“No, Mr Jonas, I think not.”
“Because if there is, you know,” said Jonas, “ask him. We don't want to make a secret of it.”
“No,” repeated Mr Pecksniff, after a little reflection. “I am not the less obliged to you on that account, Mr Jonas, for your liberal hospitality; but there really is no one.”
“Very well,” said Jonas; “then you, and I, and Chuffey, and the doctor, will be just a coachful. We'll have the doctor, Pecksniff, because he knows what was the matter with him, and that it couldn't be helped.”
“Where is our dear friend, Mr Chuffey?” asked Pecksniff, looking round the chamber, and winking both his eyes at once—for he was overcome by his feelings.
But here he was interrupted by Mrs Gamp, who, divested of her bonnet and shawl, came sidling and bridling into the room; and with some sharpness demanded a conference outside the door with Mr Pecksniff.
“You may say whatever you wish to say here, Mrs Gamp,” said that gentleman, shaking his head with a melancholy expression.
“It is not much as I have to say when people is a-mourning for the dead and gone,” said Mrs Gamp; “but what I have to say is TO the pint and purpose, and no offence intended, must be so considered. I have been at a many places in my time, gentlemen, and I hope I knows what my duties is, and how the same should be performed; in course, if I did not, it would be very strange, and very wrong in sich a gentleman as Mr Mould, which has undertook the highest families in this land, and given every satisfaction, so to recommend me as he does. I have seen a deal of trouble my own self,” said Mrs Gamp, laying greater and greater stress upon her words, “and I can feel for them as has their feelings tried, but I am not a Rooshan or a Prooshan, and consequently cannot suffer Spies to be set over me.”
Before it was possible that an answer could be returned, Mrs Gamp, growing redder in the face, went on to say:
“It is not a easy matter, gentlemen, to live when you are left a widder woman; particular when your feelings works upon you to that extent that you often find yourself a-going out on terms which is a certain loss, and never can repay. But in whatever way you earns your bread, you may have rules and regulations of your own which cannot be broke through. Some people,” said Mrs Gamp, again entrenching herself behind her strong point, as if it were not assailable by human ingenuity, “may be Rooshans, and others may be Prooshans; they are born so, and will please themselves. Them which is of other naturs thinks different.”
“If I understand this good lady,” said Mr Pecksniff, turning to Jonas, “Mr Chuffey is troublesome to her. Shall I fetch him down?”
“Do,” said Jonas. “I was going to tell you he was up there, when she came in. I'd go myself and bring him down, only—only I'd rather you went, if you don't mind.”
Mr Pecksniff promptly departed, followed by Mrs Gamp, who, seeing that he took a bottle and glass from the cupboard, and carried it in his hand, was much softened.
“I am sure,” she said, “that if it wasn't for his own happiness, I should no more mind him being there, poor dear, than if he was a fly. But them as isn't used to these things, thinks so much of “em afterwards, that it's a kindness to “em not to let “em have their wish. And even,” said Mrs Gamp, probably in reference to some flowers of speech she had already strewn on Mr Chuffey, “even if one calls “em names, it's only done to rouse “em.”
Whatever epithets she had bestowed on the old clerk, they had not roused HIM. He sat beside the bed, in the chair he had occupied all the previous night, with his hands folded before him, and his head bowed down; and neither looked up, on their entrance, nor gave any sign of consciousness, until Mr Pecksniff took him by the arm, when he meekly rose.
“Three score and ten,” said Chuffey, “ought and carry seven. Some men are so strong that they live to four score—four times ought's an ought, four times two's an eight—eighty. Oh! why—why—why didn't he live to four times ought's an ought, and four times two's an eight, eighty?”
“Ah! what a wale of grief!” cried Mrs Gamp, possessing herself of the bottle and glass.
“Why did he die before his poor old crazy servant?” said Chuffey, clasping his hands and looking up in anguish. “Take him from me, and what remains?”
“Mr Jonas,” returned Pecksniff, “Mr Jonas, my good friend.”
“I loved him,” cried the old man, weeping. “He was good to me. We learnt Tare and Tret together at school. I took him down once, six boys in the arithmetic class. God forgive me! Had I the heart to take him down!”
