On its monthly publication, in 1843-44, "Martin Chuzzlewit"
was, pecuniarily, the least successful of Dickens's serials,
though popular as a book. It was his first novel after his
American tour, and the storm of resentment that had hailed the
appearance of "American Notes," in 1842, was intensified by
his merciless satire of American characteristics and
institutions in "Martin Chuzzlewit." Despite all adverse
criticism, however, "Chuzzlewit" is worthy to rank with
anything that ever came from the pen of the great Victorian
novelist. It is a very long story, and a very full one; the
canvas is crowded with a gallery of typical Dickensian people.
Through Mrs. Gamp, Dickens dealt a death-blow to the drunken
nurse of the period. The name Pecksniff has become synonymous
with a certain type of hypocrite, and the adjective
Pecksniffian is in common use wherever the English language is
spoken. Charged with exaggeration regarding Mr. Pecksniff,
Dickens wrote in the preface to "Martin Chuzzlewit," "All the
Pecksniff family upon earth are quite agreed, I believe, that
no such character ever existed. I will not offer any plea on
his behalf to so powerful and genteel a body." Mrs. Gamp,
though one of the humorous types that have, perhaps,
contributed most largely to the fame of Dickens, does not
appear in this epitome, the character being a minor one in the
development of the story.
_I.--Mr. Pecksniff's New Pupil_
Mr. Pecksniff lived in a little Wiltshire village within an easy journey
of Salisbury.
The brazen plate upon his door bore the inscription, "Pecksniff,
Architect," to which Mr. Pecksniff, on his cards of business, added,
"and Land Surveyor." Of his architectural doings nothing was clearly
known, except that he had never designed or built anything.
Mr. Pecksniff's professional engagements, indeed, were almost, if not
entirely, confined to the reception of pupils. His genius lay in
ensnaring parents and guardians and pocketing premiums.
Mr. Pecksniff was a moral man. Perhaps there never was a more moral man
than Mr. Pecksniff, especially in his conversation and correspondence.
Some people likened him to a direction-post, which is always telling the
way to a place, and never goes there; but these were his enemies.
Into Mr. Pecksniff's house came young Martin Chuzzlewit, a relation of
the architect's. Tom Pinch, Mr. Pecksniff's assistant, had driven over
to Salisbury for the new pupil, and had already discoursed to Martin on
Mr. Pecksniff and his family (for Mr. Pecksniff had two
daughters--Mercy, and Charity), in whose good qualities he had a
profound and pathetic belief.
Festive preparations on a rather extensive scale were already completed
for Martin's benefit on the night of his arrival. There were two bottles
of currant wine, white and red; a dish of sandwiches, very long, and
very slim; another of apples; another of captain's biscuits; a plate of
oranges cut up small and gritty with powdered sugar; and a highly
geological home-made cake. The magnitude of these preparations quite
took away Tom Pinch's breath, for though the new pupils were usually let
down softly, particularly in the wine department, still this was a
banquet, a sort of lord mayor's feast in private life, a something to
think of, and hold on by afterwards.
To this entertainment Mr. Pecksniff besought the company to do full
justice.
"Martin," he said, addressing his daughters, "will seat himself between
you two, my dears, and Mr. Pinch will come by me. This is a mingling
that repays one for much disappointment and vexation. Let us be merry."
Here he took a captain's biscuit. "It is a poor heart that never
rejoices; and our hearts are not poor. No!"
The following morning Mr. Pecksniff announced that he must go to London.
"On professional business, my dear Martin; strictly on professional
business; and I promised my girls long ago that they should accompany
me. We shall go forth to-night by the heavy coach--like the dove of old,
my dear Martin--and it will be a week before we again deposit, our
olive-branches in the passage. When I say olive branches," observed Mr.
Pecksniff, in explanation, "I mean our unpretending luggage."
"And now let me see," said Mr. Pecksniff presently, "how can you best
employ yourself, Martin, while I am absent. Suppose you were to give me
your idea of a monument to a Lord Mayor of London, or a tomb for a
sheriff, or your notion of a cow-house to be erected in a nobleman's
park. A pump is a very chaste practice. I have found that a lamp-post is
calculated to refine the mind and give it a classical tendency. An
ornamental turnpike has a remarkable effect upon the imagination. What
do you say to beginning with an ornamental turnpike?"
"Whatever Mr. Pecksniff pleased," said Martin doubtfully.
