Martin Chuzzlewit. Чарльз Диккенс
he knew, hundreds of miles away; threw himself, after a few turns across the room, into a chair, and chafed like a spoilt child.
Tom Pinch’s heart was very tender, and he could not bear to see the most indifferent person in distress; still less one who had awakened an interest in him, and who regarded him (either in fact, or as he supposed) with kindness, and in a spirit of lenient construction. Whatever his own thoughts had been a few moments before – and to judge from his face they must have been pretty serious – he dismissed them instantly, and gave his young friend the best counsel and comfort that occurred to him.
‘All will be well in time,’ said Tom, ‘I have no doubt; and some trial and adversity just now will only serve to make you more attached to each other in better days. I have always read that the truth is so, and I have a feeling within me, which tells me how natural and right it is that it should be. That never ran smooth yet,’ said Tom, with a smile which, despite the homeliness of his face, was pleasanter to see than many a proud beauty’s brightest glance; ‘what never ran smooth yet, can hardly be expected to change its character for us; so we must take it as we find it, and fashion it into the very best shape we can, by patience and good-humour. I have no power at all; I needn’t tell you that; but I have an excellent will; and if I could ever be of use to you, in any way whatever, how very glad I should be!’
‘Thank you,’ said Martin, shaking his hand. ‘You’re a good fellow, upon my word, and speak very kindly. Of course you know,’ he added, after a moment’s pause, as he drew his chair towards the fire again, ‘I should not hesitate to avail myself of your services if you could help me at all; but mercy on us!’ – Here he rumpled his hair impatiently with his hand, and looked at Tom as if he took it rather ill that he was not somebody else – ‘you might as well be a toasting-fork or a frying-pan, Pinch, for any help you can render me.’
‘Except in the inclination,’ said Tom, gently.
‘Oh! to be sure. I meant that, of course. If inclination went for anything, I shouldn’t want help. I tell you what you may do, though, if you will, and at the present moment too.’
‘What is that?’ demanded Tom.
‘Read to me.’
‘I shall be delighted,’ cried Tom, catching up the candle with enthusiasm. ‘Excuse my leaving you in the dark a moment, and I’ll fetch a book directly. What will you like? Shakespeare?’
‘Aye!’ replied his friend, yawning and stretching himself. ‘He’ll do. I am tired with the bustle of to-day, and the novelty of everything about me; and in such a case, there’s no greater luxury in the world, I think, than being read to sleep. You won’t mind my going to sleep, if I can?’
‘Not at all!’ cried Tom.
‘Then begin as soon as you like. You needn’t leave off when you see me getting drowsy (unless you feel tired), for it’s pleasant to wake gradually to the sounds again. Did you ever try that?’
‘No, I never tried that,’ said Tom
‘Well! You can, you know, one of these days when we’re both in the right humour. Don’t mind leaving me in the dark. Look sharp!’
Mr Pinch lost no time in moving away; and in a minute or two returned with one of the precious volumes from the shelf beside his bed. Martin had in the meantime made himself as comfortable as circumstances would permit, by constructing before the fire a temporary sofa of three chairs with Mercy’s stool for a pillow, and lying down at full-length upon it.
‘Don’t be too loud, please,’ he said to Pinch.
‘No, no,’ said Tom.
‘You’re sure you’re not cold’
‘Not at all!’ cried Tom.
‘I am quite ready, then.’
Mr Pinch accordingly, after turning over the leaves of his book with as much care as if they were living and highly cherished creatures, made his own selection, and began to read. Before he had completed fifty lines his friend was snoring.
‘Poor fellow!’ said Tom, softly, as he stretched out his head to peep at him over the backs of the chairs. ‘He is very young to have so much trouble. How trustful and generous in him to bestow all this confidence in me. And that was she, was it?’
But suddenly remembering their compact, he took up the poem at the place where he had left off, and went on reading; always forgetting to snuff the candle, until its wick looked like a mushroom. He gradually became so much interested, that he quite forgot to replenish the fire; and was only reminded of his neglect by Martin Chuzzlewit starting up after the lapse of an hour or so, and crying with a shiver.
‘Why, it’s nearly out, I declare! No wonder I dreamed of being frozen. Do call for some coals. What a fellow you are, Pinch!’
CHAPTER SEVEN
IN WHICH MR CHEVY SLYME ASSERTS THE INDEPENDENCE OF HIS SPIRIT, AND THE BLUE DRAGON LOSES A LIMB
Martin began to work at the grammar-school next morning, with so much vigour and expedition, that Mr Pinch had new reason to do homage to the natural endowments of that young gentleman, and to acknowledge his infinite superiority to himself. The new pupil received Tom’s compliments very graciously; and having by this time conceived a real regard for him, in his own peculiar way, predicted that they would always be the very best of friends, and that neither of them, he was certain (but particularly Tom), would ever have reason to regret the day on which they became acquainted. Mr Pinch was delighted to hear him say this, and felt so much flattered by his kind assurances of friendship and protection, that he was at a loss how to express the pleasure they afforded him. And indeed it may be observed of this friendship, such as it was, that it had within it more likely materials of endurance than many a sworn brotherhood that has been rich in promise; for so long as the one party found a pleasure in patronizing, and the other in being patronised (which was in the very essence of their respective characters), it was of all possible events among the least probable, that the twin demons, Envy and Pride, would ever arise between them. So in very many cases of friendship, or what passes for it, the old axiom is reversed, and like clings to unlike more than to like.
They were both very busy on the afternoon succeeding the family’s departure – Martin with the grammar-school, and Tom in balancing certain receipts of rents, and deducting Mr Pecksniff’s commission from the same; in which abstruse employment he was much distracted by a habit his new friend had of whistling aloud while he was drawing – when they were not a little startled by the unexpected obtrusion into that sanctuary of genius, of a human head which, although a shaggy and somewhat alarming head in appearance, smiled affably upon them from the doorway, in a manner that was at once waggish, conciliatory, and expressive of approbation.
‘I am not industrious myself, gents both,’ said the head, ‘but I know how to appreciate that quality in others. I wish I may turn grey and ugly, if it isn’t in my opinion, next to genius, one of the very charmingest qualities of the human mind. Upon my soul, I am grateful to my friend Pecksniff for helping me to the contemplation of such a delicious picture as you present. You remind me of Whittington, afterwards thrice Lord Mayor of London. I give you my unsullied word of honour, that you very strongly remind me of that historical character. You are a pair of Whittingtons, gents, without the cat; which is a most agreeable and blessed exception to me, for I am not attached to the feline species. My name is Tigg; how do you do?’
Martin looked to Mr Pinch for an explanation; and Tom, who had never in his life set eyes on Mr Tigg before, looked to that gentleman himself.
‘Chevy Slyme?’ said Mr Tigg, interrogatively, and kissing his left hand in token of friendship. ‘You will understand me when I say that I am the accredited agent of Chevy Slyme; that I am the ambassador from the court of Chiv? Ha ha!’
‘Heyday!’ asked Martin, starting at the mention of a name he knew. ‘Pray, what does he want with me?’
‘If your name is Pinch’ – Mr Tigg began.
‘It is not’ said Martin, checking himself. ‘That is Mr Pinch.’
‘If