“Come, Mr Chuffey,” said Pecksniff. “Come with me. Summon up your fortitude, Mr Chuffey.”
“Yes, I will,” returned the old clerk. “Yes. I'll sum up my forty —How many times forty—Oh, Chuzzlewit and Son—Your own son Mr Chuzzlewit; your own son, sir!”
He yielded to the hand that guided him, as he lapsed into this familiar expression, and submitted to be led away. Mrs Gamp, with the bottle on one knee, and the glass on the other, sat upon a stool, shaking her head for a long time, until, in a moment of abstraction, she poured out a dram of spirits, and raised it to her lips. It was succeeded by a second, and by a third, and then her eyes—either in the sadness of her reflections upon life and death, or in her admiration of the liquor—were so turned up, as to be quite invisible. But she shook her head still.
Poor Chuffey was conducted to his accustomed corner, and there he remained, silent and quiet, save at long intervals, when he would rise, and walk about the room, and wring his hands, or raise some strange and sudden cry. For a whole week they all three sat about the hearth and never stirred abroad. Mr Pecksniff would have walked out in the evening time, but Mr Jonas was so averse to his being absent for a minute, that he abandoned the idea, and so, from morning until night, they brooded together in the dark room, without relief or occupation.
The weight of that which was stretched out, stiff and stark, in the awful chamber above-stairs, so crushed and bore down Jonas, that he bent beneath the load. During the whole long seven days and nights, he was always oppressed and haunted by a dreadful sense of its presence in the house. Did the door move, he looked towards it with a livid face and starting eye, as if he fully believed that ghostly fingers clutched the handle. Did the fire fiicker in a draught of air, he glanced over his shoulder, as almost dreading to behold some shrouded figure fanning and flapping at it with its fearful dress. The lightest noise disturbed him; and once, in the night, at the sound of a footstep overhead, he cried out that the dead man was walking—tramp, tramp, tramp—about his coffin.
He lay at night upon a mattress on the floor of the sitting-room; his own chamber having been assigned to Mrs Gamp; and Mr Pecksniff was similarly accommodated. The howling of a dog before the house, filled him with a terror he could not disguise. He avoided the reflection in the opposite windows of the light that burned above, as though it had been an angry eye. He often, in every night, rose up from his fitful sleep, and looked and longed for dawn; all directions and arrangements, even to the ordering of their daily meals, he abandoned to Mr Pecksniff. That excellent gentleman, deeming that the mourner wanted comfort, and that high feeding was likely to do him infinite service, availed himself of these opportunities to such good purpose, that they kept quite a dainty table during this melancholy season; with sweetbreads, stewed kidneys, oysters, and other such light viands for supper every night; over which, and sundry jorums of hot punch, Mr Pecksniff delivered such moral reflections and spiritual consolation as might have converted a Heathen—especially if he had had but an imperfect acquaintance with the English tongue.
Nor did Mr Pecksniff alone indulge in the creature comforts during this sad time. Mrs Gamp proved to be very choice in her eating, and repudiated hashed mutton with scorn. In her drinking too, she was very punctual and particular, requiring a pint of mild porter at lunch, a pint at dinner, half-a-pint as a species of stay or holdfast between dinner and tea, and a pint of the celebrated staggering ale, or Real Old Brighton Tipper, at supper; besides t
he bottle on the chimney-piece, and such casual invitations to refresh herself with wine as the good breeding of her employers might prompt them to offer. In like manner, Mr Mould's men found it necessary to drown their grief, like a young kitten in the morning of its existence, for which reason they generally fuddled themselves before they began to do anything, lest it should make head and get the better of them. In short, the whole of that strange week was a round of dismal joviality and grim enjoyment; and every one, except poor Chuffey, who came within the shadow of Anthony Chuzzlewit's grave, feasted like a Ghoul.
At length the day of the funeral, pious and truthful ceremony that it was, arrived. Mr Mould, with a glass of generous port between his eye and the light, leaned against the desk in the little glass office with his gold watch in his unoccupied hand, and conversed with Mrs Gamp; two mutes were at the house-door, looking as mournful as could be reasonably expected of men with such a thriving job in hand; the whole of Mr Mould's establishment were on duty within the house or without; feathers waved, horses snorted, silk and velvets fluttered; in a word, as Mr Mould emphatically said, “Everything that money could do was done.”
