Charles Dickens - Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

“So it is,” said Mr Pecksniff. “No doubt of it, my dear Mr Jonas. For while the human mind is constituted as it is—”

“Oh, bother the human mind,” interrupted Jonas with impatience “what have you come up for?”

“A little matter of business,” said Mr Pecksniff, “which has arisen quite unexpectedly.”

“Oh!” cried Jonas, “is that all? Well. Here's father in the next room. Hallo father, here's Pecksniff! He gets more addle-pated every day he lives, I do believe,” muttered Jonas, shaking his honoured parent roundly. “Don't I tell you Pecksniff's here, stupid-head?”

The combined effects of the shaking and this loving remonstrance soon awoke the old man, who gave Mr Pecksniff a chuckling welcome which was attributable in part to his being glad to see that gentleman, and in part to his unfading delight in the recollection of having called him a hypocrite. As Mr Pecksniff had not yet taken tea (indeed he had, but an hour before, arrived in London) the remains of the late collation, with a rasher of bacon, were served up for his entertainment; and as Mr Jonas had a business appointment in the next street, he stepped out to keep it; promising to return before Mr Pecksniff could finish his repast.

“And now, my good sir,” said Mr Pecksniff to Anthony; “now that we are alone, pray tell me what I can do for you. I say alone, because I believe that our dear friend Mr Chuffey is, metaphysically speaking, a—shall I say a dummy?” asked Mr Pecksniff with his sweetest smile, and his head very much on one side.

“He neither hears us,” replied Anthony, “nor sees us.”

“Why, then,” said Mr Pecksniff, “I will be bold to say, with the utmost sympathy for his afflictions, and the greatest admiration of those excellent qualities which do equal honour to his head and to his heart, that he is what is playfully termed a dummy. You were going to observe, my dear sir—?”

“I was not going to make any observation that I know of,” replied the old man.

“I was,” said Mr Pecksniff, mildly.

“Oh! YOU were? What was it?”

“That I never,” said Mr Pecksniff, previously rising to see that the door was shut, and arranging his chair when he came back, so that it could not be opened in the least without his immediately becoming aware of the circumstance; “that I never in my life was so astonished as by the receipt of your letter yesterday. That you should do me the honour to wish to take counsel with me on any matter, amazed me; but that you should desire to do so, to the exclusion even of Mr Jonas, showed an amount of confidence in one to whom you had done a verbal injury—merely a verbal injury, you were anxious to repair—which gratified, which moved, which overcame me.”

He was always a glib speaker, but he delivered this short address very glibly; having been at some pains to compose it outside the coach.

Although he paused for a reply, and truly said that he was there at Anthony's request, the old man sat gazing at him in profound silence and with a perfectly blank face. Nor did he seem to have the least desire or impulse to pursue the conversation, though Mr Pecksniff looked towards the door, and pulled out his watch, and gave him many other hints that their time was short, and Jonas, if he kept his word, would soon return. But the strangest incident in all this strange behaviour was, that of a sudden, in a moment, so swiftly that it was impossible to trace how, or to observe any process of change, his features fell into their old expression, and he cried, striking his hand passionately upon the table as if no interval at all had taken place:

“Will you hold your tongue, sir, and let me speak?”

Mr Pecksniff deferred to him with a submissive bow; and said within himself, “I knew his hand was changed, and that his writing staggered. I said so yesterday. Ahem! Dear me!”

“Jonas is sweet upon your daughter, Pecksniff,” said the old man, in his usual tone.

“We spoke of that, if you remember, sir, at Mrs Todgers's,” replied the courteous architect.

“You needn't speak so loud,” retorted Anthony. “I'm not so deaf as that.”

Mr Pecksniff had certainly raised his voice pretty high; not so much because he thought Anthony was deaf, as because he felt convinced that his perceptive faculties were waxing dim; but this quick resentment of his considerate behaviour greatly disconcerted him, and, not knowing what tack to shape his course upon, he made another inclination of the head, yet more submissive that the last.

“I have said,” repeated the old man, “that Jonas is sweet upon your daughter.”

“A charming girl, sir,” murmured Mr Pecksniff, seeing that he waited for an answer. “A dear girl, Mr Chuzzlewit, though I say it, who should not.”

“You know better,” cried the old man, advancing his weazen face at least a yard, and starting forward in his chair to do it. “You lie! What, you WILL be a hypocrite, will you?”

“My good sir,” Mr Pecksniff began.

“Don't call me a good sir,” retorted Anthony, “and don't claim to be one yourself. If your daughter was what you would have me believe, she wouldn't do for Jonas. Being what she is, I think she will. He might be deceived in a wife. She might run riot, contract debts, and waste his substance. Now when I am dead—”

His face altered so horribly as he said the word, that Mr Pecksniff really was fain to look another way.

“—It will be worse for me to know of such doings, than if I was alive; for to be tormented for getting that together, which even while I suffer for its acquisition, is flung into the very kennels of the streets, would be insupportable torture. No,” said the old man, hoarsely, “let that be saved at least; let there be something gained, and kept fast hold of, when so much is lost.”

“My dear Mr Chuzzlewit,” said Pecksniff, “these are unwholesome fancies; quite unnecessary, sir, quite uncalled for, I am sure. The truth is, my dear sir, that you are not well!”

“Not dying though!” cried Anthony, with something like the snarl of a wild animal. “Not yet! There are years of life in me. Why, look at him,” pointing to his feeble clerk. “Death has no right to leave him standing, and to mow me down!”

Mr Pecksniff was so much afraid of the old man, and so completely taken aback by the state in which he found him, that he had not even presence of mind enough to call up a scrap of morality from the great storehouse within his own breast. Therefore he stammered out that no doubt it was, in fairness and decency, Mr Chuffey's turn to expire; and that from all he had heard of Mr Chuffey, and the little he had the pleasure of knowing of that gentleman, personally, he felt convinced in his own mind that he would see the propriety of expiring with as little delay as possible.

“Come here!” said the old man, beckoning him to draw nearer. “Jonas will be my heir, Jonas will be rich, and a great catch for you. You know that. Jonas is sweet upon your daughter.”

“I know that too,” thought Mr Pecksniff, “for you have said it often enough.”

“He might get more money than with her,” said the old man, “but she will help him to take care of what they have. She is not too young or heedless, and comes of a good hard griping stock. But don't you play too fine a game. She only holds him by a thread; and if you draw it too tight (I know his temper) it'll snap. Bind him when he's in the mood, Pecksniff; bind him. You're too deep. In your way of leading him on, you'll leave him miles behind. Bah, you man of oil, have I no eyes to see how you have angled with him from the first?”

“Now I wonder,” thought Mr Pecksniff, looking at him with a wistful face, “whether this is all he has to say?”

Old Anthony rubbed his hands and muttered to himself; complained again that he was cold; drew his chair before the fire; and, sitting with his back to Mr Pecksniff, and his chin sunk down upon his breast, was, in another minute, quite regardless or forgetful of his presence.