Charles Dickens - Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

“By my grandfather. I have had no parents these many years. Scarcely within my remembrance.”

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

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

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

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

“Is he indeed?” cried Tom.

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

“To be sure,” said Mr Pinch. “Very proper.”

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

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

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

Mr Pinch looked up into his face with increased interest.

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

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

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

“I beg your pardon,” answered Tom. “I thought you meant that, or I wouldn't have said it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What a fellow you are, Pinch!”

“I beg your pardon,” said Tom, “I thought you wanted a word.”

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

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

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

“No, no,” said Tom.

“On the contrary, the more he urged, the more I was determined to oppose him.”

“To be sure!” said Tom.

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

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

“Pecksniff, of course, you had known before?”

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