“And what can do more, Mrs Gamp?” exclaimed the undertaker as he emptied his glass and smacked his lips.
“Nothing in the world, sir.”
“Nothing in the world,” repeated Mr Mould. “You are right, Mrs. Gamp. Why do people spend more money'—here he filled his glass again—'upon a death, Mrs Gamp, than upon a birth? Come, that's in your way; you ought to know. How do you account for that now?”
“Perhaps it is because an undertaker's charges comes dearer than a nurse's charges, sir,” said Mrs Gamp, tittering, and smoothing down her new black dress with her hands.
“Ha, ha!” laughed Mr Mould. “You have been breakfasting at somebody's expense this morning, Mrs Gamp.”But seeing, by the aid of a little shaving-glass which hung opposite, that he looked merry, he composed his features and became sorrowful.
“Many's the time that I've not breakfasted at my own expense along of your recommending, sir; and many's the time I hope to do the same in time to come,” said Mrs Gamp, with an apologetic curtsey.
“So be it,” replied Mr Mould, “please Providence. No, Mrs Gamp; I'll tell you why it is. It's because the laying out of money with a well-conducted establishment, where the thing is performed upon the very best scale, binds the broken heart, and sheds balm upon the wounded spirit. Hearts want binding, and spirits want balming when people die; not when people are born. Look at this gentleman today; look at him.”
“An open-handed gentleman?” cried Mrs Gamp, with enthusiasm.
“No, no,” said the undertaker; “not an open-handed gentleman in general, by any means. There you mistake him; but an afflicted gentleman, an affectionate gentleman, who knows what it is in the power of money to do, in giving him relief, and in testifying his love and veneration for the departed. It can give him,” said Mr Mould, waving his watch-chain slowly round and round, so that he described one circle after every item; “it can give him four horses to each vehicle; it can give him velvet trappings; it can give him drivers in cloth cloaks and top-boots; it can give him the plumage of the ostrich, dyed black; it can give him any number of walking attendants, dressed in the first style of funeral fashion, and carrying batons tipped with brass; it can give him a handsome tomb; it can give him a place in Westminster Abbey itself, if he choose to invest it in such a purchase. Oh! do not let us say that gold is dross, when it can buy such things as these, Mrs Gamp.”
“But what a blessing, sir,” said Mrs Gamp, “that there are such as you, to sell or let “em out on hire!”
“Aye, Mrs Gamp, you are right,” rejoined the undertaker. “We should be an honoured calling. We do good by stealth, and blush to have it mentioned in our little bills. How much consolation may I—even I,” cried Mr Mould, “have diffused among my fellow-creatures by means of my four long-tailed prancers, never harnessed under ten pund ten!”
Mrs Gamp had begun to make a suitable reply, when she was interrupted by the appearance of one of Mr Mould's assistants—his chief mourner in fact—an obese person, with his waistcoat in closer connection with his legs than is quite reconcilable with the established ideas of grace; with that cast of feature which is figuratively called a bottle nose; and with a face covered all over with pimples. He had been a tender plant once upon a time, but from constant blowing in the fat atmosphere of funerals, had run to seed.
“Well, Tacker,” said Mr Mould, “is all ready below?”
“A beautiful show, sir,” rejoined Tacker. “The horses are prouder and fresher than ever I see “em; and toss their heads, they do, as if they knowed how much their plumes cost. One, two, three, four,” said Mr Tacker, heaping that number of black cloaks upon his left arm.
“Is Tom there, with the cake and wine?” asked Mr Mould.
“Ready to come in at a moment's notice, sir,” said Tacker.
“Then,” rejoined Mr Mould, putting up his watch, and glancing at himself in the little shaving-glass, that he might be sure his face had the right expression on it; “then I think we may proceed to business. Give me the paper of gloves, Tacker. Ah, what a man he was! Ah, Tacker, Tacker, what a man he was!”
Mr Tacker, who from his great experience in the performance of funerals, would have made an excellent pantomime actor, winked at Mrs Gamp without at all disturbing the gravity of his countenance, and followed his master into the next room.