"Stay," said that gentleman. "Come! as you're ambitious, and are a very
neat draughtsman, you shall try your hand on these proposals for a
grammar-school. When your mind requires to be refreshed by change of
occupation, Thomas Pinch will instruct you in the art of surveying the
back-garden, or in ascertaining the dead level of the road between this
house and the finger-post, or in any other practical and pleasing
pursuit. There is a cart-load of loose bricks, and a score or two of old
flower-pots in the back-yard. If you could pile them up, my dear Martin,
into any form which would remind me on my return, say, of St. Peter's at
Rome, or the Mosque of St. Sophia at Constantinople, it would be at once
improving to you and agreeable to my feelings."
The coach having rolled away, with the olive-branches in the boot and
the family of doves inside, Martin Chuzzlewit and Tom Pinch were left
together. Now, there was something in the very simplicity of Pinch that
invited confidences, and young Martin could not refrain from telling his
story.
"I must talk openly to somebody," he began, "I'll talk openly to you.
You must know, then, that I have been bred up from childhood with great
expectations, and have always been taught to believe that one day I
should be very rich. Certain things, however, have led to my being
disinherited."
"By your father?" inquired Tom.
"By my grandfather. I have had no parents these many years. Now, my
grandfather has a great many good points, but he has two very great
faults, which are the staple of his bad side. He has the most confirmed
obstinacy of character, and he is most abominably selfish; I have heard
that these are failings of our family, and I have to be very thankful
that they haven't descended to me. Now I come to the cream of my story,
and the occasion of my being here. I am in love, Pinch. 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. My grandfather, although I had
conducted myself from the first with the utmost circumspection, is full
of jealousy and mistrust, and suspected me of loving her. He said
nothing to her, but attacked me in private, and charged me with
designing to corrupt the fidelity to himself--observe his selfishness--
of a young creature who was his only disinterested and faithful
companion. The upshot of it was that I was to renounce her or be
renounced by him. Of course, I was not going to yield to him, and here I
am!"
Mr. Pinch, after staring at the fire, said, "Pecksniff, of course, you
knew before?"
"Only by name. My grandfather kept not only himself, but me, aloof from
all his relations. But our separation took place in a town in the
neighbouring county. I saw Pecksniff's advertisement in the paper when I
was at Salisbury, and answered it, having always had some natural taste
in the matters to which it referred. I was doubly bent on coming to him
if possible, on account of his being--"
"Such an excellent man," interposed Tom, rubbing his hands.
"Why, not so much on that account," returned Martin, "as because my
grandfather has an inveterate dislike to him, and after the old man's
arbitrary treatment of me, I had a natural desire to run as directly
counter to all his opinions as I could."
_II.--Mr. Pecksniff Discharges His Duty_
Mr. Pecksniff and his daughters took up their lodging in London at Mrs.
Todgers's Commercial Boarding House, and it was at that favoured abode
that old Martin Chuzzlewit, whose grandson had just entered Mr.
Pecksniff's house, sought him out.
"I very much regret," said old Martin, "that you and I held such a
conversation as we did when we met awhile since. The intentions that I
bear towards you now are of another kind. Deserted by all in whom I have
ever trusted; hoodwinked and beset by all who should help and sustain
me, I fly to you for refuge. I confide in you to be my ally; to attach
yourself to me by ties of interest and expectations. I regret having
been severed from you so long."
Mr. Pecksniff looked up to the ceiling, and clasped his hands in
rapture.
"I fear you don't know what an old man's humours are," resumed old
Martin. "You don't know what it is to be required to court his likings
and dislikings; to do his bidding, be it what it may. You have a new
inmate in your house. He must quit it."
"For--for yours?" asked Mr. Pecksniff.
"For any shelter he can find. He has deceived you."
"I hope not," said Mr. Pecksniff eagerly, "I trust not. I have been
extremely well disposed towards that young man. Deceit--deceit, my dear
Mr. Chuzzlewit, would be final. I should hold myself bound, on proof of
deceit, to renounce him instantly."
"Of course, you know that he has made his matrimonial choice?"
"Surely not without his grandfather's consent and approbation, my dear
sir?" cried Mr. Pecksniff. "Don't tell me that. For the honour of human
nature say you're not about to tell me that!"
"I thought he had suppressed it."
The indignation felt by Mr. Pecksniff at this terrible disclosure was
only to be equalled by the kindling anger of his daughters. What, had
they taken to their hearth and home a secretely contracted serpent?
Horrible!
Old Martin then went on to inquire when they would be returning home;
and, after relieving Mr. Pecksniff's unexpressed anxiety by mentioning
that Mary Graham, the young lady whom the old man had adopted, would
receive nothing at his death, announced that they might expect to see
him before long.
With a hasty farewell, the old man left the house, followed to the door
by Mr. Pecksniff and his daughters. A few days later the Pecksniffs set
out for home.
