Martin Chuzzlewit. Чарльз Диккенс
and at the same time the most disgustingly-unappreciated dog I know. But, sir, I have not the vanity to attempt to pass for Slyme. Any other man in the wide world, I am equal to; but Slyme is, I frankly confess, a great many cuts above me. Therefore you are wrong.’
‘I judged from this,’ said Mr Pecksniff, holding out the cover of the letter.
‘No doubt you did,’ returned the gentleman. ‘But, Mr Pecksniff, the whole thing resolves itself into an instance of the peculiarities of genius. Every man of true genius has his peculiarity. Sir, the peculiarity of my friend Slyme is, that he is always waiting round the corner. He is perpetually round the corner, sir. He is round the corner at this instant. Now,’ said the gentleman, shaking his forefinger before his nose, and planting his legs wider apart as he looked attentively in Mr Pecksniff’s face, ‘that is a remarkably curious and interesting trait in Mr Slyme’s character; and whenever Slyme’s life comes to be written, that trait must be thoroughly worked out by his biographer or society will not be satisfied. Observe me, society will not be satisfied!’
Mr Pecksniff coughed.
‘Slyme’s biographer, sir, whoever he may be,’ resumed the gentleman, ‘must apply to me; or, if I am gone to that what’s-his-name from which no thingumbob comes back, he must apply to my executors for leave to search among my papers. I have taken a few notes in my poor way, of some of that man’s proceedings – my adopted brother, sir, – which would amaze you. He made use of an expression, sir, only on the fifteenth of last month when he couldn’t meet a little bill and the other party wouldn’t renew, which would have done honour to Napoleon Bonaparte in addressing the French army.’
‘And pray,’ asked Mr Pecksniff, obviously not quite at his ease, ‘what may be Mr Slyme’s business here, if I may be permitted to inquire, who am compelled by a regard for my own character to disavow all interest in his proceedings?’
‘In the first place,’ returned the gentleman, ‘you will permit me to say, that I object to that remark, and that I strongly and indignantly protest against it on behalf of my friend Slyme. In the next place, you will give me leave to introduce myself. My name, sir, is Tigg. The name of Montague Tigg will perhaps be familiar to you, in connection with the most remarkable events of the Peninsular War?’
Mr Pecksniff gently shook his head.
‘No matter,’ said the gentleman. ‘That man was my father, and I bear his name. I am consequently proud – proud as Lucifer. Excuse me one moment. I desire my friend Slyme to be present at the remainder of this conference.’
With this announcement he hurried away to the outer door of the Blue Dragon, and almost immediately returned with a companion shorter than himself, who was wrapped in an old blue camlet cloak with a lining of faded scarlet. His sharp features being much pinched and nipped by long waiting in the cold, and his straggling red whiskers and frowzy hair being more than usually dishevelled from the same cause, he certainly looked rather unwholesome and uncomfortable than Shakspearian or Miltonic.
‘Now,’ said Mr Tigg, clapping one hand on the shoulder of his prepossessing friend, and calling Mr Pecksniff’s attention to him with the other, ‘you two are related; and relations never did agree, and never will; which is a wise dispensation and an inevitable thing, or there would be none but family parties, and everybody in the world would bore everybody else to death. If you were on good terms, I should consider you a most confoundedly unnatural pair; but standing towards each other as you do, I took upon you as a couple of devilish deep-thoughted fellows, who may be reasoned with to any extent.’
Here Mr Chevy Slyme, whose great abilities seemed one and all to point towards the sneaking quarter of the moral compass, nudged his friend stealthily with his elbow, and whispered in his ear.