It was a great point with Mr Mould, and a part of his professional tact, not to seem to know the doctor; though in reality they were near neighbours, and very often, as in the present instance, worked together. So he advanced to fit on his black kid gloves as if he had never seen him in all his life; while the doctor, on his part, looked as distant and unconscious as if he had heard and read of undertakers, and had passed their shops, but had never before been brought into communication with one.
“Gloves, eh?” said the doctor. “Mr Pecksniff after you.”
“I couldn't think of it,” returned Mr Pecksniff.
“You are very good,” said the doctor, taking a pair. “Well, sir, as I was saying—I was called up to attend that case at about half-past one o'clock. Cake and wine, eh? Which is port? Thank you.”
Mr Pecksniff took some also.
“At about half-past one o'clock in the morning, sir,” resumed the doctor, “I was called up to attend that case. At the first pull of the night-bell I turned out, threw up the window, and put out my head. Cloak, eh? Don't tie it too tight. That'll do.”
Mr Pecksniff having been likewise inducted into a similar garment, the doctor resumed.
“And put out my head—hat, eh? My good friend, that is not mine. Mr Pecksniff, I beg your pardon, but I think we have unintentionally made an exchange. Thank you. Well, sir, I was going to tell you—”
“We are quite ready,” interrupted Mould in a low voice.
“Ready, eh?” said the doctor. “Very good, Mr Pecksniff, I'll take an opportunity of relating the rest in the coach. It's rather curious. Ready, eh? No rain, I hope?”
“Quite fair, sir,” returned Mould.
“I was afraid the ground would have been wet,” said the doctor, “for my glass fell yesterday. We may congratulate ourselves upon our good fortune.”But seeing by this time that Mr Jonas and Chuffey were going out at the door, he put a white pocket-handkerchief to his face as if a violent burst of grief had suddenly come upon him, and walked down side by side with Mr Pecksniff.
Mr Mould and his men had not exaggerated the grandeur of the arrangements. They were splendid. The four hearse-horses, especially, reared and pranced, and showed their highest action, as if they knew a man was dead, and triumphed in it. “They break us, drive us, ride us; ill-treat, abuse, and maim us for their pleasure—But they die; Hurrah, they die!”
So through the narrow streets and winding city ways, went Anthony Chuzzlewit's funeral; Mr Jonas glancing stealthily out of the coachwindow now and then, to o
bserve its effect upon the crowd; Mr Mould as he walked along, listening with a sober pride to the exclamations of the bystanders; the doctor whispering his story to Mr Pecksniff, without appearing to come any nearer the end of it; and poor old Chuffey sobbing unregarded in a corner. But he had greatly scandalized Mr Mould at an early stage of the ceremony by carrying his handkerchief in his hat in a perfectly informal manner, and wiping his eyes with his knuckles. And as Mr Mould himself had said already, his behaviour was indecent, and quite unworthy of such an occasion; and he never ought to have been there.
There he was, however; and in the churchyard there he was, also, conducting himself in a no less unbecoming manner, and leaning for support on Tacker, who plainly told him that he was fit for nothing better than a walking funeral. But Chuffey, Heaven help him! heard no sound but the echoes, lingering in his own heart, of a voice for ever silent.
“I loved him,” cried the old man, sinking down upon the grave when all was done. “He was very good to me. Oh, my dear old friend and master!”
“Come, come, Mr Chuffey,” said the doctor, “this won't do; it's a clayey soil, Mr Chuffey. You mustn't, really.”
“If it had been the commonest thing we do, and Mr Chuffey had been a Bearer, gentlemen,” said Mould, casting an imploring glance upon them, as he helped to raise him, “he couldn't have gone on worse than this.”
“Be a man, Mr Chuffey,” said Pecksniff.
“Be a gentleman, Mr Chuffey,” said Mould.
“Upon my word, my good friend,” murmured the doctor, in a tone of stately reproof, as he stepped up to the old man's side, “this is worse than weakness. This is bad, selfish, very wrong, Mr Chuffey. You should take example from others, my good sir. You forget that you were not connected by ties of blood with our deceased friend; and that he had a very near and very dear relation, Mr Chuffey.”
“Aye, his own son!” cried the old man, clasping his hands with remarkable passion. “His own, own, only son!”
Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit Page 40