Tom Pinch and Martin were both out in the lane to meet the coach, but
Mr. Pecksniff pointedly ignored Martin's presence, even when the house
had been reached; and it was not till Martin sharply demanded an
explanation that he addressed him.
"You have deceived me," said Mr. Pecksniff. "You have imposed upon a
nature which you knew to be confiding and unsuspicious. This lowly roof,
sir, must not be contaminated by the presence of one who has, further,
deceived--and cruelly deceived--an honourable and venerable gentleman,
and who wisely suppressed that deceit from me when he sought my
protection. I weep for your depravity. I mourn over your corruption, but
I cannot have a leper and a serpent for an inmate! Go forth," said Mr.
Pecksniff, stretching out his hand, "go forth, young man! Like all who
know you, I renounce you!"
Martin made a stride forward at these words, and Mr. Pecksniff stepped
back so hastily that he missed his footing, tumbled over a chair, and
fell in a sitting posture on the ground, where he remained, perhaps
considering it the safest place.
"Look at him, Pinch," said Martin, "as he lies there--a cloth for dirty
hands, a mat for dirty feet, a lying, fawning, servile hound! And, mark
me, Pinch, the day will come when even you will find him out!"
He pointed at him as he spoke with unutterable contempt, and flinging
his hat upon his head, walked from the house. He went on so rapidly that
he was clear of the village before Tom Pinch overtook him.
"Are you going?" cried Tom.
"Yes," he answered sternly, "I am."
"Where?" asked Tom.
"I don't know. Yes, I do--to America."
_III.--New Eden_
Martin did not go to America alone, for Mark Tapley, formerly of the
Blue Dragon, an inn in the village where Mr. Pecksniff resided, insisted
on accompanying him.
"Now, sir, here am I, without a sitiwation," Mr. Tapley put it, "without
any want of wages for a year to come--for I saved up (I didn't mean to
do it, but I couldn't help it) at the Dragon; here am I with a liking
for what's wentersome, and a liking for you, and a wish to come out
strong under circumstances as would keep other men down--and will you
take me, or will you leave me?"
Once landed in the United States, the question of what to do arose, and
Martin decided to invest his savings in buying land in the rising
township of New Eden.
"Mark, you shall be a partner in the business," said Martin (Mark having
invested £37 to Martin's £8); "an equal partner with myself. We are no
longer master and servant. I will put in, as my additional capital, my
professional knowledge, and half the annual profits, as long as it is
carried on, shall be yours. Our business shall be commenced, as soon as
we get to New Eden, under the name of Chuzzlewit and Tapley."
"Lord love you, sir," cried Mark, "don't have my name in it! I must be
'Co.,' I must."
"You shall have your own way, Mark."
"Thank 'ee sir! If any country gentleman thereabouts in the public way
wanted such a thing as a skittle-ground made, I could take that part of
the bis'ness, sir."
It was a long steamboat journey, but at last they stopped at Eden. The
waters of the Deluge might have left it but a week ago, so choked with
slime and matted growth was the hideous swamp which bore that name.
A man advanced towards them when they landed, walking slowly, leaning on
a stick.
"Strangers!" he exclaimed.
"The very same," said Mark. "How are you, sir?"
"I've had the fever very bad," he answered faintly. "I haven't stood
upright these many weeks. My eldest son has a chill upon him. My
youngest died last week."
"I'm sorry for it, governor, with all my heart!" said Mark. "The goods
is safe enough," he added, turning to Martin, and pointing to their
boxes. "There ain't many people about to make away with 'em. What a
comfort that is!"
"No," cried the man; "we've buried most of 'em. The rest have gone away.
Them that we have here don't come out at night."
"The night air ain't quite wholesome, I suppose?" said Mark.
"It's deadly poison," was the answer.
Mark showed no more uneasiness than if it had been commended to him as
ambrosia; but he gave the man his arm, and as they went along explained
the nature of their purchase, and inquired where it lay. Close to his
own log-house, he said.
It was a miserable cabin, rudely constructed of the trunks of trees, the
door of which had either fallen down or been carried away. When they had
brought up their chest, Martin gave way, and lay down on the ground, and
wept aloud.
"Lord love you, sir," cried Mr. Tapley. "Don't do that. Anything but
that! It never helped man, woman, or child over the lowest fence yet,
sir, and it never will."
Mark stole out gently in the morning while his companion slept, and took
a rough survey of the settlement. There were not above a score of cabins
in the whole, and half of these appeared untenanted. Their own land was
mere forest. He went down to the landing-place, where they had left
their goods, and there he found some half a dozen men, wan and forlorn,
who helped him to carry them to the log-house.
Martin was by this time stirring, but he had greatly changed, even in
one night. He was very pale and languid, and spoke of pains and
weakness.
