Martin Chuzzlewit. Чарльз ДиккенсЧитать онлайн книгу.
either now or when I die? Do you know any such person? your virtues are of course inestimable, but can you tell me of any other living creature who will bear the test of contact with myself?’
‘Of contact with yourself, sir?’ echoed Mr Pecksniff.
‘Aye,’ returned the old man, ‘the test of contact with me – with me. You have heard of him whose misery (the gratification of his own foolish wish) was, that he turned every thing he touched into gold. The curse of my existence, and the realisation of my own mad desire is that by the golden standard which I bear about me, I am doomed to try the metal of all other men, and find it false and hollow.’
Mr Pecksniff shook his head, and said, ‘You think so.’
‘Oh yes,’ cried the old man, ‘I think so! and in your telling me “I think so,” I recognize the true unworldly ring of your metal. I tell you, man,’ he added, with increasing bitterness, ‘that I have gone, a rich man, among people of all grades and kinds; relatives, friends, and strangers; among people in whom, when I was poor, I had confidence, and justly, for they never once deceived me then, or, to me, wronged each other. But I have never found one nature, no, not one, in which, being wealthy and alone, I was not forced to detect the latent corruption that lay hid within it waiting for such as I to bring it forth. Treachery, deceit, and low design; hatred of competitors, real or fancied, for my favour; meanness, falsehood, baseness, and servility; or,’ and here he looked closely in his cousin’s eyes, ‘or an assumption of honest independence, almost worse than all; these are the beauties which my wealth has brought to light. Brother against brother, child against parent, friends treading on the faces of friends, this is the social company by whom my way has been attended. There are stories told – they may be true or false – of rich men who, in the garb of poverty, have found out virtue and rewarded it. They were dolts and idiots for their pains. They should have made the search in their own characters. They should have shown themselves fit objects to be robbed and preyed upon and plotted against and adulated by any knaves, who, but for joy, would have spat upon their coffins when they died their dupes; and then their search would have ended as mine has done, and they would be what I am.’
Mr Pecksniff, not at all knowing what it might be best to say in the momentary pause which ensued upon these remarks, made an elaborate demonstration of intending to deliver something very oracular indeed; trusting to the certainty of the old man interrupting him, before he should utter a word. Nor was he mistaken, for Martin Chuzzlewit having taken breath, went on to say:
‘Hear me to an end; judge what profit you are like to gain from any repetition of this visit; and leave me. I have so corrupted and changed the nature of all those who have ever attended on me, by breeding avaricious plots and hopes within them; I have engendered such domestic strife and discord, by tarrying even with members of my own family; I have been such a lighted torch in peaceful homes, kindling up all the inflammable gases and vapours in their moral atmosphere, which, but for me, might have proved harmless to the end, that I have, I may say, fled from all who knew me, and taking refuge in secret places have lived, of late, the life of one who is hunted. The young girl whom you just now saw – what! your eye lightens when I talk of her! You hate her already, do you?’
‘Upon my word, sir!’ said Mr Pecksniff, laying his hand upon his breast, and dropping his eyelids.
‘I forgot,’ cried the old man, looking at him with a keenness which the other seemed to feel, although he did not raise his eyes so as to see it. ‘I ask your pardon. I forgot you were a stranger. For the moment you reminded me of one Pecksniff, a cousin of mine. As I was saying – the young girl whom you just now saw, is an orphan child, whom, with one steady purpose, I have bred and educated, or, if you prefer the word, adopted. For a year or more she has been my constant companion, and she is my only one. I have taken, as she knows, a solemn oath never to leave her sixpence when I die, but while I live I make her an annual allowance; not extravagant in its amount and yet not stinted. There is a compact between us that no term of affectionate cajolery shall ever be addressed by either to the other, but that she shall call me always by my Christian name; I her, by hers. She is bound to me in life by ties of interest, and losing by my death, and having no expectation disappointed, will mourn it, perhaps; though for that I care little. This is the only kind of friend I have or will have. Judge from such premises what a profitable hour you have spent in coming here, and leave me, to return no more.’
With these words, the old man fell slowly back upon his pillow. Mr Pecksniff as slowly rose, and, with a prefatory hem, began as follows:
‘Mr Chuzzlewit.’
‘There. Go!’ interposed the other. ‘Enough of this. I am weary of you.’
‘I am sorry for that, sir,’ rejoined Mr Pecksniff, ‘because I have a duty to discharge, from which, depend upon it, I shall not shrink. No, sir, I shall not shrink.’
It is a lamentable fact, that as Mr Pecksniff stood erect beside the bed, in all the dignity of Goodness, and addressed him thus, the old man cast an angry glance towards the candlestick, as if he were possessed by a strong inclination to launch it at his cousin’s head. But he constrained himself, and pointing with his finger to the door, informed him that his road lay there.
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘I am aware of that. I am going. But before I go, I crave your leave to speak, and more than that, Mr Chuzzlewit, I must and will – yes indeed, I repeat it, must and will – be heard. I am not surprised, sir, at anything you have told me tonight. It is natural, very natural, and the greater part of it was known to me before. I will not say,’ continued Mr Pecksniff, drawing out his pocket-handkerchief, and winking with both eyes at once, as it were, against his will, ‘I will not say that you are mistaken in me. While you are in your present mood I would not say so for the world. I almost wish, indeed, that I had a different nature, that I might repress even this slight confession of weakness; which I cannot disguise from you; which I feel is humiliating; but which you will have the goodness to excuse. We will say, if you please,’ added Mr Pecksniff, with great tenderness of manner, ‘that it arises from a cold in the head, or is attributable to snuff, or smelling-salts, or onions, or anything but the real cause.’
Here he paused for an instant, and concealed his face behind his pocket-handkerchief. Then, smiling faintly, and holding the bed furniture with one hand, he resumed:
‘But, Mr Chuzzlewit, while I am forgetful of myself, I owe it to myself, and to my character – aye, sir, and I have a character which is very dear to me, and will be the best inheritance of my two daughters – to tell you, on behalf of another, that your conduct is wrong, unnatural, indefensible, monstrous. And I tell you, sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, towering on tiptoe among the curtains, as if he were literally rising above all worldly considerations, and were fain to hold on tight, to keep himself from darting skyward like a rocket, ‘I tell you without fear or favour, that it will not do for you to be unmindful of your grandson, young Martin, who has the strongest natural claim upon you. It will not do, sir,’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, shaking his head. ‘You may think it will do, but it won’t. You must provide for that young man; you shall provide for him; you will provide for him. I believe,’ said Mr Pecksniff, glancing at the pen-and-ink, ‘that in secret you have already done so. Bless you for doing so. Bless you for doing right, sir. Bless you for hating me. And good night!’
So saying, Mr Pecksniff waved his right hand with much solemnity, and once more inserting it in his waistcoat, departed. There was emotion in his manner, but his step was firm. Subject to human weaknesses, he was upheld by conscience.
Martin lay for some time, with an expression on his face of silent wonder, not unmixed with rage; at length he muttered in a whisper:
‘What does this mean? Can the false-hearted boy have chosen such a tool as yonder fellow who has just gone out? Why not! He has conspired against me, like the rest, and they are but birds of one feather. A new plot; a new plot! Oh self, self, self! At every turn nothing but self!’
He fell to trifling, as he ceased to speak, with the ashes of the burnt paper in the candlestick. He did so, at first, in pure abstraction, but they presently became the subject of his thoughts.
‘Another will made and destroyed,’ he said, ‘nothing determined