bench, and begs his auditors look there, while thou art comfortably housed and clothed. All known to thee, and yet all borne with, Tom!

So, with a smile upon thy face, thou passest gently to another measure—to a quicker and more joyful one—and little feet are used to dance about thee at the sound, and bright young eyes to glance up into thine. And there is one slight creature, Tom—her child; not Ruth’s—whom thine eyes follow in the romp and dance; who, wondering sometimes to see thee look so thoughtful, runs to climb up on thy knee, and put her cheek to thine; who loves thee, Tom, above the rest, if that can be; and falling sick once, chose thee for her nurse, and never knew impatience, Tom, when thou wert by her side.

Thou glidest, now, into a graver air; an air devoted to old friends and bygone times; and in thy lingering touch upon the keys, and the rich swelling of the mellow harmony, they rise before thee. The spirit of that old man dead, who delighted to anticipate thy wants, and never ceased to honour thee, is there, among the rest; repeating, with a face composed and calm, the words he said to thee upon his bed, and blessing thee!

And coming from a garden, Tom, bestrewn with flowers by children’s hands, thy sister, little Ruth, as light of foot and heart as in old days, sits down beside thee. From the Present, and the Past, with which she is so tenderly entwined in all thy thoughts, thy strain soars onward to the Future. As it resounds within thee and without, the noble music, rolling round ye both, shuts out the grosser prospect of an earthly parting, and uplifts ye both to Heaven!

Che suoni sono questi che risuonano così potenti nell’orecchio. Che stanza oscura è questa!

E quella figura gentile seduta davanti all’organo, chi è? Ah, Tom, caro Tom, vecchio amico mio!

I tuoi capelli sono diventati prematuramente grigi; anche se il Tempo ha ormai trascorso te e la nostra vecchia amicizia, Tom. Ma in quelle note con cui hai l’abitudine di accompagnare le ore del crepuscolo, la musica del tuo cuore parla da sola: è la storia della tua vita che si racconta attraverso esse.

La tua vita è tranquilla, serena e felice, Tom. Nella dolce melodia che di tanto in tanto risuona nelle tue orecchie, forse la ricordo del tuo vecchio amore troverà voce; ma si tratta di un ricordo piacevole, delicato e sommesso, simile a quello con cui a volte parliamo con i defunti. E non ti causa dolore né tristezza, grazie a Dio.

Tom, tocca le note dolcemente, quanto più possibile. Ma mai la tua mano dovrà posarsi su quell’strumento con la stessa leggerezza con cui si posa sulla testa del tuo vecchio tiranno. E mai quel suono prodotto dall’strumento risuonerà in modo altrettanto vuoto e senza vita come quando lui suona.

Per un uomo ubriaco, mendicante, squallido e che scrive lettere, di nome Pecksniff, con una figlia malvagia. Quest’uomo ti perseguita, Tom; quando ti chiede denaro, ti ricorda che è stato lui a costruire la tua fortuna, meglio della sua stessa; e quando lo spende, racconta alle persone dell’osteria storie sulla tua ingratitudine e sulla sua generosità verso di te in passato. Poi mostra i gomiti logori, mette le sue scarpe senza suole su un banco e chiede agli ascoltatori di guardare lì. Mentre tu vivi comodamente, vestito a dovere. Tutto questo lo sai, Tom. Eppure lo sopporti!

So, con un sorriso sul viso, tu passi dolcemente a un altro ritmo, più veloce e più gioioso. E piccoli piedini iniziano a danzare intorno a te al suono di quella musica, mentre luminosi occhi giovani ti guardano. C’è anche una creaturina, Tom, sua figlia, non quella di Ruth, i tuoi occhi la seguono mentre gioca e danza. A volte, sorpresa nel vederti così pensieroso, corre verso di te, si arrampica sulle tue ginocchia e appoggia la guancia contro la tua. Ti ama, Tom, più di ogni altra. E una volta, quando si ammalò, scelse te come sua “infermiera”. E non provò mai impazienza, Tom, quando eri al suo fianco.

Ora ti innalzi in un tono più solenne, un tono dedicato agli antichi amici e ai tempi passati; nel tuo tocco delicato sulle tastiere, e nell’armonia ricca e melodiosa che ne deriva, quei ricordi riaffiorano davanti a te. Lo spirito di quell’uomo anziano, che era sempre pronto ad anticipare i tuoi bisogni e non smetteva mai di onorarti, è lì, tra gli altri; ripete, con un volto sereno e composto, le parole che ti disse sul suo letto, e ti benedice!

E venendo da un giardino, Tom, ricoperto di >fiori colti dalle mani dei bambini, tua sorella, la piccola Ruth, leggera di passo e di cuore come nei tempi antichi, si siede accanto a te. Dal Presente e dal Passato, con i quali è così teneramente intrecciata in tutti i tuoi pensieri, la tua melodia si eleva verso il Futuro. Mentre risuona dentro e fuori di te, questa nobile musica, che vi avvolge entrambi, allontana l’idea cupa di una separazione terrena e vi solleva entrambi verso il Cielo!