"Don't give in, sir," said Mr. Tapley. "Why, you must be ill. Wait half
a minute, till I run up to one of our neighbours and find out what's
best to be took."
Martin was soon dangerously ill, very near his death. Mark, fatigued in
mind and body, working all the day and sitting up at night, worn by hard
living, surrounded by dismal and discouraging circumstances, never
complained or yielded in the least degree. And then, when Martin was
better, Mark was taken ill. He fought against it; but the malady fought
harder, and his efforts were vain.
"Floored for the present, sir," he said one morning, sinking back upon
his bed, "but jolly."
And now it was Martin's turn to work and sit beside the bed and watch,
and listen through the long, long nights to every sound in the gloomy
wilderness.
Martin's reflections in those days slowly showed him his own
selfishness, and when Mark Tapley recovered, he found a singular
alteration in his companion.
"I don't know what to make of him," he thought one night. "He don't
think of himself half as much as he did. It's a swindle. There'll be no
credit in being jolly with _him_!"
The settlement was deserted. The only thing to be done was to return to
England.
_IV.--The Downfall of Pecksniff_
Old Martin Chuzzlewit had for some time taken up his residence at Mr.
Pecksniff's, and Martin and Mark Tapley went to the Blue Dragon on their
return.
Martin at once sought out his grandfather, and marched into the house
resolved on reconciliation. The old man listened to his appeal in
silence; but Mr. Pecksniff spoke for him, and bade the young man begone.
But old Martin was awake to Pecksniff's character, and resolved to set
Mr. Pecksniff right, and Mr. Pecksniff's victims, too.
Mark Tapley was the first person old Martin invited to see him. The old
man had gone to London, and his grandson, Mary Graham, and Tom Pinch
were all summoned to wait on him at a certain hour.
From Mark, old Martin learnt that his grandson was an altered man.
"There was always a deal of good in him," said Mr. Tapley, "but a little
of it got crusted over somehow. I can't say who rolled the paste of that
'ere paste, but--well, I think it may have been you, sir."
"So you think," said Martin, "that his old faults are in some degree of
my creation?"
"Well, sir, I'm very sorry, but I can't unsay it. I don't believe that
neither of you ever gave the other a fair chance."
Presently came a knock at the door, and young Martin entered. The old
man pointed to a distant chair. Then came Tom Pinch and his sister,
Ruth; and Mary Graham; and Mrs. Lupin, the landlady of the Blue Dragon;
and John Westlock, an old friend of Tom Pinch's.
"Set the door open, Mark!" said Mr. Chuzzlewit.
The last appointed footstep sounded now upon the stairs. They all knew
it. It was Mr. Pecksniff's; and Mr. Pecksniff was in a hurry, too, for
he came bounding up with such uncommon expedition that he stumbled once
or twice.
"Where is my venerable friend?" he cried upon the upper landing. And
then, darting in and catching sight of old Martin, "My venerable friend
is well?"
Mr. Pecksniff looked round upon the assembled group, and shook his head
reproachfully.
"Oh, vermin!" said Mr. Pecksniff. "Oh bloodsuckers! Horde of unnatural
plunderers and robbers! Leave him! Leave him, I say! Begone! Abscond!
You had better be off! Wander over the face of the earth, young sirs,
and do not presume to remain in a spot which is hallowed by the grey
hairs of the patriarchal gentleman to whose tottering limbs I have the
honour to act as an unworthy, but I hope an unassuming, prop and staff."
He advanced, with outstretched arms, to take the old man's hand; but he
had not seen how the hand clasped and clutched the stick within its
grasp. As he came smiling on, and got within his reach, old Martin,
burning with indignation, rose up and struck him to the ground.
"Drag him away! Take him out of my reach!" said Martin. And Mr. Tapley
actually did drag him away, and struck him upon the floor with his back
against the opposite wall.
"Hear me, rascal!" said Mr. Chuzzlewit. "I have summoned you here to
witness your own work. Come hither, my dear Martin! Why did we ever
part? How could we ever part? How could you fly from me to him? The
fault was mine no less than yours. Mark has told me so, and I have known
it long. Mary, my love, come here."
She trembled, and was very pale; but he sat her in his own chair, and
stood beside it holding her hand, Martin standing by him.
"The curse of our house," said the old man, looking kindly down upon
her, "has been the love of self--has ever been the love of self." He
drew one hand through Martin's arm, and standing so, between them,
proceeded, "What's this? Her hand is trembling strangely. See if you can
hold it."
Hold it! If he clasped it half as tightly as he did her waist--well,
well!
But it was good in him that even then, in high fortune and happiness, he
had still a hand left to stretch out to Tom Pinch.
* * * * *