‘Chiv,’ said Mr Tigg aloud, in the high tone of one who was not to be tampered with. ‘I shall come to that presently. I act upon my own responsibility, or not at all. To the extent of such a trifling loan as a crownpiece to a man of your talents, I look upon Mr Pecksniff as certain;’ and seeing at this juncture that the expression of Mr Pecksniff’s face by no means betokened that he shared this certainty, Mr Tigg laid his finger on his nose again for that gentleman’s private and especial behoof; calling upon him thereby to take notice that the requisition of small loans was another instance of the peculiarities of genius as developed in his friend Slyme; that he, Tigg, winked at the same, because of the strong metaphysical interest which these weaknesses possessed; and that in reference to his own personal advocacy of such small advances, he merely consulted the humour of his friend, without the least regard to his own advantage or necessities.
‘Oh, Chiv, Chiv!’ added Mr Tigg, surveying his adopted brother with an air of profound contemplation after dismissing this piece of pantomime. ‘You are, upon my life, a strange instance of the little frailties that beset a mighty mind. If there had never been a telescope in the world, I should have been quite certain from my observation of you, Chiv, that there were spots on the sun! I wish I may die, if this isn’t the queerest state of existence that we find ourselves forced into without knowing why or wherefore, Mr Pecksniff! Well, never mind! Moralise as we will, the world goes on. As Hamlet says, Hercules may lay about him with his club in every possible direction, but he can’t prevent the cats from making a most intolerable row on the roofs of the houses, or the dogs from being shot in the hot weather if they run about the streets unmuzzled. Life’s a riddle; a most infernally hard riddle to guess, Mr Pecksniff. My own opinions, that like that celebrated conundrum, “Why’s a man in jail like a man out of jail?” there’s no answer to it. Upon my soul and body, it’s the queerest sort of thing altogether – but there’s no use in talking about it. Ha! Ha!’
With which consolatory deduction from the gloomy premises recited, Mr Tigg roused himself by a great effort, and proceeded in his former strain.
‘Now I’ll tell you what it is. I’m a most confoundedly soft-hearted kind of fellow in my way, and I cannot stand by, and see you two blades cutting each other’s throats when there’s nothing to be got by it. Mr Pecksniff, you’re the cousin of the testator upstairs and we’re the nephew – I say we, meaning Chiv. Perhaps in all essential points you are more nearly related to him than we are. Very good. If so, so be it. But you can’t get at him, neither can we. I give you my brightest word of honour, sir, that I’ve been looking through that keyhole with short intervals of rest, ever since nine o’clock this morning, in expectation of receiving an answer to one of the most moderate and gentlemanly applications for a little temporary assistance – only fifteen pounds, and my security – that the mind of man can conceive. In the meantime, sir, he is perpetually closeted with, and pouring his whole confidence into the bosom of, a stranger. Now I say decisively with regard to this state of circumstances, that it won’t do; that it won’t act; that it can’t be; and that it must not be suffered to continue.’
‘Every man,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘has a right, an undoubted right, (which I, for one, would not call in question for any earthly consideration; oh no!) to regulate his own proceedings by his own likings and dislikings, supposing they are not immoral and not irreligious. I may feel in my own breast, that Mr Chuzzlewit does not regard – me, for instance; say me – with exactly that amount of Christian love which should subsist between us. I may feel grieved and hurt at the circumstance; still I may not rush to the conclusion that Mr Chuzzlewit is wholly without a justification in all his coldnesses. Heaven forbid! Besides; how, Mr Tigg,’ continued Pecksniff even more gravely and impressively than he had spoken yet, ‘how could Mr Chuzzlewit be prevented from having these peculiar and most extraordinary confidences of which you speak; the existence of which I must admit; and which I cannot but deplore – for his sake? Consider, my good sir – ’ and here Mr Pecksniff eyed him wistfully – ‘how very much at random you are talking.’
‘Why, as to that,’ rejoined Tigg, ‘it certainly is a difficult question.’
‘Undoubtedly it is a difficult question,’ Mr Pecksniff answered. As he spoke he drew himself aloft, and seemed to grow more mindful, suddenly, of the moral gulf between himself and the creature he addressed. ‘Undoubtedly it is a very difficult question. And I am far from feeling sure that it is a question any one is authorized to discuss. Good evening to you.’
‘You