Charles Dickens - Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

During this digression, and indeed during the whole dialogue, Jonas had been rocking on his chair, with his hands in his pockets and his head thrown cunningly on one side. He looked at Mr Pecksniff now with such shrewd meaning twinkling in his eyes, that Mr Pecksniff stopped, and asked him what he was going to say.

“Ecod!” he answered. “Pecksniff if I knew how you meant to leave your money, I could put you in the way of doubling it in no time. It wouldn't be bad to keep a chance like this snug in the family. But you're such a deep one!”

“Jonas!” cried Mr Pecksniff, much affected, “I am not a diplomatical character; my heart is in my hand. By far the greater part of the inconsiderable savings I have accumulated in the course of—I hope—a not dishonourable or useless career, is already given, devised, and bequeathed (correct me, my dear Jonas, if I am technically wrong), with expressions of confidence, which I will not repeat; and in securities which it is unnecessary to mention to a person whom I cannot, whom I will not, whom I need not, name.”Here he gave the hand of his son-in-law a fervent squeeze, as if he would have added, “God bless you; be very careful of it when you get it!”

Mr Jonas only shook his head and laughed, and, seeming to think better of what he had had in his mind, said, “No. He would keep his own counsel.”But as he observed that he would take a walk, Mr Pecksniff insisted on accompanying him, remarking that he could leave a card for Mr Montague, as they went along, by way of gentleman-usher to himself at dinner-time. Which he did.

In the course of their walk, Mr Jonas affected to maintain that close reserve which had operated as a timely check upon him during the foregoing dialogue. And as he made no attempt to conciliate Mr Pecksniff, but, on the contrary, was more boorish and rude to him than usual, that gentleman, so far from suspecting his real design, laid himself out to be attacked with advantage. For it is in the nature of a knave to think the tools with which he works indispensable to knavery; and knowing what he would do himself in such a case, Mr Pecksniff argued, “if this young man wanted anything of me for his own ends, he would be polite and deferential.”

The more Jonas repelled him in his hints and inquiries, the more solicitous, therefore, Mr Pecksniff became to be initiated into the golden mysteries at which he had obscurely glanced. Why should there be cold and worldly secrets, he observed, between relations? What was life without confidence? If the chosen husband of his daughter, the man to whom he had delivered her with so much pride and hope, such bounding and such beaming joy; if he were not a green spot in the barren waste of life, where was that oasis to be bound?

Little did Mr Pecksniff think on what a very green spot he planted one foot at that moment! Little did he foresee when he said, “All is but dust!” how very shortly he would come down with his own!

Inch by inch, in his grudging and ill-conditioned way; sustained to the life, for the hope of making Mr Pecksniff suffer in that tender place, the pocket, where Jonas smarted so terribly himself, gave him an additional and malicious interest in the wiles he was set on to practise; inch by inch, and bit by bit, Jonas rather allowed the dazzling prospects of the Anglo-Bengalee establishment to escape him, than paraded them before his greedy listener. And in the same niggardly spirit, he left Mr Pecksniff to infer, if he chose (which he DID choose, of course), that a consciousness of not having any great natural gifts of speech and manner himself, rendered him desirous to have the credit of introducing to Mr Montague some one who was well endowed in those respects, and so atone for his own deficiencies. Otherwise, he muttered discontentedly, he would have seen his beloved father-in-law “far enough off,” before he would have taken him into his confidence.

Primed in this artful manner, Mr Pecksniff presented himself at dinner-time in such a state of suavity, benevolence, cheerfulness, politeness, and cordiality, as even he had perhaps never attained before. The frankness of the country gentleman, the refinement of the artist, the good-humoured allowance of the man of the world; philanthropy, forbearance, piety, toleration, all blended together in a flexible adaptability to anything and everything; were expressed in Mr Pecksniff, as he shook hands with the great speculator and capitalist.

“Welcome, respected sir,” said Mr Pecksniff, “to our humble village! We are a simple people; primitive clods, Mr Montague; but we can appreciate the honour of your visit, as my dear son-in-law can testify. It is very strange,” said Mr Pecksniff, pressing his hand almost reverentially, “but I seem to know you. That towering forehead, my dear Jonas,” said Mr Pecksniff aside, “and those clustering masses of rich hair—I must have seen you, my dear sir, in the sparkling throng.”

Nothing was more probable, they all agreed.

“I could have wished,” said Mr Pecksniff, “to have had the honour of introducing you to an elderly inmate of our house: to the uncle of our friend. Mr Chuzzlewit, sir, would have been proud indeed to have taken you by the hand.”

“Is the gentleman here now?” asked Montague, turning deeply red. “He is,” said Mr Pecksniff.

“You said nothing about that, Chuzzlewit.”

“I didn't suppose you'd care to hear of it,” returned Jonas. “You wouldn't care to know him, I can promise you.”

“Jonas! my dear Jonas!” remonstrated Mr Pecksniff. “Really!”

“Oh! it's all very well for you to speak up for him,” said Jonas. “You have nailed him. You'll get a fortune by him.”

“Oho! Is the wind in that quarter?” cried Montague. “Ha, ha, ha!” and here they all laughed—especially Mr Pecksniff.

“No, no!” said that gentleman, clapping his son-in-law playfully upon the shoulder. “You must not believe all that my young relative says, Mr Montague. You may believe him in official business, and trust him in official business, but you must not attach importance to his flights of fancy.”

“Upon my life, Mr Pecksniff,” cried Montague, “I attach the greatest importance to that last observation of his. I trust and hope it's true. Money cannot be turned and turned again quickly enough in the ordinary course, Mr Pecksniff. There is nothing like building our fortune on the weaknesses of mankind.”

“Oh fie! oh fie, for shame!” cried Mr Pecksniff. But they all laughed again—especially Mr Pecksniff.

“I give you my honour that WE do it,” said Montague.

“Oh fie, fie!” cried Mr Pecksniff. “You are very pleasant. That I am sure you don't! That I am sure you don't! How CAN you, you know?”

Again they all laughed in concert; and again Mr Pecksniff laughed especially.

This was very agreeable indeed. It was confidential, easy, straight-forward; and still left Mr Pecksniff in the position of being in a gentle way the Mentor of the party. The greatest achievements in the article of cookery that the Dragon had ever performed, were set before them; the oldest and best wines in the Dragon's cellar saw the light on that occasion; a thousand bubbles, indicative of the wealth and station of Mr Montague in the depths of his pursuits, were constantly rising to the surface of the conversation; and they were as frank and merry as three honest men could be. Mr Pecksniff thought it a pity (he said so) that Mr Montague should think lightly of mankind and their weaknesses. He was anxious upon this subject; his mind ran upon it; in one way or another he was constantly coming back to it; he must make a convert of him, he said. And as often as Mr Montague repeated his sentiment about building fortunes on the weaknesses of mankind, and added frankly, “WE do it!” just as often Mr Pecksniff repeated “Oh fie! oh fie, for shame! I am sure you don't. How CAN you, you know?” laying a greater stress each time on those last words.